Miss Wrong and Mr Right (3 page)

Raven Street is in the heart of Soho and I walked past the glittery gay bars, restaurants, sex shops, all shuttered up and sleeping after another late night. Only the coffee shops were open this early. I nipped into Grande, my regular, and ordered a takeaway americano from the pale dreadlocked guy behind the counter, then waited with the bike couriers and office workers as the machines hissed. Through the picture window I could see the crisp, white art deco facade of the Raven Street Theatre opposite.

It was built in 1919 and was a functioning theatre until the Second World War. It then went into decline, closed, and over the years was used as a soup kitchen, a pornographic cinema, and a huge second-hand bookshop. It was then boarded up and almost became a theme pub. My proudest achievement so far is that I was involved in raising money to save and restore it to its former glory, and now I am the manager.
 

Eek!
 

I say eek, because every time I walk through the doors, into the hush of the box office with its art deco mouldings and brass lamps, I feel a thrill, a little fear, and a lot of pressure to make it succeed.
 

I reached the front of the queue and the pale dreadlocked guy handed me my coffee.

I left Grande, crossed the road, and entered the theatre through the main entrance. I always take the stairs up to my office. Photos of our most successful productions are displayed on the staircase walls, and it gives me confidence as I climb the five flights. Halfway up, I stopped on a step beside my favourite picture of all: me with Kim Cattrall. It was taken at a charity gala evening we hosted last year. The highlight for me was looking after Ms Cattrall (who was lovely and insisted I call her Kim) before she performed in the evening of monologues. In the photo she looks gorgeous, so sleek and polished… I look a little washed-out beside her, the dreaded frizz beginning in my hair, and what I was wearing was rather thrown together. Like a social worker who’d just spent her Christmas vouchers on a decent outfit.
 

When I went into the open plan part of the office, Xander, our new office assistant, was being versed in the alchemy of coffee ordering by Nicky, my business partner of five years. She’s had a long career in London’s West End. She knows everyone and everything there is to know about theatre. She was involved in putting together the complex financial package to bring the theatre back to life, and where I manage the day-to-day running of the theatre, she is head of PR and publicity.
 

‘It’s a tall, decaf, extra-hot, Colombian blend coffee with two pumps of hazelnut syrup, soy milk and a Sweet’N Low… And I’ll know if it’s sugar or Canderel,’ she drawled in her Texan accent. She was wearing a hot pink trouser suit, nipped in at the waist, accentuating her considerable curves. Her sleek dark hair was tied back and she wore glasses with matching hot pink frames.

‘Right, no problem,’ said Xander scribbling furiously on a post-it. Nicky turned when she saw me.

‘Nat. I love Xander. He’s so cute. He’s like a puppy dog!’ She ruffled his shiny chestnut hair playfully. ‘When did you get him?’

Xander’s large brown eyes registered shock.
 

‘Morning Xander,’ I said apologetically, and then to Nicky, ‘Xander started when you were away on holiday.’

She peered down at him sat neatly behind his desk as if he were a little dog.
 

‘Xander, what a cute name!’

‘It’s Alexander, but my little brother couldn’t say it properly so I became Xander,’ he said, his deep Scottish accent belying his youth.

‘Oh my God, and an accent,’ said Nicky playing with the silver chain nestled between her impressive bosom. ‘Welcome to the Raven Street Theatre honey. You are just adorable!’
 

She went to the printer and opened the paper drawer. For a moment I thought she was going to pull out a sheet of inkjet paper and put it down for him to pee on, but seeing it was full, she closed the drawer and turned.
 

‘Xander honey. That coffee isn’t gonna cross the street by itself…’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said grabbing his phone and getting up. ‘Natalie?’

‘I’m good thanks,’ I said holding up my americano. He left, and Nicky followed me through into the office we share and closed the glass door.

‘So Xander, is he…?’

‘Yes, he’s got a partner called Paul,’ I said.

‘Perfect. Guilt-free ogling.’
 

‘How was your holiday?’ I asked as I put my bag down on my desk.

‘Nat. The resort was amazing, the only downside was that Bart made my wrist ache…’

‘Men can be so disgusting,’ I said. I realised she was talking about something else when she held out her wrist to reveal a dazzling bracelet.

‘Oh my gosh, are they real?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Diamonds. Yes,’ she said wiggling her wrist with a grin. ‘So many carats I’ll never have to eat my five-a-day again!’

