by Shari Low
And still he was unzipping, unzipping…Where the bloody hell was the fire alarm?
Suddenly he stopped, laughing as his glance went downwards and he realised he’d almost flashed me. ‘Oh shit, sorry! I just…I mean…shit, you must think I’m a complete maniac.’
A firmly toned, unbelievably cute maniac with the voice of an angel who’d just scared the crap out of me.
I shrugged, hoping I came across as blasé, cool and collected. Granted, the steam framing my purple face may have given the opposite impression.
‘Okay, close your eyes and I’ll tell you when to open them again. Unless you want to wait outside, but the pub’s mobbed and there are no seats in the corridor out there.’
‘No, no, it’s…erm, fine. I’m cool.’
Uurgh–did I really just say ‘I’m cool’? Who did I think I was–Shaft?
I closed my eyes and listened to the unmistakable sounds of clothes coming off and a shower going on. All the while he was chatting away, giving me the history of the band, how they were hoping that they’d get spotted by some A&R people this year, how they wrote their own music and…
I tuned him out. Differences between males and females, number 2,343: he’s in the shower, thinking of nothing deeper than whether to use coconut shampoo or just give his hair a quick going-over with the shower gel, meanwhile I’m sitting five yards away thinking that this is the loveliest guy I’ve met in a while and yes, I definitely fancy him and would he ask me out again and what would I say and then what would I do about the other ten dates because surely he wouldn’t want me to go on them and maybe I could broach it with Zara because surely she’d understand. Of course, I’d repay her with free tickets to his gigs when the band had made it big and I’d become a bona fide rock chick with a lifestyle to match. There’d be the customary large mansion in Sussex that was forever getting picketed by adoring fans, while a team of people organised us and arranged the annual summer move to the beach chateau in St Tropez. I’d get to wear leather trousers, even when they were out of fashion. I’d never worry about what people thought of me, because rockers just don’t care. Money would roll in and life would never, ever be dull, because there would always be other rockers hanging around doing wild things like having orgies on revolving beds and vomiting in the swimming pool. We’d give interviews to OK! magazine where he’d say that he knew our relationship was real because we’d met when he had nothing, and I’d be able to let go of all the hesitation and shyness because I’d be cocooned in a comfort blanket of love, devotion and excitement. And we’d always be with friends because I’d employ Stu as our medical advisor and stylist and Trish as our cook. Although I would have to check the food for arsenic as I reckon she’d be so bitter about my money, fame and private jet that she might be unable to resist the urge to poison my curly fries.
‘Okay, you can open your eyes now.’
I hesitated, suddenly fearful that this was going to be one of those horrific moments caused by a cataclysmic difference in expectations. Was I going to flip up my lids and be confronted with him standing bollock-naked, muscles flexed, with his microphone in a state of expectant erection?
‘Leni, really, it’s fine to open your eyes.’
I took a deep breath and sneaked one eye open just a millimetre. Phew. Fully clothed.
‘So let’s go. Hungry?’
Strangely, my appetite seemed to have vanished.
‘Starving!’ I’d read somewhere that men enjoy the company of women with an enthusiastic attitude to food.
My hunger–previously suffocated by excitement and physical attraction–was resuscitated by the lasagne, which was, as promised, magnificent. We shared a huge bowl of tiramisu and were on to our fourth or fifth glass of wine when I realised something: this was the best night I’d had in years. Forget that I was doing this as part of my job, forget that I’d only met him four hours before; I now understood what people meant when they claimed to have an ‘instant connection’ with someone. Matt and I just clicked, and every well-worn cliché seemed to apply–I felt like I’d known him for years, we were two peas in a pod, we were on the same wavelength, I was flying without wings…
Oh God, I was starting to think in Westlife lyrics–time to stop drinking.
‘I just have to nip to the loo.’
It was only when I got up that I realised we were holding hands. When had that happened?
Water. Cold. On face. Now.
