Mr Right and Mr Wrong by Grigory Ryzhakov
Publication date: September 1st 2013
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Romance
Synopsis:
Having two admirers can be a real headache, especially when a tough agronomy course at Imperial College comes on top of that, not forgetting a part-time job at a florist’s and a mother desperate to marry you off.
Have I mentioned a stalker who keeps sending roses, and a Professor who thinks it’s fine to bury you under an extra pile of academic papers? Arrrgh!
Blake may be cute and charming, but Terrence is no less attractive in his business suits. What is a poor girl to do? Dating both of them is the right thing if you listen to Trish and that’s exactly the way Kurt handles his men.
Party after party, you have to deal with these bouts of guilt mixed with hangovers while mulling over the same dilemma over and over again – Blake or Terrence? Terrence or Blake?
Think, Chloe, think!
Mr Right & Mr Wrong is a wonderfully warm and witty yet thoughtful romantic comedy, from which you will not only pick up tips on the intricacies of London dating, but also discover a few moral and ethical aspects of plant neurobiology. Not so much chick lit as chic lit, offering sophistication alongside Chloe’s amusing complications.
AUTHOR BIO
Grigory (a.k.a Grisha) Ryzhakov grew up in the Russian Far East, bathing in the icy waters of Seas of Okhotsk and Japan and playing hide-and-seek in the snowdrifts that carpeted his native town of Korsakov.
Grigory (a.k.a Grisha) Ryzhakov grew up in the Russian Far East, bathing in the icy waters of Seas of Okhotsk and Japan and playing hide-and-seek in the snowdrifts that carpeted his native town of Korsakov.
He later travelled thousands of miles to vibrant London, on the way collecting his MSc degree in biochemistry at Moscow State and PhD in molecular biology at Cambridge University.
Meanwhile, Grigory has been ceaselessly creating poems, songs and prose until eventually he wrote his debut novel "Mr Right & Mr Wrong".
"Usher Syndrome" was his first published story, also adapted for the stage and performed at London's Barons Court Theatre in 2010.
To connect with Grigory, please visit his blog:
Mr Right & Mr Wrong by Grigory Ryzhakov - Excerpts
Chloe prepares to go out on a date
I think I am sweating over it too much. Just because I haven’t been on a date for nearly five months, it doesn’t mean that my whole life should disappear into a wormhole of date-related worries. The recent ones were odd like, what if I farted, or if I snorted like a wild boar at Terrence’s jokes.
I’m well known to be a primary target for brilliant ideas flying out from the creative ether. Today’s one is very useful: I can monitor Terrence’s food preferences and sustain a safe conversation on nutrition, different cuisines and culinary-related TV shows and celebrities.
I’d need to be a total wanker to screw this up.
Who knows what awaits Terrence and me in the future? They say the path to a man’s heart lies via his stomach. Ha! Only if he’s got a massive ulcer.
Humour aside, I need to be prepared.
I’m not used to cheating, but it’s worth studying the menu online to find out everything about the selection of dishes and, most importantly, the wine list. No way am I going to shame myself by mispronouncing a French name.
When the time approaches seven, I have a shot of Scotch at home as Dutch courage and proceed to the rendezvous. I hope Terrence won’t mind me being a little late, considering that it starts raining like mad and I am hopping across freshly-filled puddles on my way to the tube rather than wait for a bus.
Having successfully avoided the downpour, I look around victoriously at less fortunate specimens in the carriage while shaking the raindrops off my umbrella.
Nothing can stop me, I say in my head, looking upwards and defiantly addressing an imaginary Almighty. I’m sure if minds could be read no one would ever date me, unless they were masochists.
On this cheerful thought I exit the train and hurry up the crowded escalator while trying not to nose-bump someone’s ascending arse in front of me. There’s a worry it may fart. What’s this obsession with body gases today?
God, it’s a tedious job to be so self-conscious.
Chloe wakes up in someone’s bed ... in someone’s house
Don’t panic, Chloe.
I try to lift myself up, but a wave of nausea overwhelms me. It will be better if I keep my head on the pillow for now.
The good news is that I presumably didn’t have sex while I was knocked out, because I’m still dressed: my skirt, tights and undies are all in place. I’d have loved to get rid of them now if I was at home.
Now that my biggest worry is resolved, I’m considering going back to sleep, but I can hear someone else breathing nearby. Trying to make as little noise as possible I slowly roll around to the left and face a sleeping man.
It’s Blake. Thank God! He must’ve brought me here.
I look at his gorgeous facial profile. If I wasn’t in this wretched state, I might be able to gather enough bravery and kiss my saviour.
Blake is sleeping on his back, his right arm behind his head like a prop. His bare armpit is shaved, and I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not.
Speaking of bare, Blake’s not covered since I’ve hogged his blanket. My gaze travels further down his body and stops.
He’s got a stiffy. Though the Calvin Klein trunks cover Blake’s manhood, they fail to conceal his size. I’m impressed and I don’t feel ashamed at all to inspect him, since I’m feeling extremely nauseous.
At least I distract myself with Blake.
God, Trish was right, he is so fit. I want to touch his pecs and belly muscles, they look so fine. He’s like some sort of living sculpture.
Another wave of nausea interrupts my admiration. I have to do something about it; the way my stomach is turning now can only mean one thing. Where’s the loo, I wonder.
I roll back to the bed edge, look down and see a large plastic basket full of laundry two metres from me. As fast I can I slip off the bed, holding my mouth with my right hand.
