A Brand New Me: The hilarious romantic comedy about one year of first dates. Shari Low
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ego and self-detonated.
Zara swept off to her first appointment and I slumped at my tree stump, the list sitting there like a death warrant waiting to be executed.
There were ten points on it, in bold, cold black and white:
1 A comprehensive report must be written after each meeting (template to follow).
2 To ensure that the session is as spontaneous as possible, the candidate is not to be prompted, prepared or manipulated in any way.
3 Each meeting must last several hours, the content of which to be decided entirely by the candidate.
4 Details of this project and of candidates must not be discussed with anyone outside Delta Inc.
5 Physical contact with candidates should not be initiated.
6 Any physical contact initiated by candidate should be rejected but noted to be used in analysis.
7 To preserve the integrity and atmosphere of each date, direct questioning should be avoided. However, during the course of the evening, as much information as possible on previous dating history should be attained. Family and work history should also be attained.
8 No personal information, contact details, company material or discussions should be shared with the candidate.
9 Post-date contact with any candidate is strictly forbidden.
10 Project deadline: 31 May.
I reached for the phone and punched in Trish’s number. She answered on the first ring.
‘I officially want to kill myself,’ I blurted, before she could pipe in with anything as mundane as ‘Hello’.
‘Dollface, I love you madly but I’ve got twenty minutes to rustle up a butterscotch and raspberry cheesecake out of no-fucking-where because that demented twat chef on the cookery slot came in pissed again and dropped the fucking dessert. Thank fuck it’s pre-recorded. So, what’s up?’
Did I mention that Trish is in training for the next Olympics? She’s competing in the highly demanding category known as ‘repetitions of the word “fuck”’. So far only Gordon Ramsay, Billy Connolly and a few successful porn stars are her major threats.
‘It’s this whole dating thing, it’s totally freaking me out.’
There was a sigh at the other end of the phone. ‘Oh, for bollocks’ sake, Leni–you’ve got a great new job, you’re single, you’re hopeless at picking men, and this might just turn out to be a great way to meet a guy’.
In other words: Pull. Yourself. Together.
‘Am I just being a pathetic coward?’ I asked, hoping for some soothing words and a gentle massage of my self-esteem. I realised too late that I’d phoned the wrong friend. Ego-boosting and feel-good encouragement were Stu’s department.
‘Absolutely! Now get a grip and just get on with it. Got to go–I’ve got some real problems to deal with here. Kiss kiss.’
You can’t beat a comforting word from a friend in a time of need.
I took another look at Harry’s photo and then picked up the phone. Somehow, my shaking digits wouldn’t quite press the buttons. Should I do it? Or not? Not. Definitely not. But what were the options? Back on the nerve-racking interview market, more upheaval, more change and no guarantees that I’d get a position that I actually liked at the end of it? Or unemployment, rent arrears, and not even the money to buy an inspirational tome called something like 101 Careers That Will Make You a Millionaire.
I did the deep-breathing exercises that Stu had insisted on teaching us in case we ever found ourselves in a position where cardiac arrest was imminent.
Zero…One…My shaking fingers slammed the phone buttons as I punched out the numbers on the sheet in front of me.
Okay, Harry Henshall, panel salesman from Milton Keynes, let’s see if you’re just about to meet your soul mate.
‘Hey, love–give you fifteen quid for a quickie!’ The offer, generous but unprompted, came from a crowd of blokes in a minibus that stopped at traffic lights next to where I stood, freezing my extremities off on the corner of Piccadilly Circus.
I was so glad I’d taken the advice of Millie on reception and pitched my dress code at ‘cold weather casual’: dark boot-cut jeans, high black leather boots and a black polo-neck jumper, with a knee-length thick wool coat. Although the cold coming through the soles of my boots was making me shiver, it was still a much wiser choice than the jeans, strappy sandals and glittery top I’d been planning on wearing. But then, what did I know about dating clothes? I hadn’t been on a blind date since, well, ever, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been out on the town in London.
I’d always hated coming into town at night (too crowded, too impersonal and far too expensive for a late-night taxi back to Slough), but since Harry was travelling from Milton Keynes, I thought I should meet him somewhere convenient and this was the first place he’d suggested. I hobbled from foot to foot, trying to get some heat into my veins, my mind distracted from my imminent pneumonia by the familiar trains of panicked thought that were flashing through it: what was I doing here; I didn’t do things like this; I didn’t thrive on excitement; I didn’t get fired up on adrenalin; I definitely didn’t take unexpected events in my stride; I was a creature of habit that hated surprises and would rather undergo organ removal without anaesthetic than put myself in a potentially embarrassing situation.
This angst ran in conjunction with an in-depth, highly convoluted, complex internal dialogue that went along the lines of, ‘Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Stay.’ To make the voices stop, I’d just conjured up a mental image of Archie Botham beaming with pride over his new invention when my mobile phone rang.
‘Tell me you’re not going through with it!’ Stu begged.
‘Stu, I have to,’ I answered patiently, giving no clue as to my inner turmoil. ‘It’s my job.’
‘It’s borderline prostitution! Where are you now?’
‘Standing in Piccadilly Circus waiting for him.’
‘Leni, it’s far too bloody cold for that. You could come down with hypothermia. Or you could get frostbite in your digits. That happened to Ralph Fiennes on his expedition to the North Pole. He ended up amputating his fingertips with an electric saw in his garden shed.’
That was the thing about Stu–he was generous with his hypochondria and liked to share it around.
‘Stu, first of all, Ralph Fiennes is the bloke from the Harry Potter movies and he’s never, as far as I know, attempted a one-man expedition across a polar icecap. Ranulph Fiennes, the explorer, may have done that. But I’m sure he’d be the first to acknowledge that my fingers are highly unlikely to meet the same fate as his while tucked into screaming-pink fake-fur mitts in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.’
‘Excuse me, are you Leni?’
I lifted the phone away from my ear and turned to the new arrival. My first reaction was that he looked just like the guy in the photo…about, oh, fifty pounds ago.
He gave me a big smile and stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Harry, pleased to meet you.’
With my non-telephone hand I reciprocated, taking in his eager smile and seemingly happy demeanour.
Okay, so he wasn’t Orlando Bloom. He wasn’t even Hollyoaks. But he was wearing clean jeans, brown Timber-land boots and a black felt jacket, a stripy scarf, and despite the lack of resemblance to his photograph, my initial gut instinct was that he was fairly inoffensive. Plus, he was so overweight that if I had to flee for my life he’d never catch