Miss Wrong and Mr Right (7 page)

‘Morning Natalie,’ purred Benjamin. ‘It’s nine twenty-three am. I’m calling to see how things went last night. Will I be seeing Ryan Harrison at BenjiYoga? I do hope so.
Namaste
.
’

There was a bleep and the message ended. It was a passive aggressive message… and a passive aggressive
namaste
. Benjamin seems to use that word a lot. He uses it when he wants something. He uses it sarcastically when someone does something he dislikes. He even yells it just before he ejaculates.

Oh yes! Natalie, oh yes! I’m going to! Ugh! NAMASTE!

I burst out laughing as I popped a coffee capsule in the machine. I went to my laptop and googled the word ‘
namaste
’ to see what it really meant. Wikipedia had it down as, ‘
a respectful form of greeting or welcoming, the translation being, I bow to the divine you.
’

‘He lectures me on being more spiritual and he doesn’t even use it properly!’ I said out loud. My mind went back to Jamie. He really used to make me laugh. I can’t think of a day when we were together that we didn’t laugh…

That’s the problem with Benjamin, he’s never made me laugh. In fact he doesn’t seem to have a sense of humour. I never realised how important a sense of humour is in a relationship. I once made the mistake of putting on an episode of
Absolutely Fabulous.
Benjamin regarded it in horror, as if it were a gritty documentary on two women in the fashion industry.

‘These are awful people,’ he said, staring at the screen. ‘Why is everyone laughing?’

I was laughing along too with the studio audience, as Patsy staggered out of a taxi, dishevelled and wearing her knickers outside her clothes.

‘It’s a sitcom,’ I explained.

‘But Natalie, these women have terrible substance abuse problems… The tall one…’

‘Patsy…’

‘Yes, she’s the enabler for the dark-haired one…’

‘Edina,’ I added helpfully. On the screen Patsy opened the taxi door, and Edina fell out backwards onto the road.

‘Don’t they need help? Not our laughter!’ said Benjamin seriously, which made me laugh even more. I realised you can’t explain
why
something is funny. You either have a sense of humour or you don’t.

I debated calling him back, but thought I needed a coffee first. Then the landline rang, and thinking I should get it over with, I picked up.

‘Oh. Hello? Is that you, Natalie?’ said my mother.
 

‘Hi Mum,’ I said.

‘Natalie
hello!
I didn’t expect to speak to you. I was going to leave a message.’
 

‘I’m not working today,’ I said. There was a silence.

‘Right, well, the reason I’m ringing is that your sister Micky is organising to have Dexter christened for his first birthday.’

I realised it had been a long time since I’d last spoken to Mum. Was Dexter really already one year old? She went on,

‘It’s going to be on a Sunday, in two weeks’ time.’

‘Look, Mum, I’m really busy here…’ I said.
 

‘Surely you can’t be working Sundays, Natalie? And we’d love to meet this Benjamin chappie who you’ve been going out with. And we’d love to see you,’ she pleaded.
 

‘I don’t know…’

‘Your sister wants to get an invitation in the post to you asap. The printers are holding the presses.’
 

‘Doesn’t Micky print her own invitations at home?’
 

‘It’s a figure of speech Natalie. We would love it if you could come to the christening. I’ve forgotten what you look like. And Dad misses you like mad. A visit from you would perk him up.’

‘If, and I mean
if
I come, it would only be for a few hours. I’d have to do it there and back in a day,’ I said.

‘And you’ll bring this Benjamin?’ asked Mum brightly.

‘I’d have to ask him…’

‘Does he like trifle?’

‘Mum, I said I’ll ask him, I don’t know if he’s free…’

‘But you’ll also ask him if he likes trifle? I’m planning a big one; proper custard, real sponge. No bought boudoir biscuits!’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘How is it going with the theatre?’ she asked. I suddenly remembered that tickets for
Macbeth
had been on sale since nine am. How could I have forgotten? I managed to get off the phone, promising Mum I’d let her know about the christening.

I switched my mobile on, and grabbing my laptop, went onto the theatre website. A few weeks back, we’d sent a photographer over to LA to do a photo shoot with Ryan for our poster. It appeared on the screen, a full-length image of Ryan, wearing just a kilt and black boots. His bare torso was sweaty and artfully smeared in mud – we’d figured, Macbeth does do battle after all – and he stared back at me with slicked-back hair and piercing green eyes. Above his head was written:

THE RAVEN STREET THEATRE PRESENTS
 

RYAN HARRISON
 

AS
 

MACBETH

LIMITED SEASON! BOOK NOW!

