by Shari Low
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Not sure. I just work for Zara, and all I know is that she’s writing some kind of relationship book and I’m helping out with research.’
‘So you’re not actually single and looking for someone then?’
‘I am. I mean, I’m single…’ The senses that hadn’t been numbed forever by three hours of death and destruction were warning me that an awkward moment was imminent. I decided to round up a posse of excuses and head it off at the pass.
‘…but I’m not really dating. Just focusing on my career right now. I’m only doing this so that I can add a research element to my CV.’
Harry had the decency to look sad. For a gun-wielding maniac he was obviously well in touch with his sensitive side.
‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, what made you apply for this?’
‘Blokes at work. Last month I dared my mates Jammy and Kegsy to flash their tackle at the CCTV cameras in the High Street. The month before, Dudsy had to buy ten boxes of Tampax in Boots the chemist. Daft tossers thought they were stitching me right up making me do this. Wait till I tell them I had a bloody brilliant time. Ha!’
I felt utterly blessed and flattered that I appeared to be rating above indecent exposure and the bulk buying of feminine hygiene products.
‘So do you need more photographs of me or anything like that?’
I shook my head. ‘Nope, I don’t think so–apparently all the case studies in the book will be anonymous.’
His face fell.
‘Something wrong?’ I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nope, it’s just that I was kind of hoping that this would be an ongoing thing. A hundred pounds, a night on the town, a hot bird–I could get used to this.’
Sadly for Harry and the balance sheet of the Coin Slot Amusement Centre, I knew that I couldn’t.
‘So, anything else about you that I should know?’ I prompted, mindful that I was under orders to get as much background info as possible. ‘You said on your application that you were into sports?’
He put down his large double whopper and fries, took a slug of his full-fat coke and then burped.
‘Darts. I play for the pub darts team.’
And there was me thinking that he’d done a quick four-hundred-metre hurdles before he came to collect me.
‘And I’m a total god on the PlayStation–nobody, and I mean nobody, can touch me on Grand Theft Auto IV. My firepower is awesome.’
I realised that somewhere out there was the perfect woman for this man…I just hoped that she got parole soon so they could get together.
‘And reading?’
‘The usual stuff…’ he chomped, giving me a full view of the mastication process.
The usual stuff? Thrillers? The odd John Grisham? The occasional Harlan Coben?
‘…you know, Nuts, Zoo, stuff like that. Do you want an ice-cream? I’ve still got a fiver left.’
‘Go on, spoil me!’ I replied with a smile. Romance might be out of the question, love and lust were a definite non-starter, but after hours of hunger, if I could at least get my blood-sugar back up to a level that ruled out the possibility of fainting, I figured that would be a bonus.
He sauntered off to the counter, checking his cash the whole way. When he returned, he threw down a little surprise. ‘Had enough left for a donut as well.’
I was getting luckier by the minute. ‘Do you mind if we go outside now–my lift will be here in a minute.’
‘One of your mates?’ I asked.
‘Nah, my mum. She didn’t want me travelling on the tube at night–said she’d drive down after her line-dancing. She gets jittery if I’m out late at night. Called the police once, but I’d just had a few too many and my mates had left me in a wheelie bin outside the front door.’
Outside, I shook his hand as a taxi pulled up.
‘Thanks, Harry, I had a really, er, interesting time.’
Well, there was no point in being rude. Besides, my mortal fear of confrontation was up there with the tendency to plod on my prevalent characteristics scale.
‘So I can’t get your telephone number or anything then?’
Aw, bless, he was swinging from foot to foot in some kind of nervous shuffle–I knew that feeling all too well.
‘It’s just that there’s this really cool arcade in Milton Ke—’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, Harry, it’s more than my job’s worth. But thanks.’ I jumped into the taxi, but before it drove off he stuck his head in the window.
‘Okay, but if your brother ever fancies a pint, get him to call me. Wouldn’t mind picking his brain…you know, about the whole arms possession thing.’
I leaned towards the driver. ‘There’s a twenty-quid tip if you get me out of here before I start to hyperventilate.’
