Mr Right and Mr Wrong

Mr Right and Mr Wrong

by Grigory Ryzhakov

Edited by Stephanie Dagg

Cover design and illustration by Roopa Sachidanand

Copyright 2013 Grigory Ryzhakov

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Also by Grigory Ryzhakov, published at Smashwords.com:

Usher Syndrome

Pumpkin Day

Table of Contents

Mr Right and Mr Wrong

1. Orange (Citrus cinensis)

2. Poison Ivy (Toxicodendron radicans)

3. Garlic (Allium sativum)

4. Queen of the Night (Selenicereus grandiflorus)

5. White Willow (Salix alba)

6. Grapevine (Vitis vinifera)

7. Dishrag Gourd (Luffa aegyptiaca)

8. Rose (Rosa)

9. Common Stinkhorn (Phallus impudicus)

10. Small-leaved Linden (Tilia cordata)

11. Victoria (Victoria amazonica)

12. Forget-me-not (Myosotis arvensis)

13. Strawberry (Fragaria ananassa)

14. Mistletoe (Viscum album)

15. Pine tree (Pinus sylvestris)

16. Grapefruit (Citrus paradisi)

17. The Madonna Lily (Lilium candidum)

18. Juniper (Juniperus communis)

19. Exploding Cucumber (Ecballium elaterium)

20. Duckweed fern (Azolla)

21. Apple (Malus domestica)

About the Author

Mr Right and Mr Wrong

by Grigory Ryzhakov

When you fish for love, bait with your heart, not your brain.

Mark Twain

1. Orange (Citrus cinensis)

Being spoilt for choice had never been my problem until I met both Terrence and Blake on the same day.

My name is Chloe and today is the last Monday of September. After finishing my morning classes at uni, I hurry to Baker Street where I do afternoon shifts at a florist’s. My journey from South Kensington on the tube takes about twenty minutes. I try to read a serious book, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, while standing in the packed carriage, but I keep getting distracted by some ridiculously hot, probably Australian, guy, who eyes me up. I curse silently when he leaves the train at Hyde Park Corner.

Feeling hungry I pop into a Prêt A Manger outlet in the mood for a sandwich. It’s lunchtime and therefore the place is packed. I spot an Asian couple leaving their table and promptly rush to the vacant seat. I seize the chair almost at the same time as a man in a suit grabs the opposite one, and we say Sorry to each other in unison.

Do you mind if I sit at this table too? he says.

Sure, it’s not like you can sit anywhere else, I giggle like a fool.

The man smiles at me regardless. I unlock my phone and go to see what’s happening on Facebook while my mouth works on the sandwich like a combine harvester on autopilot.

You have a very healthy appetite.

I unglue my stare from the phone screen and see his smiling face again.

Sorry, what did you say? I mumble and a piece of lettuce leaf drops from my mouth. "Oops! Sorry, again. Don’t get the wrong impression. I’m not such a pig all the time. I do have better table manners whenever Her Majesty drops by for dinner,’’ I say and giggle again.

Seriously, Chloe, he’ll think you’re a moron.

That’s funny. You must be an actress.

Why?

You have a great voice and enunciation, he explains.

Oh thanks, but I’m not an actress, it’s just the way I talk.

Have you ever considered acting? I’m Terrence, by the way.

I’m Chloe.

Beautiful name. It suits you. What do you do then if it’s not acting?

I study industrial agronomy at Imperial. And you?

I’m more boring, I work in financial services.

I can see he is impressed with me. Perhaps the course I picked isn’t as shitty as my mother thinks.

You must be doing well, I say.

Another brilliant statement, Chloe.

Can’t complain, he says with calm confidence.

I take a look at his expensive suit and dark blue tie that matches his eyes. His hair is short and neatly trimmed, probably by some award-winning hairdresser. He’s clean-shaven and he now beams another white-toothed smile at me.

What? he asks.

Nothing, I just wondered if it’s Tom Ford you’re wearing.

Good nose, he says.

We continue to make small talk and while I must have exceeded my monthly limit of silliness, I somehow find myself staring at his small delicate hands as he types in my number on his Blackberry. I win. I’ve nailed a date. He’s over six feet tall, dark blond, around thirty-five years old, medium built and no noticeable belly, though a little bald. Who cares? I’ve got a date. Yay!

Reality forces its way back into my mind an hour later in the form of Fiona who tells me I’ve put on my apron the wrong way around.

Fiona is my boss and owner of the flower shop. She’s posh, but she’s a bloody hard-worker. Have you heard of those Chinese workers making smartphones from dawn to sunset without having weekends to rest? They are slackers compared to Fiona.

She does all the books and ordering and talks to particularly arsy customers as if she’s their psychotherapist, when she’s not busy changing water, cutting, trimming, wrapping, dealing with deliveries, etc. My job is to sell and help her out here and there, yet sometimes looking at her quick dexterous moves I feel I’m more of an impediment rather than any sort of assistance. A mother of three and a successful entrepreneur, she is now forty-five but looks a decade younger without any visible effort. I hate her, in a nice way.

Still, today I don’t feel so inadequate, and a radio tune gets stuck in my head and I hum it non-stop while working on flower bouquets and completely lose track of time.

Chloe, honey, don’t you want to go home? Fiona wakes me up from my daydreaming once again.

It’s nearly eight o’clock. I put on my leather jacket and leave the shop before she gets a chance to lock me in.

See you tomorrow, I say to her and hurry to catch a bus to Islington. On my way, I get a text from Trish, my housemate, who’s on the same course as me. She begs me to buy a pineapple-ham pizza at Tesco’s. If you ask me, she’s too fat to eat it, but who am I to deprive her of food. She should make her own decisions.

