kat_mitchell@hotmail.co.uk
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL MAN IN THE WORLD.
A monologue
by
Katherine Mitchell
First performed at The Tobacco Factory, Bristol 2010
Megan
Rachel Fagan
kat_mitchell@hotmail.co.uk
SMALL TABLE, CENTRE STAGE, TABLECLOTH,
CUTLERY, WINE GLASS. SOUND FX; DINNER
PARTY MUSIC, CONVERSATION.
MEGAN:
A dinner party, and I am single. Anna, the lovely
hostess, has sat me at the middle of the table
which means there are two conversations going on
around me, one at either end – neither of which I
can hear properly. To my left sits Daniel, opposite
me; David. David is lovely. David is gay.
Then on my right… the most beautiful man in the
world. He is staggeringly beautiful. His eyes have
just the right amount of twinkle, his hair the
required degree of strokeability.
LEANS IN TO LISTEN.
He’s witty, …warm, …intelligent, …interesting, …he
is charming. I look at this man and I know in the
core of my being that I have to have this man. I
look at this man and I know that if I do not have
him this very night then I might actually die. A
sad, lonely, shrivelled death.
On the left, Clare is talking about - handbags.
About a particular handbag from a particular
designer, a bag that costs £400 and has to be
specially ordered. I do not do handbags. I do not
do shoes, I do not do jewellery. I am failing as a
woman, missing some fundamental strand of female
DNA that would normally create an interest in these
things. I turn towards the most beautiful man in
the world
[WHISPERS] Help me.
Nothing.
[WHISPERS LOUDER] Help me.
He turns.
[AS HIM, WHISPERING] What is it?
[WHISPER] They’re talking about handbags. Handbags
that cost £400. I don’t know anything about
handbags, we have to change places.
[AS HIM, WHISPER] I don't know anything about
handbags either. Whispering is good. Intimate. It
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makes you lean in closer until you feel the heat of
their breath on your skin.
LEANING IN CLOSER
[WHISPER] Then maybe we should talk about something
else.
[AS HIM] What like?
This is it, the make or break. I assess my options,
ruling out politics, religion and property prices:
- travelling, except I’m not very well travelled
beyond that one trip to Helsinki. And North Wales.
Food, but I’m not Nigella when it comes to cooking
and I’m also not keen on cheese. Food people like
to talk about cheese. Fine wines then, but I know
nothing about wine other than that it comes in
three flavours. Red, white or pink, with or without
fizz.
This man has good taste, I can tell that from the
cut of his shirt, the weight of the cotton - quiet,
understated taste, a certainty about quality, about
what he likes. I want so much to be someone he
likes - I want this man, this beautiful man. I
can’t risk the documentary I watched last night, or
who might win the X-factor.
You can buy a lot of books for £400.
You collect books? His eyes come alive. I am
in. It turns out that this beautiful man collects
books, he has several shelves devoted to first
editions - he even has a first edition of my first
love, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I am not a
collector, but I am a reader. I devour books and so
we talk. We talk of John Irving and Henry Miller,
we talk of Alice Munro, Jeff Noon and Alain de
Botton, of Woolf and Dahl and James and Nin and...
I am now in love with this man, I want this man so
much it is a physical pain. His face, his body, his
mind, his scent…
Did I mention his aftershave? Subtle, not
overpowering, not flashy or cheap or tacky, just a
hint - rising from the warm skin on his neck, the
scent of forests, that touch of pheromones that
lands in my nostrils and makes me want to inhale
him. Breathe in his skin, cling to the glorious
smell of him.
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SOUND FX; DOORBELL
SHE COUNTS THE SPACES AROUND THE TABLE,
ENDING ON THE SEAT OPPOSITE THE
BEAUTIFUL MAN.
Anna gets up to answer it. In comes Julia. The
lovely Julia. Julia who was unavoidably detained
but who will now be sitting opposite the most
beautiful man in the world. My beautiful man, who
is now looking at Julia.
Julia is tall. Slim. Blonde. Stylish. There is a
possibility that Julia is the most attractive woman
I have ever had the misfortune to meet. No doubt
Julia is well travelled, Julia knows about wine,
Julia likely loves unpasteurised goat’s cheese.
Julia is smiling and her smile lights up her face.
Julia is smiling at the most beautiful man in the
world. I am sitting, looking at the side of his
nose.
