A Brand New Me

by Shari Low

  ‘I warned you not to go out with someone called Goliath–bound to have inferiority issues,’ she piped up.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Jong,’ I replied curtly.

  ‘You’re still not doing it. It’s way too dangerous, and besides, you’ll hate every minute of it. This just isn’t you, Len,’ Stu demanded, thumping his bottle of Bud on the square pod we were gathered around.

  He was so, so right–so irritatingly, bloody annoyingly right. My emotional pendulum swung back from ‘fearless’ to ‘realistic’–there was no denying that when God doled out adventure and ambition, I had refused with a, ‘No thanks, I’ll stick with consistency and predictability.’

  I threw back a few of Nobby’s finest to break the emotional tension of it all. Take the job. Don’t take it. Take the job. Don’t take it. I used to be indecisive but now I wasn’t so sure. Once again, aaaaaaargh!

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake stop being so dramatic,’ Trish argued. ‘She’ll be fine. She might even meet someone who’s slightly elevated above her usual selection of losers and reprobates.’

  Shucks. I didn’t know whether to be grateful to Trish for the encouragement, offended by the observation, or horrified that she didn’t seem at all perturbed that I might meet an axe-wielding maniac.

  But her observation had already crossed my mind.

  I was twenty-seven years old and I’d never had a serious/ humming-the-wedding-march/ flicking-through-bridal-magazines type of relationship. The longest one had been the two years I’d spent with the (as yet) only man I’d ever been in love with: Ben (sob–sorry, still can’t think about him without involuntary gulp and flaring of nostrils), the gorgeous stranger I’d met on a train a couple of years after I’d finished college. We were definitely world leaders in the ‘unlikeliest couple of the year’ award. Me: reserved, prone to wimpish behaviour with an adventure rating that never went any higher than trying a new muffin in Starbucks. Him: a serving marine, six foot four inches of testosterone-oozing manliness who–bearing in mind that he was a trained killing machine–had the sweetest, most caring nature. Unfortunately, at the end of two years I discovered that he also had a wife and child in army barracks in Felixstowe. Turned out that the majority of his ‘covert manoeuvres’ took place well away from the front line. Handling the Taliban must have been light relief after the stress of juggling a wife and a girlfriend, neither of whom had an inkling about the other until…nope, I didn’t even want to think about it. I threw back some more nuts and mentally fast-forwarded to the brutal aftermath that mostly consisted of me lying on the bathroom floor sobbing into the shower curtain, wishing hell and damnation of the entire male species. Since then, I’d just drifted along, embarking on a few flings with obviously incompatible blokes just to give myself a break from serial singledom.

  In hindsight, what I should have done was loaded up a backpack and taken my mind off the heartbreak by trekking across Nepal seeking religious enlightenment. Or headed to the Great Barrier Reef to discover the wonders of nature and shallow sexual couplings with long-haired Australian surf dudes. Instead? Same job for years, unexciting love life, and I still lived in the same Slough/Windsor border, one-bedroom flat that I’d been renting since I first moved there. Actually, it was more Slough, but if I hung out of my bedroom window at a forty-five-degree angle clutching a set of binoculars, I could just about make out the castle. Not that I had. Well, only that once, and Mrs Naismith from next door had been holding my ankles to prevent me from plummeting to my death.

  I took a long, deep breath, and in the manner of a fearless superhero (aka Nobbygirl), adjusted my jaw to a position of strength and determination. There was no way I wanted to look back on this moment and regret that I hadn’t grabbed the new opportunity with both hands (or at least the one hand that wasn’t busy chucking salted protein nibbles down my throat).

  What had I vowed to do at New Year? Carve out a brand new me. And given the reminders of my mundane, deathly boring life and my deeply unsatisfactory romantic history, I was surer than ever that a little bit of crazy unpredictability was exactly what I needed to change my life.

  And Zara Delta was definitely a little bit of crazy unpredictability.

  Great Morning TV!