AUG 1st - SEP 7th

I was just navigating my way through to the ticket portal when my mobile rang. It was Nicky.

‘Nat! You’re alive! I was gonna call the cops, but then I figured Benjamin might have given you a booty call…’

‘No, that’s not really his style,’ I said. ‘I was so tired, I came home…’ I didn’t add that the only time Benjamin had given me a booty call, he’d reversed the charges.
 

‘Okay, let’s put getting stuck in the rain and seeing the ex-fiancé to one side. Have you
seen
the ticket sales? Fuck-a-doodle-doo!’ she cried. ‘The first four weeks of shows have sold out in two hours!’
 

On my screen, I got into the ticketing portal and saw that there were only tickets left for the last few performances.

‘Fuck-a-doodle-doo indeed!’ I said.

‘I’ve emailed you links to
Heat World,
the
Sun,
the
Guardian,
the
Mail Online…
The press all came good, honey. Sure there’s a bit of trash talk about putting movie stars on West End stages, blah blah blah and how gimmicky it is… But the
Guardian
quoted my response to that. Have you got it on your screen?’

‘Hang on,’ I said. I logged into my email, and clicked on the
Guardian
article link. There were several pictures of Ryan arriving at the theatre last night, meeting fans, and then inside the party. He looked gorgeous, and I’m pleased to say, so did the theatre bar, so elegant and posh. I started to read out loud.

‘“Ryan Harrison, star of teen drama
Manhattan Beach
,
arrived in London last night for…”’

‘No honey, further down,’ interrupted Nicky.

‘“Nicky Bathgate, publicity manager, countered, ‘West End theatres have been hiring celebrities for years.
Chicago
has seen Kelly Osborne, David Hasslehoff, and Jerry Springer. And last year Lindsay Lohan was dried out like a lump of old coconut matting and shoved on stage… Ryan Harrison may be a heart-throb, but he trained at Juilliard.’” Nice one,’ I said.
 

Nicky screamed. I held the phone away from my ear. ‘What?’

‘We’ve sold out. Nat! We’ve sold out!’

I refreshed the ticket portal and saw that all our shows were now sold out. I screamed along with her for a moment.

‘That’s two hours and four minutes,’ said Nicky. ‘It must be a record, I’m gonna go and put the word out there. Let’s have a drink soon, yes?’

When I came off the phone, I clicked through the rest of the links. I was shocked to see how much Tuppence Halfpenny featured in the articles. In several she was pictured in her pink lace dress posing on the red carpet outside the theatre. In one, Jamie was pictured at her side. They looked so good together.

I switched off the computer, determined to be happy about
Macbeth
selling out.

That Sunday feeling

I had such cause to celebrate, but no one to celebrate with. I phoned Sharon but she was just on her way to take the kids swimming.

‘Come over tomorrow for Sunday lunch, you can tell me all…’ she said, then shouted, ‘Felix! Stop kicking your sister! I don’t care who started it!… Sorry Nat I have to go, see you tomorrow at one?’
 

I then tried Benjamin, but his phone went to voicemail. I left a breezy gabbling message asking what he was up to, and said I hadn’t managed to give the BenjiYoga leaflet to Ryan, but I would, soon. I tried Nicky’s phone, but she was engaged for the rest of the day.
 

I did my laundry, tidied the flat, threw away some dead plants – all with one ear out for my phone, but Benjamin didn’t return my call. At six I was starving. I opened a bottle of wine and ordered a load of food from the Indian takeaway menu on the fridge. When I hung up, I realised I had ordered too much, and I had a thought. Would it be crazy to invite Ryan Harrison over? He must be lonely in London. It would be good to get to know him, talk about the show. I could also give him the BenjiYoga leaflet.
 

I scrolled through my emails and found the details of where he was staying for the six weeks he was in London. I noted the number for the Langham Hotel, and the name he had been booked in under, ‘Samuel Heathcliff’.

I looked at my phone for a moment and called the front desk, asking if I could speak to Samuel Heathcliff. There was a pause.

