Confessions of a Box Office Manager: The agent of doom

It's a bank holiday Saturday night, the house is full and with two hours before curtain up we have just the one pair of great front stalls seats on reserve for the current lead's agent. She is at the box office window now, in fur coat (I'm hoping it's faux, although I've a nasty feeling it may not be), dripping in costume jewellery, reeking of expensive fragrance and wearing a pair of MASSIVE designer shades, despite the fact that it is almost dark outside.

It's fair to say that she looks way more like a "star" than her client, who seems pretty approachable and low key on the few occasions we've had contact, despite being a bona fide bums-on-seats "name".

The issue here is that the production office called through this request for house seats for Cruella D'Agent just before everybody disappeared for the bank holiday break; they are on our system as awaiting payment but Cruella is convinced that they should be complimentary tickets ("Why on EARTH would I PAY to see MY OWN CLIENT??!"), and appears to be on the verge of doing irreparable damage to the box office counter with her blood red talons, such is the force with which she is impatiently drumming them on the seating plan.

"If you need anything – anything at all – I will be on my Blackberry, darling," Sophie the production manager had trilled when we last spoke before the weekend, but is she picking up now that I am trying to get hold of her? Is she hell! Furthermore, the company manager, who liaises between the cast and everybody else in the theatre, has washed his hands of the situation ("I'm not saying yes to comps on a Saturday night, no way. But watch yourself with her, she's a bitch-on-wheels that one" he helpfully offered by phone before going back to the football scores and his takeaway. Just great.)

"This is absolutely INIQUITOUS!" she cries,"and my guest is waiting in ORSO!" (For the uninitiated, Orso is an upmarket Italian eatery in the West End, not some catatonic state where this delightful woman keeps her victims, just in case you were wondering. Although I wouldn't put it past her… the catatonia I mean.)

'I continue to grin at her… I am not budging on this'

The clerk in Cruella's line-of-fire has recently split up from a long term boyfriend and is consequently on a very short fuse. While I have no wish to undermine him by swooping in and taking charge of the situation just yet, I can see the little muscle in his cheek start to twitch, which normally means that tears and/or tantrums are imminent. Also, we have been accused of many things in this box office, but iniquity is a new one. I may have to look it up when I get home.

"I'm so sorry about this," I say, hovering as unobsequiously as possible behind him, as Cruella slips her sunglasses half way down the bridge of her nose and gives us both the Death Stare. "I am trying to get hold of Sophie who organised the seats for you but, er, she doesn't seem to be, um… I'll just have another go." (Come on Sophie! Pick up your damn phone!)

As I slip into the back office, the better to hear Sophie with should she deign to answer, and also to gently punch a wall without being seen, I can hear Cruella turning up the heat.

"Do you KNOW how much BUSINESS my client has brought to THIS SHOW?" she snarls, "and you're telling me… YOU…ARE… TELLING… ME…" (each word is being punctuated by a rap on the countertop with those fearsome nails) "…that I have to PAY…??"

Ok, I've had enough of this, and I'm absolutely sure the clerk has; Sophie is obviously far too busy enjoying herself to pick up any of my half dozen calls (the lucky cow) so I make an executive decision (get ME!) and I return to the front, making sure that my "Box Office Manager" badge is clearly visible.

"I'll take over here, John" I murmur to the clerk, whose eyes have turned into puddles of water and who vacates his seat faster than I have ever seen him move.

"Right then, I'm so sorry we have had to keep you waiting," I say, staring her straight in the sunglasses, "but as you know I have been trying to get hold of the person who can authorise comps and since she isn't available right now what I can do as a favour is to charge you the concessionary rate for the seats. Which is less than half the face value. I shouldn't really do this on a sold out show but we clearly aren't getting anywhere here and it isn't within my jurisdiction to give you the seats for free. How does that sound?"

She silently opens and closes her mouth a few times, exposing many thousands of pounds worth of cosmetic dentistry; I'm pretty sure she can stump up for a couple of theatre tickets (at concessionary rate!). I continue to grin at her, implacably if inanely. I am not budging on this. Finally, her platinum credit card hits the deck and we are good to go.

As Cruella clacks off in her impossibly high heels to make some waiters cry at Orso, and I nip into the back office to talk John down from the ceiling, I realise that there will be some explaining to do next week as to why there were discounted tickets on such a busy night. However, we did reach a solution of sorts, and Sophie needs to pick up her Blackberry once in a while.

And hey… nobody died.