  ‘Now, Zara, I believe you’ve got an exciting new project that you’re working on this year and you need our help,’ said Goldie Gilmartin, the nation’s favourite sofa queen. In her mid-forties with a stunning auburn pixie cut and a body that was no stranger to the gym, Goldie bore more than a passing resemblance to a young Liza Minnelli. The British viewing public loved her, and with her sassy style, forthright manner and compassion-where-it-mattered, she was close to being declared a national treasure.

  ‘I have, Goldie, and it might just be the most important thing I’ve ever tackled. I don’t want to give too much away, but let’s just say I think I may have the answers for all you single girls out there looking for Mr Right.’

  Goldie grinned as she turned to camera. ‘Maybe there’s hope for me yet.’

  Goldie’s single status had long been a source of interest to the gossip mags. What they didn’t realise (and we did–courtesy of Trish’s insider information) was that for years she’d been happily having an unorthodox and wildly adventurous relationship with a six-foot-two stripper with the body of an Adonis who was almost twenty years younger than her.

  ‘Goldie, first book off the press is all yours, darling!’ Zara promised, before turning to the camera. ‘What I need from our viewers are single men. Ladies, is your brother, son or even dad living on microwave dinners for one? Or are you a single guy who is fed up with the dating game? Come on all you loveless gents out there, drop me a line, tell me a bit about yourself, enclose a photo and you could be lucky enough to get chosen to participate in a fabulous new challenge where we’ll set you up on the all-expenses-paid night of your dreams. Dating agencies charge thousands of pounds–we might just be able to find your perfect partner and we’ll do it for free. Intrigued? Well, all will be revealed when my new book is released at the end of the year, but in the meantime I can promise you this–if selected you’ll be in for an adventure that might just lead you to your soul mate.’

  ‘Great, Zara, thank you for that,’ interjected Goldie as she wound up the segment. ‘Now come on, guys, write in–and if there’s anyone that catches my eye I might just be calling you myself!’

  3

  Star Gazing

  ‘Morning, Leni. Zara needs her schedule for today, her new crystals collected from Swarovski on Bond Street, and can you arrange for a cleaning team to blitz the house–she had a few people over last night and it got a bit crazy. Oh, and we’ve come up with a match on the manhunt thing–I’ve left the details on your desk.’

  ‘Sure, Conn, no problem.’

  He grinned as he squeezed past me on the stairs. I waited until he was out of sight.

  ‘Chicken tikka baguette,’ I shouted to Millie, the pale-faced receptionist who, underneath the anaemic complexion, coal-coloured hair and dour exterior, was actually very sweet and funny–although I did worry that if she didn’t see daylight soon she was facing a future blighted by osteoporosis.

  ‘Nope–cheese salad on brown, no mayo,’ she countered in a thick Glasgow burr.

  Conn’s head suddenly reappeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Sorry, Millie, forgot to say…could you order lunch for me? Cheese salad sandwich will do.’

  Millie did a triumphant double wobble of her eyebrows in my direction.

  ‘Sure, white or brown?’

  ‘Brown,’ he replied. ‘And no mayo.’

  ‘Cream buns are on me at lunchtime then,’ I replied ruefully. How did Millie do that? I’d been working for Delta Inc. for a fortnight and so far Millie had whipped me every day in the sandwich challenge. I wasn’t taking it lightly. Maybe I should start taking notes and work out if everyone had a regular favourite depending on the day, week and position of the moon. And I wasn’t being facetious with that last one, because
in this office that was probably the most likely scenario.

  Our admittedly immature game had started on my first day, when I was introduced to Zara’s son and manager Conn in the reception area. There are only two highly descriptive, all-encompassing, suitably formal adjectives to use when attempting to sum him up: hubba hubba.

  I’m five foot eight, and even in my highest ankle-straining heels (eBay, ridiculously impractical panic buy for city plumbing Christmas party, can only be worn in presence of crash mat and paramedics) he towers above me. His shoulders are the approximate width of the average pavement, he has sallow young Marlon Brando-type features and his topaz eyes glint brighter than those horrible bloody stars in reception. But the most remarkable thing about him is his hair–dark, long and windswept, it’s not so much Led Zeppelin, more the shoulder-length cut adopted by Jon Bon Jovi after he got a bit older and decided that heavy-metal hair was costing a fortune in conditioner.

