Читать книгу A Brand New Me: The hilarious romantic comedy about one year of first dates - Shari Low - Страница 17

‘I’d like to dedicate this last song to someone special. This is for Leni…’

The crowd went wild, although it might have had more to do with Matt peeling off his T-shirt than dedicating a tune to some female they’d never met.

Taking a purely objective viewpoint, I could categorically confirm that The Black Spikes were absolutely brilliant. Turns out I hadn’t been far off when I’d said Matt resembled Paolo Nutini. They had the same hypnotic, gravelly vocals, although Matt’s music was more in the vein of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. As he flipped between rock numbers and a few soulful, heart-melting ballads, I wondered if it was still etiquette in situations such as these to throw one’s knickers at the stage (I suspected that wanton act was the reason that, despite having lust-worthy looks and a great voice, Stu had never pursued a music career–he’d be up there in a surgical facemask hosing down the stage with disinfectant).

To thunderous applause, Matt gave a final wave and jumped off the stage, clearly buzzed up and looking more alive than anyone I’d ever seen. I suddenly realised that this was why I had embarked on this whole life-change plan. Worry and hesitation be damned! This was what I’d been talking about when I had made that New Year’s resolution to change my life. Right here, right now, this was what I’d been missing for so long–the excitement, the high, the grinning until my jaw hurt. I’d done it!

‘What did you think?’

I decided to play it cool. ‘OH MY GOD YOU WERE AMAZING AND I’VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THAT AND YOU SHOULD HAVE A RECORDING CONTRACT AND YOU JUST WERE SO SO SO BLOODY BRILLIANT.’

I was playing it cool in a hysterical, babbling sort of fashion.

He grabbed my hand. ‘C’mon, let’s get out of here. Let me just get a quick shower in the staff room and I’ll be right with you.’

He tugged my arm and steered me in the direction of the side of the stage, then through a black door that led out of the madness.

‘Grab a seat, I’ll be two minutes.’

Now, that statement might sound utterly innocuous, but–I realised as he flipped open the top button on his jeans and then started on the zip–it depended on what he was planning to do for those 120 seconds and whether or not I’d be forced to witness it or participate. The euphoria was now punctured by just a few shards of apprehension and doubt. Do not panic. Do not panic. Was there a fire-alarm glass I could smash while my inner groupie came to terms with the fact that she was all talk and no action?

We were in a square room, about ten foot by ten foot with coat pegs lined along every wall and a menagerie of hold-alls and backpacks on the floor. In the corner there was a shower, with only a tattered pink curtain protecting the modesty of the user. The flush of mortification started at my toes and worked its way up until puffs of steam were being ejected from the neck of my T-shirt.

And still he was unzipping, unzipping…Where the bloody hell was the fire alarm?

Suddenly he stopped, laughing as his glance went downwards and he realised he’d almost flashed me. ‘Oh shit, sorry! I just…I mean…shit, you must think I’m a complete maniac.’

A firmly toned, unbelievably cute maniac with the voice of an angel who’d just scared the crap out of me.

I shrugged, hoping I came across as blasé, cool and collected. Granted, the steam framing my purple face may have given the opposite impression.

‘Okay, close your eyes and I’ll tell you when to open them again. Unless you want to wait outside, but the pub’s mobbed and there are no seats in the corridor out there.’

‘No, no, it’s…erm, fine. I’m cool.’

Uurgh–did I really just say ‘I’m cool’? Who did I think I was–Shaft?

I closed my eyes and listened to the unmistakable sounds of clothes coming off and a shower going on. All the while he was chatting away, giving me the history of the band, how they were hoping that they’d get spotted by some A&R people this year, how they wrote their own music and…

I tuned him out. Differences between males and females, number 2,343: he’s in the shower, thinking of nothing deeper than whether to use coconut shampoo or just give his hair a quick going-over with the shower gel, meanwhile I’m sitting five yards away thinking that this is the loveliest guy I’ve met in a while and yes, I definitely fancy him and would he ask me out again and what would I say and then what would I do about the other ten dates because surely he wouldn’t want me to go on them and maybe I could broach it with Zara because surely she’d understand. Of course, I’d repay her with free tickets to his gigs when the band had made it big and I’d become a bona fide rock chick with a lifestyle to match. There’d be the customary large mansion in Sussex that was forever getting picketed by adoring fans, while a team of people organised us and arranged the annual summer move to the beach chateau in St Tropez. I’d get to wear leather trousers, even when they were out of fashion. I’d never worry about what people thought of me, because rockers just don’t care. Money would roll in and life would never, ever be dull, because there would always be other rockers hanging around doing wild things like having orgies on revolving beds and vomiting in the swimming pool. We’d give interviews to OK! magazine where he’d say that he knew our relationship was real because we’d met when he had nothing, and I’d be able to let go of all the hesitation and shyness because I’d be cocooned in a comfort blanket of love, devotion and excitement. And we’d always be with friends because I’d employ Stu as our medical advisor and stylist and Trish as our cook. Although I would have to check the food for arsenic as I reckon she’d be so bitter about my money, fame and private jet that she might be unable to resist the urge to poison my curly fries.

