Authors: Alison Kervin
She fancied Andy from afar for ages – giggling like a drunk whenever he walked past her, she'd smile up at him in awe and wonder, as if she were meeting the pope for the first time or something. Then when he finally asked her out . . . my God! I thought she was going to explode with excitement. She got so bloody flustered while getting ready that she put ear drops into her eyes and almost blinded herself. Her eyes were still watering so badly by the time of the date that she couldn't see properly so we had to walk up the road with her, to meet him, or she'd have wandered into the traffic or knocked herself out on a lamppost or something. She had to pretend to Andy that her dog had just died, and that's why her eyes were watering constantly. He was a horror though. She ended up dumping him after about six dates because he once spiked all our drinks. It was terrible. I was driving and not drinking, so he told me to have this fruit punch he'd made. I should have known straight away that something was up. I mean, you didn't have to know him too well to realise that he really wasn't a fruit punch making sort of guy. The drink had quite a kick to it but he muttered something about ginseng and ginger and I fell for it. I drove home, got stopped and was done for drink driving. It was horrific. I kept swearing I'd had nothing but fruit punch, and yet the officers said my car was swerving down the road and I was well over the alcohol limit. She dumped him straight away after that but it didn't save me from the humility of having mugshots, DNA taken and losing my licence for a year. I've been paranoid ever since. I don't even have a car now the whole incident worried me so much. Imagine if someone had been hurt? The thought terrifies me. I could have hit someone. I could have killed someone: a child or something. Urghhhh . . . it's just too awful to contemplate.
'We've only got the nasty stuff that Dave brought – the wine he said he brought from Greece,' Mandy says, standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a dusty bottle containing ginger-coloured liquid, and grimacing at it.
'Don't worry; it's fine,' I say, because this drink is not about the quality of the wine at all; this is all about toasting and celebrating the quality of the friendship we've shared and will continue to share for years to come. It doesn't matter that the wine will taste like it's got furniture polish in it, and has arrived in our kitchen courtesy of dodgy Dave – the good-looking bloke who had a complete crush on me then, when I rejected him, went for Sophie. He told her he adored her and worshipped every last breath she took. He was such a drama queen; he even tore the phone line out and threatened to strangle himself with the cord one time when Sophie couldn't see him. The damned phone has never worked properly since. He went straight back to his wife the minute Sophie fell in love with him though. Nope, it's not about the wine, or the dopey blokes that scuttle through the door every now and then, then scuttle out again much faster a few weeks later because the word 'commitment' has allegedly raised its little head; nope, this is all about me and my two best mates.
'Cheers,' we all say, raising our glasses and surveying the colour and clarity of the liquid in considerable dismay; it has nothing in common with the colour you expect of wine. It's not like cheap wine has to do too much, but it does have to sit there looking roughly the right colour. This stuff looks like Tizer and it tastes like paint stripper. 'To us,' I say, as we all link arms and wince as the abhorrent taste and unlikely consistency hits our tongues. It was worse than any of us could have predicted.
'Where the fuck do you think he got this from?' asks Sophie, gagging and twisting her jaw in horror.
'Best not to think too hard about that,' I suggest, while coughing and choking back the lingering effects of it. 'Best not to think about where Dave got anything from. He said it was from that boys' holiday he went on in Athens but who knows.'
We've all brought some rough blokes back to the flat in our time, but Dave brought the concept of roughness down to a whole new level. He made Andy look suave. The thing with Dave was that he was very, very good-looking, but seemed hell-bent on doing everything within his power to look as ropey as possible. He looked like he'd just escaped from the Foreign Legion or something; the tattooed head and permanently stubbly face. Those dirty, nicotine-stained fingers and nails chewed down so far that they were always blood encrusted. I've never liked that big stubbly face, bald head thing. There's something altogether wrong about a human being with more hair on his face than his head. It's like the women who have more fat in their lips than they have in the cheeks of their bottoms. It's all wrong.
