Читать книгу A Brand New Me: The hilarious romantic comedy about one year of first dates - Shari Low - Страница 10

‘Morning, Leni. Zara needs her schedule for today, her new crystals collected from Swarovski on Bond Street, and can you arrange for a cleaning team to blitz the house–she had a few people over last night and it got a bit crazy. Oh, and we’ve come up with a match on the manhunt thing–I’ve left the details on your desk.’

‘Sure, Conn, no problem.’

He grinned as he squeezed past me on the stairs. I waited until he was out of sight.

‘Chicken tikka baguette,’ I shouted to Millie, the pale-faced receptionist who, underneath the anaemic complexion, coal-coloured hair and dour exterior, was actually very sweet and funny–although I did worry that if she didn’t see daylight soon she was facing a future blighted by osteoporosis.

‘Nope–cheese salad on brown, no mayo,’ she countered in a thick Glasgow burr.

Conn’s head suddenly reappeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Sorry, Millie, forgot to say…could you order lunch for me? Cheese salad sandwich will do.’

Millie did a triumphant double wobble of her eyebrows in my direction.

‘Sure, white or brown?’

‘Brown,’ he replied. ‘And no mayo.’

‘Cream buns are on me at lunchtime then,’ I replied ruefully. How did Millie do that? I’d been working for Delta Inc. for a fortnight and so far Millie had whipped me every day in the sandwich challenge. I wasn’t taking it lightly. Maybe I should start taking notes and work out if everyone had a regular favourite depending on the day, week and position of the moon. And I wasn’t being facetious with that last one, because in this office that was probably the most likely scenario.

Our admittedly immature game had started on my first day, when I was introduced to Zara’s son and manager Conn in the reception area. There are only two highly descriptive, all-encompassing, suitably formal adjectives to use when attempting to sum him up: hubba hubba.

I’m five foot eight, and even in my highest ankle-straining heels (eBay, ridiculously impractical panic buy for city plumbing Christmas party, can only be worn in presence of crash mat and paramedics) he towers above me. His shoulders are the approximate width of the average pavement, he has sallow young Marlon Brando-type features and his topaz eyes glint brighter than those horrible bloody stars in reception. But the most remarkable thing about him is his hair–dark, long and windswept, it’s not so much Led Zeppelin, more the shoulder-length cut adopted by Jon Bon Jovi after he got a bit older and decided that heavy-metal hair was costing a fortune in conditioner.

According to Zara, Conn was born when she was sixteen, so he’s twenty-nine now–yet, despite being only a little older than me he has a composed confidence that makes him seem much more mature than his years–a disposition that renders him perfect for his role as Zara’s manager. And yes, I could tell all that from the five conversations we’ve had since I started here two weeks ago. Oh, okay, I confess–a couple of times I accidentally listened in when he was chatting to people on the phone, courtesy of the hopelessly inefficient phone system that allows you to cut in on anyone’s call. I’d complain it was intrusive and invasive to privacy, but then, if Zara is as good as she claims, doesn’t she always know what everyone is thinking anyway?

A shiver ran up my spine to accompany that now-familiar mental mantra–think nice things, think nice things…Most employees give an occasional thought as to whether or not their boss will check their desk drawers. Some people even worry about management installing spyware on their computer to check their emails. Me? I’m too busy fretting that Zara can see right into my mind and that I’ll get fired because some irrepressible brain cells will blurt out, ‘Hey, you in the dodgy kaftan, you’re a few decades too late for Woodstock.’

I made my way up to Zara’s office and opened the door with not a little trepidation. The thing is, you just never knew what you would find. One day last week she had been dangling a large kite out of the window, convinced that the patterns it made in the air would tell her whether or not she should book a spiritual retreat to Mongolia next Christmas. Yesterday I’d walked in on her in deep conversation with a goat. Yep, a goat. I’m still contemplating whether the NSPCA would find anything untoward about a grown woman demanding to meet and vet (no pun intended) the animal that will be supplying her morning beverage. Archie Botham and his ballcocks seem positively mainstream compared to this.

Thankfully, this morning there was no livestock in sight–just Zara, in a fluorescent pink boob tube that flared at the waist into a full-length gown, complete with matching headband. As always, she came to greet me, placed her palms against mine and closed her eyes tightly.

‘Let the cosmos deliver a fruitful day of peace, progress and harmony.’