‘Blimey Nicky. Your husband is still so romantic after twenty years…’

I pulled out my laptop, and the BenjiYoga leaflet fluttered to the floor. Nicky picked it up.

‘Attention Ryan Harrison, discretion assured,’ she read out loud. She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

‘Benjamin virtually forced it into my bag,’ I said grabbing it back.

‘Nat. Ryan Harrison is not going to BenjiYoga,’ she said with an air of finality.

‘Why not? Benjamin is a good yoga teacher.’
 

‘And a good self-promoter, which is fine, but we need to protect Ryan…’

I went to protest. But Nicky went on.

‘And Ryan Harrison’s manager made us put in his contract that if he’s sick, he is only seen by a Harley Street doctor…’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nat. Didn’t you get foot fungus from BenjiYoga?’ asked Nicky.

‘That was months ago, and it was athlete’s foot…’

‘That’s just fancy talk for foot fungus. Do you know how much a Harley Street doctor charges to treat foot fungus? Probably a good chunk of our Arts Council funding for the next quarter.’

‘Okay, okay,’ I said folding the leaflet and stuffing it back in my bag. Nicky put her hand on my arm.

‘Honey, I get the attraction to Benjamin. He’s tall, well-built, arrogant. I’m sure he can reach the places other men can’t reach… But there is a great guy out there for you, I’m sure of it.’

‘I gave him a key this morning,’ I said defiantly.

‘A key to what?’ she asked.

‘To my flat…’
 

I didn’t get to hear her response as there was a loud bang from outside, and then a squealing of metal. We went to the window and saw a lorry parked by the kerb. A massive pile of crash barriers was being unloaded onto the road below.

‘Do you really think we’ll need all these tonight?’ I asked.

‘Nat. This is Ryan Harrison,’ said Nicky. ‘He has crazy fame. When the costume department on his TV show take his clothes to the laundry it has to be in an armoured truck. A woman from Ohio bid ten thousand dollars for a pint of his bath water in a charity auction. Allegedly his stalker has a stalker…’

‘Well, tonight’s crowd should be a bit more demure. We’ve invited press and theatre people,’ I said.

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Nicky.
 

There was a knock at the door. Val, the box office manager, poked her head of short grey hair around the door.

‘Morning ladies, there’s a group of muscly men in the foyer downstairs. Either it’s an early birthday present for me, or the security guys you hired,’ she said.

‘We’ve already bought you slippers for your birthday,’ I said with a wink. ‘Xander should be back soon, he can deal with them.’

‘Okay, I’ll put them in the bar, and when Xander is back I’ll get him to do a coffee run,’ said Val leaving with a smile.

‘Right. Let’s go through our to-do list for tonight, and make sure nothing is forgotten,’ I said.

‘First I wanna know what you’re wearing?’ asked Nicky. I unzipped the garment bag, and pulled out a black pencil skirt and an orange blouse. The second it was out, Nicky wrinkled her brow.

‘Did you choose this, or did a sales assistant railroad you into it?’

‘I don’t get railroaded!’ I protested.

‘Honey, you’re British. Half your wardrobe is what you’ve bought to be polite.’

‘I chose it. From that place off Carnaby Street where the girls all dress like they did during the Blitz… It’s vintage!’

Nicky sucked in her teeth and shook her head. ‘The skirt I can cope with. It’s the colour of that blouse. Two words: Easy Jet.’

‘EasyJet is one word,’ I said.

‘Either way, you’re wearing the uniform of a budget airline… This is probably the most important night of our careers. If you wear this people won’t be saying, oh look there’s Natalie Love, she runs this joint, they’ll be asking you for Pringles and charity scratch cards.’
 

‘It’s not EasyJet orange. Is it?’ I said holding it up to me in front of the mirror by the door. Nicky nodded.

‘What are you wearing?’ I asked. She went out and came back with a beautiful pearl-white Alexander McQueen dress.

‘Oh, wow, that’s stunning,’ I said.

‘Bart got it for me, to go with my bracelet… I’d offer to lend you something but you know I’ve got a big fat ass and huge…’

‘Okay, I know,’ I said hanging the outfit back up. ‘I’ll sort it. Sharon will probably lend me something… Now, let’s talk about tonight.’
 

‘Just one more thing,’ said Nicky.

‘What?’
 

‘How much is priority boarding?’

I couldn’t help but laugh.