Dave would come rushing up to the door when he came to collect Sophie, looking around shiftily as he piled in, as if he were being pursued by the police. If he ever brought presents, they were invariably crap, and they looked as if they'd been nicked from the garage forecourt (literally). He'd undo the zip of his scruffy bomber jacket and out would tumble an in-car air-freshener, a Pot Noodle, an
A–Z
or something else from the list of 'Worst Things a Girl Can Receive from her Boyfriend'. I remember Sophie asking for the receipt so she could change a bottle of screen wash he'd bought her one time (Sophie wasn't being ungrateful, it's just that she doesn't drive).
'Receipt?' he said, with incredulity spreading from one pierced ear to the other. 'Receipt?' Then he laughed like I've never heard a man laugh before.
You will understand that, in this context, a bottle of wine, however undrinkable, was a real treat. 'There's no way he could have nicked this,' said Sophie in delight the next morning, as she showed off the bottle. 'They keep the wine in the shop; he must have paid for it!'
An improvement, certainly, but it's not exactly Shakespeare, is it? Not exactly what every little girl grows up dreaming of. And, as mentioned, Dave was soon off – back to the wife whom he'd left just weeks before. A wife, I should add, that none of us knew existed.
I don't know what I'd have done without the girls over the last couple of months. They've been fabulous throughout my whirlwind romance. I told them everything about Rufus from the start. They were there for my initial panic when a new artistic director called Sebastian Kemp-Cooper joined the theatre and we all thought we'd lose our jobs. I thought I'd lose mine because Geoff, the director of the theatre group, and the man who brought Sebastian in, had asked me out a few times and I'd turned him down; I was sure I'd be first for the chop. It was funny; I've never been all that much into my 'career' but the minute I thought I might lose my job, I realised how much I enjoyed it. The theatre's a wonderful place to work – there's a real buzz as we approach an opening night, and the excitement of the actors arriving, the costumes and set designers. There's an unmatchable excitement about the place, and I love that it's such a creative atmosphere, with all these arty types drifting in and out. So much better than working in a bank or somewhere like that.
When we were chatting at home about whether I'd lose my job or not, the girls were brilliant. They told me not to worry, and assured me that they'd cover my share of the rent . . . somehow. There's a solidarity between us that has been tested over the months and years and has never been found wanting.
Worry turned to delight, though, when it turned out that Sebastian was completely lovely. He strutted into the office – tall and proud with a mop of sandy-blond hair that was so dishevelled it looked as if he'd got it on back-wards. His confidence fairly bounced off the walls, and his enthusiasm filled the theatre from floor to ceiling. We loved him from the moment he walked in – all bubbly and excitable like a puppy but with this incredibly loud voice that you could hear from the next room. 'Lovely to meet you all,' he said, smiling from ear to ear like he genuinely meant it. He was wearing a ridiculous ensemble; it looked as if he'd borrowed clothes from a friend who was a completely different shape and size to him. He wore fawn-coloured cords that sat just above his grubby white socks, so that when he sat down and crossed his legs we were treated to the sight of four inches of pale freckled shin covered in strawberry-blond hairs. On top he wore a creased white shirt (too big) and a mustard-coloured jacket (too small). He wasn't wearing a tie on that first day, but whenever he did wear one after that occasion, it invariably gave you a clear view of exactly what he'd had for breakfast.
Despite all that, though, there was something charming and erudite about our cuddly new boss; he was bursting with ideas for adaptations and alterations, and ways in which we could make improvements that would secure the theatre's future.
The best thing about Sebastian was that he kept us all on, and started bringing in loads of new funding. Suddenly the future was looking very bright. I was promoted to head administrator and given much more responsibility. No more money, of course; we lowly theatre administrators do it for love, not financial remuneration! The promotion was great though, because it took me a little nearer to where I wanted to be – in the marketing department. I still wasn't allowed to work on marketing plans, or even go anywhere near the marketing leaflets, but I was put in charge of internal communications which was a real step forward.
Every day at work was filled with optimism as we looked forward to a future which looked brighter than we ever thought possible.
There are three of us sharing an office at the theatre: me, Katy and Jenny.