‘And who is calling?’ intoned the man on reception.

‘I’m Natalie Love, the manager of the Raven Street Theatre, where Ry, I mean Mr Heathcliff is working.’

‘One moment please.’

Classical music played, and then Ryan came on the line.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello. I just wanted to say congratulations. All the tickets for
Macbeth
have sold out…’ I trilled. There was a pause.

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Natalie… Love… Theatre manager… Raven Street?’

‘Oh sure, hey! Sorry,’ he said. ‘What’s up Natalie?’

‘Well, I thought you’re here in London…’

There was a scratching sound as the phone was covered, and I heard muffled voices. He came back on the line.

‘Sorry Natalie, I’ve got a buddy visiting, we’re just about to head out…’

‘Of course, yes. I just phoned to say thank you for being so famous that all our tickets sold out in a morning.’

‘Yeah it’s far out. I’m so excited to start work on the play… Look, I’m really sorry, but we have reservations…’

‘Oh yes, you go. It’s Saturday night, I’m just off out too…’ I lied. He said goodbye and hung up. I cringed, went and poured another glass of wine, and checked to see what was on TV.

I woke up early on Sunday morning. There was still no message from Benjamin, so I decided to go to his nine am yoga class.
 

I got off the tube at half eight, with my yoga mat slung over my shoulder. The roads were quiet and deserted. The BenjiYoga studio is in the basement of a tall office block, a short walk from Old Street station. I went through the tiny entrance and down the steps into the reception area. It was manned by Laura.
She’s worked for Benjamin for a few months now. She’s early twenties, rather bony and her head is always shaved bald and shiny with a razor. Her face, ears, and God knows what else, are covered in piercings. I’ve always wanted to ask her what happens when she has to go through airport security, but she seems the type who wouldn’t find that funny. I can’t stand her, and I don’t think she’s too fond of me either.
 

There was a strong smell of incense, and some mystical sitar music was playing on the PA system. Laura sat behind the desk surfing the net on an elderly iMac. Taped to the back of the flat screen so it faced the customers was a quote:

‘The fragrance always remains on the hand that gives the rose,’ – Mahatma Gandhi.

However, Laura had her hand buried in some pickled onion crisps which weren’t giving off a rose-like aroma.

‘Natalie,’ she said wryly. I slid a twenty pound note across the desk.

‘Morning Laura. Is Benjamin here?’ I asked with a forced smile. She slid a fiver back to me, her pickled onion hand covered in yellow butterfly tattoos.

‘Of course he is,’ she said. ‘This is BenjiYoga. It wouldn’t be BenjiYoga without Benjamin, would it?’

I was about to have a go at her when Laura’s eyes flicked over my shoulder and she bowed her head saying, ‘
Namaste
.
’

Benjamin had appeared behind us wearing a black towelling dressing gown.

‘Hey you,’ I said.

‘
Namaste
, Natalie,’ he said raising an eyebrow.

‘Yes, hello,
namaste
,
’ I said. I made a show of giving him a kiss. Benjamin cocked his head and seemed to sniff the air.

‘It’s Laura’s pickled onion crisps,’ I said.

‘No… That music, it’s wonderful. Good choice Laura,’ he said. Laura smiled and bowed her bald head. She had a blue catering plaster stuck to the top where she must have nicked herself with the razor.

‘Benjamin, can I talk to you for a minute?’ I said. He nodded and we went along the corridor into the large yoga studio with the mirror along one wall. Several of the hardcore regulars were unrolling mats and limbering up for the class. They bowed to Benjamin as we walked through. We carried on to a tiny room in the corner, which Benjamin uses as an office. I closed the door and he sat behind his desk.

‘Did you get my messages?’ I asked, taking the seat opposite.

‘I did…’ he said. There was a pause.

‘And this is the bit where you explain why you didn’t call me back,’ I said.

‘Natalie, you’re being very First World,’ he said.
 

‘I’m being First World? Well you’re being an arse!’

‘Natalie, I won’t have raised voices in a yoga environment,’ he said with an irritating calm. I took a deep breath.

‘I’m not raising my voice…Is this about the leaflet? Because I
will
give Ryan Harrison your leaflet, but I couldn’t during the launch party…’

Benjamin stared at me.

‘
Namaste
Natalie! You gave me your word,’ he said.