Miss Wrong and Mr Right (25 page)

‘That bastard,’ I said.

‘And there’s pictures of Ryan drunk and out of it at the party on the
Mail, Mirror, Sun
and
Express
online.’

‘I’ll be at the office asap,’ I said.

I drove home as fast as I dared and dropped off the car. I then ran over to the theatre. The doors of The Big O were shut, and our video of Ryan was still playing on the screens. The regular group of Ryan fans were blocking the main entrance. And I had to shove them out of the way to get to the door. One middle-aged woman handed me a pound of grapes and a get well soon card.

‘See Ryan gets these,’ she ordered.
 

‘I’m not a delivery service,’ I snapped, thrusting the paper bag of grapes back at the woman. One of our security guys opened the door for me, and I squeezed my way inside.
 

The
Macbeth
cast were all waiting in the bar, but I went straight up to the office. Byron, Craig, Nicky and Xander sat pensively in the open-plan office.
 

‘The cast are downstairs. What’s going on?’ I asked, putting down my bag and pulling out my laptop.

‘I’ve had Terri, Ryan’s manager on the phone,’ said Nicky. ‘She wants to get him into rehab, which would be a disaster for us. We can’t spare him for thirty days.’

‘Shit!’ I said.
 

‘Terri is coming at it from an American perspective,’ said Craig.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Nicky.

‘We have a different view of drinking in the UK. Several of my friends have had alcohol poisoning after a big night out. No one ever told them they should go to rehab,’ explained Craig.

‘Ryan is in AA, he’s got a sponsor,’ I said.

‘Let’s just hold off until he’s out of hospital. I can rehearse without him for a few days,’ added Craig hopefully.

‘Yis, we can go over all the bits Ryan isn’t in,’ agreed Byron.

‘What other choice do we have?’ I said. I looked to Nicky and she nodded.

‘Keep us posted,’ said Craig.
 

‘Oh, and remind the cast that they signed confidentiality agreements, you know how actors love to gossip,’ I said.

‘I will devote today’s housekeeping session to making this viry clear,’ said Byron gravely, and she went off with Craig to get the actors.
 

For the rest of the morning we were in damage limitation mode, trying to tempt the press with positive stories about Ryan. We didn’t have many takers.
 

One picture in particular had been picked up by all the news agencies. It was taken of Ryan sat in a booth at the Shadow Lounge, slumped back in his seat with his eyes rolling back. He was surrounded by unconcerned people, partying, the table in front of him littered with drinks.

‘We should visit him in hospital,’ I said, thinking about the fan outside the theatre with the pound of grapes.

‘I will visit him, Nat. If you show up the press will make something of it. It’s a miracle they haven’t made more of you and him together by the pond,’ said Nicky.

I then phoned Guy’s and St Thomas’, who said that Gran was in surgery. I tried Mum but she was out. I then tried Sharon, but it kept going straight to voicemail. After my fourth try a text message came through:

NOW YOU DECIDE TO PHONE ME?
 

AM TOO BUSY. CAN’T TALK.
 

I texted Sharon back, asking if she wanted to meet for lunch. Another brusque text message came through:

SERIOUSLY. I’M TOO BUSY.
 

SIX STAFF CALLED IN SICK & THE AREA MANAGER IS HERE!

 
I’M HAVING TO WORK ON THE POST OFFICE COUNTER.

NOT HAPPY.

I tapped my phone against my teeth. Was Sharon annoyed that I didn’t call her after the christening? She is the queen of kisses and smiley faces in her text messages. I looked over at Xander, who was sorting out the mail.

‘Anything you want franked for the post guy?’ he asked. I eyed the big pile of letters in his hand.

‘Let me take those,’ I said.
 

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What would you like for lunch?’

‘I’ll be out for lunch,’ I said. I took the pile of letters, grabbed my bag, and walked down to Charing Cross station. I made it on to a New Cross train just as the doors closed.
 

It had started to rain again when I reached the huge post office on New Cross Road. It was now close to lunchtime and people were streaming into the main entrance. The queue inside snaked back to the door, and I could see Sharon behind one of the windows beside the Bureau de Change.
 