Katy's a real laugh; the sort of girl who's the centre of attention and always cheering people up. I can't think of anyone more fun to work with – she just beams all day and makes sure everyone is happy and enjoying life. She's always taking the mickey out of me, and saying that all the men fancy me, and she hates going out in public with me because of it. The truth is that Katy is very attractive, though she clearly doesn't realise. She's good-looking in a very grown-up sort of way; you'd almost call her 'handsome' rather than 'pretty'. She looks like the teacher at school who all the boys secretly fancied.
Jenny's quite a different character; she's less outgoing than Kate, and more formal in some ways. She's very intelligent and always reads the newspapers while Katy and I are scouring
Heat
magazine. Jenny's not what you would call attractive, but she has an incredible figure. She's very tall and incredibly slim. She holds herself well, too, and as she walks around the office, with her head held high, her shoulders back, and her arms swinging elegantly by her side, she looks like a ballerina or something. The thing is – she's just not interested in how she looks, and doesn't make much effort at all. She has grey speckled through her auburn, bobbed hair, even though she's only thirty-two, and wears these really unflattering glasses. I don't think I've ever seen her wearing jewellery or make-up of any kind. I always think that if Gok Wan or one of those other makeover people was to get hold of her, they'd make her look absolutely stunning in no time.
The three of us get on brilliantly and have such a laugh, which makes work great fun every day.
One bright, sunny morning, Katy and I had been busy comparing suntans when Sebastian called us in and announced that a Hollywood heart-throb would be joining the cast of
Only Men
– a new play set to start with us at our little theatre and move on to the West End.
'Who?' we all asked, imagining Orlando Bloom setting himself up at the desk next to us.
'You'll have to wait and see,' said Seb enigmatically as he swept dramatically out of the office, leaving us to speculate wildly.
'That's it then,' said Jenny with a weary shrug. 'It's going to be someone old and distinguished who we've never heard of.'
There were nods all round. It was bound to be some dull Shakespearean actor with very little hair and a collection of brightly coloured cravats.
The next day, as we were guessing which octogenarian would appear before us, Seb disclosed that the actor was Rufus George, the sexiest man ever to walk the earth (and that's official – he's come top of the
Cosmo
list for the past two years, beating Brad Pitt and George Clooney). The prospect of the world's biggest film star treading the boards in Richmond shook the very foundations of small London theatres. Artistic directors everywhere started reaching for the stars.
Within the theatre we almost died of excitement; we Googled the mega-star until our fingers ached. Within hours, there was nothing we didn't know about him. He was 8lbs 8oz when he was born. His mother was an interior designer with high cheekbones, large earrings and a wardrobe which appeared to consist entirely of expensive beige separates. From the photos she seemed like one of those women who always looks like she's just walked out of the hairdresser's. You know the type? Basically, a real stuck-up cow, or that's how she seemed to us.
Rufus's career started because of his mother. She wanted to be an actress herself, so when she left Rufus's father (breaking the poor man's heart, by all accounts; he died the next year), she took her six-year-old son to live in LA so she could pursue her dreams of making it big in Hollywood. Rufus was dragged along to auditions and screen tests and forced to go to drama classes while his mother fought to be taken seriously as an up-and-coming actress. Ironically, though, it was Rufus who ended making it 'big in Hollywood' when he was picked out of his drama academy and given a role as a young boy who had to be rescued by Michael Douglas after he was cast adrift on a fishing boat. His mother never made it beyond a couple of walk-on parts in minor films, and when the ageing process robbed her of any chance of being the starlet she'd so yearned to be, she turned to interior design and worked with some of the biggest names in Hollywood, taking millions from them to deck out their homes.
While his mother cut a dash in the world of soft furnishings, Rufus's career grew. He played an angst-ridden teenage boy in
Tease Me
, a highly acclaimed film which was loved by critics but largely ignored by audiences, and played a pirate in a
Pirates of the Caribbean-
type epic. Then, when twenty-one, he took the lead role in a remake of
Tarzan
and became a huge household name and worldwide pin-up. It was the biggest grossing film of the year. There can't have been a young girl in the land who didn't fall helplessly in love with the tall, dark, handsome young man swinging through the trees wearing little more than a tea towel.