I stared in the bathroom mirror for a few moments. Calm down, Leni, calm down. He’s gorgeous, he’s cute, he’s the most amazing guy you’ve met in years…what was I missing out? Oh, yes, he’s in a band!!!!! My experience and judgement when it came to members of the opposite sex had been fairly inaccurate in the past, but this was different. Forget the OK! magazine deal and the vomit-filled pool in Surrey–even if he never made it bigger than dingy clubs in Camden, I really, really wanted to see him again, and I absolutely, definitely, positively knew that he felt the same.
I brushed my hair, dabbed on a quick coat of Juicy Tubes pink shimmer, grinned inanely at my reflection for a few seconds and then left the loos. To think I’d been so nervous about tonight, and just look how brilliantly it had turned out.
As I pushed through the door to the now almost deserted restaurant, he had his back to me so I didn’t feel too self-conscious about the running commentary in my head:…look at the way the light catches his hair…that colour of blue looks great on him…he’s ordered another bottle of wine so he must be having a good time too.
I was almost right behind him when I realised three things:
a) He was on the phone.
b) He hadn’t heard me approaching.
c) He wasn’t speaking to the features team at OK!.
Even from a couple of feet behind him, I could clearly hear every word.
‘Baby, I’m sorry and I won’t be much longer, I promise. No, she’s not totally stunning, she’s just normal-looking. Ordinary. Nothing like you, babe. Look, I told you, this is for the band. It’s all about contacts, baby, and this one could get us a gig on that morning telly show. Exposure, that’s what we need, then the record companies will be lining up. Honey, you know I wouldn’t, I promise. Why would I want to shag anyone but you, huh? This is just networking, babe, taking advantage of the opportunities.’
I was glad I already had my bag over my shoulder because a whole ‘fumbling for my belongings’ episode would have completely spoiled the effect. Plus, then he might just have seen how upset I was, and that would have been the biggest tragedy of all.
Instead, I just kept on walking in the direction of the door, and I promise it was just an inexplicable reflex action that caused my left arm to flick out and knock a whole bottle of Shiraz into his lap.
He sprang up, dropped the phone and yelped out a high-pitched ‘What the fuck!!!?’
I automatically did what I always did in situations that called for a cunning reply with an acerbic tongue. A mantra of ‘What would Trish say, what would Trish say?’ tore through my mind all the way to the door. As a blast of freezing cold air hit my face, I suddenly knew.
I turned to face him, his chiselled features now contorted with blind fury.
‘You know, Matt, your band was okay…but to be honest, it was really nothing that special.’
And then I cried all the way home, totally irritated that I’d been such a twat. If this was change, adventure and excitement, I’d happily go back to my rut.
PROGRESS SUMMARY: IT’S IN THE STARS DATING PROJECT
CONCLUDED
LEO Harry Henshall Morbid fascination for simulated violence
SCORPIO Matt Warden Lead singer, lying arse
EMAIL
To: Trisha; Stu
From: Leni Lomond
Re: If last night’s date had a personal ad, it would
read like…
Male, 30, Scorpio, wannabe rock star with all the pelvic thrusting moves, could charm the knickers off a nun, talented, good looking, ambitious, an
d will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Has own leather trousers. Prepared to sacrifice dignity, morals and sperm in the name of success. Very sociable, with large network of friends, and happy to screw them over or sell them out to get to the top. Would like to meet powerful, well-connected, open-minded female with job in A&R department of a successful record company, who wouldn’t mind sharing him with existing girlfriend. Or Simon Cowell. Revolving bed and Surrey mansion a bonus.
Applicants to apply in person at local shit-hole pub, Saturday night, 8 p.m.–tickets £5.
The Daily Globe, Female Section, 20 February
Interview with Zara Delta, Sage to the Stars, by Camilla Beaufort-Dodds
The first thing that strikes me about Zara Delta is her inner glow–but not quite in the way you might imagine. I soon discover that the inner glow is caused by two small battery-operated green light-bulbs that she has placed within her cheeks, in order, she informs us, to harness the powers of ‘light energy’–a practice she claims calms her mind and rejuvenates her inner life-force. She made no comment as to whether or not she was concerned about the potential health hazards that could be caused by holding two live batteries in her gums.
