Miss Wrong and Mr Right (11 page)

‘Is he going to die?’ I asked, now very scared. I thought even Sharon would agree that Macing Benjamin, then death through anaphylactic shock was revenge too far. The man opened out a rod connected to the pop-up stretcher and hooked up the fluid bag.

‘We got here in time. He’s stable now,’ he said.

‘Right let’s move,’ said the woman throwing a red blanket over Benjamin. I grabbed my bag and followed them out into the communal garden.

‘Does Benjamin have an EpiPen?’ asked the man as they lifted the stretcher up the three small steps leading to the path.

‘I don’t know,’ I said running along beside. ‘He’s only got a toothbrush here… I wanted him to bring more stuff, but he always refused…’

Benjamin’s hand emerged from under the blanket.

‘He wants your hand,’ said the woman. I cottoned on and grabbed it, but had to let go again as they swung the stretcher round to the ambulance. With a thunk of the wheels collapsing, the stretcher was in. I went to follow but they said there was no room and I was to meet them at the hospital.
 

‘Do you want me to come?’ I asked.

‘You’re his girlfriend, yes?’ asked the woman.

‘Um, well it’s kind of…’

‘We have to go. We’ll be at Guy’s and Tommy’s,’ she said and slammed the doors. The ambulance streaked away with the sirens and lights on. I flagged down a cab and got to Guy’s and St. Thomas’ Hospital twenty minutes later.
 

The accident and emergency department was crowded. Babies were crying, an elderly lady was sitting with a huge swollen ankle. Another woman was leaning against the wall clutching at her head, blood seeping from a wound and staining her white t-shirt. Two receptionists were answering phones, and I joined a queue at the desk. I got to the front a few minutes later and asked the younger, friendlier receptionist where I could find Benjamin Jarvis. She tapped away at her computer then asked me to take a seat.

‘Could you tell me what’s going on? Is he okay?’ I asked.

‘The doctor is assessing him now,’ she said.

‘Is he going to be all right?’
 

‘We’ll know more when the doctor has assessed him, please take a seat,’ she said firmly. I stood there for a moment and saw a woman with a tiny baby behind me. I sat and began to think, should I contact Benjamin’s parents? Where would I get their number? I knew he had a sister called Emma, and she lived in Reading but I’d never met her either. I didn’t even have a key to go and get him some stuff. I felt very odd. I watched the clock go round once, and then my name was called out.
 

‘Please go through there, and ask for Dr Best,’ said the receptionist, pointing to a set of swing doors opposite. I went through into a huge room divided up into cubicles.
 
A tall thin man turned from staring at a bank of X-rays.

‘Natalie Love?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m here for Benjamin Jarvis, is he okay?’

‘Follow me,’ he said. He took me to a cubicle on the end of the row, and pulled the curtain open. Benjamin was lying propped up in bed. He was wearing a green hospital gown, and now had two IV lines in his arm. His face was still swollen to twice its size, and he still looked as if he was wearing a fat suit.

‘He had a very nasty reaction, but he should make a full recovery,’ said Dr Best. ‘It was a rather odd mixture of pepper and vanilla yoghurt on his face…’

‘Yes,’ I said. There was a pause and the doctor went on.

‘Is that something I could perhaps find in Waitrose? My wife loves their Heston Blumenthal range, is it something new?’

‘No, it was pepper spray.’

‘Oh, right…’

‘No. It was just a misunderstanding…’

The doctor was now looking at me differently. Like I had gone down in his estimation. I wasn’t a fellow Waitrose shopper. I was a trouble-making chav.

‘Right… Well I’ll want to keep him in until morning for observation,’ he added and then scuttled out. I went to the bed and took Benjamin’s hand.

‘Hello Benjamin, it’s Natalie, I’m so sorry…’ I said.
A nurse came in and adjusted the IV fluid going into his arm.

‘His belongings are in the plastic bag in the bedside cabinet,’ she said. ‘Do you want a cot?’
 

‘We haven’t got a baby,’ I said.

‘No. For you dear. If you want to grab a few hours’ sleep? Once this IV has gone in, he’ll probably be free to go home in the morning…’ she peered at Benjamin. ‘He’s asleep now, we gave him a sedative too.’

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.