A Brand New Me: The hilarious romantic comedy about one year of first dates. Shari Low
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to colour-coordinate her flashing cheeks with her dress of choice today–an elaborate green kaftan adorned with what she informs me are ancient Masai symbols, a garment that was gifted to her by the tribal head of a small village during a recent private trip to Africa.
Thankfully, Zara removes the light-bulbs before our conversation begins; however, I do confess to being slightly alarmed when she suddenly clenches her eyes shut and the tone of her voice plunges dramatically.
‘ You’ve had a recent loss,’ she informs me in hushed tones. ‘And it involves…it involves an animal…a very dear, beloved animal.’
It seems prudent to confirm that yes, only a few weeks before, we had indeed lost Crackers, the horse on which I’d cantered since childhood. I was deeply comforted when Ms Delta assured me that he was in a better place where he could gallop freely, unburdened by the pains of old age.
Surely such perception and insight into the lives of others must be a devastatingly emotional burden to bear?
Zara nods wearily, her frame slumped in exhaustion after our opening exchange.
‘Sometimes it is difficult,’ she agrees, ‘but it’s also a very special gift that I feel so privileged to have been given. And I feel it is my duty to use that gift to improve the lives of others.’
She pauses to take a sip from a wooden clay pot on her desk, containing a mix of herbs and cleansing roots–a recipe, she tells me, that she discovered many years ago while living among the people of the Andes.
‘That’s why I’ve decided to write my latest book–a relationship guide that will revolutionise the modern woman’s approach to searching for their perfect partner. Today’s women have lives that are busier than ever–they’re juggling careers, hectic social lives, personal fitness and family obligations, leaving them little time to focus on what really matters: finding love. This is where I will help. I will give them a foolproof plan that will identify their needs, and then show them how to fulfil their dreams. This book will, quite literally, change lives.’
Sadly, our conversation is brought to a premature end by an assistant who interrupts to inform Zara that a certain A-list household name needs her urgent advice. As she rises, she re-inserts her inner glow and hugs me tightly.
‘I’m so sorry to cut this short, but that’s another consequence of this gift–I have to go to those who need me.’
And if you are one of the thousands of women who need Zara Delta, her book will be available in all good bookstores in December.
‘Maybe this one will be better,’ Millie said, as I filled her in on the details of my next trip to Dating Hell Central.
‘Are you saying that because you really mean it, or are you just trying to keep my spirits up with moral support and false hope?’
‘Definitely moral support and false hope,’ she replied with a giggle. ‘Is it working?’
‘No,’ I said bluntly.
The fortnight since my Scorpion disaster had been a roller-coaster of emotions that had finally derailed a couple of days before, when Trish had sat me down, swept aside the first ten drafts of my resignation letter, tossed away my new copy of How to Spot a Tosser with Your Eyes Shut, and given me a stern talking-to.
‘Look, you can’t bail out on this now. Yes, you met a nasty little shit, but so what? At least you got paid for meeting him. In the past you regularly met nasty little shits on your own time. If it wasn’t for these dates, would you or would you not want to keep working for Zara?’
I’d nodded reluctantly. Okay, so it was like entering a parallel universe on Planet Space Cadet every day, but at least it didn’t focus on the stark, banal reality of toilet fittings. And the alternatives still didn’t bear thinking about–more interviews, more new environments, more upheaval, and no more pornographic fantasies involving boss’s hot offspring.
‘Okay, your personal life now–do you or do you not want to go out on dates, meet new guys, and, in the words of the late, great Freddie Mercury, find somebody to love?’
I’d nodded again.
‘And did you solemnly swear in this very room on New Year’s Eve that this was going to be the year that you broke out of your comfort zone and achieved your goals?’
I blew my hair out of my eyes and briefly wondered if other people had a best friend so fierce that they regularly made them sweat under pressure. Trish had so blatantly missed her calling in life. She should have a job that would allow her to use her skills at the highest levels–for example, as a military interrogator. Or a high-class dominatrix.
‘Then get over yourself. So one was a dickhead–do you know how many dickheads I went out with before I met Grey? Loads.’
I knew she was trying to make me feel better–using methods taken straight from the Sado-Masochistic Guide to Friendship–but I wasn’t convinced. Yes, her Grey was a lovely guy, kind, sweet and funny (I was choosing to momentarily overlook the penchant for sex in public places), and I’d love to meet someone like him, but let’s face it, what were the chances of a Grey-esque sweetheart writing in to Great Morning TV! and landing at my feet? Slim. I’d only ever met one man that I’d loved the way she loved Grey, and…well…
‘I still miss him, Trish. And when crap stuff like this happens I miss him even more.’
She’d softened for a moment. More than anyone, Trish knew how devastated I’d been when I’d discovered that Ben was married. She’d spent weeks pushing the hair off my face while I exhausted the global stock of man-size Kleenex.
‘Look, that’s done. It’s gone. So pick yourself up and just bloody get on with it. And I say that from a place of love.’
I’d mulled over her gentle advice. She was right. Broken heart aside, I’d had two bad experiences on the dating front, but I’d been paid for them and they had both taught me valuable lessons (stay away from blokes with arrested development and a penchant for computer-generated warfare; and lead singers are all devious, egotistical knobs).
Millie’s voice brought me back to the present as it singsonged with a, ‘Good morning, Conn. Zara is upstairs and she asked if you could pop in and see her as soon as you arrive.’
‘Thanks, Millie. Morning, Leni–ready for another big night tonight?’
‘Absolutely,’ I replied. ‘Can’t wait.’
‘Great. I read your report on the last one–sounds like you had a rough time. Sorry about that.’
‘Oh, it was nothing–nothing that I couldn’t handle,’ I assured him, with an accompanying swatting gesture. Millie folded her arms under her bosom and fixed me with an amused, incredulous stare that lasted until Conn licked my face, thrust me against the wall, devoured me with wild abandon (twice), made my earth move (just once), then climbed the stairs, his beautifully carved, naked buttocks clenching with every step.
Okay, so maybe he just gave me a distracted, encouraging smile and went to his office.
‘Nothing? It was “nothing” then?’ she probed, hardly able to contain her enjoyment as I squirmed.
‘Oh, don’t you start–I’ve already got one ruthless, mocking pal, thank you.’
‘I think Leni is trying to impress a certain tall, dark, handsome gentleman.’
‘I am not!’ I replied indignantly. ‘It’s purely professional. I just want him to think I’m really good at my job, that’s all.’
I gathered up the morning mail and took