It’s so annoying when you pop into the shop just to buy one thing and half an hour later emerge with two heavy plastic bags full of a week’s supply of food and waddle home like a penguin.

I envy those guys who shop with backpacks. My fingers hurt so badly by the time I reach the road junction. And then… disaster.

One of the bags has had enough: it breaks and all my food spills out across the pavement.

I curse and jump onto the road to grab a runaway orange when I’m blinded by the lights of an approaching car. I utter Shit! in my mind, half-frozen on the spot, when someone grabs me from behind and I’m thrown backwards onto the pavement, falling and landing on something soft that is not my arse.

I lift myself up and look at the guy who just saved my life.

Are you fucking nuts? he shouts at me.

I fucking am on Mondays. This is shock talking, I want to add.

Half-lying on the ground I stare at him and blink several times. He’s gorgeous. He’s looking at me with his Cheshire cat green eyes in a bewildered oval face, which is neatly framed with short black hair and imposing sideburns.

Sorry, is all I can say.

This orange wasn’t worth dying for. He jumps to his feet and helps me to get up. I notice a lot of dirt on his black boots.

It’s the stupid bag, I grumble and point to my scattered food shopping, now biting the dust.

Don’t worry. I’ll get you another one.

He sprints to a nearby shop and returns after several minutes.

Sorry, the queue was long, he says, and gives me a pricy fabric bag.

Oh, you shouldn’t have, I say and thank him, trying to find money to repay him.

Don’t worry, it’s a present. I don’t trust your remaining plastic bag.

We pick up the runaway goodies.

All safe now, he says when we’re done. Are you all right? I didn’t catch your name.

Chloe.

I’m Blake, nice to meet you, he laughs. Can you actually walk?

I nod.

Let me help you with this.

Thank you, I can manage myself, really. I live around the corner.

You sure? Okay. Listen, I have to go to work now. Here’s my card. Come and say hello, I play sets at this club. We’ve a huge party this Friday night. Here’s a flyer. Bring your friends. Call me if you need anything else.

I keep staring at him, so he asks once again whether I am okay or not. I get a grip on myself, thank him once again and try not to look back as I cross the road.

***

What kept you so long? I’m starving, are the first words I hear when I come home. Trish immediately takes the bags and makes herself busy. I hang up my jacket, slip off my shoes and follow her. We have an open plan kitchen-dining area. I dive into the armchair and sigh audibly.

Busy day? she asks.

Yes. Where’s Kurt? I enquire about our third housemate.

He’s so mean. He bought a Chinese takeaway but hid in his room before I could sample it. Are you hungry?

I am too excited to hold it in anymore.

Can you believe I’ve met not one but two handsome guys today?

Handsome guys? I hear a voice with a German accent, so I know Kurt is lurking behind me.

Kurt is gay and he must have Google Alerts installed in his brain, which buzzes whenever someone mentions hot, sexy, handsome guys.

Not for you, they’re both straight.

How do you know? he asks.

I think about Terrence and how he flirted with me; he’s definitely straight. Nothing about him could possibly be any straighter, apart from his small hands. He’s a banker, not a builder after all.

Then I switch to Blake and am suddenly suspicious. He’s more cute than handsome. His features are boyish. He’s way too fit. Could he be gay? But then, his shoes were awfully dirty. Yet, he didn’t ask for my number and he’s a DJ at a club. I wonder what kind of club it is.

Listening to you people might think every moderately attractive man is gay, Trish says to Kurt. But somehow you still remain single all this time.

Because the guys I like are either sluts or off-market, Kurt replies in self-defence.

Anyway, don’t hog the conversation. Chloe, what are they like? asks Trish.

Well, Terrence is very tall, like Kurt, immaculately dressed and very pleasant.

He’s a player, observes Kurt.

You don’t know that, says Trish.

Anyway, Blake is just hot. I tell them about the orange accident.

Next time put your fruit into a sealed bag, Trish comments.

He’s gay, says Kurt looking at Blake’s business card. What? Don’t look at me like this. It’s a gay club, I know it.

You’re jealous, I say. He’s a DJ. It’s his job. It’s not necessary for all the staff to be gay, is it? I turn to Trish.

I don’t know, she shrugs. Let’s go there on Friday and find out.

***

There is always a price to pay for a wonderful day. I can’t fall asleep till the early hours, fantasising about Terrence and Blake. I surprise myself with how it is even possible to dream about two men at once. When I open my eyes, I almost fall out of bed as I realise that I’ve overslept.

I’m cross with Trish for not waking me up, but then I recall that she’s off to see her doctor this morning. She probably didn’t want to disturb me too early.

I hurry to the uni like a pursued victim in a Tony Scott thriller, and when I get there I’m only ten minutes late. It evidently gives Mrs Ponds enormous pleasure to tell me off but she allows me to proceed and shows me to a spare lab bench.

Trish sends me an air kiss from the other end of the room.

I put on my lab coat grumpily and start cutting thin slices of a turnip and other roots with a scalpel. Then I take one of them and put it on a glass slide to begin with staining. I’m not sure what to do, so I have to skim through the manual quickly.

Yet, instead of science, Terrence occupies my mind. I decide there’s no point thinking about Blake until I confirm his sexual preferences.

Chloe, it’s turning black, Mrs Ponds points to my root sections, which I’d dipped into an iodine solution a while ago. I’d forgotten to set up the timer.

Do it again, she instructs and leaves.

You can’t imagine how much I hate doing things all over again. Mrs Ponds, this nerd in a skirt, probably thinks of herself as someone important. Ha! She doesn’t even have a doctorate. Does she honestly think that her boring plant anatomy practicum has any application in modern agriculture? If you ask