My head thudded back onto the upholstery as the car screeched off.
I took a deep breath. Okay, let’s not overreact–morbid fascination with violence aside, he was fairly polite. And I hadn’t needed to use my pepper spray once.
However–cue depressing music and feeling of doom–he was only number one, so I still had eleven more dates to go.
Little did I know that I’d one day look back on Harry as being one of the more normal ones.
PROGRESS SUMMARY: IT’S IN THE STARS DATING PROJECT
CONCLUDED
LEO Harry Henshall Morbid fascination for simulated violence
EMAIL
To: Trisha; Stu
From: Leni Lomond
Re: If last night’s date had a personal ad, it would
read like…
Male, 28 (maturity age 13–16), Leo, cuddly, seeks like-minded female with endless supply of pound coins for fun-filled nights wiping out entire civilisations with big plastic fake guns. Must be technologically skilled: proficient on PSP, Xbox, PlayStation, Wii and Nintendo DS (please note that I am the ‘God of Milton Keynes’ on all of these systems), and have interest in weapons of mass destruction. GSOH, likes fun dares and practical jokes–can supply own wheelie bin. Very sociable, has many friends with adolescent nicknames and can’t wait to add girlfriend called ‘Knockers’ to the list. Ideal partner will therefore have knockers of substantial size. Must be good cook with wide range of specialities: burgers, chilli, fish and chips, donuts, pizza, and should be able to drink until they fall down or vomit, both of which will be captured on mobile phone and posted on YouTube. Family values important–expect to live with parents until middle age.
Most romantic gesture: sharing bargain bucket of KFC while playing two-player game of Ninja Warriors 3.
Ideal holiday: Blackpool, Las Vegas, terrorist training camp.
6
Earth Calling Zara
‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about, at least he bought you a donut,’ Millie spluttered through tears of laughter. ‘I mean, that’s true devotion for you.’
‘Listen, don’t mock,’ I replied with faux seriousness. ‘At least now if I ever want to annihilate a small country I know the very person to call.’
We were off again, giggling away under the starry evening sky–at nine o’clock on a February morning.
My nose began to twitch and I suddenly realised that we weren’t alone. Conn. Or, rather, Conn’s gorgeous, sexy scent–I believe it’s called Hubba Hubba for Men.
‘So, how’d it go last night, Leni–did you have a good time?’ With those deep, undulating tones he could get a job in TV doing the announcements between Coronation Street and The Bill.
‘Lasagne, baked potato,’ Millie hissed, out of earshot of the new arrival.
I spun around just as Conn started walking up the stairs, his athletic gait effortlessly straddling two steps at a time. I automatically flushed as in my mind’s eye his clothes fell like a stripper’s to the floor, and his beautifully toned, naked arse continued to climb the stairs. If he turned around there was every chance my cervix would explode.
Why did he have that effect on me? I mean, it wasn’t
as if I’d never seen a good-looking man before. Ben, my beautiful, perfectly formed cheating-bastard marine, had been the type of guy who made every female in the room stop and stare. Stu was handsome in an almost Californian/OC kind of way. Although, naturally he’d never live there because the sun could cause skin cancer and he’d once read that the whole cast of Baywatch came down with a horrible bug after swimming in the sea off the coast of Malibu.
Anyway, Conn…nope, no idea why he made my heart beat faster and my sweat pores open.
‘Erm, no, it was…’ I started to reply, but I was too late–he’d already disappeared out of sight. Memo to self: try to take less than a week to answer Conn’s questions.
I pondered for a moment. It was Wednesday. Last Wednesday I specifically remembered him requesting pitta bread, chicken legs and hummus. I laid out my prediction with a smug grin and was just congratulating myself on my astute observation when the phone rang.
‘Yes Conn? Sure. Okay, one lasagne, one baked potato. No problem.’ Millie replaced the phone with a giggle. ‘Millie–one, Harry’s girlfriend–zero.’
Aaaaargh! How did she do that?