‘Okay, you can open your eyes now.’

I hesitated, suddenly fearful that this was going to be one of those horrific moments caused by a cataclysmic difference in expectations. Was I going to flip up my lids and be confronted with him standing bollock-naked, muscles flexed, with his microphone in a state of expectant erection?

‘Leni, really, it’s fine to open your eyes.’

I took a deep breath and sneaked one eye open just a millimetre. Phew. Fully clothed.

‘So let’s go. Hungry?’

Strangely, my appetite seemed to have vanished.

‘Starving!’ I’d read somewhere that men enjoy the company of women with an enthusiastic attitude to food.

My hunger–previously suffocated by excitement and physical attraction–was resuscitated by the lasagne, which was, as promised, magnificent. We shared a huge bowl of tiramisu and were on to our fourth or fifth glass of wine when I realised something: this was the best night I’d had in years. Forget that I was doing this as part of my job, forget that I’d only met him four hours before; I now understood what people meant when they claimed to have an ‘instant connection’ with someone. Matt and I just clicked, and every well-worn cliché seemed to apply–I felt like I’d known him for years, we were two peas in a pod, we were on the same wavelength, I was flying without wings…

Oh God, I was starting to think in Westlife lyrics–time to stop drinking.

‘I just have to nip to the loo.’

It was only when I got up that I realised we were holding hands. When had that happened?

Water. Cold. On face. Now.

I stared in the bathroom mirror for a few moments. Calm down, Leni, calm down. He’s gorgeous, he’s cute, he’s the most amazing guy you’ve met in years…what was I missing out? Oh, yes, he’s in a band!!!!! My experience and judgement when it came to members of the opposite sex had been fairly inaccurate in the past, but this was different. Forget the OK! magazine deal and the vomit-filled pool in Surrey–even if he never made it bigger than dingy clubs in Camden, I really, really wanted to see him again, and I absolutely, definitely, positively knew that he felt the same.

I brushed my hair, dabbed on a quick coat of Juicy Tubes pink shimmer, grinned inanely at my reflection for a few seconds and then left the loos. To think I’d been so nervous about tonight, and just look how brilliantly it had turned out.

As I pushed through the door to the now almost deserted restaurant, he had his back to me so I didn’t feel too self-conscious about the running commentary in my head:…look at the way the light catches his hair…that colour of blue looks great on him…he’s ordered another bottle of wine so he must be having a good time too.

I was almost right behind him when I realised three things:

a) He was on the phone.

b) He hadn’t heard me approaching.

c) He wasn’t speaking to the features team at OK!.

Even from a couple of feet behind him, I could clearly hear every word.

‘Baby, I’m sorry and I won’t be much longer, I promise. No, she’s not totally stunning, she’s just normal-looking. Ordinary. Nothing like you, babe. Look, I told you, this is for the band. It’s all about contacts, baby, and this one could get us a gig on that morning telly show. Exposure, that’s what we need, then the record companies will be lining up. Honey, you know I wouldn’t, I promise. Why would I want to shag anyone but you, huh? This is just networking, babe, taking advantage of the opportunities.’

I was glad I already had my bag over my shoulder because a whole ‘fumbling for my belongings’ episode would have completely spoiled the effect. Plus, then he might just have seen how upset I was, and that would have been the biggest tragedy of all.

Instead, I just kept on walking in the direction of the door, and I promise it was just an inexplicable reflex action that caused my left arm to flick out and knock a whole bottle of Shiraz into his lap.

He sprang up, dropped the phone and yelped out a high-pitched ‘What the fuck!!!?’

I automatically did what I always did in situations that called for a cunning reply with an acerbic tongue. A mantra of ‘What would Trish say, what would Trish say?’ tore through my mind all the way to the door. As a blast of freezing cold air hit my face, I suddenly knew.

I turned to face him, his chiselled features now contorted with blind fury.

‘You know, Matt, your band was okay…but to be honest, it was really nothing that special.’

And then I cried all the way home, totally irritated that I’d been such a twat. If this was change, adventure and excitement, I’d happily go back to my rut.

PROGRESS SUMMARY: IT’S IN THE STARS DATING PROJECT

CONCLUDED
LEO	Harry Henshall	Morbid fascination for simulated violence
SCORPIO	Matt Warden	Lead singer, lying arse