A Brand New Me: The hilarious romantic comedy about one year of first dates. Shari Low
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?”’
‘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.