Читать книгу A Brand New Me: The hilarious romantic comedy about one year of first dates - Shari Low - Страница 20

‘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 a few steps towards the stairs, when I realised…

‘Conn didn’t say what he wanted for lunch today.’

‘Oh, I think he’ll be going out.’

Ah, I had her! I already knew that Zara had taken temporary residence in an upmarket day spa, and that Conn was planning to work in the office all day before meeting Zara at 7 p.m. and going off to a fundraising ball they were attending that evening. Zara had donated a raffle prize of an hour’s free consultation, and in return they’d been invited to the star-studded meal prepared by Jamie Oliver and a team of dinner ladies from Southend.

‘Nope, sorry but you’re wrong,’ I argued, thrilled to bits that for the first time I had the upper hand, ‘and I do believe that you’ll receive a call any minute requesting…’

Right, it was Thursday. What did he have last Thursday? Think. Think. Think.

‘Vegetable soup with a crusty wholemeal baguette,’ I announced with a flourish and just a smidgen of smugness. Cue one departing smidgen as I got halfway up the stairs and met Conn coming back down them.

‘Change of plan, Leni, I’ve got to meet with the event managers for tonight because they want Zara to do a live reading and I need to organise the set. I’ll be out for the rest of the day, but you can get me on my mobile.’

It was official: what I knew about men could be written in capitals on a Post-it note. N.O.T.H.I.N.G.

‘Oh, and can you send champagne to these four ladies,’ he thrust a sheet of notepaper with contact details scribbled in red pen towards me, ‘and organise for the house, pool and gazebo to be cleaned today. Thanks, Leni.’

Off he went, all suave and official, while giving me backwards glances that oozed wanton lust. Okay, so I was imagining that too.

I trudged up the rest of the stairs in the manner of a death-row inmate en route to the chair with the big plug. And ten hours later, as I waited for Daniel Jones, 25, an accountant from Teddington, I was wishing someone would flick the switch.

If this was such a ‘nothing’, as I’d blurted to Conn, then why was my heart thumping like a boy racer’s Corsa? And the less said about the sweat patches I suspected were forming around my hotspots, the better. This was hell. Hell. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be at home, lying on the couch, munching HobNobs and watching old episodes of Sex and the City with the volume up really loud, so it drowned out the Barry Manilow DVD that Mrs Naismith next door played on a nightly basis.

Still, at least tonight’s rendezvous was local, so that would make it easier for the murder squad to track down my address book to obtain details of my next of kin. When I’d called Daniel to make arrangements and reaffirm that the content of the date was entirely up to him, I’d mentioned that I lived on the Slough/Windsor border, and straight away he’d suggested we meet at the bus station in Slough. My first reaction was that it was sweet that he didn’t want to make me travel; my second was that I was fairly certain that I wasn’t heading for an evening of five-star luxury and opulence.

‘Leni?’

The voice sounded warm (somewhere between your favourite male friend and a Blue Peter presenter) with definite overtones of apprehension. At least we already had something in common.

‘So, er, what would you like to do then?’ he stuttered anxiously after we’d done the awkward introductions.

That threw me. ‘It’s, er, up to you,’ I reminded him, trying desperately to suppress my tendency towards nervous irritation. I had enough to worry about, what with making conversation, keeping mental notes and trying not to crumble into a full-scale panic attack, without making decisions about the logistics of the night.

After a tortured gap of hesitation, he took the hint. ‘Well, er, let’s go for a drink first then.’

Oooh, what did he mean by ‘first’? Maybe I had made a rash and incorrect assumption. Had he made reservations at a nice restaurant? Did he have plans for a swanky night of gastronomic indulgence?

‘And then you can decide what kind of food you feel like: Indian, Chinese, pizza…’

Cancel all thoughts of swanky plans.

After a few on-the-spot shuffles we set off, strolling through the windswept metropolis that was the Slough pedestrian precinct. In the manner of an undercover operative (Mission Un-bloody-believable), I flicked some covert glances in his direction and committed the details to memory: auburn spiky hair (Jake Gyllenhaal meets hair gel), khaki combat trousers (well pressed, new) and pale brown cashmere v-neck jumper–fairly attractive, in an understated kind of way. And you could tell he’d made an effort. It was an image that said ‘thought has gone into this’, as opposed to ‘dragged out from under a pile of pizza boxes and a week’s worth of washing’.

