A Brand New Me

by Shari Low

  Silence: Colin lost somewhere in a tropical holiday resort; me lost for words.

  ‘You know, sometimes I wonder if that lady is really out there?’

  I decided to overlook the fact that he was, by default, making it clear that I wasn’t ‘her’. With the bloodshot eyes, ruined make-up and craving for a large Crispy Chicken Deep Pan, I figured the evidence spoke for itself.

  ‘I mean, a woman of substance who loves to be treated accordingly. I know it’s terribly unfashionable but I suppose I’m looking for that elusive lady who enjoys an old-fashioned, beautiful courtship followed by a traditional marriage.’

  Who would have guessed it? Underneath that Savile Row suit was a hopeless romantic dying to break out and eat lobster on the beach with the woman of his dreams. A true romantic! It was the stuff of historical sagas and American soap operas. Why hadn’t this man been snapped up? Weren’t women always bemoaning the lack of windswept romance in modern men? Wasn’t this the stuff of dreams (not–obviously–the strange filthy ones that I’d been having)? He was distinguished, he was intelligent, he was solvent, successful…why was he still single?

  ‘Permission to be incredibly frank?’ he asked.

  ‘Granted.’

  ‘How does one find that these days? How does one find the perfect partner? This new speed-dating thing is a mystery to me–how on earth is anyone supposed to form an attachment in such a short period of time? And I’m inherently wary about taking the Internet approach. So, to answer your earlier question with complete honesty, I thought that I’d perhaps gain some insight into current dating methods, meanwhile minimising the risks of encountering a rampant–what is the current colloquialism–ah, bunny boiler.’

  ‘So this would be a bad time to tell you about my poor pet Thumper, may he rest in peace.’

  It was a joke, an old stupid joke, one that I’d heard Trish use years before and had apparently lodged in my brain ready to use at an appropriate point in the future. I vividly remember that everyone at the university party back in the mid-Nineties had chuckled away quite merrily before getting up to dance to Wonderwall.

  A joke. But in my dependably hopeless, slapdash hands it somehow morphed into the hand that opened the doorway to chaos.

  The noise started like a tickly cough, a splutter that gained momentum until it became a moving engine, a cacophony of grunts that joined and escalated to produce an almost alien sound that was getting louder and louder and louder…

  Colin Bilson-Smythe was single because he laughed like a jet engine that had ingested a pack of hyenas on crack. Or maybe just swallowed Celine Dion whole.

  Dear God, make it stop.

  People were starting to stare, shoulders were starting to shake, glasses were starting to crack, and I was starting to slide under my chair in embarrassment. And all the while, one terrifying thought was crashing through the pain surrounding my brain: thank fuck we hadn’t gone to see a comedy.

  When it came, the scream was so loud that it stopped Colin in mid-screech. The young woman three tables away leapt from her chair, sending it crashing to the floor, and gesticulated wildly at her sweating companion, who was now clutching his throat while making gagging sounds and writhing from side to side. I caught a flash of something red and realised that her knickers were peeking from below her white leather mini-skirt–they’d obviously been enjoying an off-menu appetiser before they had been so rudely interrupted by Colin’s earth-shattering wail.

  ‘He’s choking, he’s choking,’ she screamed, bringing the entire restaurant to a standstill.

  Except me.

  People often wonder how they’ll react in a life-or-death crisis, and now I know. Thank you, City Plumbing–those seven annual Red Cross first-aid training courses saved the life of an old millionaire lech who was celebrating his new mistress’s twenty-fifth birthday.

  Auto-pilot kicked in and, like a cartoon super-hero, I leapt across three tables, while ripping off my dress to reveal a shiny, strapless, red, white and blue basque and pants, gold wrist-cuffs and a matching belt. Okay, I’m lying. I just darted over to his table as quickly as I could, got behind him, clutched my hands together under his rib cage, and gave an almighty heave, forcing an unidentified white thing to fly from his windpipe and shoot straight into his girlfriend’s platinum-blonde hair extensions.