Did I mention his nose? His nose has not been bent
by years of rugger at public school. It is not
hooked or beaked or broken. It is a good nose. A
perfectly straight, fine nose. The kind of nose
that would fit perfectly right here as he kissed my
breasts. That kind of nose.
SHE POURS HERSELF ANOTHER GLASS OF
WINE.
Julia is talking about shoes. She has the attention
of the most beautiful man on the planet and she is
talking about shoes. About how she bought the last
pair of Manolos in the shop, with a fifty per cent
discount in the sale. And the most beautiful man on
the planet is listening, he is listening to her
talk about shoes. I am lost. I am undone. I cannot
help myself.
SHE DELIBERATELY DROPS HER FORK, GOES
BENEATH THE TABLE TO RETRIEVE IT.
I have to see whether Julia is slowly rubbing her
Manolos up and down his leg as she talks. She is
not. Clearly I am dealing with an amateur. Or Julia is good, so good that she does not need to
stroke her Manolos suggestively against his leg. My
legs are not long and gracious. They are short. Not
too short to give her a swift kick beneath the
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table, but I resist the temptation. Julia is
talking and he is listening. And I am left staring
at his arm as he slices his beef.
Did I mention his arms? My arms are nothing
special. His arms? Strong arms, the kind that can
chop wood and open jars and drive fast cars, arms
that would feel so good wrapped around my body. Or
around Julia’s body.
At that moment, I hate Julia. I hate Julia with a
passion normally reserved for Man United
supporters. I hate Julia more than I hate Marmite,
more in fact than I hate Gary Rhodes – and god
knows he brings me out in hives - I do not like
Julia. Julia could have her pick of men and she has
picked my man, my beautiful man.
I turn to Daniel, I have no choice. I cannot bear
to watch that man, my beautiful man being pulled
slowly and surely into Julia’s web. Daniel is not
the most beautiful man on the planet. Daniel is
short. Plump. Balding, with funny tufts of hair
around his ears. There are hairs sprouting above
his collar line, peeking out of his cuffs, dangling
out of his nostrils, in fact hair growing
everywhere except the top of his head. I wonder
whether he could retrain some of it, send it back
up to his scalp. I can’t blame him for being bald
or plump or strangely hairy. However the fact that
he’s talking about economics - not global
economics, not fairtrade or the redistribution of
wealth, not even politicians’ expenses - but his
economics, how big his bonus was last year, how
soon he hopes to upgrade his car, how much money he
has made on his house despite the recession, how
much his watch cost him - this to me is
unforgivable.
So I am trapped. Trapped between Daniel and his
hairy, lairy economics, or watching Julia seduce my
beautiful man.
MORE WINE.
I could ask for David's help with compiling a list
of the top ten greatest show tunes ever sung. But I
have lost the urge, I have no desire to appear
entertaining or amiable or even nice. The evening
is lost to me, the man to whom I wished to give
myself is now giving himself to Julia. And her
shoes.
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Julia gets up. She excuses herself. She leaves the
room and I watch from the corner of my eye, watch
as the beautiful man watches her go. Checks out her
behind. Julia’s lovely, pert bottom as it sashays
from the room, shown off no doubt to its best
advantage by her designer shoes. My bottom offers
its own delights to the connoisseur, its own
rounded, wobbly delights. It’s not in the same
league as Julia’s, I cannot kid myself. I can’t
even blame it on my lack of Manolos, it has more to
do with my love of chocolate orange. I am utterly
defeated. Julia’s arse has sealed the deal.
MORE WINE.
Did I mention his bottom? Okay. I shouldn’t talk
about his behind, I haven’t even seen it. It’s just
that I’m sure it’s a beautiful bum. A gorgeous,
manly… I shall leave it at that. I have no choice
but to leave it at that. I hope that Julia has fun
with it.
The most beautiful man in the world turns to me.
Anna is out making coffee and Julia is… [BLOWS
RASPBERRY, GESTURES]. He has no choice but to talk
to me.
[AS HIM] Where were you?
Huh?
She’s talking to me about shoes. Please don’t make
me talk about shoes. Please make it stop. He takes
hold of my hand.
SHE SMILES.
What’s your favourite shade of blue? And as he
talks of cerulean seas and indigo skies, my liver
dances inside my belly because I know beyond all
doubt that at some point tonight his hands will
reach for me, his lips will press against my own
and he will be mine. His eyes, his nose, his arms,
his scent, his warm chest, his gorgeous behind, he
will be mine.
Did I mention that he is beautiful?
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