I said it with her, trying my best not to feel like a twat and just to be grateful that the day had started well. I’d already come to realise that she’d ignore me when she was upset or furious about some cosmic problem, but when she was on the sunny side of the street she liked to perform our little morning affirmation. It was just one of the quirky little rituals I’d come to consider run of the mill. There’d be hell to pay if she realised that I hadn’t checked my aura for celestial darkness since a week last Tuesday. And I didn’t suppose she’d appreciate the book that was tucked safely out of sight in my rucksack: Surviving a Crazy Boss–a Guide to Creating a Positive Working Environment. It was doing the trick. I was more positive than ever that Zara was bonkers. Sudden scary thought: would she sense the book was there? Did she know I was thinking about it?

I switched to efficient PA mode, while thinking nice things. Nice things. Nice thing number one: I actually enjoyed working there. The hours were fine, the job was interesting, and despite the fact that Zara could switch from the epitome of serenity to ranting egomaniac in less time than it took me to read my horoscope, I’d so far managed to avoid her wrath. Nice thing number two: the salary was great and lots of interesting things happened every day. Nice thing number three: the…Conn. Whoa, that just slipped out there. But okay, I will admit that working in close proximity to GQ man did occasionally stir the…

Alarm bells shrieked inside my head and the voice of doom yelled, ‘DO NOT THINK SEXUAL THOUGHTS ABOUT A MAN WHEN HIS PSYCHIC MOTHER IS STANDING IN FRONT OF YOU!’ Beads of sweat formed on my upper lip as I rapidly shut down the mental porn channel and reverted to capable secretary mode.

‘Your schedule for today is already on both your computer and your BlackBerry and I updated it last night before I left. You’re in the office all day today and you have three private readings–one is with a Mrs Callow from Bridgend, standard six hundred-pound fee for the hour. The second is with the competition winner from last week’s Great Morning TV! competition–it’s a freebie so I told them you’d only see them for half an hour, as you said. And the third is with Sher DeMilo–she’s just been dropped from EastEnders and she was hysterical when she called. What should I charge her?’

Zara closed her eyes and was silent for a moment, then ‘A thousand pounds–she’ll make more than that opening a new supermarket.’

Did I mention that I’d discovered yet another surprising and fairly scary truth about Zara? Her image might be one of superior spirituality, she might be an earth goddess, she might even live within the principles of karmic equality, but when it came to her bank balance she was as astute as a supremely gifted accountant.

‘Conn asked me to pick up your crystals and organise the house cleaning, so I’ll do that while you’re with your first client. Is there anything else you need me to do?’

‘Yes, could you find out the dress code for the TV Times awards and ask Mrs Chopra to come in to discuss my outfit please.’

I made a note on my pad. Far from sourcing all her clothes in vintage markets and on her Third World travels (as many of her press articles claimed), Zara actually had most of them made by Mrs Chopra, a lovely little Indian lady who ran a sewing business from her two-bedroom terraced house in Hounslow.

I made my way over to my desk and chair–sorry, my cushion and tree stump–in the corner. As my coccyx thumped onto the floor, I reminded myself for the tenth time to pick up a pair of those cycle pants with the padded buttocks. Not a wardrobe item that I’d ever considered I’d need in my professional career.

My eyes immediately went to the red file in the middle of my desk. Or should I say bark? Anyway, no time for semantics because my brain was suddenly beating to the sound of da dum. Da dum. Da dum. Da dum. Then the hand tremors started and a solid mass formed in my throat making swallowing impossible. The da dums were speeding up now. I decided to add a defibrillator to the next office supplies order.

Da dum. Da dum. For two weeks I’d forced myself into denial, hoping that Zara would change her mind, think of a new plan, or get run over by a bus before I had to go through with this ludicrous project, but now the reality was in front of me in black and white–the first of the candidates selected from the bag of replies Zara had received after she’d announced to Goldie that she was looking for blokes who wanted to find their Miss Right.

At the moment I was definitely channelling Miss Absolutely Bloody Wrong.

A new wave of panic began to rise from my toes and stopped somewhere around my aching posterior. Why had I ever thought I could do this? Why? This wasn’t my role in the universe. In our daily existence, Trish took care of ‘fearless, outrageous and blunt to the point of abuse’, Stu took care of ‘gorgeous, thoughtful, funny and hip’, and I took care of ‘safe, dependable and predisposed towards the uneventful’.

