Mr. Right

He glances at me. My heart skips a beat and I feel shivers down my spine. I can’t keep eye contact without blushing and this is me. A successful television producer, I’m the girl who barks at people for not making my coffee right. I’m the one that scares off every guy by being over-confident, or as most people call it arrogant. Why did he have to come into this studio? I was supposed to get that job. I practically do it anyway, just without the title and without the extra money. I collect my paperwork and walk as smoothly as I can in these open-toe, black satin Gucci sling-back shoes out of my office. I pass his clear window office and see him kicking off his shoes, getting ready for a long night in the office. That picture was me before this superior God came. This guy has the reputation of being one of the toughest people in business. However, no matter what his reputation is, he gets results and as my very silly boss says, ‘It’s all about getting results, not about how you get them.’ 

He is the youngest guy in history (so far) to get eight top-rated television shows by the time he was twenty four. But all that means is that most people are just lazy, like me. Actually no, I wouldn’t call myself lazy; I would say that my priorities are different. Some think work is the most important thing in life but I think shoes and friends are; for me work is right down at the bottom. I class work as something I do from time to time, to pay for my expensive addiction. When my so-called boss called me to tell me the ‘bad news that I won’t be getting the job’ it was the first time I laid my eyes on him. I remember he was wearing a soft, light brown shirt hanging out with dark denim jeans, and a short, black leather jacket. 

That was also the first time he saw me. His eyes went up and down looking at me, checking me out and he gave me a quick smile that made my heart beat. He has the sexiest smile but I can say with great confidence that I was not the only one who thought that. 

So I’m walking to my office, tired as hell as I stayed up all night reading a script that was not only five hundred pages long but also I had a feeling the whole purpose was to make you go to sleep. Maybe the writer had insomnia and thought he’d write a show that would make you fall asleep every time you watch it. I turn around and see him (who by the way is called Luke) walking around the studio and I am just watching all the actresses, who should be on set, throwing themselves at him and he is gently backing away with absolutely no expression on his face. On my lunch I walk to my local café to meet my mother, the one person I love but also the one person I can’t get away from. 

“Hello dear.”

“Hey there, Mum, I can’t stay long; I’ve got to get to a meeting in thirty minutes.”

She nods and we order blueberry pancakes and coffee. I look at my watch and realise I have exactly six minutes to get to the office. So I get up and move in the direction to my office, with my heels making a clink and a clonk noise, my coffee in one hand spilling as I’m walking a little faster every time I look at my watch and the doughnut that I slyly bought when my mother wasn’t looking. I know what my mother will say ‘oh darling, you should really watch your figure’. 

The way I see it is that we can’t all be size quadruple zero so why bother trying (I’m a size twelve and proud). I make it to the conference room with about five seconds to go and everyone is staring at me. What? I’m not late.

“Suzanne, just a suggestion; try next time to get here at least a minute before the meeting starts,” said slimy Gary (my awful and nauseating boss), who just sits on his chair all day, making unhelpful suggestions and calling in actresses, bargaining them to sleep with him (what a hideous thought), and...And there He was. 

He’s looking at his watch and has raised his eyebrow, is he going to say something? Holy Moses, he looks like he is going to yell. I don’t really see what he has to yell about as I was technically early; the meeting starts at one-thirty and I came in that door at one-twenty-nine. But he has just given me a quick smirk, the same one he gave me when I first met him. I don’t really know if he was smirking at me or at himself. He looks at me and says, 

“Are you ready to begin?” 

Begin what? Oh my presentation that I haven’t done, right. Right well I have the presentation on the computer somewhere. Now where did I put it? Which file, let’s think? It’s about a show called ‘Love Lost’, so maybe I put it in the scripts file. Nope it’s not in there. Oh crap, people are looking at me, well this is embarrassing.

“I’m sorry; I forgot where I’ve put my presentation. It’s here somewhere I promise.” 

I look at Luke he raises his eyebrow again and slightly taps his fingers. Now that’s just rude. Oh I remember I put it under my shopping file because I was doing some online shopping in between pages. There it is. Now I can begin. 

