A Brand New Me

by Shari Low

  ‘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:

  A comprehensive report must be written after each meeting (template to follow).

  To ensure that the session is as spontaneous as possible, the candidate is not to be prompted, prepared or manipulated in any way.

  Each meeting must last several hours, the content of which to be decided entirely by the candidate.

  Details of this project and of candidates must not be discussed with anyone outside Delta Inc.

  Physical contact with candidates should not be initiated.

  Any physical contact initiated by candidate should be rejected but noted to be used in analysis.

  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.

  No personal information, contact details, company material or discussions should be shared with the candidate.

  Post-date contact with any candidate is strictly forbidden.

  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.

  4

  The Leo Date

  ‘Hey, love–give you fifteen quid for a quickie!’ The offer, generous but unprompted, came from a crowd of blokes in a minibus that stopped at traffic lights next to where I stood, freezing my extremities off on the corner of Piccadilly Circus.

  I was so glad I’d taken the advice of Millie on reception and pitched my dress code at ‘cold weather casual’: dark boot-cut jeans, high black leather boots and a black polo-neck jumper, with a knee-length thick wool coat. Although the cold coming through the soles of my boots was making me shiver, it was still a much wiser choice than the jeans, strappy sandals and glittery top I’d been planning on wearing. But then, what did I know about dating clothes? I hadn’t been on a blind date since, well, ever, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been out on the town in London.

  I’d always hated coming into town at night (too crowded, too impersonal and far too expensive for a late-night taxi back to Slough), but since Harry was travelling from Milton Key
nes, I thought I should meet him somewhere convenient and this was the first place he’d suggested. I hobbled from foot to foot, trying to get some heat into my veins, my mind distracted from my imminent pneumonia by the familiar trains of panicked thought that were flashing through it: what was I doing here; I didn’t do things like this; I didn’t thrive on excitement; I didn’t get fired up on adrenalin; I definitely didn’t take unexpected events in my stride; I was a creature of habit that hated surprises and would rather undergo organ removal without anaesthetic than put myself in a potentially embarrassing situation.

  This angst ran in conjunction with an in-depth, highly convoluted, complex internal dialogue that went along the lines of, ‘Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Stay.’ To make the voices stop, I’d just conjured up a mental image of Archie Botham beaming with pride over his new invention when my mobile phone rang.

  ‘Tell me you’re not going through with it!’ Stu begged.

  ‘Stu, I have to,’ I answered patiently, giving no clue as to my inner turmoil. ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘It’s borderline prostitution! Where are you now?’

  ‘Standing in Piccadilly Circus waiting for him.’

  ‘Leni, it’s far too bloody cold for that. You could come down with hypothermia. Or you could get frostbite in your digits. That happened to Ralph Fiennes on his expedition to the North Pole. He ended up amputating his fingertips with an electric saw in his garden shed.’

  That was the thing about Stu–he was generous with his hypochondria and liked to share it around.

  ‘Stu, first of all, Ralph Fiennes is the bloke from the Harry Potter movies and he’s never, as far as I know, attempted a one-man expedition across a polar icecap. Ranulph Fiennes, the explorer, may have done that. But I’m sure he’d be the first to acknowledge that my fingers are highly unlikely to meet the same fate as his while tucked into screaming-pink fake-fur mitts in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.’

  ‘Excuse me, are you Leni?’

  I lifted the phone away from my ear and turned to the new arrival. My first reaction was that he looked just like the guy in the photo…about, oh, fifty pounds ago.

  He gave me a big smile and stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Harry, pleased to meet you.’

  With my non-telephone hand I reciprocated, taking in his eager smile and seemingly happy demeanour.

  Okay, so he wasn’t Orlando Bloom. He wasn’t even Hollyoaks. But he was wearing clean jeans, brown Timber-land boots and a black felt jacket, a stripy scarf, and despite the lack of resemblance to his photograph, my initial gut instinct was that he was fairly inoffensive. Plus, he was so overweight that if I had to flee for my life he’d never catch me. ‘Leni! LENI! LENI!!!!’ came an increasingly agitated voice from the phone.

  I quickly put it to my ear. ‘Look, Stu, Harry’s arrived so I have to go.’

  ‘Have you got the pepper spray I bought you? And keep your mobile on. And remember to say what I told you right at the start. And remember, if you’re in a pub, don’t eat the peanuts–the bacteria will kill you. And…’

  ‘Have to go now, Stu. Bye-ee.’

  ‘Leni, LENI, LENI!!!!!’

  I pressed the ‘end’ button on the phone and took a deep breath as I remembered my promise to Stu, extricated after he’d spent three hours lecturing me in person the night before.

  ‘Sorry, that was my big brother on the phone, he’s very protective. To be honest he’s been a bit unstable since they stripped him of his world kickboxing title after they discovered he was wanted for arms possession.’

  I couldn’t believe the words were coming out of my mouth. My face was beaming and my left eye was doing the twitch thing that it always did when I was lying. I so, so wasn’t cut out for this.

