A Brand New Me

by Shari Low

  To his credit, he managed not to crumble into a pile of devastation. The man could act as well! There were a few moments of excruciating silence, then he gave me a disappointed smile. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  The words said, ‘No, it’s fine, really’, but his demeanour said, ‘Speed-dial Samaritans.’

  ‘Are you gutted?’ I swear that if I could have, I would have awarded him a million-pound recording contract and a slot on the next Royal Variety Show there and then.

  ‘S’okay. I’m through to the next round of Britain’s Got Talent, I’m an extra in The Bill next week and I’m waiting to hear if I’m going to be a backing singer for Westlife’s support act on the next tour.’

  ‘Fantastic!’

  There was another pregnant pause. ‘So this really was just supposed to be a date then?’

  I nodded. ‘It’s all to do with star signs, and, to be honest, I’m not sure how it works–I’m just the faceless researcher who has no idea what Zara is on about half the time.’

  I could tell he’d lost interest now. He’d glazed over, and I couldn’t swear to it, but I was pretty sure he was eyeing the exits. After he’d checked his watch for the fourth time in three silent minutes, I cracked and made the decision to rebel against Zara’s project rules, number who cared? Each meeting must last several hours, the content of which to be decided entirely by the candidate.

  ‘Kurt, can I make a proposal?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’m knackered, fed up, and I forgot to set the Sky Plus for Die Hard two, which starts in twenty minutes. I’m all for cutting tonight short if you are. I’ll file a report saying that we danced the night away in that salsa club over the road. I’m assuming that salsa is also on your CV? Course it is. So if anyone ever calls you to check, you’ll agree that’s what we did. Meanwhile, you can keep the hundred quid and go and join your mates for a night on the town. Whaddya say?’

  His face dropped to an expression of stunned devastation…for about one hundredth of a second, then it brightened and he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Oh, I promise you, I really, really don’t mind.’

  ‘Then thanks, I’ll take you up on that.’ He checked his watch again. ‘Rumour has it there’s a scout for a new dance show checking out talent at the Embassy Club. If I jump in a cab I might just make it.’

  I leaned over and reciprocated his kiss. ‘Then run, my budding superstar, run like the wind.’

  I slipped off my chair, made my way outside and jumped in a taxi. Twenty minutes later, my key was going in the door when I heard a slight noise from behind the door next to me: Mrs Naismith peeking out her spy-hole to check that I was okay. I leaned over and pressed my eye against my side of it, causing a cackle of hilarity from the other side. Her door swung open.

  ‘Just making sure you are all right, love. Didn’t you have a night out with one of those star-sign boys tonight?’

  ‘I did…cut it short, though.’

  ‘Right then, love, just as long as you’re okay.’

  ‘I am…’

  She gave me a big smile as she backed into her hallway, and was just about to close the door when…

  ‘Mrs Naismith, I’m going to have a glass of wine and watch a Bruce Willis film–fancy joining me?’

  For a woman in her seventies she didn’t half shift. Three seconds later she was back at the door with a bumper bag of Revels and a family-size bar of Fruit & Nut.

  ‘I tell you, if I was thirty years younger I’d be outside that Bruce Willis’s door in a flash. Looks much better since he lost the hair.’

  ‘He does,’ I laughed, opening my door. Nope, no marines lurking in the hallway–always a bonus.

  Two hours later, world saved from destruction by the wit, charm and violence from the bald one, I covered a sleeping Mrs Naismith with a blanket, slipped a pillow under her head, took what was left of my wine and padded through to bed. My theatre date with Stu next Saturday didn’t really count, because I knew exactly what to expect, so that meant that technically tomorrow night was my last night of research for Zara. One more night. Just a few hours in the grand scheme of my life. How bad could it be? I could honestly say that I didn’t think there was anything that could be thrown at me that I couldn’t cope with. Short of the guy turning up bollock-naked with a balloon tied to his willy, I could cope with anything and nothing could surprise me. Nothing.

