A Brand New Me: The hilarious romantic comedy about one year of first dates. Shari Low
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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, and 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