Miss Wrong and Mr Right

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘It’s over,’ I said.

  Mum hit the roof. She ranted whilst everyone looked on. She said I’d never find anyone as good as Jamie, that I’d made a fool of myself and the family, and that she might as well go up to bed and die of shame.

  ‘Okay Annie,’ said Dad firmly taking my mother’s arm. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘I think this vill be the making of Natalie,’ said Gran, stubbing out her cigarette in the fruit bowl. ‘She needs to see the vorld! I vas lucky enough to, ven my family had to flee persecution from the Nazis…’

  ‘You didn’t have to flee,’ shouted Mum. ‘The Hungarians were Nazi allies! And you always said how handsome you thought Hitler was.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Annie…’ snapped Gran. ‘I thought Himmler vas the handsome one. If Himmler had been in charge, the Nazis vould have done so much better.’

  ‘Do you hear this Martin?’ Mum said to Dad. ‘This is the woman I had to grow up around. No wonder my nerves are shot!’

  Gran stood up. She eyed my wedding cake for a moment.

  ‘Natalie, I vas planning to go on to London after your vedding, to stay with my friend Paulo; he has a flat right in the middle of everything… You could come vith me?’

  ‘London!’ said Mum. ‘Why would she want to go all the way there?’

  ‘I think Natalie needs some time away, so the dust can settle,’ said Gran.

  ‘What? A holiday?’ I asked. The thought of staying in Devon and watching the mushroom cloud rise above the wreck of a wedding was giving me anxiety.

  ‘Think of it as a coming of age,’ said Gran. ‘Paulo runs an open house, everyone is velcome. He plays clarinet for the London Symphony Orchestra.’

  ‘And who’s going to pay for this?’ asked Mum.

  ‘I vill take care of Natalie,’ said Gran.

  ‘Maybe I could go? Just for a bit?’ I said, the idea suddenly seeming like my saviour. Mum’s lips thinned.

  ‘She is an adult now,’ said Dad.

  ‘You could bring your friend too,’ said Gran gesturing to Sharon.

  ‘Really?’ said Sharon. ‘Wow, I’ve never been to London before.’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Micky. ‘Can I go to London?’

  ‘You’ve got school Micky,’ said Mum.

  ‘That’s not fair! Why does Natalie get to go to London? I hate you!’ cried Micky.

  ‘Micky love, you can go to London with your Gran, when you’re older,’ said Dad.

  ‘Even if I don’t leave someone at the altar?’ asked Micky.

  ‘Um… yes,’ said Dad.

  There was a silence. Gran came over and put her arms around me and Sharon.

  ‘So that’s decided. You are coming to London, vith me, yes?’

  I looked at Sharon’s excited face and I nodded.

  ‘Ok, let’s go to London,’ I said.

  That evening, we went to London. And since then, I’ve rarely been back.

  Act One

  Fifteen years later…

  The key

  I woke early with the summer sunshine pouring through the window, marking out squares on the bedroom wall of my flat. I stretched and sat up in bed. My boyfriend Benjamin was still asleep beside me. I watched him for a moment, and traced my fingers lightly over his muscular back. His eyelids flickered under his long dark lashes, but he didn’t stir. A rush of excitement for the day ahead propelled me out of bed. I took a quick shower, pulled on a loose summer dress, and then went to make breakfast.

  My flat is tiny, and the kitchen is a little like the galley of a ship, thin and narrow with everything on the walls; cooker, fridge, washing machine, microwave. I closed the kitchen door quietly, so I wouldn’t wake Benjamin. Under a long window at the end, overlooking the communal garden is a small breakfast bar where I’d laid out my makeup, hairdryer, and hair straighteners. I popped a capsule into the coffee machine and plugged in the straighteners to heat up. I loathe my frizzy hair and spend a fortune on product to tame it. I have it down to a fine art, and can do it in twenty minutes. I switched on the radio quietly and jiggled along to the music as I drank my coffee, and dried and styled my hair.

  As I was gathering up my Blackberry, Kindle, and laptop from their unofficial charging station on the floor beside the fridge, the kitchen door opened and Benjamin came in. He had on just his boxer shorts and he was rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Sorry, did I wake you up?’ I asked shoving everything into my oversized handbag.

