A Brand New Me: The hilarious romantic comedy about one year of first dates. Shari Low
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you.’
Ten points deducted off the dating scale for clichéd questioning.
‘What would you like to know?’ I asked breezily, while mentally preparing a completely fictitious profile just in case he was contemplating stealing my identity and selling it to Eastern European gang lords so they could obtain false passports for use in sex-trade trafficking. Note to self: must get irrational thoughts under control.
‘What kind of music do you like?’
I made the snap decision that this would be of no relevance whatsoever to Customs and Immigration or whoever dealt with passport applications.
‘I think Amy Winehouse is great.’
‘Me too! Back to Black was a classic.’
More things in common!
‘And I like loads of bands: Nickelback, the Killers, Razorlight, Snow Patrol…’
I started to worry that his constant nodding would result in a severe case of whiplash. Call me psychic, but I was beginning to spot a pattern here.
We were both drinking white wine, both eating Nobby’s finest, our body language identical, and he’d agreed with every single thing that I’d said.
I decided to test my rapidly forming theory.
‘I think Pete Doherty’s a bit of a tit though.’
‘Completely! Totally agree.’
‘And I love listening to classical stuff in the bath.’
‘So relaxing, isn’t it,’ he nodded.
I had to stop myself from throwing in that I fancied Howard from Take That!, just in case he agreed and was forced to re-evaluate aspects of his core personality.
He went on to concur with my favourite colour (blue), my favourite car (Ferrari) and my dream holiday (a week on Richard Branson’s Necker with the entire cast of Grey’s Anatomy, U2, P. Diddy and Mary J. Blige).
I was starting to feel just a little uneasy. This was either the non-identical twin from whom I’d been separated at birth, or the most intense, creepy sycophant I’d ever encountered. At the moment I was veering towards the latter. I had a feeling that if I said that my favourite hobby was collecting skin cells from polar bears’ scrotums, he’d have the swabs and test tubes ready by the end of the night.
I spotted that his glass was empty and made a desperate attempt to break the cycle of question, answer, agreement.
‘Let me get you a drink–another white wine?’ I asked.
He shot out of his chair like his buttocks were on fire, and spat out a panicked ‘SIT WHERE YOU ARE!’
The three old men in the corner lifted their heads from their papers.
‘I’ll get it!’ he blurted, before bustling off to the bar and returning with fresh supplies.
I was starting to feel seriously freaked out now–I think it was the fact that the force of his outburst had rattled my fillings. I’d read about guys like this before–usually in the court reports of stalking trials where some woman had flicked open her curtains to find the face of a bloke she’d bumped into at Tesco’s fish counter pressed up against her window.
‘Daniel, you, er…’ Careful, Leni–think of a nice way to say this. ‘You seem like a lovely guy, so can I ask you why you would want to apply for a date?’
Mad or sad? My heart was racing again. Which was he: mad or sad?
He didn’t say anything for a few long, long minutes.
Eventually, he shrugged.
‘Zara Delta said she could find me the perfect soul mate and I’ve just got to the stage where I think that would be nice. But somehow…well, somehow it doesn’t seem to be happening.’
I surreptitiously clutched on to my handbag and slipped off the skyscraper heels in case I had to make a run for it.
‘To be honest, I don’t really understand where I go wrong.’
‘No idea at all?’ I ventured, with the hesitation of someone who is desperately trying to avoid a deep and meaningful conversation.
He shrugged again. ‘None. Every woman I’ve ever been out with always says the same thing–I’m too nice. And that’s a bad thing, apparently.’
Ah, the mist was beginning to clear now. He wasn’t mad, he wasn’t particularly sad (okay, maybe just a little)–he was just a bit insecure and eager to please.
On some level I could relate to that. I was about to tell him so, but I’d opened some kind of emotional dam and now the floodwaters were gushing through.
‘It’s difficult, you know? I always find new situations really uncomfortable, so I get a bit over-anxious.’
You don’t say…
He took a large swig of his wine before continuing. ‘Don’t laugh, but I even bought a book to see if that would help. One of those advice ones.’
Holy shit, I was right. I wanted to call my mother and ask her why she’d given away my twin brother. Oh. My. God. How had I not seen it? The questioning, the body language, the agreement technique to establish compatibility and commonality–this was Textbook Dating (the exaggerated version that tipped over into ‘borderline scary’).
Crap. Was this…Was this what a night with me was like?
‘Daniel, can I be honest with you?’ I interjected. ‘You’re trying too hard.’
Attention all dictionaries, we have a new definition of irony: Leni Lomond giving advice on the route to successful relationships.
‘Forget the textbooks and just be yourself. Oh, and stop agreeing with everything everyone says–girls love a bloke who has an opinion of his own.’
‘But I hate disagreements.’
Fuck, it was like looking in a mirror.
‘But, you know, sometimes that makes you more interesting.’
I decided not to reveal that this confrontation was making my toes curl and my teeth clench, but to get it back to a level that was suitably superficial before I filled up and felt the urge to swap stories of decimated romances.
I thumped the table, making the three old guys eye us with undisguised irritation for the second time.
‘Okay, Daniel, for the rest of the night I want you to do and say whatever you like. Assert yourself and don’t be afraid to be honest, okay?’
He nodded warily.
‘Right, I’m starving–let’s go and grab something to eat.’
‘What do you fancy?’ he asked.
A longing for a chicken korma overtook me.
‘Indian?’ I replied hopefully.
‘Perfect! Just what I was thinking.’
‘Great! Let’s…’
I was halfway out of my seat before reality dawned.
‘Daniel, are you saying that because you really mean it or because you don’t want to object?’
Rabbit. Headlights.
‘I do mean it! Absolutely! I love an Ind—’ Suddenly, his enthusiasm deserted him. ‘You’re right, I’m lying–the saffron in the curries makes me break out in a twenty-four-hour rash. Would a pizza be okay with you?’
Even our gormless giggles matched.
With a departing wave to the locals, we strutted out of the door in search of the heady delights of a stuffed crust.
The tension broken, barriers down, it