Miss Wrong and Mr Right(19)

‘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.