  Except…

  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

  PISCES Nurse Dave Canning Avoid all future dealings with the NHS

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

  CANCER Gregory Smith Shy, sweet man’s man-in all respects

  LIBRA Ben Mathers Do you want to see me cry?

  VIRGO Kurt Cobb/Cabana Rising star in need of good stylist

  EMAIL

  To: Trisha; Stu

  From: Leni Lomond

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

  read like…

  Let me entertain you! Gregarious Brad Pitt look-alike, 25, Virgo, wants to show some lucky lady the stars! Multi-talented in all areas of entertainment, I’m available for wining, dining, Bar Mitzvahs and corporate functions. Seeking understanding, supportive lady (19–25) for company on tours and auditions. Must be gorgeous, fit, polished and prepared to participate in variety stage show–musical talent a must, comfort around flying knives and a transit van would be bonuses.

  Administrative talents also essential, as I am current president of NSPL–National Society for the Promotion of Lamé.

  Please apply in person, bringing CV and show-reel to Kurt Cabana, contestant 3432, in the queue outside X-Factor auditions, O2 Stadium.

  30

  The Sagittarius Date

  Gavin West, 25, nightclub promoter. And as far as I could see he wasn’t a wannabe or rising star on the hunt for publicity. Although, when Conn had spotted the application photo on my desk earlier that day, he had announced that Gavin’s face was somehow familiar. However, given that Conn seemed to spend most of his nights in London clubs, that wasn’t too much of a long shot.

  Now that I’d managed to stop picturing him naked, I’d come to look on my interaction with Conn as being my very own personal Diet Coke ad. If he didn’t have meetings, he’d strut into Zara’s office first thing, smile and wink in my direction (although thankfully not a ‘Kurt with a K’ wink–just one of the casual, charming, non-nauseating variety). He’d take all Zara’s mail, copy any phone messages, ask me to make reservations for that night at restaurants/clubs/hotels, let me know of any arrangements he’d made for her, and synchronise her schedule by copying it from my computer to his BlackBerry via Bluetooth. And, incidentally, after many years in the technologically backward world of plumbing supplies, I was borderline giddy that I even knew what that last sentence meant.

  Sometimes, if Zara wasn’t around he’d sit and chat for five minutes, just surface stuff, all warm and friendly. I’d chat back, ensuring that I was always utterly endearing and beguiling. I lie. I’d sit there with a beetroot face, tongue-tied, and only when he’d left the office, got into his car and driven approximately five miles would I think of something witty and interesting that I should have said. Hopeless. Completely hopeless. He just had to look at me with those piercing eyes and I came over all self-conscious and blustery. And of course, I’d rather spend a month in Zara’s inflatable detox-tube than discuss the problem with him.

  Cleaning cupboard fantasies aside, Conn was still an enigma to me, and I had absolutely no
idea what his life entailed outside the office, other than a serious social schedule that involved frequenting the flashest venues in the city and then following that up by sending multiple gifts to multiple females.

  Who were his friends? What did he like to do? How did he like his tea? And what kind of women did he like? That last question was purely for anthropological purposes, of course, although I already had a sneaky hunch that Conn’s type of girl would come with identical promiscuous triplets, be bedecked in designer gear, wear matching bras and knickers and never, ever step foot over the door unless her bikini line was waxed to perfection. In other words, the complete opposite of me. Just as well, really. It would be highly unusual to have a relationship with someone when the sum total of my contribution to our interaction would be, ‘Sure, Conn, and would you like those reservations at seven p.m. or eight p.m.?’ And even that would be said with moist palms, a red face and a light sheen of perspiration on my forehead.

  Standing there waiting for Gavin, I realised that was a recurring theme. I rubbed my thumb across my palm. Yep, moist. I could feel the sweat buds popping on my forehead, and I’d bet all my worldly IKEA goods that my face was a mild shade of puce. Would I ever do anything like this again? Not even if there was a night of passion with Johnny Depp at the end of it.