‘This is, er, a bit weird,’ he’d perceptively observed, acknowledging that neither of us was entirely sure how to start a conversation based on a blind date set up by a mad woman on the telly.

I nodded, hoping that he’d point us in the direction of a suitable destination before my feet began to ache. Damn those heels. I’d ignored Millie’s advice (comfortable boots, skinny jeans) and gone for smart black trousers and my favourite vertigo-inducing eBay specials. Big mistake.

But back to the jolly, comforting tones of our strained silence.

‘Are you cold?’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

More silence.

‘What about there?’ he blurted, pointing to an outwardly respectable-looking wine bar with several loved-up couples in plain view behind the shop-style window.

I shook my head. It might look okay, but thanks to a tip-off from Trish (obtained via a temp-agency waiter who supplemented his student grant by working in the TV studio canteen and acting as a naked butler for wife-swapping parties in the suburbs) I knew it was a major pick-up joint for swingers, doggers and deviants. Call me old-fashioned, but I felt that the prospect of being propositioned for a foursome by an ageing history teacher and his middle-aged nymphomaniac wife didn’t seem like it would be the best way to spend the next few hours.

I shook my head. ‘What about in there?’ I pointed to a quiet little pub on the other side of the road. ‘I’ve been there a few times and it’s okay, I suppose.’ It was either that or bunions that may well have crippled me for life.

We were barely in the door when he started ranting effusively. ‘Great choice, it’s lovely, brilliant, top option.’

It was a tiny pub with beer coasters on the tables and a telly showing the snooker in the corner–I doubted it had ever been anyone’s ‘top option’. Nevertheless, I appreciated his encouragement and enthusiasm and it took the prospect of the rest of the evening down from ‘crippling dread’ to ‘might be just about bearable’.

‘I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t plan anything–I wanted to wait and see what you liked first.’ Sweet. Accommodating. A faint whiff of a cop-out.

‘What can I get you to drink?’ he continued.

‘A white wine, please–dry if they have it.’

‘Wow, that’s what I drink. How bizarre.’

Indeed.

‘And I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you think I could have a packet of peanuts–I haven’t had time to grab anything since lunch.’

‘Not at all–I fancy some myself.’

Once again, I give you Mr Sweet and Accommodating.

I watched him as he curved his way round a table of sixty-something bingo players and three old men poring over the horse-racing page in a newspaper, and I couldn’t help wondering why he was here. He seemed fairly hygienic, he was personable and acted friendly enough, albeit in a shy, self-conscious kind of way. Did a guy like him really struggle to meet someone in the real world? Or did he have some deep-rooted personality flaw that I’d yet to discover? Dear God, please don’t let it involve body parts stored in his deep freeze.

He returned with the drinks and we settled into the now-familiar small talk about Zara’s book, the dating project and Great Morning TV!, before he swayed the conversation into more personal stuff with a, ‘So, Leni, tell me more about you.’

Ten points deducted off the dating scale for clichéd questioning.

‘What would you like to know?’ I asked breezily, while mentally preparing a completely fictitious profile just in case he was contemplating stealing my identity and selling it to Eastern European gang lords so they could obtain false passports for use in sex-trade trafficking. Note to self: must get irrational thoughts under control.

‘What kind of music do you like?’

I made the snap decision that this would be of no relevance whatsoever to Customs and Immigration or whoever dealt with passport applications.

‘I think Amy Winehouse is great.’

‘Me too! Back to Black was a classic.’

More things in common!

‘And I like loads of bands: Nickelback, the Killers, Razorlight, Snow Patrol…’

I started to worry that his constant nodding would result in a severe case of whiplash. Call me psychic, but I was beginning to spot a pattern here.

We were both drinking white wine, both eating Nobby’s finest, our body language identical, and he’d agreed with every single thing that I’d said.

I decided to test my rapidly forming theory.

‘I think Pete Doherty’s a bit of a tit though.’

‘Completely! Totally agree.’

‘And I love listening to classical stuff in the bath.’

‘So relaxing, isn’t it,’ he nodded.

I had to stop myself from throwing in that I fancied Howard from Take That!, just in case he agreed and was forced to re-evaluate aspects of his core personality.

He went on to concur with my favourite colour (blue), my favourite car (Ferrari) and my dream holiday (a week on Richard Branson’s Necker with the entire cast of Grey’s Anatomy, U2, P. Diddy and Mary J. Blige).