I’m so glad that is over with, I mean so what if I may have forgot about the presentation, about my slightly expensive show that involves hundreds of actors, actresses and thousand of pounds worth of advertisement, was it such a big deal. I knew what I was talking about, most of the time. I think I need to treat myself to a nice new pair of shoes, nothing expensive, just to cheer me up. I walk along the High Street and think about shoes, beautiful, shiny and pretty shoes. I feel like that creepy little person thing of ‘The Lord of the Ring’ when he says ‘my precious’. I totally understand where he is coming from, even though my precious is a tad more expensive than a stupid ring. Come to think about it I’m in debt because of all those beautiful shoes, that are all around me screaming buy me, love me, cherish me. But if I buy a pair then I won’t need another pair for at least another year. I mean it is an investment, because I will need new shoes, so, in fact, I’m saving money. That is always my theory, I say it every time I go shoe shopping and the theory is all good and well until the next time I see a pair of shoes that again are screaming at me to buy them and I think maybe I can just apply my theory again and again and again. So that is my theory on buying shoes. And if that is the case then I shouldn’t need any more shoes until I reach the nice old age of eighty years old and am no longer (me and the big guy above have an agreement on that). 

So I’m still walking down the High Street, or shoe heaven as I like to call it, and suddenly a flashing, blinding light shone in my eyes. I felt I was blind for a minute, I look around to see what the light was and then I saw something coming from a shop window. Should I move in closer, why not, what is the worst that can happen. I walk to the shop window and I see a pair of brown leather, knee length, cowboy-styled boots. They are the most beautiful pair of boots that God has ever made. God must have made these boots personally himself and sent them down and reserved them for me, he must have. They are my boots. So, if I think of this logically, I would be insulting the angels from heaven if I ignore this amazing gift. They are on sale as well - half price; well that has just made my mind up for me. I look down to see the price and it says a whooping $589.20. Yes, a small fortune I know, but they are half price and I don’t want the angels to be mad at me. 

I push the heavy doors that say automatic but are clearly not. I go into the warm store that feels so good after being out in the cold. I pick up a boot and ask for the other one. I will never understand why they don’t just put both shoes out; it would save so much time. Anyways least he’s quick. I take them both out of his hands. They are mine, all mine. I put them on my very cold feet and they feel so soft. They are like clouds for your feet. I must have them, I’ll die if I don’t and I’m too young to die. I look at the man and smile and he smiles while he charges me for the shoes. 

I start to flounce into my office, feeling like a little girl who has just persuaded her mummy to buy her loads and loads of sweets. I walk over to my desk and then I see him. The only superior God that I go weak in the knees for. He looks around the room and smiles.

“Hello, it’s Suzanne, right?” 

My whole body is frozen. I can’t move. I nod my head, what am I, a little puppy or something?

“Yeah, that’s my name.”

Why am I whispering (this isn’t Chinese whispers)?

“Why are you whispering? Did you have a good time shopping? Get anything nice?” 

Oh bugger. Of all the times to come and see me, he has to pick now, when I have three shopping bags in my hands. Why is God trying to punish me, I bought his shoes what more does he want from me.

“I was just clearing my head so I would be fresh and raring to go; I hoped the fresh air would help ideas just fly into my head”

“Well that’s good, so what ideas have you got; anything I should know about?” 

Oh God he knows I have nothing. My brain is empty (it is like an open space, my brain is very unsociable). Maybe I can just say something, I must have one tiny idea, but there is actually nothing. Right I have already acted like a little lost puppy once, maybe I can do it again. I start to smile and nod and all I can see is my red carpet, so why is he just standing there (is that his trademark move or something, to just stand there, looking at you) I look up to see his smug, sarcastic face and I just want to die. This is so uncomfortable. 