  Wheezing and puffing like a marathon runner, Sugar Daddy’s head flopped onto the table, and just when I thought I was going to have to perform my second life-saving technique of the day, he pushed himself upright and roared like a beast.

  ‘That fish was supposed to have been filleted!’

  You’re welcome, sir.

  ‘Get me the bastard who cooked this pile of shit! This is a fucking outrage!’

  No, not at all, it was my pleasure to save your life there, sir.

  By this time the entire staff of the restaurant (minus the auntie whose varicose veins had mercifully kept her home) was gathered around and looking panic-stricken, while his bimbette was back in her chair and chewing on her bottom lip. Everyone in the restaurant was watching, and I was still standing behind the raging bull, now wondering if there was any way I could retrieve the fish bone, reinsert it in his oesophagus and let nature take its course. Colin was on his feet now, better late than never, his face a mixture of surprise, pride and, strangely, annoyance.

  ‘Excuse me, but don’t you think you owe…’

  ‘Don’t you fucking start! No wonder I fucking choked with that fucking noise you were making!’

  Call me perceptive, but as I perused the current scene, I couldn’t help but conclude that this date wasn’t going well.

  ‘Now, now, there’s no need…’Colin’s voice had dropped about three octaves and his eyes were narrowed and focused on the obnoxious git in front of him. If ever there was a need for time travel, this was it. I’d go and track down Mr Heimlich and ask him to go invent something like painless high heels instead.

  The maître d’ was in the middle of it all now, frantically trying to defuse the situation.

  ‘Sir, please allow me to…’

  ‘You’ll do fucking nothing!’ he screamed.

  Now that I realised that he wasn’t going to bestow all his worldly goods on me in thanks for saving his life, I just wanted out of there, and so I started to edge my way back to my own table, passing Colin on the way.

  The maître d’ was near hysterical now. ‘But sir…’

  ‘I am going to sue your French arses off. Do you hear me?’

  I thought it was probably not a good moment to point out that everyone in the neighbouring ten postcodes could hear him. ‘You’d better have a fucking good lawyer because I am going to sue you fucking penniless!’

  It was like listening to a male version of Trish. If I didn’t know that Trish’s dad was a lovely, shy, retiring baker in a village near Cornwall, I’d have sworn this guy spawned her bloodline.

  There was a momentary silence as the other diners gaped in wonderment at the unfolding drama, and the staff stood speechless, while the bimbette applied another coat of lip-gloss and I surreptitiously slid down the wall to retrieve my handbag from the floor.

  The only person who moved was Colin. Very steadily, his jaw clenched in an expression of utter determination, he approached the lech’s table, placed both sets of knuckles down on the white damask table cover, leaned into that contorted purple face, and said in the deadliest tone I’d ever heard, ‘Oh, they do have a lawyer. And I look forward to hearing from you.’

  It would have taken a chainsaw to cut through the atmosphere, as every single person in the place was utterly engrossed in the drama.

  I was glad.

  Because it meant that no one even registered the thud of the door as it hit my arse on the way out.

  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

&n
bsp; 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

  PISCES Nurse Dave Canning Avoid all future dealings with the NHS

  AQUARIUS Colin Bilson-Smythe Lawyer, laughs like a food-mixer

  EMAIL

  To: Trisha; Stu

  From: Leni Lomond

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

  read like…

  Are you longing to return to the romantic times of old, when men were men and women were adored? Debonair bilingual lawyer, 34, regally handsome with an enigmatic presence, seeks elegant, well-dressed, well-bred lover of the classics for romantic evenings under the tropical stars. Prepare to be spoiled, prepare to be lavished with gifts and special, thoughtful surprises. If your passion is poetry, the harp makes your heart soar and theatre moves you to a place of joy, then I’m awaiting your call. I want to recreate the courtships of Shakespeare. I’m Romeo–are you my Juliet?

