Miss Wrong and Mr Right(6)

‘There, now you’re…’

‘Able to open the door myself,’ he finished. I killed some time putting the keys back in my bag, hoping he might offer to give me a key to his place in return, but he lost patience, leant across and opened the door.

‘Right, well I’ll see you?’

‘Soon Natalie, soon. And don’t forget the leaflet. Namaste,’ he smiled, and closed the door.



It was still early when I came out of the security gate onto Beak Street. The late July sun was dazzling, promising a hot day. I made my way past the pub next door. The cobbled terrace out front was being hosed down, and a rainbow hung in the air as a little of the spray landed on my bare arms with a delicious prickling cool. Further along, a lorry was idling by the kerb and there was a clinking of beer barrels being unloaded. I slipped on my shades and crossed the road.

Raven Street is in the heart of Soho and I walked past the glittery gay bars, restaurants, sex shops, all shuttered up and sleeping after another late night. Only the coffee shops were open this early. I nipped into Grande, my regular, and ordered a takeaway americano from the pale dreadlocked guy behind the counter, then waited with the bike couriers and office workers as the machines hissed. Through the picture window I could see the crisp, white art deco facade of the Raven Street Theatre opposite.

It was built in 1919 and was a functioning theatre until the Second World War. It then went into decline, closed, and over the years was used as a soup kitchen, a pornographic cinema, and a huge second-hand bookshop. It was then boarded up and almost became a theme pub. My proudest achievement so far is that I was involved in raising money to save and restore it to its former glory, and now I am the manager.

Eek!

I say eek, because every time I walk through the doors, into the hush of the box office with its art deco mouldings and brass lamps, I feel a thrill, a little fear, and a lot of pressure to make it succeed.

I reached the front of the queue and the pale dreadlocked guy handed me my coffee.





I left Grande, crossed the road, and entered the theatre through the main entrance. I always take the stairs up to my office. Photos of our most successful productions are displayed on the staircase walls, and it gives me confidence as I climb the five flights. Halfway up, I stopped on a step beside my favourite picture of all: me with Kim Cattrall. It was taken at a charity gala evening we hosted last year. The highlight for me was looking after Ms Cattrall (who was lovely and insisted I call her Kim) before she performed in the evening of monologues. In the photo she looks gorgeous, so sleek and polished… I look a little washed-out beside her, the dreaded frizz beginning in my hair, and what I was wearing was rather thrown together. Like a social worker who’d just spent her Christmas vouchers on a decent outfit.

When I went into the open plan part of the office, Xander, our new office assistant, was being versed in the alchemy of coffee ordering by Nicky, my business partner of five years. She’s had a long career in London’s West End. She knows everyone and everything there is to know about theatre. She was involved in putting together the complex financial package to bring the theatre back to life, and where I manage the day-to-day running of the theatre, she is head of PR and publicity.

‘It’s a tall, decaf, extra-hot, Colombian blend coffee with two pumps of hazelnut syrup, soy milk and a Sweet’N Low… And I’ll know if it’s sugar or Canderel,’ she drawled in her Texan accent. She was wearing a hot pink trouser suit, nipped in at the waist, accentuating her considerable curves. Her sleek dark hair was tied back and she wore glasses with matching hot pink frames.

‘Right, no problem,’ said Xander scribbling furiously on a post-it. Nicky turned when she saw me.

‘Nat. I love Xander. He’s so cute. He’s like a puppy dog!’ She ruffled his shiny chestnut hair playfully. ‘When did you get him?’

Xander’s large brown eyes registered shock.

‘Morning Xander,’ I said apologetically, and then to Nicky, ‘Xander started when you were away on holiday.’

She peered down at him sat neatly behind his desk as if he were a little dog.

‘Xander, what a cute name!’

‘It’s Alexander, but my little brother couldn’t say it properly so I became Xander,’ he said, his deep Scottish accent belying his youth.

‘Oh my God, and an accent,’ said Nicky playing with the silver chain nestled between her impressive bosom. ‘Welcome to the Raven Street Theatre honey. You are just adorable!’

She went to the printer and opened the paper drawer. For a moment I thought she was going to pull out a sheet of inkjet paper and put it down for him to pee on, but seeing it was full, she closed the drawer and turned.