by Shari Low
‘Stu, I promise you something–I am never, ever going on a date again.’
The dancers were still shaking their pants to the last verse of ‘I’ve Had the Time of My Life’ when the credits started to roll. I sniffed inelegantly and reached for the huge bucket that had been full of popcorn a few hours earlier. Now there were only a few edible pieces among the corn kernels that had resisted the microwave and sat like tiny little militant nuts in the bottom of the bowl.
Comfort movie. Comfort food. And…glug…comfort wine.
Two empty bottles lay on the coffee table in front of me, but in my defence, one of them had been consumed by Mrs Naismith, who’d joined me when I’d come home from Stu’s and shared a cottage pie while we watched Rocky IV. She’d headed off to bed around nine, when I’d insisted on putting on ‘that girly rubbish’. Obviously we’d never know the outcome now, but my money would have been on Mrs Naismith if Zara had taken her up on her offer of a bout of armed combat.
Notting Hill and the Sex and the City movie DVDs sat in their boxes in front of me, but I felt decidedly ambivalent now about watching them. I played aimlessly with the remote control, throwing it up and catching it in the popcorn bucket. I felt aimless, bored, bizarrely agitated. What to do? Moving through to the bedroom held no appeal, and since I didn’t need to get up for work the next morning I could do pretty much anything that I wanted. That was the problem: what, exactly, did I want?
A new job was probably at the top of the list, although there wasn’t a massive rush since Millie and I would be financed by the Bank of Zara for the next few months.
Maybe I should travel, get out and see the world. After all my experiences over the last few months, a solo global expedition held no fear now, and in a weird way I had Zara to thank for that. She might have pimped me out without a single thought for anything but her bank balance, but every aspect of it–from the nerve-racking dates to the final showdown–had given me another nugget of confidence. However, if I did go travelling I would have to pay close attention so I didn’t mistake serial criminals for upstanding members of the tourist community. I had indeed made definite progress in the fields of confidence and self-awareness, but my people-judgement skills were still up there with my fashion sense and my interior design prowess.
But would a few months of escapism really solve anything? What was wrong with me? I should be elated, but instead I felt like someone had put me in a corner and then had buggered off and forgotten all about me.
The remote control missed the bucket and ricocheted under the couch, but when I blindly fished in after it, my hand made contact with paper: Ben’s profile, the one that Zara had thrown at me only a few hours before.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Glug.
I stopped the tears, but I couldn’t bring myself to scrunch up the offending article and launch it at the nearest bin. I ran my index finger across his photo, touching his hair, his face, his smile, the movement slowed by melancholy and wine.
After more minutes than were psychologically healthy, the knock at the door snapped me out of my mental fug. Mrs Naismith with a nightcap, no doubt, hell-bent on staging an intervention that would get me off the ‘girly rubbish’ and back on to decent, uplifting cinematic treats like Platoon and Armageddon.
‘Hi,’ said the languid, gorgeous voice at the door–definitely not Mrs Naismith.
‘Hey,’ I replied, surprised. ‘Coming in?’
He shook his head. ‘I need to tell you something first.’
Was it just the wine, or was my best mate standing in my doorway, acting very strangely.
‘What?’
‘I think…I think you made a mistake.’
The giggle was out before I could stop it.
‘Which one? I always make mistakes–I’m a serial fuck-up,’ I replied, my hilarity taking the edge off the element of truth in there.
‘You’re not. You’re beautiful, and kind, and funny, and the most amazing female I’ve ever known.’
‘I am?’ Hello? Just when I thought I’d departed from Weird Central, it seemed like I was taking a one-way ticket back there.
Stu nodded thoughtfully. ‘Last night, in the hospital, one of the nurses sat with me for hours and we talked and talked, and I think I know now who you should be with.’
‘You do?’
‘I do.’
‘Who?’
Why did I feel like I was the lead actor in a romantic comedy but no one had given me the script?
‘Me.’
Wow.
Wow.
Wow.
Sorry, I was stuck on ‘wow’ there for quite a while, but not because of anything that Stu had said…it was more to do with the man who was standing next to him.
‘Nurse Dave?’ I blurted. Process, Leni, process. I was trying, but I kept going back to ‘wow’.
‘You were wrong, Leni–he doesn’t have a girlfriend. He told me all about it last night: she was his ex and she had issues, and when you answered the phone she just decided to mix it up a little. I promise. I called her and checked it out.’
‘You’re kidding me!’
They both shook their heads, their grins splitting their faces in half.
‘So why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘I tried,’ Nurse Dave argued. ‘But I didn’t have your phone number and every time I came here you were out.’
Smashing. Mrs Naismith had somehow managed to avoid interfering in my life on the few occasions that might just have made the most incredible difference.
‘So you really don’t have a girlfriend?’
He shook his head.
‘And you don’t have a fetish for weapons, aspirations to be in a band, dreams of stardom, a wife, a passive personality, or a secondary career as a drug-dealer?’
