Confessions of a Box Office Manager: Playing the fame game

I have such fond memories of her from 1970s and 80s sitcoms. She basically always played the same role, but to perfection: pretty as a picture, warm, cute, sexy enough to make your Dad look up from his crossword but non-threatening enough to make your Mum go "aw, I've always liked her" whenever she appeared on chat shows, gurgling merrily and flirting with the host. I also remember going to see her in my first ever West End show that wasn't actually a musical, and although much of the dialogue went straight over my 12-year-old head, I was transfixed by the fact that she was there in person, and even used the "F" word, something her TV alter ego would never have done. Thrilling.

And here she is now, eyeballing me through the glass of the Box Office window, with an expression on her face that could freeze mercury.

"So… basically you're telling me that there is no way you can get me in tonight?" she snaps, charmingly (not).

"I'm really sorry, but this performance has been sold out literally for months" – and once again I make a point of scrolling through every part of the house on the computerised plan in the forlorn hope of finding some returns. There is absolutely nothing, except four 'producers holds' – terrific seats in the front stalls on the centre aisle – which we have been instructed ON PAIN OF DEATH not to touch until the last minute. We are Sold Out.

Furthermore, through the door onto the street I can see the returns queue building up. The adorably enthusiastic couple at the front of it have been camped outside since 6am. It is their last night in town and they have already queued twice this week to try to get returns and been unsuccessful both times. Whenever I glance in their direction they put down their thermos flasks and give me a hopeful thumbs up. I really want these two to see the show tonight.

'I feel like I need to be scraped off the Box Office ceiling'

As if reading my mind, she snarls "So, darling," (her voice and face at this point suggest that she would much rather be calling me something a lot less friendly than 'darling') "you don't have any house seats you can conjure up? For VIPs? Such as myself?"

Why do I feel like the next line is going to be "do you know who I am?"

Fatally, I pause, my eyes hovering over the stalls plan, and feel myself reddening. She notices this and a look of steel comes into her (artificially lifted, now I come to see them up close) eyes, and suddenly I am a gazelle to her lioness, Bambi's Mother to her hunter, a dead rabbit to her rigor mortis… ok ok you get the picture.

"Who is the producer of this thing?" she demands.

Reluctantly I tell her and within seconds her Blackberry's out of her handbag and she's viciously punching in numbers. Actually, she only presses about two buttons – she clearly has our show's production office number on speed dial (of course she does, she's A list, ok B list, and anyway, she has probably starred in several shows for this management).

Turning her back on me but raising her voice so I can catch every word, I hear her switching on the charm. Once again, magically she sounds like the nation's sweetheart who had dads drooling and mums admiring whenever she appeared on Wogan or Aspel back in the day.

"Oh sweetie, you are goooooood. Thank you darling, thank you! Kisses! Kisses!" (I feel like the Pret sandwich I had for lunch could make a dramatic reappearance at any moment).

She hangs up and her expression changes from warm and smiley back to the disdainful one that I was becoming so comfortable with.

Moments later the phone to my left rings. It's the production office.

"Hello you!" squeaks Sam, the production co-ordinator (she always calls me "you" because, although the show has been on for six months, she still can't remember my name – bless). "Very exciting! [insert name here] wants to see our little extravaganza tonight! Isn't that FAB?!"

"Yes it's really really great" I mutter, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"Anyhoo, we've still got our usual four keeps for tonight haven't we?"

"Yes we do," I concur, dreading what's coming next…

"Comp them in her name please, gorgeous. Mwah!"

"COMP them?! SERIOUSLY?!" I am about to shriek, but Sam has already gone.

So, mustering as much good grace as I can, I print off the last four tickets for tonight and hand them over to our waiting diva who grabs them with no word of thanks, and sashays triumphantly across the foyer.

I glower at her retreating back, thinking how I can't wait to get on the phone and tell my Mum about all this ("do you still think she's lovely, Mother?!"), and foolishly feel a bit tearful. This feeling is exacerbated when I see the couple from the front of the returns queue nearly fainting with excitement as the Lady From The Telly deigns to stop and allow a selfie to be taken with them. (Thankfully they don't see that she surreptitiously wipes her hand on the back of her coat after physical contact. Nice.)

Not the best of outcomes, to be honest. The producers lost money, British comedy's answer to Cruella De Vil got free tickets, I feel like I need to be scraped off the Box Office ceiling, and worst of all, that sweet couple are highly unlikely to see tonight's performance. But hey… nobody died.

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