I joined the end of the long line. Half of the windows were closed, and numbers flashed up on a screen, advancing the line forward. I reached the last turn in the zigzagging queue when Sharon spotted me from behind her window. She gave me a quizzical look, just as an old lady came forward to her window with a big pile of parcels. Another ten minutes passed and then I reached the front of the queue.
 

A man stood in front of me holding his electricity bill. Sharon finished with the old lady, and she delayed it so the man in front of me was called to another window, then she pressed her button. The computerised voice told me to go to her window.

‘What are you doing here? Isn’t there a post office in Charing Cross?’ she asked.

‘I’m sorry, so much has happened. I need to talk to you,’ I said.

‘Well, hand over those letters, I can’t just sit here and chat,’ she said adjusting her Royal Mail neckerchief. I passed them over and she sifted through.

‘I have a life too, Nat. I’ve got kids, I had to take my father-in-law to have his ears syringed, yet I still manage to phone you!’

‘I’m sorry. How was the ear syringing?’ I asked.

‘Vile. The doctor said he’d never seen so much ear wax come out of an ear,’ she said. She printed off the last label for the letters and turned, placing them in a large grubby green sack.

‘That’s three pounds twenty,’ she said. I handed over the correct change.

‘So when I took Ryan back to the christening…’ I started to say, but Sharon pressed the button on her desk. The computerised voice intoned, ‘
Next customer please.
’

‘Sharon!’ I hissed. ‘I really need to talk to you about Ryan. Something happened between us, I slept with him!’

Sharon’s eyes almost popped out of her head.

‘Nat, you tell me this at the busiest time! One of the area managers is watching us all on the CCTV,’ she said, glancing up at a tiny camera mounted on the ceiling.

‘I feel out of my depth. I need to talk. Can you meet for lunch?’ I pleaded.

A woman was approaching the window with a pile of parcels.

‘Look, fill in this customer feedback form until I’ve served this woman,’ said Sharon shoving a piece of paper and a pen through the gap. The woman reached the window.

‘If you could stand to one side for me, madam,’ trilled Sharon in her customer service voice. I stared down at the form as the woman said all her parcels needed to go to Jersey. Sharon started to weigh, and print labels. She glanced across at me with the pen hovering above the form.

‘The first question on the form is about your most recent Royal Mail delivery. How would you rate the experience from one to five?’ she said, still using her customer service voice.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘
The lovely package from America
you were talking about, madam…’

‘Oh, the lovely American package. He, I mean it, was a five,’ I said cottoning on.

‘So it was a
special
delivery?’ asked Sharon.

‘Yes, it was a special delivery. Very special,’ I said.
 

‘And how many times did he come? The postman.’

‘He came twice…’ I said.

‘And he didn’t have any trouble getting it through the letterbox?’ said Sharon.

‘No,’ I said trying not to laugh.

‘And did the postman know where your special place was? Where to leave a parcel if you’re out?’

‘He did. He knew exactly where my special place was,’ I said. The woman with her Jersey parcels raised an eyebrow.

‘So what do you wish to complain about, madam?’ she asked. ‘Did he leave you a card or anything to say he might be calling again?’

‘No, but the problem is, I see this postman at my business address, and it’s getting complicated,’ I explained.

‘And you don’t want your business letters mixed up with your personal mail, is that correct madam?’ asked Sharon.

‘Exactly.’
 

‘There we go, that’s seventeen pounds and thirty pence,’ said Sharon to the Jersey lady who paid and left, giving us an odd stare. I shifted back across to the window and shoved the form through.

‘Please can you meet me for lunch?’ I said. ‘I’ve got so much to tell you, and I don’t think our postal-based code will work for much longer.’

‘Okay, Nat. You get points for coming all the way here to post your letters. Meet me in twenty minutes at the caff over the road.’

I had a cup of tea and a cheese and pickle sandwich waiting for Sharon when she arrived at the caff.
 

‘I really have got only twenty minutes,” she said, sitting down. ‘Did I understand our postal code correctly? You slept with
Ryan Harrison
?!’
 

She started munching on the sandwich as I quickly told her everything that had happened, I finished up saying I thought I had feelings for Ryan.
 

   
‘You need to get some perspective here, Nat. It just sounds like it was a fabulous one night stand…’ she said.