‘Definitely not.’
My smile mirrored his now, as I stood to the side and opened the door wider.
‘Then you’d better come in.’
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 Duplicitous prick with a press pass
PISCES Nurse Dave Canning Now providing services over and above those routinely offered by 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 Who?
VIRGO Kurt Cobb/Cabana Rising star in need of a good stylist
SAGITTARIUS Gavin West Drug-dealer–currently serving eight years
TAURUS Stuart Degas Hairdresser, hypochondriac and the best friend ever…just don’t tell Trish
EMAIL
To: Trisha; Stu
From: Leni Lomond
Re: If last night’s date had a personal ad, it would
read like…
Sorry, that’s between me and my boyfriend.
Great Morning TV!–New Year’s Day
‘Welcome back to our Great Morning TV! New Year special, and if you’ve just tuned in, the beautiful Verity Fox is here, talking about her engagement to our very own Great Morning Television! hair expert, Stuart Degas.’
The studio erupted into a round of applause and, at the back wall, Trish and I ducked as one of the cameras swung round to catch Stu’s grinning, bashful reaction.
‘Tell me, Verity, when did you know? When did you absolutely know for sure that he was the one?’
Verity flicked her gorgeous long blonde tresses off one shoulder and flashed twenty thousand pounds’ worth of teeth at Britain’s breakfast tables. ‘The first night I met him.’
‘Nooooo!’
‘Goldie, I swear it’s true! It was a freezing cold night and I
had on the most fabulous, but smallest dress you’ve ever seen…’
Goldie nodded knowingly.
‘…and when he collected me, he suggested that I might want to put on something thicker so that I wouldn’t get a chill. It was the first time in my life that a new boyfriend had actually asked me to put clothes on.’
Cue more spontaneous whooping and cheering.
Goldie grabbed Verity’s hand for the second time that morning. ‘And then last night, at the stroke of midnight, he asked you to marry him. One more look at the ring before you go.’ She held up Verity’s perfectly manicured paw and flashed the four-carat, princess-cut, square diamond mounted on a gleaming platinum band into the camera.
‘Aren’t you worried her ex-boyfriend is going to get out of jail and kick your arse?’ Trish whispered to Stu.
‘Nah–I’ve got enough money to flee the country at short notice.’
Back on camera, the slush-fest continued.
‘So this is forever?’ Goldie asked softly.
Verity nodded and whispered, ‘Forever.’
Trish made vomiting motions beside us, earning her a swat from Stu.
‘Verity, thank you so much for sharing your story,’ back to camera now, ‘and remember, Stuart will be with us later when he gives Betty Naismith from Windsor a whole new look for the New Year. Soon, and I can hardly contain my excitement about this, we’ll be meeting the incredibly talented, sensational new Great Morning TV! astrologer. But first, straight from his latest stint supporting Westlife on tour, is Britain’s Got Talent winner KURT CABANA, with his new number-one hit, “Loving You Is Easy”.’
Up in the gallery, the director switched to the right stage cameras and Kurt launched into his act.
‘Just think, you could have been Mrs Cabana,’ Trish whispered.
‘That’s enough of that! She did perfectly fine with what she got, didn’t you, Leni, love?’ came a voice from behind us.
One of the junior producers had brought Mrs Naismith out from the green room, and now she bustled past, dressed in a white terry robe, her hair soaking wet, to left stage, where Stu was now setting up his stuff, ready to transform her on air. It was all part of her master plan to reinvent herself and get a new action hero of her very own–even if his action only extended to the occasional game of bowls down at the social club.
Great Morning TV!’s new astrologer, who also had the misfortune to be my new boss, joined us to wait for her call. ‘Nervous?’ I asked her.
‘ Terrified,’ Millie replied.
‘Come on, you know you’ll be great,’ Trish encouraged her.
‘Actually, you’re right–I think it’ll all go really well,’ she concurred with a knowing smile. None of us doubted her. We’d all realised over the last few months just how brilliant Millie really was. I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t noticed before: the lunch predictions, choosing the right clothes for my dates, instinctively knowing when things were good, bad or ugly. And hadn’t she perfectly documented every one of the twelve guys–even noting that Jon had a dark side to him long before I sussed him out. Her inherent psychic gifts combined with her genius in the field of astrology had already raised her to the top of her field, and she was now the proud president of Millie De Prix Inc.
On the other hand, Zara had always been so vague about her techniques, so guarded about her methodology, and now we knew why: she was a kaftan-wearing, movie-star-shagging, obnoxious big fake, one who’d been caught up in a scandal this year that had started with Stephen Knight and ended with a full confession about her sordid addiction to sex, drugs and New Age therapies. Zara had been forced to reveal all in return for the Daily Globe’s agreement not to publicly brand her a sham. Anyway, now that Stephen Knight had buggered off back to Hollywood and most of Zara’s clients had dried up, she was happy to live by the mantra that any publicity was another few thousand in the bank. And according to rumours of her and Conn’s burgeoning coke habits, they needed every penny they could get.