  According to Zara, Conn was born when she was sixteen, so he’s twenty-nine now–yet, despite being only a little older than me he has a composed confidence that makes him seem much more mature than his years–a disposition that renders him perfect for his role as Zara’s manager. And yes, I could tell all that from the five conversations we’ve had since I started here two weeks ago. Oh, okay, I confess–a couple of times I accidentally listened in when he was chatting to people on the phone, courtesy of the hopelessly inefficient phone system that allows you to cut in on anyone’s call. I’d complain it was intrusive and invasive to privacy, but then, if Zara is as good as she claims, doesn’t she always know what everyone is thinking anyway?

  A shiver ran up my spine to accompany that now-familiar mental mantra–think nice things, think nice things…Most employees give an occasional thought as to whether or not their boss will check their desk drawers. Some people even worry about management installing spyware on their computer to check their emails. Me? I’m too busy fretting that Zara can see right into my mind and that I’ll get fired because some irrepressible brain cells will blurt out, ‘Hey, you in the dodgy kaftan, you’re a few decades too late for Woodstock.’

  I made my way up to Zara’s office and opened the door with not a little trepidation. The thing is, you just never knew what you would find. One day last week she had been dangling a large kite out of the window, convinced that the patterns it made in the air would tell her whether or not she should book a spiritual retreat to Mongolia next Christmas. Yesterday I’d walked in on her in deep conversation with a goat. Yep, a goat. I’m still contemplating whether the NSPCA would find anything untoward about a grown woman demanding to meet and vet (no pun intended) the animal that will be supplying her morning beverage. Archie Botham and his ballcocks seem positively mainstream compared to this.

  Thankfully, this morning there was no livestock in sight–just Zara, in a fluorescent pink boob tube that flared at the waist into a full-length gown, complete with matching headband. As always, she came to greet me, placed her palms against mine and closed her eyes tightly.

  ‘Let the cosmos deliver a fruitful day of peace, progress and harmony.’

  I said it with her, trying my best not to feel like a twat and just to be grateful that the day had started well. I’d already come to realise that she’d ignore me when she was upset or furious about some cosmic problem, but when she was on the sunny side of the street she liked to perform our little morning affirmation. It was just one of the quirky little rituals I’d come to consider run of the mill. There’d be hell to pay if she realised that I hadn’t checked my aura for celestial darkness since a week last Tuesday. And I didn’t suppose she’d appreciate the book that was tucked safely out of sight in my rucksack: Surviving a Crazy Boss–a Guide to Creating a Positive Working Environment. It was doing the trick. I was more positive than ever that Zara was bonkers. Sudden scary thought: would she sense the book was there? Did she know I was thinking about it?

  I switched to efficient PA mode, while thinking nice things. Nice things. Nice thing number one: I actually enjoyed working there. The hours were fine, the job was interesting, and despite the fact that Zara could switch from the epitome of serenity to ranting egomaniac in less time than it took me to read my horoscope, I’d so far managed to avoid her wrath. Nice thing number two: the salary was great and lots of interesting things happened every day. Nice thing number three: the…Conn. Whoa, that just slipped out there. But okay, I will admit that working in close proximity to GQ man did occasionally stir the…

  Alarm bells shrieked inside my head and the voice of doom yelled, ‘DO NOT THINK SEXUAL THOUGHTS ABOUT A MAN WHEN HIS PSYCHIC MOTHER IS STANDING IN FRONT OF YOU!’ Beads of sweat formed on my upper lip as I rapidly shut down the mental porn channel and reverted to capable secretary mode.

  ‘Your schedule for today is already on both your computer and your BlackBerry and I updated it last night before I left. You’re in the office all day today and you have three private readings–one is with a Mrs Callow from Bridgend, standard six hundred-pound fee for the hour. The second is with the competition winner from last week’s Great Morning TV! competition–it’s a freebie so I told them you’d only see them for half an hour, as you said. And the third is with Sher DeMilo–she’s just been dropped from EastEnders and she was hysterical when she called. What should I charge her?’

