Miss Wrong and Mr Right

by Robert Bryndza

  I agreed to have a cot and thanked the nurse.

  ‘Why don’t you get a drink whilst he’s asleep? I’ll be around.’ She pointed me in the direction of the cafeteria, and I went and grabbed a large americano, and took it outside the main entrance.

  It was a warm summer night, and moths were swarming around the orange streetlights. There were small groups of nurses smoking. An old man in a wheelchair came to a stop beside me.

  ‘I could get into trouble bringing you out so late, Gerald. You’ve got five minutes,’ said a nurse. She secured his brakes and went back inside. The old man’s face was plump with jaundice, and he fumbled around under his blankets, pulling out a creased pack of cigarettes. He teased one out with a swollen hand. He located a lighter amongst his blankets, and eased the cigarette into his mouth. Big black bruises dotted his arm, presumably from attempts to find a vein. Despite using both hands on the lighter, his swollen fingers couldn’t get it to work.

  ‘Do you want a hand?’ I asked. He nodded gratefully. I took the lighter and lit his cigarette.

  ‘I shouldn’t really,’ he said breaking into a hacking cough. ‘Ooh that’s lovely though.’ I took a swig of my coffee.

  ‘You all right lass?’ he asked.

  ‘Um, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

  The old man looked down at his walking frame, the bags of fluid hanging off it.

  ‘Sorry that was…’

  ‘Don’t worry lass,’ he wheezed. ‘I’ve had a bloody good life. I’m nearly ninety…’ He reached into his blankets again, pulling out one of those purses where you have to squeeze the top so the edges part. He held it out towards me with a shaky hand.

  ‘Do you want something from the shop?’ I asked. He shook his head and then went into a coughing fit, turning almost blue before he recovered.

  ‘Look inside,’ he said finally. I took the purse and gently squeezed it open. I could feel something rigid, and I pulled out a stack of bankcards held together with a couple of rubber bands.

  ‘Turn it over,’ he said. I did, and inside a cloudy square of plastic wrapper was an old black and white photo. I carefully took it out. It was of a young couple, sat on the ledge of a window, looking out over the backdrop of a fishing village.

  ‘Tuscany… Nineteen fifty-four…’ he wheezed taking another drag.

  ‘She’s very beautiful,’ I said looking at the woman. Her long brown hair shone in the sun, and she was wearing a plain blouse buttoned up almost to the neck. You could still see she had an amazing figure. Beside her was a dark, lean, handsome man in a roll neck jumper. He had his arm slung over her shoulder and was smiling into the sun.

  ‘Is this you?’ I asked.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ he said. ‘I can remember that photo like it was last week, seems like it was only last bloody week!’

  ‘Was she your girlfriend?’ I asked, still holding the photo.

  ‘Girlfriend? I bloody married her!’ he said. ‘You think I’d let her get away! We were together sixty-three years.’ He seemed like he was going to cough, but didn’t. He was quiet for a moment, then his eyes filled up. I found a tissue and passed it to him.

  ‘I’m a daft bastard, aren’t I?’

  ‘No!’ I protested. ‘She was the one, yes?’

  ‘Oh she was indeed,’ he said wistfully. ‘Claire was the one…’

  I gently packed the photo back in its plastic in the purse, and handed it back to him. He tucked it carefully in his blankets.

  ‘Even ten years ago I could have given any bloke a run for his money,’ he said coughing again. ‘You got a husband?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Um. Not sure,’ I said.

  ‘Well, if you want your mind made up I’m in Ward 69, for want of a better number!’

  I laughed. The nurse appeared behind us.

  ‘Ah, here’s my prison warder,’ he said. She smiled and nodded at me.

  ‘Has he been behaving himself?’

  ‘He’s been a gentleman,’ I said.

  What am I going to do with you Gerald?’ said the nurse. She was pretty with black hair, and she looked good in her uniform.

  ‘You can join us. My dying wish is a threesome!’ he said, winking at me. The nurse gave me a wry look and then wheeled him away.

  I went back inside to the cubicle where Benjamin slept. A mattress had been delivered, and was rolled up and propped against the wall. I could unroll that mattress, and stay the night or… A realisation fell on me from a great height. Benjamin wasn’t the one. How had it taken me so long to realise the obvious?