  Gavin the Promoter was late, so I gave Stu a quick call, anxious to prove to the Saturday-night commuters who were whizzing past me as I loitered outside the foyer of the Charlotte Street Hotel that I wasn’t actually touting for business. He answered with an unintelligible croak.

  ‘Aw, honey, you sound terrible–what’s wrong?’

  ‘Dunno. It feels serious, Leni. I checked my symptoms on the web and I think it’s best-case bronchitis, worst-case lung cancer,’ he answered, each word a strained rasp.

  ‘Or it could just be a bit of laryngitis?’ I suggested, with a smile that made a nearby bloke (ruddy complexion, vertically challenged, suit that strained to contain his ample curves) start to walk towards me with a leering grin on his face. He did a swift 180-degree turn when he realised I was on my phone and not flashing my Colgate smile at him.

  ‘Definitely worse than that, Leni. Honestly, I feel like death.’

  ‘Do you want me to come over later and mop your brow?’

  ‘Will you? Verity is in Bermuda on a shoot for a week, so if I die in my sleep there’s no one here to close my eyelids and phone the coroner.’

  Sometimes it was easier just to go with Stu’s neurotic flow. ‘Okay, I’ll be over as soon as I get done with Sagittarius. And Stu, I don’t have a key so try to hold off on popping your clogs until I get there.’

  ‘I’ll try, but I can’t promise. If I don’t answer after five minutes, call the police, but make sure you come in first so you can check I’m not doing an Elvis. Dying on the loo would be the ultimate indignity.’

  ‘What would you care, you’d be dead! It’s me who’d have to…’

  Two things hit me at once: the absurdity of this conversation, and a mental image of Stu on the toilet, trousers at ankles. ‘Stu, I love you, and that’s why I’m hanging up now. See you soon.’

  I snapped the phone shut and slipped it into the pocket of my black leather jacket. Or, rather, the black leather jacket that I’d commandeered for the evening from my favourite new fashion line, House of Millie. Black skinny jeans, a black polo neck and my favourite black boots completed the ensemble. I was only a beret away from a World War II underground revolutionary.

  The thundering of some kind of synthesised music with a thumping beat announced the arrival of a black BMW X5 in front of me. My antennae were immediately twanged by the blacked-out windows. Ooooh, a celebrity? Or a football player? My fingers tightened slightly around my phone, ready to flick it to camera mode. If this was someone I liked then I wanted a snap I could stare at on my screen-saver all day. Jude Law would be fab. Matt Damon, fantastic. Josh Duhamel, be still my heart. The only preferable option to any one of that trio would be Tom Jones. Mrs Naismith idolised him and had once confessed that she was still hopeful that he’d discover her (in a one-bedroom flat on the Slough/Windsor border), whisk her off to his LA mansion and (I swear these are her words–look away now if you are easily nauseated) ‘show her his love machine’. If I could somehow get Tom to speak to her on the phone she’d keep me in Garibaldis until the day I died.

  The electric window on the passenger side slid down, and a voice emanated from the darkness.

  ‘Hey! You Leni?’

  Bugger. He wasn’t Welsh, his voice was about four octaves higher than Tom’s, and he knew my name. Mrs Naismith would just have to put her dreams back on hold.

  Crouching down, I could just about make out a face in the darkness of the car’s interior. ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Jump in.’

  Jump in. I had a sudden vision of Stu, dressed in ecumenical robes, standing behind a pulpit, holding a holy book in one hand (The A–Z of Common Medical Conditions), thundering in a voice borrowed from a preacher in America’s deep south about the dangers of getting into cars with strangers.

  On the other hand, we had Gavin’s name, his address and his photograph on file back at the office, and I had a photocopy of all of said details in my handbag. If I turned up mutilated in a ditch tomorrow at least CID would have a head start.

  I skipped across to the car, peered in, checked that the face matched the one in the photo, and jumped into the passenger seat.