  Zara closed her eyes and was silent for a moment, then ‘A thousand pounds–she’ll make more than that opening a new supermarket.’

  Did I mention that I’d discovered yet another surprising and fairly scary truth about Zara? Her image might be one of superior spirituality, she might be an earth goddess, she might even live within the principles of karmic equality, but when it came to her bank balance she was as astute as a supremely gifted accountant.

  ‘Conn asked me to pick up your crystals and organise the house cleaning, so I’ll do that while you’re with your first client. Is there anything else you need me to do?’

  ‘Yes, could you find out the dress code for the TV Times awards and ask Mrs Chopra to come in to discuss my outfit please.’

  I made a note on my pad. Far from sourcing all her clothes in vintage markets and on her Third World travels (as many of her press articles claimed), Zara actually had most of them made by Mrs Chopra, a lovely little Indian lady who ran a sewing business from her two-bedroom terraced house in Hounslow.

  I made my way over to my desk and chair–sorry, my cushion and tree stump–in the corner. As my coccyx thumped onto the floor, I reminded myself for the tenth time to pick up a pair of those cycle pants with the padded buttocks. Not a wardrobe item that I’d ever considered I’d need in my professional career.

  My eyes immediately went to the red file in the middle of my desk. Or should I say bark? Anyway, no time for semantics because my brain was suddenly beating to the sound of da dum. Da dum. Da dum. Da dum. Then the hand tremors started and a solid mass formed in my throat making swallowing impossible. The da dums were speeding up now. I decided to add a defibrillator to the next office supplies order.

  Da dum. Da dum. For two weeks I’d forced myself into denial, hoping that Zara would change her mind, think of a new plan, or get run over by a bus before I had to go through with this ludicrous project, but now the reality was in front of me in black and white–the first of the candidates selected from the bag of replies Zara had received after she’d announced to Goldie that she was looking for blokes who wanted to find their Miss Right.

  At the moment I was definitely channelling Miss Absolutely Bloody Wrong.

  A new wave of panic began to rise from my toes and stopped somewhere around my aching posterior. Why had I ever thought I could do this? Why? This wasn’t my role in the universe. In our daily existence, Trish took care of ‘fearless, outrageous and blunt to the point of abuse’, Stu took care of ‘gorgeous, thoughtful, funny and hip’, and I took care of ‘safe, dependable and predisposed towards the uneventful’.

  I pulled out an A4 sheet of paper with a photograph attac
hed to the top. ‘Harry Henshall’, the title announced. My stomach gave a lurch as I looked at the photograph and realised immediately that he was not exactly my type. Not that I had a ‘type’, as such (other than unreliable and prone to compulsive lying), but Harry looked like a boy-band member…ten years after they’d had a number thirty-two in the charts and split up to pursue solo careers.

  I scanned the biography as quickly as possible, panic now at waist height. Harry, it transpired, was twenty-eight and worked in manufacturing for a fabricated panels company, and enjoyed reading, sport and socialising in his spare time. Panic was now competing with thudding heart. It was one thing mortally dreading this whole project, but I was even higher on the terror scale now that it was a reality.

  Harry. Leni and Harry. Harry and Leni. Nope, wasn’t feeling it. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t. Very attractive sweat bubbles popped up on the palms of my hands to keep the nausea in my gut company. I wondered if I could get my old job back?

  ‘Ah, you found it then,’ Zara observed as she hovered over me. ‘We thought he looked like a nice chap. He’s a Leo.’

  I wanted to add, ‘Who could also be running late for a meeting with his probation officer.’ I kept it to myself.

  ‘Now, as I’ve explained before, I’ve devised a new way of reading the stars that will revolutionise the current stereotypes that modern astrology holds for each sign–so I’m not going to give you any advice or background on his astrological character traits before the date. I want you to go in there with no expectations or knowledge whatsoever.’

  I presumed that she meant no expectations other than the two I already had. Number one: if Harry had time to send his dating profile in to a telly show then he probably wasn’t beating potential girlfriends off with his love-stick; and number two: fear would kill me before I got there anyway.