Читать книгу A Brand New Me: The hilarious romantic comedy about one year of first dates - Shari Low - Страница 14

‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about, at least he bought you a donut,’ Millie spluttered through tears of laughter. ‘I mean, that’s true devotion for you.’

‘Listen, don’t mock,’ I replied with faux seriousness. ‘At least now if I ever want to annihilate a small country I know the very person to call.’

We were off again, giggling away under the starry evening sky–at nine o’clock on a February morning.

My nose began to twitch and I suddenly realised that we weren’t alone. Conn. Or, rather, Conn’s gorgeous, sexy scent–I believe it’s called Hubba Hubba for Men.

‘So, how’d it go last night, Leni–did you have a good time?’ With those deep, undulating tones he could get a job in TV doing the announcements between Coronation Street and The Bill.

‘Lasagne, baked potato,’ Millie hissed, out of earshot of the new arrival.

I spun around just as Conn started walking up the stairs, his athletic gait effortlessly straddling two steps at a time. I automatically flushed as in my mind’s eye his clothes fell like a stripper’s to the floor, and his beautifully toned, naked arse continued to climb the stairs. If he turned around there was every chance my cervix would explode.

Why did he have that effect on me? I mean, it wasn’t as if I’d never seen a good-looking man before. Ben, my beautiful, perfectly formed cheating-bastard marine, had been the type of guy who made every female in the room stop and stare. Stu was handsome in an almost Californian/OC kind of way. Although, naturally he’d never live there because the sun could cause skin cancer and he’d once read that the whole cast of Baywatch came down with a horrible bug after swimming in the sea off the coast of Malibu.

Anyway, Conn…nope, no idea why he made my heart beat faster and my sweat pores open.

‘Erm, no, it was…’ I started to reply, but I was too late–he’d already disappeared out of sight. Memo to self: try to take less than a week to answer Conn’s questions.

I pondered for a moment. It was Wednesday. Last Wednesday I specifically remembered him requesting pitta bread, chicken legs and hummus. I laid out my prediction with a smug grin and was just congratulating myself on my astute observation when the phone rang.

‘Yes Conn? Sure. Okay, one lasagne, one baked potato. No problem.’ Millie replaced the phone with a giggle. ‘Millie–one, Harry’s girlfriend–zero.’

Aaaaargh! How did she do that?

I swatted her across the head with the morning mail and headed off up to the office, took the customary deep breath before opening the door, and…I swear you couldn’t make it up. The music hit me first: a wild, chaotic cacophony of drums. In the middle of the floor was Zara, topless except for a huge, chunky wood necklace, wearing a flowing terracotta-coloured skirt adorned with what looked like African symbols. Next to her was a huge, beautiful black man, dressed similarly to Zara, every muscle perfectly defined and his skin glistening with moisture. Providing the musical contribution were two blokes in the corner, battering away on huge steel drums. My eyes darted back to the stage show–Zara and the bloke were gyrating in some kind of hypnotic tribal dance, both of them in perfect sync, making it obvious that this was a well-practised routine. Some warning would have been nice. Most PAs run a danger of catching their boss sneaking an illicit bacon butty in the morning. Or perhaps calling their secret date from the night before. As far as I could remember I had never heard anyone comment that they’d walked into the office in the morning and come face to face with their boss swinging her hooters to the accompaniment of two steel drums.

Her gaze suddenly swung to me, her expression irritated. Fuck! She definitely could read my mind. Think nice things. Think nice things. Exit. Exit. Exit.

I motioned that I’d be next door in one of the consulting rooms and made a quick departure. Once there, I picked up my phone to dial into the voicemail, only to hear Conn’s voice.

‘No, that’s not a problem–she’ll deliver the full manuscript early June and a quick turnaround suits us perfectly. No, no, I understand–we don’t want to miss the Christmas market either so we’re happy to commit whatever time is needed.’

Zara’s book. I got a little rush of excitement. Despite the sheer craziness of it all, I had to admit there was something quite thrilling about being involved in this world of celebrity and media. For years I’d promised myself that one day I’d take the day off work and persuade Trish to let me visit the Great Morning TV! studios, but now it was part of the job to go there every Friday with Zara. On the first occasion, Trish had had to steer me to a dark corner so that I wouldn’t risk the embarrassment of being struck dumb when the bloke who used to be in Where the Heart Is spoke to me. On the second visit, I was so busy gaping at Tom Hanks plugging his new movie that I thudded into the catering table, causing a whole avalanche of food to go sliding to the floor in front of a room full of people. Bad point: there were many people to see my mortification. Good point: if Trish had followed through on her promise to kill me there’d be plenty of witnesses for the prosecution.