  I half-expected Harry to turn pale, hail a taxi and run while he still had his kneecaps. To his credit he didn’t seem too perturbed and breezed right over it.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he apologised, ‘I had to wait in for the courier to bring the money and some forms to sign before I met you tonight, and he didn’t show up till after five. So…you said that I had to decide what we’d do?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I agreed. Okay, in that last sentence he’d apologised for something that wasn’t his fault and sought reassurance on the night ahead–didn’t that demonstrate a little insecurity? Perhaps I could tick serial killer off the list.

  ‘And it should be something that I’d normally do when I take a bird out?’

  I nodded again. ‘Absolutely. Just be yourself.’ Tweet.

  ‘Are there, like, secret cameras following us or anything?’ he asked, looking around nervously.

  ‘No,’ I reassured him, ‘it’s just me. But I can’t be sure my brother isn’t hiding behind a lamppost.’

  His eyebrows shot up and he scoured the street to the left and right.

  ‘Kidding!’ Awareness alert–save terrifying jokes until you have a better understanding of his personality.

  Right, it was time to get this going–I’d stood on a pavement corner for long enough. I was cold, I was hungry, and although meeting Harry face-to-face had taken my anxiety levels down from ‘potentially fatal’ to a manageable ‘hating every minute of this’, I was still desperately in need of some Châteauneuf du Dutch Courage.

  ‘So, Harry, what’s the plan? Where are we going?’ Assertiveness, showing interest, encouraging personal expression: thanks to a stressful afternoon swotting over A One Way Ticket to Successful Dating, I knew I was displaying three of the ten essential skills for a successful night.

  ‘Well, if it’s honestly all down to me…’

  ‘It is,’ I reassured him (number four–reassurance).

  ‘Then I’m taking you somewhere that you’ll have an absolute blast!’

  A blast.

  At least he got that bit right.

  5

  Shooting Stars

  Bang!

  Everyone in the room cowered in mortal fear as the killer paused on his lethal mission. We’d already watched him shoot three unarmed men, and countless others lay dead as a result of the grenade that he’d used to announce his arrival. Now he’d run out of bullets and had stopped to reload. One desperate man tried to take the opportunity to escape, but he was too slow. The maniac took aim and fired, sending another victim to the morgue. Silence again while he watched. Waited. Poised and ready to continue his manic spree.

  ‘Can you pass me my Diet Coke, Leni–can’t take my eyes off this cos the SAS will storm in any minute now.’

  I reached over for his can, sitting on a nearby ledge next to mine. There was a sudden thunderous noise–nope, not a crack team of special forces making their entrance, just my stomach rumbling, reminding me that it was 11 p.m. and I still hadn’t eaten. The Twix from the vending machine hadn’t quite filled the meal-sized hole.

  Three hours after I’d met Harry and what had I learned? I now knew that there was a giant amusement arcade in London’s West End. I realised that standing for long periods of time in high-heeled boots led to the kind of discomfort that required painkillers and a foot spa. I had been educated in the fields of mass murder, unarmed combat, battle strategies and simulated cage fighting. And I had a sneaking suspicion that there was a very good reason as to why Harry was still single.

  Still, at least I wasn’t alone. I was sharing this special night with around one hundred teenage boys, several security guards and a large party of Japanese tourists.

  I vaguely remembered a similar night somewhere in my dating past–but then I had been fourteen and had to be home before my ten o’clock curfew or my dad would confiscate my Boyzone DVDs.

  Apparently, Harry’s post-pubescent self was still alive and well and intent on rivalling the death toll of a Third World despot before the night was out.

  I blamed myself for not objecting to Harry’s plans.

  Actually, I didn’t–I blamed Zara bloody Delta for landing me in this in the first place.

  On the plus side: all feelings of anxiety had
now been squashed by the realisation that Harry wasn’t going to judge me, scare me or drag me into a candle-lit basement and mutilate me in some kind of Satanic ritual. On the downside: I’d just wasted a whole night of my life that I could have spent engaged in educational, humanitarian pursuits–like watching Horatio in CSI Miami catch bad guys by putting his sunglasses on and taking them off in a brooding manner.

  I hadn’t sat down, I hadn’t eaten, I hadn’t laughed, I hadn’t flirted and I hadn’t had a single conversation of note with my prospective suitor. Instead, I’d stood beside him and watched as he played arcade games for approximately–I checked my watch–195 minutes. Harry, on the other hand, had run the full gamut of emotions–he’d been joyful, sad, ecstatic, furious, determined, triumphant and homicidal.

  ‘Shit!’ he exclaimed, throwing down the life-size AK-47 and taking the cola from my hand, ‘outnumbered–sixteen SAS–didn’t stand a chance.’

  Oh, I hate it when that happens.

  ‘Want to go for a burger? I’ve still got twenty quid left.’

  What does it say about my life that right there, right then, that felt like the best offer I’d had in weeks?

  We went off to the nearest junk-food emporium and he treated me to a double bacon cheeseburger.

  Harry dumped the tray on the table. ‘You know, I’ve had a really good time tonight–you’re really easy to talk to,’ said the man who had been responsible for eradicating several thousand people from the face of the earth while barely saying two words to me.

  ‘Er, thanks.’

  ‘And it’s great the way that you got into the whole arcade thing. Most chicks don’t even give it a chance. They don’t know what they’re missing.’

  Torture. Death. Blood. Gore. Guts. Armageddon.

  ‘So what’s all this about, then, this dating experiment?’