  PS: Friends have often commented on my unique, vociferous chortle, so only those with a fondness for the noise of an industrial food-mixer should apply. Earplugs not supplied.

  23

  Twinkle Twinkle…

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Was it just my imagination or was Millie’s face a picture of concern? Must be my overwrought nerves and over-active imagination–I hadn’t even had a chance to fill her in on the previous night’s exploits yet.

  ‘Nothing that a fortnight in the sun with a crate of Krispy Kremes won’t solve.’

  She heaved a huge pile of mail up from her desk and plopped it into my outstretched arms.

  ‘Her ladyship?’ I asked.

  ‘Already upstairs, and so is her Reiki master, her accountant and the bloke who does the feet detox. I can’t believe she’s got him back. That foot spa contraption that he uses leaked and blew the whole electrical system last time.’

  ‘Smashing. I’ll get the maintenance company on standby. And what about his lordship?’

  ‘Standing right behind you.’

  Was there any chance that overnight Millie had learned a party trick that consisted of deepening her voice and then throwing it so that it sounded like Conn was standing right behind me? By the way that she was struggling to contain her amusement, I was guessing not.

  To his credit, he didn’t look too annoyed, more subtly intrigued.

  ‘And you know that I meant “lordship” in an endearing and reverential way,’ I blustered.

  ‘Can I have a chat to you upstairs please?’

  Oh crap. He’d found out that I’d lied about the date with Dave. He knew I was therefore guilty of manipulating company records. And he’d discovered that I was still in contact with Jon, in direct breach of Zara’s project rules. I looked at the huge pile of mail that I was holding. It was a moment of truth–there was no way I was carting that all the way up three flights of stairs if he was just going to fire me at the top. I had to ask…

  ‘Will it be the last time I walk up those stairs?’

  His brow furrowed, making it clear he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. ‘Only if you’ve ordered the installation of an elevator,’ he replied lightly. ‘Now let me carry the mail and follow me up.’

  Phew. I did exactly what I was told. He climbed the stairs in front of me, his usual cloud of Eau de Hubba Hubba wafting behind him, assaulting my senses and making me so giddy that I almost took my eyes off his (thankfully fully clothed) buttocks.

  After an evening with a true gentleman with old-fashioned values, I realised that such demeaning behaviour was beneath me, but walking behind him was a gift-horse/mouth situation that I simply couldn’t ignore. I was so completely transfixed that I missed the top step, lunged forward and crashed into the back of his thighs.

  To his credit, he laughed. ‘You’re not having a good morning, are you? I’ll add assault to the insulting name-calling.’

  I kept quiet about the fantasy sexual harassment.

  He held open his office door and motioned for me to enter. It was the absolute antithesis of Zara’s workspace: monochrome, minimalist in design, with a large white leather sofa under the window and white filing cabinets stretching the length of one white wall, facing the cream leather chair and glass desk in the centre of the opposite wall. The original floorboards had been sanded and stained a deep shade of ebony, matching the gloss paint of the skirting boards and the door. If I were poetic by nature (Colin would be so proud), I’d say that the room was like Conn himself: strong, defined and striking enough to shun the requirement for any adornments or elaboration.

  ‘Have a seat.’ He gestured to the sofa and, nervously, I crossed the room and plonked myself in the middle. Then I realised that he was going to join me there, so I shimmied up, pretending to be not in the least bit embarrassed, although he probably surmised the truth given that my face was the approximate temperature that spaceships were required to withstand when re-entering the earth’s orbit.

  He sat at an angle, his long legs stretched across the front so that his foot was just inches from mine. Now I was sweating so much I was forced to say a prayer to the god of leather couches: bless me, Father, for I am wet–please, please do not make me adhere to this cow-hide for the rest of time.

