SHARI LOW

A Brand New Me

Copyright

Published by AVON A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2008

Copyright © Shari Low 2008

Cover design © Head Design 2017

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Shari Low asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9781847560179

Ebook Edition © June 2009 ISBN: 9780007335022 Version: 2017-10-19

To Danny Murphy, our incredibly handsome new

nephew, who won’t be allowed to read this until he’s at least thirty! To John, who knows he is everything, always… And to my boys Callan & Brad, for being hilarious, outrageous and endlessly cuddly. Now can one of you please learn to make tea.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Prologue ‘Three … two … one … Happy New Year!’

Chapter 1 - Wired to the Moon

Chapter 2 - Aligning the Planets

Great Morning TV!

Chapter 3 - Star Gazing

Chapter 4 - The Leo Date

Chapter 5 - Shooting Stars

Chapter 6 - Earth Calling Zara

Great Morning TV!

Chapter 7 - The Scorpio Date

Chapter 8 - Stars in Their Eyes

The Daily Globe, Female Section, 20 February

Chapter 9 - The Aries Date

Chapter 10 - A Cold Moon Rising

Chapter 11 - Star-Crossed

Chapter 12 - The Capricorn Date

Chapter 13 - The Outer Cosmos

Chapter 14 - Sunburn

Great Morning TV!

Chapter 15 - The Gemini Date

Chapter 16 - Starry Starry Night …

Chapter 17 - Space Oddity

Chapter 18 - The Milky Way

Chapter 19 - Total Eclipse of the Heart

Kiss FM Commercial Break. 6.45 a.m.

Chapter 20 - Lunar Landing

Chapter 21 - Jupiter’s Moons

Chapter 22 - The Aquarius Date

Chapter 23 - Twinkle Twinkle …

Chapter 24 - The Cancer Date

Chapter 25 - Women Are from Venus

Chapter 26 - Libra

Chapter 27 - Superstar

Chapter 28 - Starman

Chapter 29 - The Virgo Date

Chapter 30 - The Sagittarius Date

Chapter 31 - Star Maker

Great Morning TV!

Chapter 32 - The Powers of Uranus

Chapter 33 - Mercury Rising

Chapter 34 - The Big Bang

Chapter 35 - Star Central

Chapter 36 - Cosmic Explosion

Chapter 37 - It’s in the Stars

Great Morning TV! – New Year’s Day

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise for Shari Low

By the Same Author:

About the Publisher

Prologue ‘Three…two…one…Happy New Year!’

The champagne corks popped, streamers fell, the music blared, lovers embraced, their hearts overflowing with joy as they welcomed in another year…

But unfortunately all that happened on the TV.

In my living room, three twenty-something friends sat shrouded in dejection, watching the celebrations on the box, each clutching a sparkler in one hand and a drink in the other.

‘We are officially the saddest people on the planet,’ I muttered.

‘No, we are not!’ argued Stuart.

Over on the other couch, Trish burst into a faux-tragic rendition of ‘My Heart Must Go On’.

‘Okay, now we are,’ said Stu. ‘Right, Trish, one verse and a chorus and that’s it. My ears will start to bleed any minute.’

His voice got louder with every word as he endeavoured to be heard over the noise of poppers and whistles coming from next door. Even my neighbour Mrs Naismith was having a much wilder time than us, which, given that she was in her seventies, was taking the night to a whole new level of depression.

A wave of something suddenly consumed me. In hindsight it was probably several large glasses of Rosé Cava, but at that moment it absolutely felt like it was something real–something important. ‘I’m making a resolution,’ I announced.

‘Here we go…’ grinned Stuart, consulting his watch. ‘Two minutes, three seconds–that’s a record.’

I ignored him and spoke up so that I could be heard over the noise of Trish going down with the Titanic.

‘My dear saddo friends, this is it–this is the year I stop being unfulfilled, skint and single. I’m going to find the perfect job, the perfect man, the perfect life. Oh, and sex–I’m going to have bloody great sex!’

I stood up with a flourish and dramatically raised my glass to propose a toast…

‘Wow!’ spluttered Stu and Trish in perfect synchronisation.