Zara’s publishers had, however, still got a revolutionary dating guide after an anonymous source (me!) sent them Millie’s manuscript. Incredibly detailed, the Zodiac Guide to Love shunned the generalised star-sign groupings that Zara had offered, and instead contained an individual analysis for every day of the year. Millie’s six-figure book deal and lucrative TV contract had been brokered by…
‘Holy fuck, what is that noise? The floor manager will fucking kill him!’
…Colin Bilson-Smythe, Millie’s boyfriend and the lawyer who’d called Delta Inc. in an effort to track me down and apologise for our disastrous date, realised he was talking to my beautiful companion from the night before, and asked her out instead. He and Millie had been married before the month was out…apparently it was in the stars. Strangely, she didn’t seem to mind that his laugh sounded like a food-mixer.
Today, as a personal favour for her PA (also me), Millie was giving a reading, live on air, to Glenda Smith, who was at that very moment suffocating Goldie in a bear hug and hoping that she’d get a message from her dearly departed mother–the one who had keeled over two years ago in the middle of the 3.15 from Aintree. Her son Gregory and his ‘special friend’ Alex were watching back in the green room. Glenda had taken a while to get used to the idea, but she was coming round to it now that Alex had converted from Arsenal to Chelsea.
‘So what are your New Year’s resolutions for this year then?’ Trish whispered. ‘Grey said to remind you that “avoiding fire raising” should be one of them.’
I laughed quietly, in no way mimicking the sound of a kitchen implement.
Grey had given me several lectures since the day, just a few months before, that I’d inadvertently set fire to a garden shed, three wheelie bins, two skateboards and a goal post, all of which resided in the communal gardens of our apartment block. Who could have predicted that the unfortunate combination of a self-help-book bonfire and a strong westerly wind would have caused so much damage?
But, arson aside, this year there would be no resolutions. It would be greedy, really, since I’d achieved so much more than I could ever have hoped for when I’d made those semi-drunken declarations just twelve months ago. I’d finally exorcised Ben from my life; I’d finally landed a great new job that I loved; I’d finally grown out of so many of my fears and insecurities; and I’d finally realised that my people-judgement skills weren’t completely hopeless–hadn’t I fallen for Nurse Dave right from the start?
Oh, and I was also a massive YouTube star, thanks to some video taken of me being wrongly arrested in a London drugs swoop. Thankfully, no one had yet shown it to my granny. This year I wanted calm and a drama-free existence–not because I’d reverted to my old personality traits of plodding and predictability, but because I was now genuinely, truly happy. We all were.
‘Happy New Year, Leni!’ The hands came round from behind me, encircling my waist and squeezing me tight.
‘You smell of hospital,’ I murmured blissfully to Nurse Dave, who had–as promised–come straight here after his all-night shift.
Trish made the vomiting gesture again.
I ignored her.
Millie nudged me and then spoke softly, determined not to upset the tortured floor manager. ‘After the show I could do a reading for you, Leni. Do you want to know what will be happening for you this year?’
I thought about it long and hard…for about a second and a half.
‘No, thanks, Millie–I think I’ll just wait and let the stars surprise me.’
THE END
Acknowledgements
An enormous thank you to the brilliant Sheila Crowley for being the most encouraging, inspirational agent a writer could have. Thanks too to the Avon team: Maxine Hitchcock, Keshini Naidoo, Sammia Rafique and Sara Foster for their stellar support and help along every step of the way.
Huge hugs to Gemma Low, who still hasn’t disowned me despite the fact that it’s really embarrassing that your step-mother writes about sex stuff.
; As always, Sadie Hill, Rosina Hill, Liz Murphy, Paul and Beccy Murphy and Anne Marie Low have been not only family, but great friends as well.
And finally, if it’s true that the best mates are the ones who can make you laugh even when it’s all going ceremoniously tits up (okay, I might have made that saying up), then mine are truly brilliant: Carmen Reid, Lennox Morrison, Janice McCallum, Linda Lowery, Wendy Morton, Pamela McBurnie, Sylvia Lavizani, Mitch Murphy, Gillian Armstrong, Frankie Plater and Jan Johnston.
About the Author
For much of Shari Low’s working life she was a nightclub manager, standing on club doors arguing with crazy drunk people in Glasgow and Shanghai. She now lives in Scotland with her husband and two children and spends her days writing books, screenplays and two weekly columns for the Daily Record newspaper. It’s great-but she does miss the crazy drunk people …
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Praise for Shari Low:
‘Hilariously addictive.’
Closer
‘Feisty fun.’
The Mirror
‘A thrilling page turner that grabs your attention from the off. Highly recommended.’
The Sun
‘Great fun from start to finish.’
Jenny Colgan, author of Operation Sunshine
‘There are just two words for Shari Low: utterly hilarious. I laughed like a drain.’
Carmen Reid, author of Late Night Shopping
By the same author:
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Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON