A Brand New Me

by Shari Low

  ‘Excuse me…’

  I turned to see Audrey Hepburn standing in the corner, looking mildly uncomfortable. She walked towards me and handed me a leaflet.

  ‘Look,’ she blurted out. ‘Take this. I just want you to know that I’ve been where you are–the whispering, the giggling, the sneaking around. Maybe this will help.’

  And with that she turned and disappeared back into the dining area.

  My gaze went to the leaflet and the headline at the top of the front page.

  ARE YOU TRAPPED IN A CYCLE OF COCAINE ABUSE?

  WE CAN HELP!

  Why? Why would anyone think that? I skulked back out to Gemini Jon and placed it in front of him, whispering, ‘Someone just slipped me this in the toilets. Apparently, I’m behaving suspiciously.’

  We processed the development in a cool and objective manner–by bursting into another irrepressible fit of giggles.

  I wiped away the tears of laughter and picked up my spoon. Right, time to calm down. Obviously the stress and pressure of this whole dating thing was tipping me over into an abyss of hysteria.

  ‘Do things like that happen to you a lot–you know, bizarre stuff?’ Jon asked, feigning wariness. At least I hoped he was feigning it.

  ‘A few months ago the answer to that question would have been a definite absolutely not.’

  ‘But now?’

  ‘All the time. Honestly, it would take me all night to tell you…’

  ‘Great!’ he prompted with a smile.

  Yes, a crack legal team could argue that some of the stuff I let slip in the following conversation was in contravention of Zara’s code of omerta, but he was so interested, and not in an ‘I’m pretending to be fascinated because I want to shag you at the end of the night’ kind of way, or an ‘I’m really only feigning interest until I make an excuse about a sick budgie and get out of here’ way. He was just, well, lovely.

  And at least it kept the conversation flowing easily, avoiding the need to resort to Trish’s methods of first-date relationship building.

  ‘Do you believe in all the astrology stuff?’ he asked as the waiter brought our desserts–pausing only to allow Audrey Hepburn and her sugar daddy to pass. She gave me a pointed, sympathetic glance, causing us to crease into giggles again the minute she was out of earshot.

  I took a deep breath, blew the hair out of my eyes (Stu’s haircut might look great but I was fairly certain I’d have conjunctivitis by the end of the week), regained my composure and answered his question with a shrug.

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. I mean, I always check my horoscope when I read the paper, but I only choose to believe it if it’s good. It’s just not something that has ever been of major interest to me. Although it is now,’ I added, almost as an after-thought.

  ‘Why’s that then?’ he quizzed me.

  ‘Well, because it is kind of fascinating. And Zara may be a little, erm, eccentric, but she’s rated as one of the best astrologers in the country. People come from everywhere to get readings by her. There’s no way that would happen if there wasn’t some truth in what she predicts. Anyway, what about you–do you refuse to get out of bed before you know what the stars have in store for you?’

  ‘Mmm, I’m not sure,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’m one of those people who trust facts and things that I can see or prove. Unless, of course, my sister is involved, in which case anything can happen.’

  With that he grabbed both my hands and looked heavenwards, amusement in his voice as he whispered, ‘Right then, powers of the cosmos, send us a sign, any sign, that we’re just pawns in your great big game of celestial Twister.’

  I leaned closer. ‘Jon, what kind of sign are you looking for?’ I asked quietly, going along with the game.

  ‘Anything at all. Come on, cosmos, give us your best shot. Make something happen.’

  Nothing. Nada. He shrugged. ‘Guess I’ll just have to go back to relying on charm and luck,’ he said with a self-effacing grin.

  That’s when I suddenly saw the sign.

  And at 8 p.m. on a Friday evening, the crowd of diners in one of London’s swankiest restaurants had the ambience spoiled by a shrill, deafening screech.

  16

  Starry Starry Night…

  ‘I’m so sorry, again, about the whole…thing. Well, you know…sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I told you–it made the night extra-unforgettable. Although we might not want to go back there for a while. “A while” being the generic term for “ever”.’

  I couldn’t believe it. He was alluding to us meeting again despite the fact that I’d thoroughly mortified him, caused a huge scene, ruined several dinners, attracted the attention of everyone in the restaurant and inadvertently slighted the reputation of a reputable establishment.

  And why?

  False bloody eyelashes.

  Or, rather, the one small clump of my trendy new individual fake eyelashes that had somehow dislodged itself from my eye and fallen onto my dessert, leaving what looked like half of a tarantula sticking out of my sticky toffee pudding. All I had seen were four little legs wiggling away, and my morbid fear of anything with eight limbs took control of my reflexes. My shriek brought restaurant staff running, and first on the scene was a waiter who was of a similarly nervous disposition. He would forever rue the night that he had encountered a fake spider while carrying a tray containing six meals intended for a nearby table of Parisian fashion-types.

  We’d paid up and left shortly afterwards, embarrassed and increasingly worried that a very ostentatious, loud Frenchwoman would attempt to sue for the damage that a large portion of prawn tempura had done to her Bottega Veneta handbag.

  When we’d got outside I was sure Jon would do that ‘it’s been great, nice to meet you, thanks for a lovely night and bye’ thing, but, surprisingly, he suggested we head for the bar in the nearby Metropolitan Hotel.

  ‘I’m supposed to find out all about your previous relationships, but in a subtle and devious way so that it doesn’t seem like I’m interrogating you–so could you just do me a favour and confess all, because I’m rubbish at subtle and devious.’

  He hesitated. ‘You’re not going to like this.’

  ‘I’m not?’ Crap! I knew he was too good to be true.

  ‘Three marriages, seven kids.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ I gasped.

  ‘I am. But it’s much more interesting than the truth.’

  ‘Truth is good–let’s stick with that.’ Phew.

  ‘Okay, let’s go for bullet points:

  Never married.

  Four-year relationship when I was at university, but it ended when we realised that we wanted different things.

  Two-year relationship that ended when she was transferred to the New York office of her bank.

  Single now for three months.’

  I mentally added ‘consistent and trustworthy’ to ‘engaging, interesting and a great listener’. But then, I suppose Trish did have a point: hadn’t I thought all those things about Matt the singer?

  However–and don’t ask me how, given that we’ve already ascertained that my judgement skills are up there with my ability to, say, Morris dance while speaking in the national tongue of Kurdistan–Jon seemed different. More comfortable. Nicer.

  ‘Miss, your taxi is ready,’ the concierge informed me. Despite it being almost 2 a.m. he was still enviably perky.

  Suddenly, Jon took one of my hands, and my thumping heart joined with my shaking knees in informing me that there was a definite possibility we were about to do that uncomfortable ‘do we kiss/don’t we kiss, and if we do, where shall we kiss: mouth or cheek?’

  My internal voice (the one that had an honours degree in avoiding toe-curling situations) kicked in, and invoked Zara’s project rule number six: Any physical contact initiated by candidate should be rejected but noted to be used in analysis.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said, with just a hint of sadness. I’d had a really nice night with a guy who
hadn’t brandished a weapon, insulted me, analysed me or caused any physical damage to my being–these were all major plus points.

  ‘Leni, I had a really good time–you’ve no idea how nice I’m going to be to my sister for setting this up.’

  Our gormless grins were in perfect sync.

  ‘But I have to say the whole “dating the zodiac” thing bothers me a bit. I’m pretty open-minded, but I think my girlfriend going out with other guys might just cause me sleepless nights.’

  Girlfriend? Had he said girlfriend? How bloody presumptuous! How borderline cocky! How, er, yep, once again I give you ‘lovely’!

  ‘So, I wondered if we could see each other again when this is all over. If you’re still single, that is.’ Aw, so sweet. He paused a little nervously, obviously working out what to say next. ‘But in the meantime, maybe we could email and call and get to know each other better. Would that be okay?’

  Sadly, I knew it wasn’t. Zara’s project rules, numbers eight and nine: No personal information, contact details, company material or discussions should be shared with the candidate and Post-date contact with any candidate is strictly forbidden.