I was gratified by the enthusiastic reactions from my audience.

‘I know,’ I continued, in the solemn, dignified manner of a politician announcing that he was running for prime minister, ‘it’s a huge challenge, but I’m determined.’

‘Leni, get out of the way of the telly! We weren’t wowing you, you daft cow–you’ve made that same speech every year since 1998. We were wowing at the poor bloke playing the bagpipes. A gust of wind just flicked up his kilt and he flashed the entire watching world.’

Trish had now ceased channelling Celine Dion and dissolved into a puddle of giggles. ‘And I don’t rate his chances of getting a date tonight.’

Stu automatically leapt to the defence of his fellow man. ‘Look, it’s cold out there–give the guy a break.’

I thumped back down on the couch just as Stu and Trish’s laughter escalated due to the antics of the demented presenter, who was now making the whole situation even more hilarious by trying to hold down the front of the undeniably cute piper’s kilt with a large microphone.

Fabulous–the announcement of my life-changing mission had been gazumped by an event that would feature on those TV’s Naughtiest Blunders until the end of time. Although…I suppose they did have a point. Yes, I had made similar resolutions before, but this time I absolutely, definitely meant it. I did. This was going to be the year that I changed my destiny, and the only way to do that would be to take chances, be bold, be fearless, and relentlessly look for opportunities everywhere. Starting right now.

I wondered if there was any chance of getting that piper’s number?

1 Wired to the Moon

Four weeks later…

‘Leni, do you truly believe that the stars control your fate?’ asked the woman in front of me. The same woman that had positioned her desk according to the laws of feng shui, studied my feet, cleansed my chakras, and taken a snapshot of my aura. And that was just at our first meeting.

This was the second and final interview and she’d upped the stakes by comparing our Chinese horoscopes, reading my retinas, analysing my star sign (Libra), and asking me to join in a meditation session to connect with our higher selves. To be honest, my higher self just wanted to know if I had the job and whether or not it came with private healthcare, because if I sat with my legs in the crossed position for much longer I’d have a groin strain that would require urgent medical attention.

In the meantime, I nodded in what I hoped was a Zenlike fashion at Zara Delta, spiritual guru, author, television celebrity and founder of the web’s most popular astrology site: www.itsinthestars.net.

Other than the cosmos, Uranus, Neptune and whatever other paranormal forces that may or may not have been involved, I had Trish to thank for getting me in front of Ms Delta. After four years in catering college, Trish had abandoned her idea of becoming a chef in her final year, when a particularly challenging work placement made her realise that putting her own rather volatile personality in close proximity to notoriously temperamental creatures in a confined space stacked with lethal weapons could one day lead to the need for a defence lawyer. Instead, she’d taken the admin route and worked her way up to Food & Beverage Manager of a very swanky London hotel, before buckling to her love of all things shallow and showbiz by accepting a job as Hospitality & Catering Manager at Great Morning TV!, a role that involved meeting, greeting and catering to every whim, request and rumbling stomach of the show’s stars and guests. Want all the blue M&Ms out of the bowl? Trish would get it done (although she might offer several suggestions as to where the offending sweets could be stored, all of which would require surgery to remove). If a Hollywood A-lister required her macrobiotic bran to be served by Buddhist monks on skateboards, Trish was the one who nipped down to the temple to deliver a crash course in street sports. A soap star showed up drunk, in the night-before’s party clothes, having somehow lost her knickers along the way? Trish’s trusty supply of coffee, aspirins and granny pants came to the rescue. It was rumoured that she even supplied a notorious movie-star bad boy with the medication to cure his crabs after a traumatising incident involving a pre-show shower, suspect residue on a towel and several minutes of stomach-churning screams (all his). She had so far refused to confirm or deny, but since the day of the alleged incident there had been a pair of Marigolds in her desk drawer.

In short, there was nothing she couldn’t arrange for the pampered prima donnas who beamed into the televisions of the British public every morning, the biggest prima donna of them all (according to Trish) being Zara Delta, the show’s resident astrologer, who popped in at the end of every week to deliver her starry predictions.