I was starting to feel just a little uneasy. This was either the non-identical twin from whom I’d been separated at birth, or the most intense, creepy sycophant I’d ever encountered. At the moment I was veering towards the latter. I had a feeling that if I said that my favourite hobby was collecting skin cells from polar bears’ scrotums, he’d have the swabs and test tubes ready by the end of the night.

I spotted that his glass was empty and made a desperate attempt to break the cycle of question, answer, agreement.

‘Let me get you a drink–another white wine?’ I asked.

He shot out of his chair like his buttocks were on fire, and spat out a panicked ‘SIT WHERE YOU ARE!’

The three old men in the corner lifted their heads from their papers.

‘I’ll get it!’ he blurted, before bustling off to the bar and returning with fresh supplies.

I was starting to feel seriously freaked out now–I think it was the fact that the force of his outburst had rattled my fillings. I’d read about guys like this before–usually in the court reports of stalking trials where some woman had flicked open her curtains to find the face of a bloke she’d bumped into at Tesco’s fish counter pressed up against her window.

‘Daniel, you, er…’ Careful, Leni–think of a nice way to say this. ‘You seem like a lovely guy, so can I ask you why you would want to apply for a date?’

Mad or sad? My heart was racing again. Which was he: mad or sad?

He didn’t say anything for a few long, long minutes.

Eventually, he shrugged.

‘Zara Delta said she could find me the perfect soul mate and I’ve just got to the stage where I think that would be nice. But somehow…well, somehow it doesn’t seem to be happening.’

I surreptitiously clutched on to my handbag and slipped off the skyscraper heels in case I had to make a run for it.

‘To be honest, I don’t really understand where I go wrong.’

‘No idea at all?’ I ventured, with the hesitation of someone who is desperately trying to avoid a deep and meaningful conversation.

He shrugged again. ‘None. Every woman I’ve ever been out with always says the same thing–I’m too nice. And that’s a bad thing, apparently.’

Ah, the mist was beginning to clear now. He wasn’t mad, he wasn’t particularly sad (okay, maybe just a little)–he was just a bit insecure and eager to please.

On some level I could relate to that. I was about to tell him so, but I’d opened some kind of emotional dam and now the floodwaters were gushing through.

‘It’s difficult, you know? I always find new situations really uncomfortable, so I get a bit over-anxious.’

You don’t say…

He took a large swig of his wine before continuing. ‘Don’t laugh, but I even bought a book to see if that would help. One of those advice ones.’

Holy shit, I was right. I wanted to call my mother and ask her why she’d given away my twin brother. Oh. My. God. How had I not seen it? The questioning, the body language, the agreement technique to establish compatibility and commonality–this was Textbook Dating (the exaggerated version that tipped over into ‘borderline scary’).

Crap. Was this…Was this what a night with me was like?

‘Daniel, can I be honest with you?’ I interjected. ‘You’re trying too hard.’

Attention all dictionaries, we have a new definition of irony: Leni Lomond giving advice on the route to successful relationships.

‘Forget the textbooks and just be yourself. Oh, and stop agreeing with everything everyone says–girls love a bloke who has an opinion of his own.’

‘But I hate disagreements.’

Fuck, it was like looking in a mirror.

‘But, you know, sometimes that makes you more interesting.’

I decided not to reveal that this confrontation was making my toes curl and my teeth clench, but to get it back to a level that was suitably superficial before I filled up and felt the urge to swap stories of decimated romances.

I thumped the table, making the three old guys eye us with undisguised irritation for the second time.

‘Okay, Daniel, for the rest of the night I want you to do and say whatever you like. Assert yourself and don’t be afraid to be honest, okay?’

He nodded warily.

‘Right, I’m starving–let’s go and grab something to eat.’

‘What do you fancy?’ he asked.

A longing for a chicken korma overtook me.

‘Indian?’ I replied hopefully.

‘Perfect! Just what I was thinking.’

‘Great! Let’s…’

I was halfway out of my seat before reality dawned.

‘Daniel, are you saying that because you really mean it or because you don’t want to object?’

Rabbit. Headlights.

‘I do mean it! Absolutely! I love an Ind—’ Suddenly, his enthusiasm deserted him. ‘You’re right, I’m lying–the saffron in the curries makes me break out in a twenty-four-hour rash. Would a pizza be okay with you?’

Even our gormless giggles matched.

With a departing wave to the locals, we strutted out of the door in search of the heady delights of a stuffed crust.

The tension broken, barriers down, it was time to meet the real Daniel.

How could I have known that I was about to fall for him in a big, big way?