Miss Wrong and Mr Right(20)

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.