Thankfully for me, though (depending on how you felt about working for a temperamental astrologer who believed her menstrual cycle was controlled by galactic forces), Trish had put her personal feelings to one side when, on the first Friday back at work after our New Year’s knees-up, Zara had stormed into the green room late, screeching that her PA had ‘buggered off to the Turks & Caicos’ with a boy-band member over the New Year break and failed to return. Like a true friend, Trish had bolted right over to her, armed with a tray of Danish pastries, and told her she knew of the perfect replacement for her erstwhile assistant. That would, apparently, be me. Although, I’m not sure how my five years of experience in the marketing department of City Plumbing Supplies (although I solemnly swear I didn’t come up with the slogan ‘Our Toilet Fittings Won’t Drive U Round the Bend’) qualified me for a job as a celebrity PA.

True to form, when she’d called to give me the news, Trish’s honesty had been about as subtle as a nuclear missile with PMT.

‘Look, it’s not like you’ve got any other options on the table. And she’s desperate–she’ll take anyone. She’s really been left in the lurch.’

‘Trish, I hate to point out the obvious–but if Zara was any good at her job, wouldn’t she have seen it coming?’

‘Leni, do you want the job or not?’

I’d hesitated. The truth was that I probably didn’t. You see, much as my vino-fuelled rant at New Year had been made with wholehearted conviction, as Stu had sweetly pointed out, I did make that announcement on an annual basis. However, courtesy of a lifelong aversion to taking risks of any kind, my resolution for change never lasted longer than the New Year hangover.

I’d love to be adventurous and relish the thrill of spontaneous acts, but I’ve enough self-awareness to realise that I’m, well, a bit of a plodder. I’m comfortable with familiarity. I’m consistent. Predictable. I even occasionally relish boredom. And on the rare occasions that I do make a concerted effort to be more daring and open to life’s experiences, my ‘New Challenges’ gene gives up after five minutes and goes back to lying on a couch munching crisps and watching reality TV.

‘Leni? LENI?!’ Trish’s voice had boomed from the handset.

As her agitation had emanated up the phone line, my eyes had flicked to the book sticking out of my handbag: Ten Steps to a Whole New You. Waste of a tree and £6.99, because I’d finished it on the tube that morning and had realised that the old me was still rooted to the spot. My anxiety levels had slid upwards as I mentally prepared myself to utter the ‘thanks, but no thanks, you’re a great pal, good of you to think of me’ platitudes.

‘Trish, thanks…’

I’d lost track of the conversation, because right at that moment the head of design, Archie Botham, arrived, beaming in such a proud manner you’d swear he’d either won the lottery or given birth to the second coming. As he’d slapped a mangle of plastic down on my desk, I’d realised it was neither.

‘This ballcock will revolutionise toilets,’ he’d declared, with all the excitement of someone who realised he was a shoo-in for a Nobel Prize for Sanitary Ware Design. ‘Draw us up a provisional press release, Leni,’ he’d demanded in his thick Lancastrian accent. ‘Aye, girl, this is really going to put us on the map. I’m calling it The Botham Ballcock.’

They say that when your life is about to end you get flashbacks of the highlights. I suddenly realised that if I, Eleanor Olive Lomond, aged 27, got killed by a dose of salmonella in my chicken mayo baguette one lunchtime in the foreseeable future, the last thing I’d see was my name at the bottom of a press release announcing superior flushing technology.

‘I’ll take it!’ I’d blurted.

‘The ballcock?’ asked Archie, with more than a hint of puzzlement.

‘What?’ bellowed Trish.

I’d gesticulated to the phone sandwiched between my neck and shoulder and motioned to Archie to give me a minute. He’d backed off, clutching his revolutionary invention to his chest.

‘I said I’ll take it–the job,’ I’d whispered, anxious not to burst Archie’s euphoria by alerting him to my potential desertion.

‘Wise decision. She’ll have to interview you first, though.’

‘Just tell me when and where.’ I could do this. I could. I’d just taken one giant step (albeit with Trish pushing from behind), and all I needed to complete the rest of the ten steps to a brand new me were courage, determination…

‘And you might have to tell her you’re a firm believer in the paranormal–you’ve seen her on telly, she’s on a oneway ticket to Loon Central.’