I feel like someone is under my skin and they know something you don’t and they are saying ‘I know something you don’t know’ over and over again. I know I’m just being paranoid. Okay this is getting just plain silly now, I have to say something, anything; just open your mouth Suzanne, just say whatever pops into your head, anything is better then nothing, he must think I’m a complete idiot. 

“Yellow.” What did I just say there?

“What about yellow?” 

Good question, why did I just say that? I have nowhere to go from that, of all the things to say, I say a colour and not even a nice colour, a revolting colour actually. It would have been better if I kept my mouth shut. I just look at him helplessly, not knowing what to say, not trusting myself to say anything, I have a powerful urge just to crawl under my desk and not come out until it’s time to go home and then crawl under bed sheets. Okay, just move on (again), ask him something, whatever you do, do not go into silence, you might up saying something stupid (well it is to late for that). 

“What can I do for you?”

“Do for me?” he says in a confused voice.

“Well, you did come into my office, so I assume you wanted something from me?” He is looking at me like he has gone into a deep trance; suddenly he shakes his head and says,

“Yes, there was something; I wanted to know what you are doing tonight?”

‘Eek’ 

Please tell me I didn’t just squeak or was it an ‘eek’, either way that was not good. Please, please, please tell me I said something smart and witty and I didn’t pretend I was a mouse.

Though I kind of wish I was a mouse right now, running on all four legs, into a little hole, actually I’m not that fussy where I go just anywhere but here would do. He’s looking at me again like I was humorous; he properly thinks I’m the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland or something. I just need to pretend that didn’t happen and ask him to repeat the question; yes that’s what I’ll do. I look straight into his deep, sparkling field-green eyes and ask, 

‘I’m sorry, I was in a completely different world just then, did you say something?’

“Yes I did. I asked whether or not you were free tonight, I need you to do some research with me, so are you up for it or do I need to repeat my question?”

“You want to know whether or not I’m free to work on a Friday night’ well this is great; now I can’t say I’m free because then it’ll look like I’m the biggest loser in the world but I don’t want him to think I don’t want to work or anything (even though I don’t). So what do I say, yes or no, work or no work, that is the question?”

“Well, I was planning on going out tonight but I suppose work comes first, so I will just cancel my plans.” 

He quickly glances at me in a weird way, like he is thinking, why am I even talking to this nutcase, who hired her in the first place? He just nodded and said,

‘Great, I’ll pick you up when you finish at eight’. 

Something has just clicked into my brain because I’m sure he has just said I finish at eight. I’ve never finished at eight. I’ve always left work at seven thirty on the dot and sometime even earlier. Is he really telling me that since I started working here nine years ago I have been finishing half an hour early. Bugger, if sinister Gary finds out about this I am doomed, in every sense of the word, I am doooomed. Well this is fantastic, how did I not know that; I forgot that I was still smiling but now at my wall for he has just swiftly walked away while I was thinking. That night I was wandering around the studio looking at how empty it was, no wonder I left at seven-thirty, I have nothing to do, well that is not true, I have loads of scripts to read and suggestions to make, budget plans to draw up but I can’t just suddenly do them, I need to be in he right frame of mind. I look at my watch and it is seven fifty-nine, so I run to my office for exactly eight o’clock and quickly turn my computer on and log onto my journal, just so it would look like I was very busy and very important. It wouldn’t matter if I was typing my ABC as long as he doesn’t look at my computer, I am secretly praying that he doesn’t check what I am doing.

“Hello, are you ready?” 

Why does he have to sneak up on people, there such a word as knocking; it is why doors were invented, for privacy.

“I’m nearly ready. Just give me a moment to finish this document off.” (Or finish my blog, either way) 

I finish typing and get up as gracefully as I can, and I hope he doesn’t realise that I have a brand new (and expensive) outfit on. I kind of hope he will think that I wear a black slimming dress all the time and my hair is now in nice neat, soft waves and not just tied back as it usually is.

“You look different, have you changed?”

“No, why would I have changed? I wore this last time you saw me.” 

I start to produce a fake laugh, which isn’t very good. He takes me to a very nice restaurant and looks up at me and says,

“What do you think of having a comedy about speed dating?” 