I pulled out an A4 sheet of paper with a photograph attached to the top. ‘Harry Henshall’, the title announced. My stomach gave a lurch as I looked at the photograph and realised immediately that he was not exactly my type. Not that I had a ‘type’, as such (other than unreliable and prone to compulsive lying), but Harry looked like a boy-band member…ten years after they’d had a number thirty-two in the charts and split up to pursue solo careers.

I scanned the biography as quickly as possible, panic now at waist height. Harry, it transpired, was twenty-eight and worked in manufacturing for a fabricated panels company, and enjoyed reading, sport and socialising in his spare time. Panic was now competing with thudding heart. It was one thing mortally dreading this whole project, but I was even higher on the terror scale now that it was a reality.

Harry. Leni and Harry. Harry and Leni. Nope, wasn’t feeling it. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t. Very attractive sweat bubbles popped up on the palms of my hands to keep the nausea in my gut company. I wondered if I could get my old job back?

‘Ah, you found it then,’ Zara observed as she hovered over me. ‘We thought he looked like a nice chap. He’s a Leo.’

I wanted to add, ‘Who could also be running late for a meeting with his probation officer.’ I kept it to myself.

‘Now, as I’ve explained before, I’ve devised a new way of reading the stars that will revolutionise the current stereotypes that modern astrology holds for each sign–so I’m not going to give you any advice or background on his astrological character traits before the date. I want you to go in there with no expectations or knowledge whatsoever.’

I presumed that she meant no expectations other than the two I already had. Number one: if Harry had time to send his dating profile in to a telly show then he probably wasn’t beating potential girlfriends off with his love-stick; and number two: fear would kill me before I got there anyway.

‘Now, you have to leave absolutely everything on the date up to him–where you meet, where you go, what you do.’

There went my plan to have a quick drink and then leave–out of the pub’s bathroom window.

She thrust a sheet of A4 paper in front of me.

‘And we do have a few guidelines we’d like you to follow. Obviously you are representing the Delta brand, so we expect you to behave in a manner that won’t reflect badly on us.’

I had to really focus to stop my eyes rolling. This was the woman who had decided to illustrate her femininity by painting the huge canvas that hung in the hallway with her nipples. She had made a client cry last week when she’d told her that her missing Chihuahua had gone to the big kennel in the sky. And she charged celebrities up to three times the going rate. Yet she was concerned that my behaviour would reflect badly on her? Shit, she was looking at me with a really weird expression. Quick, nice things! Think nice things. Bloody, bloody bugger! It was bad enough having to go through with this mad, crazy notion without the constant bloody worry that Zara was reading my mind!

I couldn’t do this. Right now, I just wanted to put my head between my legs and wait for the terror to subside. I had a sudden urge to pen my own autobiographical, inspirational guide that others could learn from: Feel the Fear…then Shake Until Your Nose Bleeds.

‘Now, are you sure that you’re up to the challenge, Leni? Conn and I had a chat and we absolutely realise that this is a rather unusual requirement, so we thought that a bonus of two hundred pounds per night was appropriate, plus of course we’ll pay for all your expenses including transport there and back.’

Urgh, it really annoyed me that she thought I could be bought. I had morals! I had values! And I had a student loan/overdraft combo that was currently sitting at a couple of thousand pounds and could be wiped out by these lovely two-hundred-pound bonuses.

It was decision time. Two choices. Quit or go through with it. Quit. Go through with it. Quit. Quit. My opinions and concerns rose to a crescendo, and were then silenced by a thundering mental roar of Trish’s voice demanding that I pull myself together. I had to do this. I couldn’t quit after just a few weeks–where would that leave me? In the dole queue, skint, and thoroughly depressed that I’d let the prospect of twelve perfectly harmless evenings (with potentially axe-wielding maniacs) deprive me of the most interesting and lucrative job I’d ever had. Deep breath. Deep breath. And for the 243rd time in recent weeks, a silent vow of, ‘I can do this.’

‘Nope, it’s fine–I’m definitely up for the challenge,’ I assured her with an accompanying rallying sweep of my arm for added effect. I could do this (number 244).

‘We’ll also be providing the gent with a hundred pounds to spend–although he can of course exceed this amount at his own expense. You can withdraw the money from our petty cash account and courier it over to him on the afternoon of the date, together with a confidentiality agreement similar to the one you signed when you started here–saves dealing with the admin side of things when you’re out together.’

Great–now they were actually paying blokes to go out with me and then making him promise to keep it a secret. As if I wasn’t already at an all-time low, a thousand pounds of Semtex just attached itself to my 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.