Mr Right and Mr Wrong by Grigory Ryzhakov
Publication date: September 1st 2013
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Romance
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.
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.
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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.
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: http://www.ryzhakov.co.uk
You can also find him on Twitter/Facebook - @GrigoryRyzhakov
His songs are available on SoundCloud - http://soundcloud.com/grishamcarrow
Excerpt:
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.
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.
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