…and bold-faced lies.

Thus I came to be sitting in front of Zara Delta, nursing a debilitating groin strain while channelling Zen. I felt it wasn’t an opportune time to tell her that the only Zen I knew owned our local kebab shop and was under investigation by Environmental Health.

In the manner befitting a wonderfully efficient PA (and to take my mind off the fact that this was only the second interview of my adult life), I’d meticulously researched the do’s and don’ts of successful interviews. Embarrassing revelation, number one: Ten Steps to a Whole New You wasn’t a one-off random purchase. In fact, there was a good chance that I was single-handedly responsible for keeping the entire self-help industry afloat. Other people read gossip mags. Some collect stamps. I’ve got a high-grade habit that involves lots of books with the words ‘Steps’ and ‘Dummies’ in the title. By rights, I should be able to manage any situation in one minute, unleash the giant within me, and be capable of doing a PowerPoint presentation while winning friends, influencing people, thinking positively and re-bonding with my granny.

The emphasis on that last bit being ‘should’. Somehow those affirming bibles of improvement seemed to have an expiry date approximately eight hours after I’d turned the last page, when my inherent personality traits kicked back in and shifted my paradigms right back to the ones I was born with. Yet I couldn’t stop reading them. I was like the shoe-holic who bought four-inch platforms in fourteen different colours even though she’d never wear them. To be honest, I thought I’d only be cured when I found a self-help guide to cure me of my dependence on self-help guides.

Unsurprisingly, none of the techniques or questions recommended in the self-help section came up during the first interview–well, I say interview, but the reality was that every time I spoke she shushed me and told me it was interfering with her attempts to connect our spiritual forces. That was a week ago, and now, to my frankly gobsmacked surprise, she’d called me back again. My spiritual forces must have been acting particularly slutty and welcoming all advances.

In the seven-day interval, my natural tendencies (the ones that were begging me to forget any crazy notions of new jobs and mad astrologers) were kicked to the kerb by intrigue, and the reminder that if I didn’t make the change now I’d be contemplating Botham’s Ballcocks right up to my pension years.

I’d read in Prepare Yourself, the Job Is Yours (£9.99 from all good bookshops) that employers form impressions within seconds of clapping eyes on you, so for our first meeting I’d gone a bit formal and pulled my eternally uncontrollable red, shoulder-blade-length hair back into a (only slightly messy) chignon, donned my one skirt suit (black, polyester, Primark, £19.99), a white top, and shoved my protesting feet into black court shoes with three-inch heels. Afterwards, I realised that the outfit probably gave the impression that I was about to serve her a chicken cacciatore at an Italian bistro. And since the heels made me about five foot eleven and a good nine inches taller than my potential employer, I decided to re-evaluate for our second meeting. This time I’d gone casual: black skinny jeans, ballet pumps, white T-shirt, soft grey merino wool wrap with my hair middle-parted, loose and wavy, completely undisciplined by straighteners. On Nicole Kidman, that hair is sexy, casual and straight out the pages of Vogue. On me it’s a bird’s nest straight out of National Geographic.

Suddenly Zara flicked her eyes open and inhaled dramatically. Was this it? Was this when she delivered her decision? Or decided that my higher self wasn’t qualified for the post? Nope, eyes shut again, back in weird trance. Zara Delta: founder member of Wackos ‘R’ Us.

Or maybe that should be Hippy Throwbacks ‘R’ Us, given that Zara’s wardrobe seemed to consist entirely of tie-dyed kaftans, straw flip-flops and headbands from which protruded a menagerie of flowers. Today there was a sunflower sticking out of one side, and three large daisies had wilted on the other side, drooping towards her shoulder. Her thick mahogany hair flowed down to her waist and she wore enough blue eye-shadow to kit out an entire Abba tribute band. According to the press she was forty-five, but she looked younger–obviously all that serenity and inner peace was allowing her to circumvent frown lines and wrinkles.

While she carried on with strange humming thingies, I contemplated my surroundings and realised that, compared to my current place of employment on a dilapidated industrial estate on the outskirts of Slough, working here would be stellar. Literally. The office was in a grand Georgian townhouse in Notting Hill, the kind of building that looked like it housed a stockbroker, his interior-designer wife and three children called Palomina, Pheronoma and Calispera. But any preconceptions had to be dumped at the door, the one that was carved with ancient Mongolian warrior symbols in a bid to ward off evil spirits, negative forces and any local yobs armed with cans of spray paint.

The huge oblong entranceway looked like a mini planetarium. The carpet was black, the walls and ceiling were the colour of the night sky, and fluorescent stars covered every surface. It wasn’t so much a professional office, more the view from the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise. In the corner, a receptionist sat behind a futuristic silver desk, illuminated only by one desk lamp and the flashing red squares on the switchboard. The first thing that had struck me was how miserable she looked–not surprising given that the lack of sunlight probably made her a shoo-in for rickets.

Zara’s office took up the entire first floor and suitably reflected a zany TV New Age guru who looked like a cross between a Woodstock refugee and Cher in her ‘Turn Back Time’ years. The walls and ceiling were draped with rich red silks, giving the whole space the vibe of an elaborate Bedouin tent. Huge plants sat in every crevice and corner, while ornate Persian rugs covered almost every inch of the ebony wood floor. Two trees had given their lives to make her inordinately wide desk, both of them cut vertically in half and then laid side by side–a concept that might have worked a little better if the branches had been removed. Instead, about fifteen feet of shrubbery filled a whole corner of the room. The rest of the floor was covered with the same oversized cushions that Zara sat on now; massive squares of intricately embroidered, rich damask in shades of deep ochre interspersed with small tree stubs that doubled as tables.

Still, at least (unlike the poor, pale, vitamin-deprived receptionist) she had three huge sash windows that filled the room with natural daylight. Or they would have if it wasn’t six o’clock on a January night and pitch dark outside.

Suddenly, Zara jumped up, grabbed a large, gilt-engraved chalice from her desk and headed towards the window I’d been staring at just seconds before. Spooky. Was that a coincidence? Or a bit of psychic prompting? Oh my God–could she read my thoughts? Think nice things, think nice things…

She wrenched up the window and held the chalice outside.

Okaaaaay…So was she:

a) dealing with a cup of tea that was too hot in a sound ecological fashion by using rainwater to cool it down;

b) contravening Health & Safety legislation by passing out a liquid refreshment to a window cleaner who bucked the industry norm by working nights;

c) actually, there wasn’t a c) because I couldn’t think of another logical (or otherwise) reason that she had her arm thrust out of a first-floor window on a cold, dark January night.

‘Father Moon,’ she wailed, ‘send me a sign that I am walking the correct path, the one that leads to the destiny that your wondrous powers will deliver.’

My chin incurred skid marks as it ricocheted off the floor. She was, quite literally, howling at the moon. I didn’t need Father Moon’s divine powers to tell me that this woman was about as stable as a vibrator on a hammock. In a hurricane.

Suddenly, she slammed one hand over the top of the cup, brought it back inside and turned to me, her victorious grin clearly conveying that whatever the bloke in the sky had done, she was chuffed about it.

Gliding across the floor (she appeared to move in a Dalek fashion, due to the barefoot/ long kaftan combination), she brought the chalice to me and gingerly lifted her palm to show me what was inside. ‘He sent one to us,’ she announced, her voice all breathy with joy.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, there’s nothing in there, you mad, mixed-up loon!’ I retorted. But only in my head. In real life I was too stunned to speak and instead just sat with a facial pose that gave her full view of my fillings.

I stared at the inside of the chalice. Nothing. Empty. Void of all contents.

‘He sent us a moonbeam,’ she gushed.

Of course. A moonbeam. I should have noticed.

‘Leni, that’s a sign.’

I waited for her to add, ‘…that it’s time for me to have a long lie down in a dark room until the magic mushrooms wear off.’

‘It’s a sign that we are on the right path,’ she continued.

I was beginning to understand why her previous assistant had decided that the right path for her was the one that led to Heathrow Airport.

I attempted an encouraging, receptive expression, one you might give to a four-year-old who’d just confided that her imaginary friend was having a quick shower before dinnertime.

‘So, Leni, are you absolutely sure that you want to work here?’

Noooooooooo!

So of course I said, ‘Definitely.’

Look, it didn’t involve flushing, I’d broken the habits of a lifetime by actually getting this far, and it paid fifteen grand a year more than my current job. I’d already decided that as long as it didn’t involve sacrificing my firstborn child then I was taking the position.

She sank back down onto her cushion and resumed the meditative position: her legs crossed, eyes closed and her fingers upturned on her knees, thumb and middle finger pressed together.

‘And you’re open to the new challenges and experiences that destiny will bring?’

I nodded again, resisting the urge to make the atmosphere a little more dramatic by adding a ‘hmmm’.

‘Then welcome to our team. I’m delighted to have you here and I think we’ll work together in perfect harmony.’

My higher self gave a silent cheer and embarked on a Mexican wave. I’d done it! Sure, it was bizarre and it was just a little bit terrifying, but the most important thing was that I was no longer facing a heady future in ballcocks. I was PA to Zara Delta. And so what if I didn’t know her rising moon from Saturn’s ring–I’d wing it somehow. After all, how tough could it be? I zipped all my doubts in a mental file, labelled it ‘This Job Makes No Bloody Sense Whatsoever’, filed it away and allowed myself a brief moment of self-congratulation–a month into the New Year and already I was on my way to fulfilling my resolution to change everything about my life. And, let’s face it, this was about as different as it could get.

Zara opened her eyes and gave me a benevolent smile. Maybe working for her would be fine after all. Perhaps I was just a little overwhelmed by her eccentricities and idiosyncrasies and in a few weeks she’d seem perfectly normal.

‘Be here next Monday, six a.m., for Tai Chi, affirmations and a full briefing on your first assignment.’

‘Er…assignment?’

‘Yes. You will of course fulfil the normal role of a PA, and I expect you to be by my side on a daily basis. You’ll only be asked to work in the evenings if your presence is essential. But you do realise that your role also involves an element of practical research?’

I didn’t. So, naturally, I nodded.

‘Can I ask, Zara, exactly what the research will involve?’

‘It’s quite simple, dear. My project for this year is to write a new, pioneering book on the relationships between men and women. There are so many lost little stars out there and it’s my calling to set them on the celestial journey that will lead them directly to their soul mate.’

Aaaaw, she was like Cilla Black with mystic powers.

‘I believe that I’ve developed a new way of interpreting the signs using a combination of ancient Chinese philosophy, psychology, rune stones, mathematics, planetary alignment and the instinct and intuition that I was gifted at birth. And I’m going to use my methods to redefine and reinvent current dating techniques. Forget speed dating, forget all those matchmaking websites–I’m going to write a defining, ground-breaking, revolutionary guide to wooing a partner depending on his star sign.’

I thought it probably wasn’t the time to enlighten her that Mills & Boon were on the phone asking if they could have the word ‘wooing’ back.

A book on landing men depending on the date they were born? It was ridiculous. Trite. Insulting. Wasn’t the modern woman far more evolved than that? Didn’t we have principles, emotional intelligence and the savvy to find a partner based on like-mindedness, inherent compatibility and how great his abs were?

I had a sudden insight as to why I was still single.

‘So what exactly will I need to do?’ I had a flashing premonition of endless, mind-numbing hours spent in libraries collating information on all the astrological traits and characteristics. I’d then deliver expansive reports to the divine Miss Delta so that she could harness the mighty investigative powers of solid research, an enquiring mind and moonbeams.

‘It’s simple, Leni. I need to hone and test my theories and include references to practical examples and real-life cases in my book. So, over the next few months, I need you to date twelve men, one from each of the signs of the conventional zodiac.’

‘Whaaaat?’

My peachy-clean aura threw a major strop. No way! Forget it. I was not pimping myself out for some ludicrous, half-boiled book by a TV celebrity with a head like a neglected flower basket.

‘You will of course be paid extra for all evening work, and there will be a bonus on completion of each of the twelve studies. So–can I assume you accept the challenge?’