  I opened the locker beside the bed, and gently pulled his phone out of the plastic bag. I switched it on, muffling the start-up tone with my hand. After a moment, it asked me to enter a PIN. I stared at the little box with four underscored lines… I tried my birthday, but it was incorrect. I had two attempts remaining. I had no clue when Laura’s birthday was, then I realised that the only person Benjamin was really in love with was Benjamin. I keyed in his birthday, and was shocked when the phone unlocked.

  I looked up, he was still asleep.

  I scrolled through texts, and emails, and saw that Laura featured heavily. It seemed things had been going on for some time, and there were even pictures, taken over the last couple of months, unappetising Readers Wives-style pictures. I won’t go into too much detail, but I can tell you that Laura has fifteen piercings. Eight of which are below her neck.

  I took out my phone and wrote Laura a text message, telling her she was welcome to Benjamin, and to claim her prize she would have to pick him up from the hospital tomorrow. I then went back to Benjamin’s phone, opened his Facebook account and found the BenjiYoga page. After a moment’s debate, I wrote the following message and posted it to his five thousand followers:

  ‘Apologies, but all BenjiYoga classes are cancelled until further notice.

  My girlfriend caught me sleeping around with my students,

  which has resulted in me catching something nasty.

  Namaste. BenjiYoga.’

  I tweeted the same message on the BenjiYoga Twitter page. I then changed the password for both, switched off the phone and stuffed it back in the locker. Benjamin’s swelling seemed to be going down.

  I took one last look at him, then left quietly and took a cab home.

  Act Two

  One week later.

  It’s just PR, darling

  ‘Do I look all right? I don’t look like a sad mum?’ asked Sharon eyeing herself in a small make-up mirror and applying lipstick. We were outside the Macbeth rehearsal room on the third floor of the theatre, waiting for Ryan Harrison to break for lunch.

  Sharon had rushed over in her lunch break, still wearing her Royal Mail uniform of grey trousers, red blouse, and a multi-coloured neckerchief. She jumped as the door opened, but it was just a member of the crew. He nodded hello and gave Sharon an odd look as he passed.

  ‘I should have brought something to change into, I look like a right twerp!’ she hissed, smoothing down her uniform and pulling at bits of fluff on her trouser leg.

  ‘You look fine, but maybe take off the neckerchief,’ I said. She untied it, and stuffed it in her handbag.

  ‘How’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Perfect. And this is just a casual hello, yes?’

  ‘Of course! I don’t want to seem like a crazy fan, like the obscene teddy bear woman… Should I compliment him on Manhattan Beach first? Then ask about his dogs?’

  ‘He’s got dogs? I wonder who’s looking after them?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s got a dog walker and house sitter, they all do in LA. They’re called Bella and Edward.’

  ‘You know the names of his house sitter and dog walker?’

  ‘No. That’s what his dogs are called…’ said Sharon. We were silent for a moment. Voices murmured behind the rehearsal room door and there was the scrape of a chair leg on the parquet floor.

  ‘Have you heard anything
more from Benjamin?’ she asked. It had been a week since I’d left Benjamin in hospital.

  ‘He left me another message, which escalated to shouting insults.’

  ‘Looks like his yoga calm has gone the same way as his thong. Halfway up his arse!’ she laughed. ‘Don’t acknowledge him, you’ve moved on…’

  ‘I’ve returned ownership of his Facebook and his Twitter account,’ I said.

  ‘But you had them long enough for everyone to realise what a cheating bastard he is…’ said Sharon gleefully.

  The door suddenly opened and Byron emerged with Ryan. He was carrying a script of Macbeth that was covered in biro scrawls, stage directions, and doodles. He had on tracksuit bottoms and his beefy biceps were shown off by a sleeveless white t-shirt. Sharon gripped my hand, nearly breaking my fingers.

  ‘Can I hilp you?’ asked Byron, looking suspiciously at Sharon in her Royal Mail uniform. ‘Do you want me to sign for a peckidge?’

  ‘I haven’t got a peckidge… Package. I’m here for Ryan,’ said Sharon.