I swatted her across the head with the morning mail and headed off up to the office, took the customary deep breath before opening the door, and…I swear you couldn’t make it up. The music hit me first: a wild, chaotic cacophony of drums. In the middle of the floor was Zara, topless except for a huge, chunky wood necklace, wearing a flowing terracotta-coloured skirt adorned with what looked like African symbols. Next to her was a huge, beautiful black man, dressed similarly to Zara, every muscle perfectly defined and his skin glistening with moisture. Providing the musical contribution were two blokes in the corner, battering away on huge steel drums. My eyes darted back to the stage show–Zara and the bloke were gyrating in some kind of hypnotic tribal dance, both of them in perfect sync, making it obvious that this was a well-practised routine. Some warning would have been nice. Most PAs run a danger of catching their boss sneaking an illicit bacon butty in the morning. Or perhaps calling their secret date from the night before. As far as I could remember I had never heard anyone comment that they’d walked into the office in the morning and come face to face with their boss swinging her hooters to the accompaniment of two steel drums.
Her gaze suddenly swung to me, her expression irritated. Fuck! She definitely could read my mind. Think nice things. Think nice things. Exit. Exit. Exit.
I motioned that I’d be next door in one of the consulting rooms and made a quick departure. Once there, I picked up my phone to dial into the voicemail, only to hear Conn’s voice.
‘No, that’s not a problem–she’ll deliver the full manuscript early June and a quick turnaround suits us perfectly. No, no, I understand–we don’t want to miss the Christmas market either so we’re happy to commit whatever time is needed.’
Zara’s book. I got a little rush of excitement. Despite the sheer craziness of it all, I had to admit there was something quite thrilling about being involved in this world of celebrity and media. For years I’d promised myself that one day I’d take the day off work and persuade Trish to let me visit the Great Morning TV! studios, but now it was part of the job to go there every Friday with Zara. On the first occasion, Trish had had to steer me to a dark corner so that I wouldn’t risk the embarrassment of being struck dumb when the bloke who used to be in Where the Heart Is spoke to me. On the second visit, I was so busy gaping at Tom Hanks plugging his new movie that I thudded into the catering table, causing a whole avalanche of food to go sliding to the floor in front of a room full of people. Bad point: there were many people to see my mortification. Good point: if Trish had followed through on her promise to kill me there’d be plenty of witnesses for the prosecution.
I listened to Conn for a few seconds before gently replacing the receiver, trying to ignore the fact that the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end and there were the definite beginnings of a very strange sensation in the pit of my stomach. I barely had time to gasp when…suddenly he was there, sitting on the edge of the desk in front of me and, oops, he’d forgotten to put his clothes on again. ‘Leni…’ he whispered, before leaning over, slipping his hand around the back of my neck and pulling me towards him. He kissed me, his tongue slowly, sensually finding mine, his teeth nibbling gently on my bottom lip, his body ready and waiting to…
Stop! In the name of office pervs, what was going on with me? It wasn’t even 10 a.m. and already I’d had two daydreams involving a very naked man. I definitely had to have sex soon, as neglected libido is now causing disturbing hallucinations of a genital nature.
Distraction. Needed a distraction. I pressed a button on the phone to get a different line, entered a code to switch my calls to this extension, then dialled into my mailbox.
‘You have seven new messages.’ Seven? I never got more than two and one was usually my mother phoning for a chat.
I pressed ‘#’.
‘Leni, can you call me back–I’m a bit worried because I haven’t heard from you since last night.’
Aaaw, it was so sweet that Stu was worried. I’d meant to call him but when I got home the night before my mobile was out of charge and I’d fallen asleep before I’d given it enough juice to make a call. I’d thought about getting a landline installed but there was a £145 connection fee and it always seemed unnecessary when I could talk all evening for free on my mobile. Talking of which…I felt around in my bag for my phone. Damn. Must have left it on the charger at home.
I pressed delete, then # again.
‘Leni, me again–call me back.’
He sounded a little more urgent this time.
Delete. #.