Chloe attends a late night BBQ party
Out in the garden I see the fire set up in the barbeque mangal. The garden furniture is scattered around. There’re still at least ten people present. Blake goes inside to find a bottle of wine for me, while I get to know everyone.
I sit on the sofa, which, I remember from last time, is normally located in the lounge. I’m immediately offered a roasted marshmallow on a stick. Blake sits down next to me.
“It’s for you,” he says. “Is Merlot okay?”
“Yes, thank you. Do you have glasses?”
“Just drink from the bottle, you’re the only ‘winepire’ here.”
“What have I missed?”
“Only the feast.”
Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of a guitar. The guy with a ponytail, whom I remember from that night out at The RIM, starts singing a tune, ‘The Sulphur Man’ by Doves as Blake tells me. I’m impressed with the guy’s strumming technique. It’s not the easiest song to play at all. My own guitar skills don’t stretch as far as three basic chords. I put my head on Blake’s shoulder and surrender to the song.
Then I ask if there’s another marshmallow I could have. Blake hands me the packet so I roast my own. I wait for the brown crust to form, and then wait a little more for it to cool down and then devour it.
“It’s the best with wine,” I tell Blake and give him a piece to try.
He smiles as his mouth takes the marshmallow from my fingers; he looks cute, like a mountain cat. I kiss him on the cheek, which startles him.
His eyes seem to become wider and the fire is reflected in them. We kiss, this time properly. Our hands catch up and we end up with our arms around each other. He tastes of beer, but I don’t care.
When our lips part we just look at the fire without saying a word and keep holding on together.
“Are you ready for flying lanterns?” he asks me after another song finishes.
“Lanterns?”
“Come with me.” He takes my hand and we go back to the house. I suspect it is simply a cunning plan to lure me inside.
I’m wrong. In the kitchen he opens a cardboard box sitting on the floor.
“I’ve ordered all this from China. Wax candles, rice paper lanterns and string. Have you done this before?”
“No,” I reply.
“You’ll love it.”
“I pick green, it’s my favourite colour,” I say.
“Okay, I pick red then.”
“Your favourite colour?”
“How did you know?”
He takes a round bamboo frame with two aluminium wires forming a cross inside it and embeds a candle in the hole in the centre of the cross. The paper lantern has four flaps on its open end, which Blake uses to wrap around the hoop and fixes them with staples. I copy what he does. We attach fishing lines to the metal wire as a precaution to make sure the lanterns won’t fly away and set fire somewhere.
He brings a hairdryer and we inflate the lanterns. Then we ignite the candles and carry our masterpieces outside. I’m paranoid that I might release the string, so I attach its free end to the back of a garden chair.
“Good idea. Now make a wish,” Blake says as we still hold our lanterns.
I look at him and think, “Be mine.”
Chloe and her friends travel to Heidelberg on the Christmas Eve
“We are going to have a white Christmas!” Trish’s excitement lets itself out in the form of an ultra-soprano a cappella.
“Please, don’t shout, just enjoy the view,” I tell her.
“All right, Miss Grumpy,” she says.
Kurt’s father Erwin picked us up from Frankfurt City airport. This is my first ever trip inside a BMW and I’m not getting carsick as usual. Erwin and Kurt enjoy their German chat, so I have to deal with Trish, who, being an insufferable lark, didn’t really need that extra cup of coffee on arrival. Nothing’s going to shut her up now.
We’ve entered Heidelberg from the north and we are now crossing the Old Bridge. I peer at the banks of the Neckar decorated with the beautiful medieval architecture of the Altstadt, covered in snow.
“Chloe, look at that gothic castle on the hill over there,” Trish says pointing in its direction. “Maybe you can hire genuine knights’ armour there. I’d love to go clubbing like that.”
“I’m not sure I can cope with so much creativity coming from you,” I tease her.
“What do you suggest doing instead?”
“Let’s see the sights, drink mulled wine at the Christmas Fair and stuff ourselves to death with sausages.”
“Listen,” Trish leans close to me and says in a lowered voice. “It was your choice, you could have spent Christmas with Blake. But since you’re here, I’m not going to stand for any bitterness. Besides, you need a break from your passionate exercise.”
“Are you still mad at me for that vase?”
“No, but I’m jealous you were humping so vigorously it caused an earthquake, even in my room.”
“Well, you and Victor have had a bit of action too.”
“We are not as noisy –”
“Oh yeah, well, maybe I just have sensitive ears because I have to wear earplugs each bloody time,” I say.
“You do?” she giggles. “Then we both need a break.”
Trish is right. My sex life has got out of control. I’ve been meeting up with Blake practically every other evening these past three weeks.
What Trish and Kurt don’t know is that I’ve also had my Friday night dates at the Bonk Plaza with Terrence. I’m not engaged to either of them, so technically I’m not cheating, merely keeping two lovers who are unaware of each other. Some call this romantic suspense.
“Chloe, I’m a little scared,” Trish confesses.
“About Victor?”
“No, he’s fine. It’s the exams. I’m not as organised as you and I’ve wasted the best part of the year. Can we study together for a while, please? It’d be impossible for me to slack off then.”
“So you’re going to ruin my concentration as well?” I smile.
“I promise I’ll behave,” she says.
“She won’t,” Kurt pipes up.
“Mind your business, will you?” she tells him and turns back to me. “Please.”
“All right, but you have to give me your word. Any distraction and I’ll go back to solo mode.”
“You’re so strict. Poor Blake. I can’t believe such a hunk ended up with you, Miss Dictator.”
“I’m doing you a favour, remember?” I frown.
“Yep, mouth is sealed from now on.”
“Until lunch,” Kurt adds.
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