  ‘You’ll need to see Val downstairs, all postage for Mr Hirrison goes through Val…’

  ‘She isn’t delivering any post, this is my friend Sharon,’ I explained. ‘I hope you don’t mind but she was passing and is a huge fan of yours Ryan.’

  The door opened again and the rest of the actors and crew streamed past, as if the dinner bell had just rung.

  ‘Sure, hey…’ said Ryan his face breaking into a smile.

  ‘Hello, I’m Sharon Lombardo,’ said Sharon. She stared across at him with a bizarre love light in her eyes. Ryan leant in and gave her a kiss on each cheek.

  ‘Oh goodness. Thank you,’ she said touching her cheek where his lips had been.

  ‘Lombardo is an Italian name?’ asked Ryan. ‘You don’t look Italian.’

  ‘No I’m not. My hus… husband is Italian,’ she looked down at her wedding ring and stuffed her hand in her pocket. There was a silence.

  ‘How are Bella and Edward?’ she asked. Ryan looked surprised.

  ‘Wow, you know your stuff. They’re good. How are your…?’

  ‘Amy and Felix,’ grinned Sharon.

  ‘Cool names, what breed are they?’ asked Ryan.

  ‘No. They’re not dogs, I love dogs… but I got children instead. I mean they’re my children. I didn’t get them from a breeder, a surrogate, I gave birth to them…’

  Ryan nodded. Sharon went on.

  ‘I love Manhattan Beach, I’ve seen every episode. I just can’t believe you’re not a real dentist… I mean I know you play a dentist, but I’m having to stop myself from asking for a checkup!’

  Ryan was nodding along gamely at Sharon’s babbling.

  ‘Not that I need a checkup. I’ve just been, only one filling, I splashed out on a white one,’ she pulled open her mouth and leant in to show him.

  ‘Sharon!’ I said, but Ryan seemed used to this.

  ‘Your dentist did a great job. If you ever came to Manhattan Beach I would try and do the same!’ he said.

  ‘Ryan only has thirty minutes for lunch,’ said Byron. What she really wanted to say was this woman could have a gun. Sharon sensed he was about to go and started to gabble.

  ‘Nat, Natalie told me that they’re unveiling the huge billboard picture of you above the theatre today, for Macbeth!’

  ‘Yeah. It’s really cool. Natalie tells me it’ll be on the front page of some London newspaper?’ grinned Ryan.

  ‘The Evening Standard?’ asked Sharon. Ryan went to answer, but Byron indicated they had to get going.

  ‘Okay, Sharon, well it’s been real cool to meet you,’ he said. ‘But I have to go and do an interview…’

  ‘I’m not just any old fan,’ blurted Sharon. ‘I am a fan, but I’m Natalie’s best friend. She knows I would never stalk you, or go through your bins. Well, I’d take your bins out for you…’

  ‘Ryan has to eat lunch and thin he has an interview,’ said Byron who was now looking annoyed.

  ‘Sharon, if you’re Natalie’s friend I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you, and you’ll have to come and see the premiere,’ said Ryan.

  ‘I’m coming!’ cried Sharon as he walked away. He turned, blew her a kiss and then disappeared round the corner with Byron.

  ‘BYE!’ she shouted down the empty corridor.

  ‘Jeez Sharon,’ I said.

  ‘Oh my god, I met him. Natalie, I met Ryan Harrison… He’s beautiful and he kissed me… He invited me to the premiere!’

  ‘I know, I was here too. You also showed him your fillings and offered to take out his bins.’

  ‘Oh shut up. It was just nerves…’ she looked at her watch. ‘Crap. I am so late back to work. I’m going to have to have a lie down in the sorting office, in the parcel bin.’

  We took the stairs down, and emerged into the sunshine on Raven Street. All five storeys of the theatre had been covered with our most dramatic poster yet. Xander was standing on the pavement coordinating three guys in cherry pickers who were assembling large pieces of canvas which made up a giant Ryan Harrison.

  ‘Look at those legs,’ said Sharon. Our eyes travelled up Ryan’s huge hairy footballer’s legs, standing astride the main door.