  It was impossible. It just wasn’t meant to be. Wrong place, wrong time. Que sera sera. Then I ran out of clichés.

  ‘I’d like that,’ I blurted.

  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

  ARIES Daniel Jones Unlikely to forge career as an assertiveness coach

  CAPRICORN Craig Cunningham Relationship therapist, incites violent urges

  GEMINI Jon Belmont Definite potential–secret plans to see again

  EMAIL

  To: Trisha; Stu

  From: Leni Lomond

  Re: If last night’s date had a personal ad, it would

  read like…

  DUE TO SHEER GORGEOUSNESS AND PLANS TO MEET AGAIN, LAST NIGHT’S SPECIMEN OF LOVELINESS IS HEREBY BANNED FROM HAVING A PERSONAL AD. IN THE MANNER OF A DEMENTED, SCARY CRONE, ‘HE’S MINE, ALL MINE!!’

  PS: Please understand that any bursts of irrationality have been caused by the trauma of recent dates. However, now that I’ve finally found the one decent, lovely, single man left in London, it’s possible that this behaviour may escalate to stalking or a kidnap/hostage situation. In this event, please have me incarcerated before I can harm myself or others. Thank you.

  17

  Space Oddity

  Millie stood, arms crossed, sceptical expression on her deathly pale face. Even from my perspective on the clueless bench in beauty-product world, I recognised that a wee dab of fake tan might be in order.

  Her unique style always sat somewhere between Dita Von Teese and Morticia Addams. Today she was in Camp Dita, her hair in a side-parted glamorous quiff that curled on her shoulders, her lips scarlet, her bosoms high, above an eight-inch-wide belt that gave her a waist the size of one of my thighs.

  ‘What?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘So what’s wrong with him?’ Cynicism was radiating from every luminous pore.

  ‘Apart from the hump and the three legs, nothing,’ I shot back breezily. ‘He was nice. I liked him. And we’re going to keep in touch, but don’t tell Zara because she’ll have her Spiritual Advisor for Forgiveness and Acceptance kick my head in.’

  She mulled this over for a few moments. ‘Just be careful, Leni–you have to be suspicious of the kind of guys who write in to TV shows.’

  ‘He didn’t write in, it was his sister.’

  Her eyebrows shot up and dinged the bell at the top of the cynical scale. I distracted her from her negative vibes by plumping a white box in front of her. ‘This week’s lunchtime donuts. I’ve given up trying to out-guess the master and I can’t take the daily humiliation any more.’

  She smiled and raised her hands heavenward. ‘And another victory is mine!’ she rejoiced to the skies. Or, actually, to the fake, spray-on luminous stars on the deep navy ceiling.

  I whacked her with a long cardboard tube that had come with the mail. ‘Don’t get too cocky there, stripper girl, because I’ll work out your system one day.’

  I trudged up the stairs. Monday morning. I could be faced with any one of a dozen scenarios. Zara might have had a restful, fulfilling weekend, in which case she’d ooze serenity and the day would pass in a tranquil haze. On the other hand, she could have had a frustrating, exhausting couple of days, and we’d spend the next eight hours walking the fine line between explosive and manic, with a pinch of un-bloody-reasonable thrown in just to keep things as volatile as possible.

  She could have read about a new fitness breakthrough and might right now be suspended from the ceiling in a contraption that’s probably illegal in several countries. Or she could have decided that she had an urgent spiritual message to give to a household name, and I’d have to hit the phones and endeavour to set up a face-to-face meeting. That was probably my least favourite option, as I was convinced that it had already earned me a place on the ‘Nutjob’ database of several celebrity security agencies.

  Deep breath, deep breath. I turned the knob and swung the door open, smile fixed in place and a sunny ‘Good morning, Zara’ on the tip on my tongue, ready to face…

  Nope, I definitely wasn’t ready to face what I saw.

  Zara’s face. Just her face. It was the only part of her anatomy that was sticking out of a giant, six-foot-wide inflated ball. She looked like a prototype for a man-size space-hopper. Or a Zeppelin. That must have been it–she had obviously gone to sleep last night completely normal and woken up transformed into a gas-propelled balloon used in the early days of aviation.

