by Shari Low
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.
Great Morning TV!
Goldie Gilmartin closed off the interview with Jeremy Sinclair, the MP for Cornwall and Devon, a rather rotund, flush-faced human personification of a walrus who was making a public apology to his wife after being caught by a Sunday tabloid snorting cocaine from an intimate part of his twenty-one-year-old girlfriend’s anatomy.
‘So, just to re-emphasise one point, Goldie,’ said the walrus, in a weary yet pompous monotone. ‘I sincerely apologise to my party, my constituents, my mother, and all those who have placed their confidence in me over the years. But, most of all, I’d like to apologise to my wife, whom I love very much and who has pledged to stand by me for better or worse.’
Goldie reached over and shook his hand.
‘I wish you well, Jeremy,’ she said sincerely, ‘and good luck to your lovely wife Leticia.’
Jeremy nodded gravely. The shot closed in on Goldie as she spoke directly to camera, an undeniably cheeky twinkle in her eye. ‘And don’t forget, the other party in this affair, Araminta Delouche, will be with us tomorrow morning to give her version of events. But first…’
The camera panned out again, this time a little too quickly, and the audience got a full view of Zara, standing to the side of the set, waiting to take Jeremy’s chair, but not succeeding because he was frozen to the spot with a horrified expression on his face, astounded that his young bit of fluff had secured airspace on the country’s primetime morning show.
The unmistakable image of a researcher dragging him from the set would have the nation talking for the rest of the day.
As always, Zara ran through her weekly predictions, forecasting love, joy, excitement, doom, gloom and disaster for the various signs.
‘Thank you, Zara. And thanks too for that accident warning for all us Taureans–I think I’ll make sure I stay at home this weekend,’ she said with her trademark grin. ‘Now, you wanted to make another announcement about your forthcoming book.’
‘That’s right, Goldie. As I’ve mentioned before, all you single girls out there have something to look forward to at the end of the year, because I’m working on a top-secret book that will revolutionise relationships forever. Brace yourselves, girls!’ she added, giggling conspiratorially.
‘But in the meantime, I need some men…’
‘Don’t we all, Zara, don’t we all,’ Goldie joked.
‘I need you single men to write in, tell me all about yourselves and take part in this revolutionary research. Or of course you can log on to my website at www.itsinthestars.net, Britain’s most popular website featuring a full range of Zara Delta merchandise.
‘Now, we’re especially looking for Scorpios this week, and as I’ve said before, all expenses will be paid and you just might have the best night of your life. So, mums, sisters, aunties, grannies and all you bachelors out there, get writing…and don’t forget to enclose your birth date and a photograph.’
While Zara paused for breath, Goldie swept in to wrap the slot up.
‘And that’s all we have time for. Stay tuned for Wacky Women, who’ll be discussing the male contraceptive pill in a show entitled, “Would You Really Trust Your Reproductive Health to a Species Who Can’t Remember What Day the Bins Go Out?”’
7
The Scorpio Date
‘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 fa
ir 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…
8
Stars in Their Eyes
‘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.