  ‘Can you see up his kilt?’ she said moving to stand in the entrance and look up. I smiled and shook my head. Ryan’s kilt took up the second and third floor of the building, and his torso the fourth and the fifth. His head and shoulders were still to be assembled.

  Sharon stopped for a moment and looked at the Old Library opposite. It remained stubbornly swathed in plastic. A small gap had been made, and builders had been moving in and out for the past few days.

  ‘So any more info on Jamie’s pop-up venue The Big O?’ asked Sharon.

  ‘No. It’s very hush-hush. I’ve managed to find out he’s secured public liability insurance and a liquor licence, and they launched a Facebook page a few days ago.’ I looked troubled for a moment.

  ‘Cheer up Nat! You get to spend the day with Ryan Harrison… I have to go back and change the pads which moisten stamps,’ she said. I gave her a hug. ‘Thanks so much. When do I get to see him again?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I grinned, and with a wave goodbye, Sharon went off towards Charing Cross.

  I stopped outside the theatre and stared across at The Big O. A couple of guys in hard hats approached the plastic, pulled it to one side and filed in. They had forgotten to fasten it shut. It flapped in the light summer breeze. I waited for a car to pass, then crossed Raven Street to the other side of the pavement. I approached the gap, trying to nonchalantly peer inside, but the sun was bright and I couldn’t see anything in the gloom. Suddenly Jamie emerged almost crashing into me.

  ‘Whoa, Nat. Hello there,’ he grinned. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt and blue jeans, and was holding a long roll of paper in one hand. He looked effortlessly gorgeous.

  ‘Hi!’ I trilled. There was a silence.

  ‘Trying to get a sneak peek?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, busted… Can I see?’ I asked, making to go through the gap.

  ‘All will be revealed,’ he smiled moving to block my path. I stared up at him for a moment then looked away.

  ‘Impressive poster,’ he said pointing behind me to Ryan’s huge head, which was being slowly unfurled and stuck to the fifth floor of the building.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. There was another awkward pause.

  ‘Look, Nat. We’re going to be bumping into each other quite a lot over the next few weeks. Do you fancy a coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘Um, sure,’ I said, surprised. ‘There’s a coffee place a few doors down.’

  ‘Hang on,’ he said and ducked between the plastic, returning without the roll of paper. He leant down, and I thought he was going to kiss me on the cheek, but as I offered my left side, I realised he was ducking under a scaffolding pole. He hesitated, laughed, and then gave me a swift peck. As his warm stubbly cheek pressed against mine I caught the rich, warm smell of his h
air… I was taken back to the night before our wedding, as we lay in bed and I pressed my face into the crook of his neck, the same smell of his skin, his hair… Jamie pulled away and we started to walk towards Grande in an awkward silence, passing several gay bars.

  A couple of the barmen were opening up for the early shift, and the sight of Jamie made their heads snap round. A couple of women did double takes too, although much more subtly.

  A voice in my head started to scold me.

  ‘You’re a fool Natalie Love… He’s even better looking than he used to be… You should have married him… If you’d gone through with it, you’d have kids, and a house!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I replied to the voice, still in my head. ‘We’d be stuck living in Sowerton with no prospects, our kids might have ASBOs, how would that be any fun?’

  ‘Are you okay Nat?’ asked Jamie. We had reached the entrance to Grande, and Jamie was holding open the huge glass door.

  ‘What?’ I said, coming back to the present.

  ‘You were rolling your eyes and muttering to yourself…’

  ‘I’m making a mental note, about work,’ I lied.

  ‘You should use the memo app on your phone… looks less weird,’ he said. We reached the counter and Jamie said hi to the skinny pale barista with dreadlocks.

  ‘Hi Jamie,’ he grinned. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘You know, swings and roundabouts,’ said Jamie reaching inside the pocket of his jeans and pulling out a wad of notes. ‘This is Nat,’ he added introducing me to the man I’ve wordlessly bought coffee off for the past five years.

  ‘Hi,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘Me and Nat go way back,’ said Jamie. ‘I was meant to marry her, but I have no clue what kind of coffee she drinks?’

  I looked at Jamie in disbelief.

  ‘It was a long time ago. We were just teenagers!’ I cried.