  ‘No. Mmmm. You look nice. Namaste,’ he growled putting his hands around my waist and pulling me against him. He is very tall; I reach up to his shoulder. He was warm and firm against me, and I put my hand up and ran it through his short salt and pepper hair. His hands moved down to my thigh and started to slide up the material of my skirt. He leant down and kissed me, then pulled away a tiny bit and flashed me a wicked smile.

  ‘You’ve brushed your teeth before breakfast,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said and pulled me against him.

  ‘I can’t, Benjamin,’ I said. ‘I have to get to work…’

  ‘Busy girl,’ he said, releasing me with a sulky pout.

  ‘I’m hardly a girl Benjamin,’ I said, checking my bag again and locating my sunglasses.

  ‘Yes, you are knocking forty… hang on,’ he said and left the kitchen.

  ‘I’m only thirty-five!’ I said peering at my reflection in the chrome kettle. I waited for a couple of minutes, then seeing the time, went through to the bedroom.

  ‘What are you doing? I have to go,’ I snapped. He was perched on the end of the bed with his backpack open, pulling out clothes, his laptop, shoes, a tightly packed wash bag.

  ‘Why don’t you at least leave your wash bag here?’ I said. ‘And I could leave mine at yours? And maybe my hair straighteners? We lug so much stuff across London to see each other…’

  ‘Natalie,’ sighed Benjamin still rummaging through his bag. ‘It’s important to have our own space. Keeps it exciting…’

  ‘I’d find it exciting not to pack a mini suitcase on wheels every time I stay over,’ I said. He carried on rummaging through his backpack, a pile of stuff growing on the carpet beside him. At the bottom he found a plastic wallet. He opened it and extracted a biro and one of the leaflets he’d had printed for the yoga studio he runs. Under the ‘BENJI YOGA’ logo he scrawled his email address and wrote, ‘ATTN: Ryan Harrison - discretion assured.’ He held it out to me.

  ‘Benjamin,’ I said crossing my arms.

  ‘Natalie you promised me you would give this to Ryan Harrison,’ he said.

  ‘Yes… But, jeez not today. Give it a few days.’

  ‘Yes, and then he finds somewhere else to practise yoga.’

  ‘We don’t even know if he does yoga?’

  ‘He’s a hugely famous television actor from Los Angeles. Believe me. He does yoga.’

  Benjamin stood up, and took my head in his hands.

  ‘You are the theatre manager Natalie, the boss. I trust you to do the right thing… It will be good for me, and in turn good for us. Maybe I could reconsider you leaving some things at my flat.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said taking the leaflet. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Thank you Natalie. Namaste.’ He leant in and kissed me, then started to repack his bag.

  ‘You know, you could still come along tonight to the launch party. Sharon’s coming too…’

  ‘I won’t miss my meditation workshop. It’s important to me,’ said Benjamin.

  ‘This is important to me,’ I countered.

  ‘It’s nice that we both have important things in our lives Natalie,’ he said, not getting what I meant. He zipped up his backpack and came with me to the front door. I grabbed the dress garment bag containing my outfit for later, and checked in my bag that I had my keys.

  ‘Why don’t I give you a key,’ I said impulsively, seeing the spare on my bunch of keys. Benjamin paused.

  ‘Um, okay,’ he said. There was an awkward silence as I w
restled it off the key ring. I finally got it free and handed it to him.

  ‘There, now you’re…’

  ‘Able to open the door myself,’ he finished. I killed some time putting the keys back in my bag, hoping he might offer to give me a key to his place in return, but he lost patience, leant across and opened the door.

  ‘Right, well I’ll see you?’

  ‘Soon Natalie, soon. And don’t forget the leaflet. Namaste,’ he smiled, and closed the door.

  It was still early when I came out of the security gate onto Beak Street. The late July sun was dazzling, promising a hot day. I made my way past the pub next door. The cobbled terrace out front was being hosed down, and a rainbow hung in the air as a little of the spray landed on my bare arms with a delicious prickling cool. Further along, a lorry was idling by the kerb and there was a clinking of beer barrels being unloaded. I slipped on my shades and crossed the road.

  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, tonig
ht’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.