I was outraged. I was insulted. But I was also skint, desperate to get out of plumbing and losing the feeling in my legs. So…

‘Hmmmm,’ I replied.

2 Aligning the Planets

‘So?????’

Their little faces were the epitome of expectation.

‘I got the job!’ I replied gleefully, joining in an exaggerated group hug thing that almost toppled them off their bar stools. They’d been waiting in the pretentious, overpriced wine bar around the corner from Zara’s office for the last two hours, so they were already struggling slightly with minor issues like balance and staying upright.

‘Told you she was desperate!’ Trish exclaimed helpfully.

That’s the thing about Trish–I love and adore her but she went to the Joseph Stalin School of Friendship. She’s brutal, thoughtless, self-obsessed, and prone to dictatorial behaviour. However, unlike Mr Stalin she’s also funny, kind and, underneath the complete lack of compassionate social skills, she has her friends’ best interests at heart. We’ve known each other since our first day at college in London, when I bumped into her as she wandered along the corridor outside the catering department clutching a toffee pavlova (yes, the stains came out eventually). Surprisingly, given her truculent disposition, we’ve never fallen out, although that’s probably because I’m subconsciously aware that if I crossed her there’s every chance she would dismember me while I slept.

The first thing that struck me (after the pavlova) about her was that she was so different from my group of friends back in the sleepy suburb of Norfolk where I grew up. In my little gang of middle-of-the-road, normal, everyday pals, not one of them had a navy-blue Mohican and wore Doc Marten boots with long flowery dresses. She looked like the love child of Sid Vicious and Laura Ashley. In fact, that had been a major puzzlement when her husband Grey first met her. Let’s just get this out of the way–he’s a fireman. No jokes about large hoses, sliding down his pole or relighting his fire, please–that kind of shallow innuendo does nothing but demean the role those courageous men play in today’s society. But he is a big hunka hunka burnin’ love who could set any female’s knickers alight.

Anyway, they got together after he was called to her apartment by a neighbour who spotted thick smoke coming out of Trish’s window. A few bee-baws later he was carrying a semi-conscious Trish out of her front door while the plug-in, hot-wax kit that she’d inadvertently left on after trimming her bikini line burnt down her kitchen. Electrical fault, apparently. Thankfully, she was fine, but when she regained consciousness while waiting for an ambulance, Grey asked her why she was wearing boots with a nightdress. They’ve been together ever since that moment and she vowed right there and then that she’d never again wear floral prints, men’s boots or well-trimmed nethers.

Now her wardrobe is more Kate Moss on a slightly lower budget–a hip, eclectic and edgy combination of vintage and high-street jeans, T-shirts, waistcoats and various other chic pieces that definitely shouldn’t work together but somehow on Trish they just do. Meeting Grey also brought about the last of the Mohican. Her hair is now a screaming shade of scarlet and shaped into a razor-sharp asymmetric chin-length bob, a style that’s maintained in pristine fashion by our mutual best chum Stuart. Another college relationship that’s lasted the distance, we met Stu when he advertised for hair models in the first month of his hairdressing course. Trish and I, fuelled by the combination of permanent bed hair, cheap cider and empty bank accounts, went along, and despite the fact that he bestowed upon us crew cuts that made everyone around us view us in a whole new light (if you’re reading this, Julie McGuiness, thank you for the k.d. lang poster), we’ve been friends ever since.

Oh, and just in case you were doing that whole stereotype thing, Stu is as straight as Russell Brand with the horn. However, he is…

‘That’s great news, Leni! I’m so proud of you! But stop the hugging, honey, because this virus I’ve got might be an airborne one so best to keep your distance.’

…a hypochondriac. Or should I say, the post-millennium version, a cyberchondriac. First sign of a sneeze and he’s on the computer inputing his symptoms into medical websites, and the next thing you know he’s claiming bubonic plague and ringing a bell before he enters the room. Still, much as the web does invariably throw up the most dramatic diagnosis, we’re glad he’s finally binned the old-fashioned medical dictionary. When he was addicted to that he’d get stuck on the same letter for days and go into psychosomatic meltdown. That terrifying week back in 2002 when he contracted piles, pleurisy and pregnancy will be etched on my memory forever.