The rest of the morning, and first part of the afternoon, was spent in meetings, briefing our theatre staff, and ticking the seemingly endless list of tasks off our to-do list. By three pm there were a couple of hours free so I ducked out to get my replacement outfit from Sharon. I hurried through Covent Garden and down to Charing Cross where I jumped on a train to New Cross. Twenty-five minutes later I emerged onto New Cross Road.
 

I walked past the big Sainsbury’s supermarket, and knocked on a bright green door in a row of terraced houses set back a little from the traffic roaring past. The door opened. Sharon was stood in the hallway, her hair slicked back with foam, and a towel round her shoulders.

‘Have you seen Ryan Harrison yet?’ she asked excitedly. ‘Have you? What’s he like?’

‘Muzzle yourself. He’s not arriving until five,’ I said. There was a yell from down the hall.

‘Stay by the sink Amy!’ shouted Sharon over her shoulder. ‘Come through Nat.’
 

I followed her into the big kitchen overlooking her cosy little garden. Her ten-year-old son Felix was sat at the kitchen table, also with his hair slicked back with foam. He was wearing a superman towel tied under his chin like a cape. Her daughter Amy’s eight-year-old legs were only just long enough so she could lean up and over the sink as her hair dripped.
 

‘Nits, Nat,’ said Sharon. ‘We’ve all got bloody nits.’ She picked up a small silver comb and started combing through Amy’s thick wet hair.

‘Oh no!’ I said putting my bag down on the table. ‘How?’

‘We got them from Laura Dalton, Aunt Nat,’ said Amy. Even aged eight she had her disapproving face down to a tee.
 

‘We don’t know it was Laura Dalton,’ said Sharon.

‘She’s always in the playground, flicking her hair around the boys,’ said Amy. ‘She was bound to get something from them.’

‘Girls have nits too!’ shouted Felix.

‘The dress you want to borrow is on the back of the bedroom door,’ said Sharon pulling the comb through a knot in Amy’s hair. ‘Do you mind grabbing it?’

‘No probs,’ I said. As I went through Amy yelled,

‘Ow! This is all Felix’s fault. He kissed Laura yesterday!’

‘I didn’t!’ shouted Felix.
 

I always feel a little envious when I wander round Sharon’s house. It’s so cosy: pictures drawn by the kids, framed holiday photos, a little clay Homer Simpson ashtray made by Felix for his Dad, Fred, who is small, handsome and very Italian. It always reminds me I might just miss the boat as far as kids were concerned. Benjamin couldn’t commit to leaving a toothbrush in my flat, let alone impregnating me…
 

‘It’s just water you twit. I haven’t even put the nit shampoo on yet!’ I heard Sharon saying from the kitchen. A beautiful green silk wrap-around dress was hung in plastic on the back of the door. I grabbed it and went back through.

‘Is that okay Nat?’ asked Sharon.

‘It’s perfect, thank you,’ I said.

‘I’m wearing my black galaxy dress,’ said Sharon. ‘I know it’s a bit 2007, but it pushes me up and pulls me in in all the right places…’ She tailed off when she realised the kids were staring. Amy rolled her brown eyes under her foamy hair line,

‘Mother, you’re like married, and Ryan Harrison is so out of your league,’ she said.
 

‘Where does she get this at such an early age?’ asked Sharon. ‘Out of my league… I love your father. I just like looking at Ryan Harrison… and I might get to touch him!’

‘Steady on Sharon,’ I said. ‘I’ve had to book security guards for the theatre.’

Sharon wiped her hands and opened the pantry door. On the inside hung the Official Ryan Harrison Calendar. It was turned to July, which was a broody black and white shot of Ryan lying shirtless on a beach in Speedos, with sand artfully dusting his taut six pack.

‘Look at him, smouldering in my pantry with all the dried lentils and Weetabix… And tonight I get to see him for real! Do you fancy a glass of wine Nat?’
 

‘I’d love to, but I’ve got to get back,’ I said.

‘Ok, we’ll make up for it later… Is it still a free bar?’

‘Yes. We’ve hired a mixologist to make cocktails.’
 

‘Ooh super!’ said Sharon. ‘Felix what does it say to do next?’

Felix unfolded the nit lotion leaflet and started to read out loud.

‘After applying lotion allow eight hours, and then rinse thor-ror…thur..’

‘Thoroughly!’ shouted Amy. Sharon paused, closing the pantry door.

‘Don’t you mean eight minutes Felix?’