Читать книгу A Brand New Me: The hilarious romantic comedy about one year of first dates - Shari Low - Страница 16

‘Who wants to hear the best gossip since I revealed that two current affairs reporters had been caught in an Edgware crack den with three Thai lady-boys, doing unmentionable things with boom microphones?’ Trish twiddled her cocktail stick between her fingers, her eyebrows in the ‘you’ll never believe it’ position.

‘We’re all ears,’ said Stu, grinning.

‘I know, but surgery could correct that.’ She ducked to avoid the beer mat that was propelled in her direction. ‘Guess which clean-living sports icon I heard indulging in a little powder-snorting in the gents toilets at the studio this morning? I’ll give you a clue–if his missus finds out there’ll be a fair amount of police brutality involved.’

‘Nooooooooooo,’ we both blurted. It could only be Dirk Bentley, legendary heptathlete, now married to Karen Cutler, publicity-loving Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

It took a few minutes for the news to digest before the obvious question surfaced.

‘Trish, why were you in the gents toilets?’

‘Grey stopped by after work. Honest to God, his shift pattern is a nightmare–have you ever tried having a healthy sex life when you have opposing work schedules?’

Stu and I spontaneously joined in a collective, ‘Eeeeeeeeeeew!’

‘You had sex with your husband in the toilets at work?’ Stu groaned.

‘My office has a large window–I’d have shocked the staff,’ she deadpanned, then turned to me. ‘So anyway, what time are you meeting the next victim?’ she asked, while sucking a cherry off a cocktail stick.

‘STOP!’ Stu interrupted. ‘Trish, look at that manky bloke behind the bar.’ He pointed in the direction of the greasy-haired grunge fan who had served us.

‘Yeah, so?’ asked Trish, unimpressed.

‘He was the one who put the fruit on that cocktail stick, the one you’re sucking up like a Dyson. You might have survived doing naked things in a toilet this morning–and incidentally, that mental image will probably scar me for life–but if you swallow that germ-oozing cherry you’ll be down with a bacterial stomach bug before the night’s out.’

Trish rolled her eyes. ‘Stu, you’re a male hairdresser–aren’t you supposed to be frivolous, glib and full of scandalous gossip?’

‘You’re female–aren’t you supposed to be caring, emotional and compassionate?’

‘Good point, well made,’ Trish laughed, as she threw the rest of the cocktail garnish in the ashtray.

‘Right, children, that’s enough,’ I interjected, my anxiety and apprehension manifesting itself as sharp irritability. ‘I’m meeting him at eight o’clock. I told him to come in here, so keep your eyes on the door for a Matt Warden, five foot nine, age thirty, tall, brown shaggy hair and brown eyes. Looked a bit like Paolo Nutini in his photo. His hobbies are going to gigs, listening to music and playing in a band, and he has the unequivocal honour of being my Mr Scorpio.’ With that, I picked up my glass of white wine and downed it in one. My nerves and self-esteem might one day recover from this, but I wasn’t so sure about my liver. I thumped the glass back on the table then slipped my hands under my thighs so no one would notice them shaking. I couldn’t stand another lecture from Trish, and I didn’t want to freak Stu out any more than he already was.

Right on cue, Stu subconsciously started to massage the left-hand side of his beautifully rounded pectoral muscle. One of the up sides of being obsessed by your health is that you tended to surpass the government guidelines on nutrition and exercise.

‘I still can’t believe you’re doing this. I swear my stress-induced heart attack will be on your conscience.’

‘Can I have your record collection and your Prada Messenger bag when you pop your clogs then?’ Trish asked.

He ignored her. ‘Man alert, man alert–potential date entering building.’

I spun around to see the bloke whose photo I’d studied that afternoon making his way towards me. I was glad that once again I’d taken Millie’s advice and gone for slouchy jeans and trainers, because Matt was dressed in the same ultra-casual style.

I’d given him a description of myself on the phone, and since I was the only fairly tall redhead with a Rolling Stones T-shirt in the immediate vicinity, he spotted me right away. I hopped off my stool and smiled as he approached me (which sounds very casual and relaxed…if it weren’t for the fact that my legs buckled at the knees and only a swift grab by Stu saved me from rank indignity).

‘Leni? Thought so–I’m Matt.’ He smiled to reveal a perfect row of glistening teeth.

Stu coughed behind me, so I made quick introductions, then got Matt out of there before I could change my mind or Stu could do anything to jeopardise the date. He’d been threatening all night to slip Mr Scorpio a telephone number, say it was the National Leprosy Helpline and advise him to give the number a call if he developed any suspicious rashes within five to seven days of meeting me.

Outside, the wind took my breath away–a natty distraction from the now-familiar shaking hands, dry mouth and sick feeling in my stomach. I could do this. I could. How bad could it be? At least Matt was easy on the eyes and had so far shown no unnatural interest in computer-simulated weaponry.

I decided to plunge right in before my nerves took hold and I either froze up or started to babble.

‘So what would you like to do?’

‘Well, if it’s okay with you…’ Caring. Considerate. Consultative.

‘…my band got a last-minute gig and…’ Cancelled.

‘Sure, it’s no problem, we can meet another night, it’s fine, really, no problem, fine,’ I babbled.

He laughed and spontaneously leaned over and put a finger to my lips: presumptuous, but strangely I felt absolutely no compulsion to complain.

‘I thought–again, if it’s okay with you–that maybe you’d want to come along. It’s only an hour-long set, and then maybe we can go and grab something to eat later. I know a great little Italian place near the club we’re playing in–nothing fancy but it does a great lasagne.’

Okay, so now I’d been further demoted from ‘date for hire’ to ‘groupie’.

Fabulous!

I’d been waiting for this moment since 1995, when I’d discovered a teen mag feature entitled: 101 Ways to Meet Your Favourite Band. I’d tried all 101 of them and never got any further than a signed photo of the drummer from Blur and the threat of a restraining order from a band who had a number 16 hit and then split due to ‘creative differences’. Deep down I always wanted to be one of those cool girls who hung out with musicians. You know, standing at the side of the stage basking in their spotlight, the thrill of the live gig, going from town to town on the tour bus, in a hedonistic world of indulgence and decadence. So my inner rock chick was head-banging in joy at the prospect of being with the band, and it didn’t matter in the least that I’d never heard of them or that when we got to the tiny club there were only about fifty people in the audience. When we walked in and everyone turned to stare, a thrilling shot of adrenalin turned my cheeks purple (a look that was, thankfully, camouflaged by the dim lighting).

Nirvana blasted from the music system as Matt grabbed a couple of beers from the bar and then took me over and introduced me to the rest of the band, all crowded around a huge amp at one side of the stage and sporting the same image: funky T-shirts, slouchy jeans and bed-hair. The reason that there was a disproportionate number of females in the audience was blindingly clear.

Oh, the thrill of it. Miss Anxious Plodder, 2009, was now a hip, trendy groupie who was getting on down with a happening band. Groovy.

Yes, I realised that my internal dialogue had tripped back to the Sixties, but I didn’t care–I had a feeling that tonight was going to be unforgettable.

How right I was…