‘It felt more than a one night stand. He opened up to me…’ I said.

‘And you don’t think you’ve bought into the whole thing that he’s famous?’

‘I’m telling you, we had a connection.’

‘So now what? You’re dating?’

‘No. I think he hates me right now. Isn’t it my fault he went back on the drink?’

‘Nat, it’s not as if you seduced him into doing shots, and lines of coke off your bare backside. He had some of your mother’s trifle.’

Despite myself, I burst out laughing. Sharon went on.

‘And you can’t be responsible for someone’s choice to go and get plastered. Yes, he’s vulnerable, but where does it stop? If someone really wants to drink, they’ll get drunk.’

‘But what about everything else? It feels like it’s all getting out of control. What if Nicky finds out?’

‘Ryan made the choice to become an actor, and to a certain extent he has made the choice to be Ryan Harrison the heart-throb, he must know the deal? The press follow his every move, and Nicky knows the deal too, how the press twist things.’

 
‘Should I go and see Ryan in hospital?”

‘Nat, be a friend to him by all means, but remember you have your life and your career to think about. You have your Gran who needs you when she comes out of hospital. And you have a friend here who has missed you like crazy.’

She reached out and grabbed my hand.

‘Thanks Sharon,’ I smiled.

‘Right, that’s all the life coaching I’ve got time for. Now tell me, how many Ryan calendar pictures did you get me?’

‘Just January,’ I said sheepishly holding out my phone.
 

‘Nice, with a llama,’ said Sharon.

‘Oh, I did get one of him asleep on me.’ I took the phone and scrolled forward.

‘He looks so gorgeous in the morning!’ she said.

‘I know. Look at me next to him…’

‘Oh dear Nat, you look like Marge Simpson with all the colour rubbed off her!’ said Sharon.

‘You’re a cow!’ I laughed.
 

‘You should see me in the morning, ugh!’ said Sharon. ‘Now, I’ve got a few minutes left. Tell me what it was like shagging a man with a pierced penis?’

‘It wasn’t horrible, it was exciting, and it felt good.’

‘Do you think I should get Fred one for his birthday?’

‘What? As a surprise?’

‘Well, he would probably notice it being done!’

‘No, you could arrange it as a surprise,’ I said.

‘Gosh, no. Fred has a very low pain threshold… anyway, I think he’d much prefer a subscription to the
National Geographic
,
’ said Sharon. Outside the window of the caff it started to rain harder. ‘I hope this rain continues. Flooding water mains are just what we need,’ she added.

‘Is everything okay?’

‘It’s been very quiet on the work front for Fred. I think we’re going to have to take in a lodger for the spare room.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘It’s fine. We’re not on the bread line just yet. If you hear of anyone who’s looking, who’s not a freak…’

‘Of course, I’ll let you know,’ I said. Sharon looked at her watch, and drank the last of her tea.

‘Crap. I have to go, Nat. Promise me you’ll keep in touch?’

‘I promise,’ I said.
 

‘And let me know how Anouska is doing, I’ll try and come over and see her.’
 

She gave me a hug and we parted ways outside the post office. I walked back up to the train station, still with the weight of everything on my shoulders, but with the warm knowledge that I had a friend.

Sophia Loren's toe

When I got back to the theatre I ran into Val in the box office. She’d just come off the phone, and the theatre seating plan was open on her computer screen.

‘Is everything okay?’ I asked.

‘I just had the headmistress of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart independent boarding school for girls on the blower,’ she said. ‘She’s cancelled the school coming to one of the matinees.’

‘Why?’

‘Said she’s seen the stuff in the papers, and parents don’t want to fork out thirty quid a ticket to watch the understudy do Shakespeare.’

‘How many seats?’ I asked.

‘Hundred and four,’ she said pointing to the little rows of squares on the screen, which had reverted back to green, indicating they were available.

‘Did you try and persuade her not to cancel?’ I asked.

‘Yes, but what is going on? Is Ryan fit to go on stage? And what do I do with all these flowers and teddy bears people keep leaving on the steps outside for Ryan?’ Val got up and opened the store cupboard which was filled with soft toys. ‘It’s like Princess Diana’s kiffed it all over again!’