  The driver held out his hand. ‘Hi, I’m Gavin.’

  In a well-practised motion, I surreptitiously wiped my moist palm on my jeans before shaking his hand. Yep, I had ‘class’ written all over me.

  ‘Leni…but, er, you know that already. Or I might be someone pretending to be Leni so that I can car-jack you. But I’m not, I’m Leni.’

  Stop talking. Preacher Stu, please summon all your holy powers to paralyse my gob.

  To Gavin’s credit, he only looked mildly disconcerted as he raised the window and slipped the automatic gear back into ‘drive’.

  ‘So, I thought we’d go to a couple of clubs first, and just, you know, check out what’s happening.’

  I stopped myself from telling him that I had a fairly good idea about what was happening already. This guy had to be another ‘wannabe’ because there was no way he had to resort to insane television gimmicks to get a girl. Even putting the flash car to one side for the moment, from the neck down he was Vin Diesel: his T-shirt emphasising his muscle-bound bulges. From the neck up he was somewhere on the high end between average and attractive: square jaw-line, deep-set dark eyes, and short, spiky jet-black hair that was no stranger to the styling wax. His complexion was patchy, but what were a few spots between friends? Certainly not enough to make this fairly passable guy lack anything in the girl-pulling department. He was absolutely, definitely another one who was searching for a leg up the showbiz ladder.

  Okay, Leni, you can deal with this. Another couple of hours with a fame-seeking star-in-the-making coming up. Just smile, be attentive, and then let him down gently before releasing him to go and chase stardom on a reality TV show. Now that Gladiators was back on TV he’d be a shoo-in for a leading role: the size of a Portaloo, a face that teenage girls would adore, and he didn’t have to speak, thus disguising a voice that was slightly on the girly side of David Beckham.

  He’d barely put his foot on the accelerator when we stopped again.

  ‘Let’s start here,’ he suggested, flashing me a wide smile. The sign above the door said, ‘The Devil’s Den’.

  Right, Leni, time for a serious conversation with self. Technically speaking (i.e. man with sore throat aside), this was my last date. I could therefore:

  a) spend the whole night in the usual state of anxious flux, feeling self-conscious and hating every minute;

  b) make a conscious effort to throw off my inhibit ions and enjoy myself, perhaps indulge in an alcoholic beverage or two and thoroughly make the most of what seemed to be shaping up to be a pretty special night
;

  c) snog the face off Gavin the promoter in a last-ditch defiance of Zara’s project rules, number…couldn’t give a toss.

  I decided to start with b), with the option to upgrade to c) at a later time. Come on, enough of the self-imposed oppression. I was young, I was free, I was single and I was in a hot car with a hot guy sitting outside a hot club. Whey-hey! This place was always in the glossy mags, in pictures that featured members of girl bands sprawled across the pavement with drunken expressions that gave no clue as to how they’d apparently lost their knickers. Smashing. Although given that my nethers were enshrouded in a pair of M&S full-size briefs, I did feel a tad over-dressed.

  I stepped out of the car, straight onto…‘Gavin, you’re on a double yellow line here.’

  ‘That’s okay–the boys will look after it for me.’

  At the entrance, the two Gavin-sized bouncers–aka ‘the boys’–took it in turns to shake Gavin’s hand and then nodded deferentially to me before sweeping the door open and waving us through. With a subtle head-nod to the teller behind the glass window inside, we waltzed straight through without paying. Ooh, I liked that. For a wannabe, he certainly knew how to impress, although the raging cynic in me did wonder if he’d popped in here on his way to collect me, paid our entrance fee and slipped the bouncers twenty quid each to give him the VIP treatment on his return. If so, his plan to wow me was working. The only thing I would change so far was the leather satchel that was slung across his body. Sue me, but the whole metrosexual thing is just a male handbag too far for me. I prefer my woeful love-life to involve men who are rugged, masculine, and who won’t blow my Christmas Top Shop vouchers on a chi-chi handbag for themselves.