I listened to Conn for a few seconds before gently replacing the receiver, trying to ignore the fact that the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end and there were the definite beginnings of a very strange sensation in the pit of my stomach. I barely had time to gasp when…suddenly he was there, sitting on the edge of the desk in front of me and, oops, he’d forgotten to put his clothes on again. ‘Leni…’ he whispered, before leaning over, slipping his hand around the back of my neck and pulling me towards him. He kissed me, his tongue slowly, sensually finding mine, his teeth nibbling gently on my bottom lip, his body ready and waiting to…

Stop! In the name of office pervs, what was going on with me? It wasn’t even 10 a.m. and already I’d had two daydreams involving a very naked man. I definitely had to have sex soon, as neglected libido is now causing disturbing hallucinations of a genital nature.

Distraction. Needed a distraction. I pressed a button on the phone to get a different line, entered a code to switch my calls to this extension, then dialled into my mailbox.

‘You have seven new messages.’ Seven? I never got more than two and one was usually my mother phoning for a chat.

I pressed ‘#’.

‘Leni, can you call me back–I’m a bit worried because I haven’t heard from you since last night.’

Aaaw, it was so sweet that Stu was worried. I’d meant to call him but when I got home the night before my mobile was out of charge and I’d fallen asleep before I’d given it enough juice to make a call. I’d thought about getting a landline installed but there was a £145 connection fee and it always seemed unnecessary when I could talk all evening for free on my mobile. Talking of which…I felt around in my bag for my phone. Damn. Must have left it on the charger at home.

I pressed delete, then # again.

‘Leni, me again–call me back.’

He sounded a little more urgent this time.

Delete. #.

‘Leni, okay, I’m getting seriously freaked out. Call me.’

Delete. #.

‘Leni, if I don’t hear from you in the next fifteen minutes, I’m calling the police.’

Delete. #.

‘No, I’m not, I’m going round to your flat. If you’re lying behind the door it should be someone who loves you that discovers you.’

I rolled my eyes. And the Oscar for ‘Most Dramatic Friend in a Crisis’ goes to…

Delete. #.

‘Okay, I’m going to leave in ten minutes. Just as soon as I get these roots done.’

Delete. #.

‘Leni, I…’

I didn’t get to hear the rest of my message because the phone burst into life with the ring of an incoming call. I pressed ‘receive’.

‘Hello, Leni speaki—’

‘OH, THANK GOD! THANK GOD!!!!’

The words came tumbling out, the voice raspy, the breathing out of control.

‘Stu, calm down, I’m fine. I just got into work and was about to call you back.’

‘CALL ME BACK?!!!’

It wasn’t an exclamation or a question–more an outraged outburst.

‘I’VE BEEN CALLING YOU SINCE EIGHT O’CLOCK THIS MORNING!!!’

I checked my watch–10.30 a.m.

‘Stu, I just got in. They let me start a bit later this morning because of the date last night. Anyway, thanks for being concerned, but there’s no need, honestly, I’m absolutely fine. Didn’t you get my email?’

‘EMAIL!!!! I’ve been too bloody busy preparing myself to identify your body to check my bloody emails!’

Silence. I had no idea what to say to him other than, ‘Well, happy days, I’m not on a slab in a fridge.’ How could I have been so thoughtless? I knew how he worried yet I’d sent him into a full-scale panic. Cue familiar large cloud of guilt.

‘Look, why don’t I come over to the salon at lunchtime and I’ll bring your favourite paninis and those Belgian chocolates you love from the deli. My treat.’

I’d already had my first salary cheque so I was feeling flush.

There was a long pause, then…‘I, er, won’t be there.’

‘Why, where are you?’

I was baffled. I was sure he’d said he was at the salon in one of his calls–the one before he said…Oh no.

‘I’m at your flat…’ he answered awkwardly. One of my heartstrings pinged. How sweet was he? I was so lucky to have such a caring, sweet friend–even if he did veer towards the hysterical in times of stress. But my flat was only fifteen minutes from the salon, so surely he’d make it back in plenty of time for lunch? Unless…

‘…and I’ll need to wait here for the joiner. You never liked that front door anyway, did you?’

Once again, my mind drifted back to New Year’s Eve when I had bemoaned the lack of excitement and adventure in my life. A few weeks later? My boss flashing her baps at me first thing in the morning wasn’t the craziest thing to happen in my day. I was beginning to think excitement and adventure were overrated.

A strangled yelp came from the other end of the phone, followed by a clearly discernible, ‘What is going on here, young man?’