Ever the professional, however, I see that she has had the foresight to colour-coordinate her flashing cheeks with her dress of choice today–an elaborate green kaftan adorned with what she informs me are ancient Masai symbols, a garment that was gifted to her by the tribal head of a small village during a recent private trip to Africa.
Thankfully, Zara removes the light-bulbs before our conversation begins; however, I do confess to being slightly alarmed when she suddenly clenches her eyes shut and the tone of her voice plunges dramatically.
‘ You’ve had a recent loss,’ she informs me in hushed tones. ‘And it involves…it involves an animal…a very dear, beloved animal.’
It seems prudent to confirm that yes, only a few weeks before, we had indeed lost Crackers, the horse on which I’d cantered since childhood. I was deeply comforted when Ms Delta assured me that he was in a better place where he could gallop freely, unburdened by the pains of old age.
Surely such perception and insight into the lives of others must be a devastatingly emotional burden to bear?
Zara nods wearily, her frame slumped in exhaustion after our opening exchange.
‘Sometimes it is difficult,’ she agrees, ‘but it’s also a very special gift that I feel so privileged to have been given. And I feel it is my duty to use that gift to improve the lives of others.’
She pauses to take a sip from a wooden clay pot on her desk, containing a mix of herbs and cleansing roots–a recipe, she tells me, that she discovered many years ago while living among the people of the Andes.
‘That’s why I’ve decided to write my latest book–a relationship guide that will revolutionise the modern woman’s approach to searching for their perfect partner. Today’s women have lives that are busier than ever–they’re juggling careers, hectic social lives, personal fitness and family obligations, leaving them little time to focus on what really matters: finding love. This is where I will help. I will give them a foolproof plan that will identify their needs, and then show them how to fulfil their dreams. This book will, quite literally, change lives.’
Sadly, our conversation is brought to a premature end by an assistant who interrupts to inform Zara that a certain A-list household name needs her urgent advice. As she rises, she re-inserts her inner glow and hugs me tightly.
‘I’m so sorry to cut this short, but that’s another consequence of this gift–I have to go to those who need me.’
And if you are one of the thousands of women who need Zara Delta, her book will be available in all good bookstores in December.
9
The Aries Date
‘Maybe this one will be better,’ Millie said, as I filled her in on the details of my next trip to Dating Hell Central.
‘Are you saying that because you really mean it, or are you just trying to keep my spirits up with moral support and false hope?’
‘Definitely moral support and false hope,’ she replied with a giggle. ‘Is it working?’
‘No,’ I said bluntly.
The fortnight since my Scorpion disaster had been a roller-coaster of emotions that had finally derailed a couple of days before, when Trish had sat me down, swept aside the first ten drafts of my resignation letter, tossed away my new copy of How to Spot a Tosser with Your Eyes Shut, and given me a stern talking-to.
‘Look, you can’t bail out on this now. Yes, you met a nasty little shit, but so what? At least you got paid for meeting him. In the past you regularly met nasty little shits on your own time. If it wasn’t for these dates, would you or would you not want to keep working for Zara?’
I’d nodded reluctantly. Okay, so it was like entering a parallel universe on Planet Space Cadet every day, but at least it didn’t focus on the stark, banal reality of toilet fittings. And the alternatives still didn’t bear thinking about–more interviews, more new environments, more upheaval, and no more pornographic fantasies involving boss’s hot offspring.
‘Okay, your personal life now–do you or do you not want to go out on dates, meet new guys, and, in the words of the late, great Freddie Mercury, find somebody to love?’
I’d nodded again.
‘And did you solemnly swear in this very room on New Year’s Eve that this was going to be the year that you broke out of your comfort zone and achieved your goals?’