  Speak. Go on, speak. Please. Before sweat actually runs down my face and drips on the furniture. I could honestly say that Archie Botham and his ballcocks had never got me in this state. Having a boss this attractive should have been against employment legislation. Having a boss this attractive who was sitting less than two feet away from me, his deep topaz eyes fixed on my face, his easy grin relaxed, his pheromones making my uterus contract to the size of a walnut, should have been downright illegal.

  ‘I just wondered how the project was coming along. I’m sorry, I’m always rushing around and I never seem to get a chance to sit down and chat to you, so I just thought I’d grab you for five minutes for an update on how it’s going.’

  Oh.

  I did that smiley shrug thing that’s my automatic default when faced with any situation that’s uncomfortable or involves forbidden thoughts about members of the opposite sex. Honestly, sometimes I think I got stuck in a parallel universe where my emotional maturity halted somewhere around Valentine’s Day 1992, when I shoved an anonymous card through the door of the boy I fancied and then ran like the wind so he would never know it was from me.

  ‘It’s going…erm, okay. I’ve been on seven dates, so five still to go.’

  ‘Yeah, I read the reports. Seems like you’ve met quite a few unusual characters.’

  I loved the way he absent-mindedly ran his fingers through his hair when he spoke.

  ‘Approximately seven. Actually, make that six–Gemini was fairly normal.’

  More than normal, actually. Cute. Nice. Sincere.

  ‘Great, that’s great,’ he replied. ‘Well, look, I just wanted to tell you that we really appreciate you doing this and you’re doing a great job. I know it can’t be an easy thing to do…’

  ‘It’s not. To be honest, sometimes I wonder how I got myself into this.’

  His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Really?’

  ‘Just sometimes,’ I blustered. Shit! What had I said that for? Do not speak. Do not speak.

  ‘Enough to reconsider completing the project?’

  ‘Yes.’ That’s what I said in my head. On the outside I stuttered a vehement, ‘Nnnoooo, of course not. Definitely not. No way.’

  ‘Great. I’m relieved about that, because this is such an important part of our plans for this year, and we want you to know that your contribution is definitely appreciated. You’re a huge part of the team and we value you so much. We’re under a bit of time pressure–we’ve got over six thousand orders now and the publisher is keen to get it out as soon as possible, so let’s try to get the next five wrapped up over the next month or
so. And Leni, if you have any problems or concerns you know you can always chat to me–that’s what I’m here for.’

  From his tone and the way that his eyes were slightly glazing over, I could tell that our little tête à tête was drawing to a close. Was that it? I’d given my heart, soul and seven long nights of my life to this project, and that was the extent of our in-depth evaluation and appraisal.

  ‘Oh, and just one more thing…’

  Anything. Especially if it involved nudity. Don’t judge me. I’d read somewhere that women think about sex every fifteen minutes–I just seemed to save up my allocation for when Conn was around. Besides, what was the alternative? Put my romantic ponderings into the realms of reality? Definitely not. The memories of Nurse Dave and his recent gynaecological exam still made me well up with sadness and fury every time I thought about it. For now I was definitely sticking to relationships of the immature and ‘all in my head’ variety.

  ‘…our legal team have updated all our confidentiality contracts, so can you sign this latest version?’

  I quickly glanced over it, then somehow managed to keep the pen within my damp and slippy paw as I signed on the dotted line.

  ‘Thanks, Leni. And remember, any problems at all, come and talk to me. I know my mother is pretty volatile and, well, a departure from the norm, but although she probably doesn’t show it she thinks you’re doing a fantastic job…’

  She does?

  ‘…and so do I.’

  Default setting: smiley shrug. Although I’d be lying if I said my ego didn’t swell just a little. Working for Zara had been a meteoric collision of craziness, and she constantly made me feel like I wasn’t quite as efficient/capable/interesting as she’d like, but now Conn was telling me different and it felt great. Zara was happy with my work. She appreciated me. I couldn’t give up on this project because the team were depending on me.