It was the unmistakable sound of Mrs Naismith on the warpath. The mental image of five foot two inches of septuagenarian, topped with hair the same colour as her varicose veins, giving Stu a stern dressing down, almost made the destruction of the door worthwhile. I could hear him blustering out excuses but she was having none of it. Since the day I had arrived from Norfolk she’d appointed herself as a cross between my guardian and a neighbourhood watch service. She kept an eye on my flat (most of the time!), stopped in for regular chats and frequently cooked for two, leaving half outside my door for when I came home. She was an absolute gem–one that was about to serve time for threatening behaviour, going by the bollocking she was giving Stu.

I hung up, leaving Stu to face the wrath, just as Conn came in clutching a large sheaf of papers packed into a clear file. I tried unsuccessfully not to blush.

‘There you are!’

‘Yes, Zara is, er, busy next door, so I thought I’d work in here for a while.’

At least I think that’s what I said. It was difficult to hear over the noise of the butterflies in my stomach and the whooshing in my head.

He put the file in front of me.

‘This is the debriefing document for the date last night. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we need to know every detail so that we can do effective analysis and comparisons.’

How about comparing my…

‘Are you okay, Leni? You seem a bit…pale.’

Right on cue, my face flushed bright red. ‘No, I’m, er…er…’

Inarticulate?

It was difficult to tell who was the most uncomfortable, but I was putting my money on me.

‘Right then,’ he answered with an understanding nod, although I’ve absolutely no idea what he understood–other than the apparent fact that his mother had hired the most moronic PA since time began. He came around to my side of the desk and half-sat, half-leaned, in exactly the same position as I’d imagined him before. If my body was a thermometer, the mercury would have shot out of the top like a burst pipe.

‘Can you do something for me?’ he asked.

Note to tongue: please re-enter gob.

‘Can you send flowers, mmm, I think orchids would be best, to Annabella Churchill, with a note saying, “Thank you for a wonderful time last night. Eternally yours, Conn.”’

My pencil scribbled away on my pad, the shaking making it look like it was written by me in my geriatric years.

‘And can you also arrange some for Courtney Caven and Penelope Smith; here are their address details.’

His Eau de Hubba Hubba had now permeated my entire space and was making me giddy.

‘Of course. What note would you like with those ones?’ He was such a gentleman–so sweet, so chivalrous.

‘The same.’

Such a player.

So while I was putting myself in potentially life-threatening peril (it was the hormones, they were making me a bit hysterical), he was having it off with three–count them–three other women.

Focus, Leni, focus. This was work, not the problem page of Cosmo, and the last ten minutes had thrown up tasks that needed to be addressed. I called the florist, organised the blooms, then clicked on to amazon.co.uk and ordered How to Make Him Notice You–a single girl’s guide to standing out from the crowd.

The file Conn had left on my desk was next. After three hours, six coffees and the loss of my will to live, I finally completed twenty-two A4 pages recounting practically every minute and detail of my night with Harry. I would have gone home for a lie down, only I didn’t want to get in the way of the joiner.

Instead I called Trish.

‘Fancy lunch today?’

‘Can’t–I’m working an extra shift covering Wacky Women.’

It was one of my favourite shows–a panel format of five celebrity females discussing the day’s top stories and celebrity gossip, headed by Kim Black, a fifty-something actress/comedian who got more outspoken and outrageous with every passing year.

‘And besides, I wouldn’t miss this, even for you–Kim has had a boob job and the producer is going mental because she needs a whole new wardrobe. They’ve come to blows once already, and now she’s screaming in her dressing room that if her lawyer isn’t here within the next thirty minutes she’s not going on. Oh, and she’s asked me to get her a cattle prod from the props room, so I’m thinking this isn’t going to end well. God, I love TV. Phone Stu, I’m sure he’ll be hard up for someone to have lunch with too.’

Trish was like a scud missile to the ego every time. The door opened behind me so I hung up quickly.

‘Finished?’ Conn asked with a smile. Thud. Thud. Thud. Sorry, heart overruling head and all significant motor skills.

‘Uhuhhh.’ Including vocal cords.

‘Great–I’ll just take the file away then.’

‘Uhuhhh.’

‘Thanks, Leni. We’ll start looking for number two.’

I was going to repeat my reply, but I’m guessing that it was fairly predictable.

‘And Leni, you do remember that this is all strictly confidential and that you signed an agreement that it cannot be discussed outside the organisation?’

I did. And I’d never, ever, breach company security by divulging classified information to unauthorised sources.

Never.

Ever.

At least, not during working hours.