  ‘Morning Leni,’ she bellowed, seemingly unaware that she could travel from London to France in two hours given a favourable headwind.

  ‘Morning Zara,’ I replied breezily, as if this was exactly the kind of thing that was happening in offices all over London this very minute.

  ‘Juan is helping me balance my internal energies,’ she explained. I think she might have been gesticulating to a small, dark chap sitting in the corner clutching a foot pump, but since I couldn’t see her arms I couldn’t be sure.

  ‘How did the date go last night? Gemini, wasn’t it?’

  I nodded. ‘Great. He was nice. I’ll just take my laptop and go write up the report next door.’ I figured it was the sensible thing to do. After all, I didn’t want to intrude on her energy-balancing time. I wanted to give her space to focus on herself. And I was absolutely terrified that she’d accidentally burst, and then shoot around the room like an out-of-control torpedo, with potentially fatal consequences for both of us.

  In the boardroom, I decided the report could wait a few minutes and called Trish, who answered with her customary, ‘Make it snappy, I’m busy, busy, busy.’

  ‘I love that my best friend always has time for me.’

  She detected the wry sarcasm in my tone…and it had absolutely no effect on her whatsoever. ‘I’ve told you before, between six a.m. and four p.m., Stu’s your best friend. I only kick in when I finish work. And I can’t deal with any drama today–Grey is on day shift and he kept me up half the night last night. I’m knackered. I swear to God he must be taking those blue pills. So anyway, last night’s stooge didn’t murder you and leave you in a bin-bag for rats to feed on? That’s always a plus.’

  ‘I thought so too. I told you, he was nice.’

  ‘Nice? Nice? There’s an adjective that’ll whisk your knickers off every time.’

  ‘I’d like to remind you that during this whole project my pants are un-whiskable.’

  ‘Aw fuck, someone’s just put a tray of bacon sandwiches in the green room!’

  ‘What’s the problem with that?’

  ‘Today’s guest is Fenella Smith McTartney. She’s a militant veggie. Her people will go into orbit.’

  ‘They might meet Zara there–she’s dressed
as an airborne bubble today.’

  ‘That woman is fucking nuts. Oh, and listen, between us, after the show the other day there were some unhappy rumblings about Zara plugging the book and her phone lines. You might want to suggest she calms down on the self-publicity. Anyway, back to the important stuff, Miss Asbestos Pants. How long is it since you had a naked duvet wrestle?’

  I wailed with outrage. ‘What? I’m not answering that. Anyway, you already know the answer.’

  ‘Yes, but by vocalising it, you might accept the tragic truth. Go on, round it up to the nearest year.’

  ‘I. Refuse. To. Answer. I’m not discussing my sex life with you at nine o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Shit, you’re uptight. Okay, but I’m just saying…If you get a hot one, there’s nothing wrong with the occasional one-night stand for purely therapeutic reasons. Don’t think of it as sex, think of it as an enjoyable way to exercise the pelvic-floor muscles.’

  ‘You’re depraved. And more than a little scary.’

  ‘Fuck! Fenella has bitten into the bacon–she must have thought it was that vegetarian stuff. Have to go, doll, lawsuit pending…’ Click.

  I replaced the phone, hoping that no one else in the building had fallen foul of our hopelessly rubbish phone system and inadvertently cut in and overheard any of that conversation.

  How long had Trish known me? And had I ever had a one-night stand? Actually, there had been one, but I’d spoken to him in Starbucks every morning for six months so I preferred to view that as a long-term courtship…even though prior to meeting him one night in the pub and ending up in his double bed, the extent of our conversations had been, ‘Good morning, what can I get you?’ and ‘I’ll have a grande latte and a blueberry muffin.’

  Nope, I think it was safe to say that my current investigation of the male species on behalf of the inflatable astrologer wouldn’t extend to activities in the anatomical department.

  Absolutely not.

  Definitely no way.