One second, Sherry sits on the plastic chair looking a bit bored, kicking at the doughnut bag crumpled into a ball at her feet. The next sheâ€™s stomping around the room demanding that Lionel Brownstitch face her. Cameras swarm from nowhere and Flymo wonders briefly if the producers maintain crews on standby for any kind of ruckus. â€˜Get â€™im out here!â€™
Two big blokes with production crew t-shirts surround her. â€˜Miss, perhaps you should lower your voice.â€™
â€˜Why? The cameras are running. I wanna see Brownstitch out here.â€™
Lenses peer in at Sherry and the security guards. They record Sherryâ€™s anger from three angles. Each two-man camera crew consists of a boofy operator and a skinny sound bloke with headphones and a boom microphone, the furry kind. They busy themselves with shooting Sherry without getting each other in the picture. Itâ€™s a well-practiced dance from what Flymo can see. Choreography for the real world.
â€˜Iâ€™m sorry, Miss, Mr Brownstitch is very busy today.â€™
â€˜So is everyone else in this room!â€™
She gets murmurs of approval and a few claps at this. Around five hundred hopefuls turned spectators surround them, mobile phones either attached to their ears or held out to shoot their own footage of the event. Even the girl in the teapot costume was filming.
â€˜Why do you want to see Mr Brownstitch anyway?â€™
She rounds on the security guard. â€˜Why?â€™ She lifts her legs and kicks the blokeâ€™s shin in time to her argument, â€˜Because my daughter went into that room two and a half hours ago and she ainâ€™t come back out. Whatâ€™s he done with her?â€™
â€˜Miss, Iâ€™m sure â€“â€™
â€˜And you can stop calling me â€œMissâ€! My name is Sherry Star Smith. My daughter is Amber Star Jones. Write it down!â€™