‘Leni, okay, I’m getting seriously freaked out. Call me.’
Delete. #.
‘Leni, if I don’t hear from you in the next fifteen minutes, I’m calling the police.’
Delete. #.
‘No, I’m not, I’m going round to your flat. If you’re lying behind the door it should be someone who loves you that discovers you.’
I rolled my eyes. And the Oscar for ‘Most Dramatic Friend in a Crisis’ goes to…
Delete. #.
‘Okay, I’m going to leave in ten minutes. Just as soon as I get these roots done.’
Delete. #.
‘Leni, I…’
I didn’t get to hear the rest of my message because the phone burst into life with the ring of an incoming call. I pressed ‘receive’.
‘Hello, Leni speaki—’
‘OH, THANK GOD! THANK GOD!!!!’
The words came tumbling out, the voice raspy, the breathing out of control.
‘Stu, calm down, I’m fine. I just got into work and was about to call you back.’
‘CALL ME BACK?!!!’
It wasn’t an exclamation or a question–more an outraged outburst.
‘I’VE BEEN CALLING YOU SINCE EIGHT O’CLOCK THIS MORNING!!!’
I checked my watch–10.30 a.m.
‘Stu, I just got in. They let me start a bit later this morning because of the date last night. Anyway, thanks for being concerned, but there’s no need, honestly, I’m absolutely fine. Didn’t you get my email?’
‘EMAIL!!!! I’ve been too bloody busy preparing myself to identify your body to check my bloody emails!’
Silence. I had no idea what to say to him other than, ‘Well, happy days, I’m not on a slab in a fridge.’ How could I have been so thoughtless? I knew how he worried yet I’d sent him into a full-scale panic. Cue familiar large cloud of guilt.
‘Look, why don’t I come over to the salon at lunchtime and I’ll bring your favourite paninis and those Belgian chocolates you love from the deli. My treat.’
I’d already had my first salary cheque so I was feeling flush.
There was a long pause, then…‘I, er, won’t be there.’
‘Why, where are you?’
I was baffled. I was sure he’d said he was at the salon in one of his calls–the one before he
said…Oh no.
‘I’m at your flat…’ he answered awkwardly. One of my heartstrings pinged. How sweet was he? I was so lucky to have such a caring, sweet friend–even if he did veer towards the hysterical in times of stress. But my flat was only fifteen minutes from the salon, so surely he’d make it back in plenty of time for lunch? Unless…
‘…and I’ll need to wait here for the joiner. You never liked that front door anyway, did you?’
Once again, my mind drifted back to New Year’s Eve when I had bemoaned the lack of excitement and adventure in my life. A few weeks later? My boss flashing her baps at me first thing in the morning wasn’t the craziest thing to happen in my day. I was beginning to think excitement and adventure were overrated.
A strangled yelp came from the other end of the phone, followed by a clearly discernible, ‘What is going on here, young man?’
It was the unmistakable sound of Mrs Naismith on the warpath. The mental image of five foot two inches of septuagenarian, topped with hair the same colour as her varicose veins, giving Stu a stern dressing down, almost made the destruction of the door worthwhile. I could hear him blustering out excuses but she was having none of it. Since the day I had arrived from Norfolk she’d appointed herself as a cross between my guardian and a neighbourhood watch service. She kept an eye on my flat (most of the time!), stopped in for regular chats and frequently cooked for two, leaving half outside my door for when I came home. She was an absolute gem–one that was about to serve time for threatening behaviour, going by the bollocking she was giving Stu.
I hung up, leaving Stu to face the wrath, just as Conn came in clutching a large sheaf of papers packed into a clear file. I tried unsuccessfully not to blush.
‘There you are!’
‘Yes, Zara is, er, busy next door, so I thought I’d work in here for a while.’
At least I think that’s what I said. It was difficult to hear over the noise of the butterflies in my stomach and the whooshing in my head.
He put the file in front of me.
‘This is the debriefing document for the date last night. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we need to know every detail so that we can do effective analysis and comparisons.’