Is he insane, or just high on drugs? That is a rubbish idea. If that got him to where he is now, he must have had to sleep with a lot of executives. But here is the tricky bit, I can’t be rude to my boss but I can’t lie to him either; so how do I indicate that it is the worst idea I have ever heard without actually saying it is the worst idea I have ever heard. 

“Well it is definitely different, but I’m just not sure how we would pull it off without looking cheesy and boring.” (I still need to work on my tactfulness)

“I wasn’t that keen when it was pitched to me, actually I told him to get out of my office but then it got me thinking. We could make it as a woman who is unlucky in love. She is a bit clumsy and ditzy...’ (I know how she feels) ‘...but a friend recommended speed-dating, so she goes along and we could get her to have a string of really bad dates and then she meets a guy who is just a as ditzy and clumsy and we go on from there.” 

It is still a rubbish idea and I personally think it was his idea to begin with. For the past half an hour all that has come from my mouth is ‘hmmm’, so I have moved on from ‘eeking’ to ‘hmming’; I’m not sure which ONE is worse. Be brave and just tell him it is a bad idea, He will like your honesty. So I say,

“Can I be honest with you? I don’t think anyone will like it or relate to it in anyway, I think it sounds too predictable and tacky. I don’t doubt that people will watch it because, lets face it, people watch mind-numbing television all day every day but I think they will be cringing instead of laughing and I don’t think we want to be associated with that kind of drama, if we could even call it that.” 

Please don’t hate me or worse fire me, I still have student loans and a mortgage to pay and a plumbing disaster to fix. But instead of frowning he is smiling and laughing, why is he laughing?

“That’s what I thought and I have heard non-stop about how smart you are and how funny and well-organised you are and I was looking forward to meeting you. Yet every time I’ve tried to talk to you I see this conventional but dippy woman who stumbles on her words, a person who just says whatever pops in her head at the time; a woman who can’t stand silence and finally a woman who doesn’t seem to know what she is talking about. So I wanted to see first-hand how you worked and…”

‘And what?’ Oh lord he is going to say ‘and I was right’ (even though technically he is right, but that is neither here nor there).

Hang on one moment has he just called me conventional and dippy, very contrasting but both very insulting.

“How dare you. I am smart and I will admit that I don’t always say the right thing at the right time, and yes, when I get stressed I like to go shoe shopping but you’re not perfect either mate. 

At least I’m not stuck-up and boring; at least I don’t think I am better then everyone else’ (well not much anyways) ‘and I could very easily do your job as I have been doing it just without the title for the past five years, so what gives you the right to barge into my studio, and take over and what gives you the right to bring me here just to insult me, because everything you have told me, I will admit to but you don’t even know me.” 

He starts to smile (that gorgeous and dazzling smile of his) and he says,

“Can I finish now? Like I said, I have found out from that little outburst and what people have told me that they were right, you are very well respected around here. You are intelligent and since I haven’t actually seen your desk because of all the clutter on it’ I don’t believe you are well-organised but if you want to work with me as much as I want to work with you I’m going to give you some advice. You have to stop this girlish crush that you have on me or just put it behind you. Then maybe we could have a conversation that doesn’t involve colours or you pretending to be an animal.” 

He was just laughing now, how does he know about that? Was it that obvious? No it couldn’t have been, he is so obnoxious, how dare he, so I said,

“I’m sorry. I was in too much of a daze to hear that. Why would I talk or even want to talk to an arrogant, stuck-up arse like yourself for any longer then I need to? You think you are so amazing, well I will tell you something for nothing, you’re not. Yes, I will admit I had a crush on you, but so probably does every girl you meet, but that does not give you the right to…” His hand covers my mouth and he says, 

“Do you ever shut up?” And he comes closer to me and his lips are gently on mine. 

So how long will this last? Don’t know. Will I end up messing it up? Most likely. Is he a good kisser? Oh yes. Am I enchanted at this very moment? Absolutely.

- THE END -