I blew my hair out of my eyes and briefly wondered if other people had a best friend so fierce that they regularly made them sweat under pressure. Trish had so blatantly missed her calling in life. She should have a job that would allow her to use her skills at the highest levels–for example, as a military interrogator. Or a high-class dominatrix.
‘Then get over yourself. So one was a dickhead–do you know how many dickheads I went out with before I met Grey? Loads.’
I knew she was trying to make me feel better–using methods taken straight from the Sado-Masochistic Guide to Friendship–but I wasn’t convinced. Yes, her Grey was a lovely guy, kind, sweet and funny (I was choosing to momentarily overlook the penchant for sex in public places), and I’d love to meet someone like him, but let’s face it, what were the chances of a Grey-esque sweetheart writing in to Great Morning TV! and landing at my feet? Slim. I’d only ever met one man that I’d loved the way she loved Grey, and…well…
‘I still miss him, Trish. And when crap stuff like this happens I miss him even more.’
She’d softened for a moment. More than anyone, Trish knew how devastated I’d been when I’d discovered that Ben was married. She’d spent weeks pushing the hair off my face while I exhausted the global stock of man-size Kleenex.
‘Look, that’s done. It’s gone. So pick yourself up and just bloody get on with it. And I say that from a place of love.’
I’d mulled over her gentle advice. She was right. Broken heart aside, I’d had two bad experiences on the dating front, but I’d been paid for them and they had both taught me valuable lessons (stay away from blokes with arrested development and a penchant for computer-generated warfare; and lead singers are all devious, egotistical knobs).
Millie’s voice brought me back to the present as it singsonged with a, ‘Good morning, Conn. Zara is upstairs and she asked if you could pop in and see her as soon as you arrive.’
‘Thanks, Millie. Morning, Leni–ready for another big night tonight?’
‘Absolutely,’ I replied. ‘Can’t wait.’
‘Great. I read your report on the last one–sounds like you had a rough time. Sorry about that.’
‘Oh, it was nothing–nothing that I couldn’t handle,’ I assured him, with an accompanying swatting gesture. Millie folded her arms under her bosom and fixed me with an amused, incredulous stare that lasted until Conn licked my face, thrust me against the wall, devoured me with wild abandon (twice), made my earth move (just once), then climbed the stairs, his
beautifully carved, naked buttocks clenching with every step.
Okay, so maybe he just gave me a distracted, encouraging smile and went to his office.
‘Nothing? It was “nothing” then?’ she probed, hardly able to contain her enjoyment as I squirmed.
‘Oh, don’t you start–I’ve already got one ruthless, mocking pal, thank you.’
‘I think Leni is trying to impress a certain tall, dark, handsome gentleman.’
‘I am not!’ I replied indignantly. ‘It’s purely professional. I just want him to think I’m really good at my job, that’s all.’
I gathered up the morning mail and took a few steps towards the stairs, when I realised…
‘Conn didn’t say what he wanted for lunch today.’
‘Oh, I think he’ll be going out.’
Ah, I had her! I already knew that Zara had taken temporary residence in an upmarket day spa, and that Conn was planning to work in the office all day before meeting Zara at 7 p.m. and going off to a fundraising ball they were attending that evening. Zara had donated a raffle prize of an hour’s free consultation, and in return they’d been invited to the star-studded meal prepared by Jamie Oliver and a team of dinner ladies from Southend.
‘Nope, sorry but you’re wrong,’ I argued, thrilled to bits that for the first time I had the upper hand, ‘and I do believe that you’ll receive a call any minute requesting…’
Right, it was Thursday. What did he have last Thursday? Think. Think. Think.
‘Vegetable soup with a crusty wholemeal baguette,’ I announced with a flourish and just a smidgen of smugness. Cue one departing smidgen as I got halfway up the stairs and met Conn coming back down them.
‘Change of plan, Leni, I’ve got to meet with the event managers for tonight because they want Zara to do a live reading and I need to organise the set. I’ll be out for the rest of the day, but you can get me on my mobile.’
It was official: what I knew about men could be written in capitals on a Post-it note. N.O.T.H.I.N.G.