We keep hoping that he’ll meet his perfect woman and the security will rid him of his morbid obsession, but so far all attempts to set him up with a member of the nursing profession have met with a premature end. He once got as far as a third date with a geriatric nurse but she dumped him in the middle of an episode of ER when he asked her to talk him through a prostate examination. And not in a good way. It’s a shame really because, neurosis aside, he’s a grounded, cool, entirely macho six-foot-tall specimen of gorgeousness with close-cropped black hair, piercing green eyes and an abdominal rack so tight you could play bongo drums on it. Of course, he’d never let you for fear of cracked ribs, punctured lungs and internal bruising.

Oh, and he’s successful. Courtesy of his achingly hip salon, he’s a rising star (vertigo, altitude sickness, anxiety) in the hairdressing world (nits, life-threatening finger cuts, inhalation of toxic perm lotions). He styles Chelsea mothers, precocious teenagers, a few daytime-telly celebs and does the weekly makeovers for What?!! magazine. Trish has vowed that she’ll get him the Great Morning TV! slot one day, but that often involves whisking viewers off to sunny climates so he’ll have to overcome his fear of flying first. Not only is he terrified of the actual big steel tube/plummet to death scenario, but he’s phobic about germs since he heard that aircraft ventilation systems simply recycle the air, spreading everyone else’s bacteria. On the plus side, his in-flight panics often have a silver lining–if first class is quiet, he regularly gets upgraded because the stewardesses are worried that the sight of a terrified grown man sweating in a medical facemask might upset the other passengers.

I hopped onto a bar stool next to them–but not close enough that Stu’s highly virulent Ebola virus could kill me before I’d had a large glass of wine and a packet of Nobby’s Nuts.

I gave them a full debrief and they were, by turn, astonished, enthralled, proud and…horrified.

‘You have to what?’ Trish almost spat her vino across the table.

‘You’re not doing it,’ Stu commanded, like a stern parent forbidding underage drinking, discos and any contact involving the pelvic region.

‘Right then, Dad, I won’t–but only if you increase my pocket money this week.’

‘I mean it, Leni, it could be dangerous. Twelve men? Do you know that statistically at least two of them will be carrying a sexually transmitted disease? Not to mention that there’s a high chance that at least one will have a criminal record.’

For a macho guy he really did get hysterical sometimes (anxiety disorder, raised blood pressure, wrinkles).

Now that he was looking at me with an expression that sat somewhere between horror and disbelief, with a helping of concern thrown in just to make me feel even worse, my teeth started to grind. Of course he was right. And deep down I knew it. Taking this job would be utterly insane. Dates? I couldn’t go on twelve dates. I’m the woman who takes weeks to decide to try a new washing powder–and even then I feel bad for the old one. But then…My mind flicked to the pile of books at the side of my bed. Shouldn’t I feel the fear and do it anyway? Shouldn’t I fake it until I make it? Shouldn’t I take those ten steps to a new me? Aaaaaargh! Shouldn’t I stop reading bloody self-help guides and actually put some of their theories into action instead?

It was time for me to get a life–one that I actually bloody liked. I could do this. I could. I was feeling the fear so it was time to get on with it.

I decided to bluff bravado.

‘Stu, I’m not going to sleep with them, I just have to date them. You know–dinner, bowling, art galleries and stuff like that. And how bad can it be? Look at my track record in picking men. Ben? Married. Donny? The Olympic World Champion in the field of Unmitigated Boredom. Gary? Ran off with my chiropodist. Goliath? Tried to snog Trish at last year’s birthday barbecue.’

‘I warned you not to go out with someone called Goliath–bound to have inferiority issues,’ she piped up.

‘Thank you, Dr Jong,’ I replied curtly.

‘You’re still not doing it. It’s way too dangerous, and besides, you’ll hate every minute of it. This just isn’t you, Len,’ Stu demanded, thumping his bottle of Bud on the square pod we were gathered around.

He was so, so right–so irritatingly, bloody annoyingly right. My emotional pendulum swung back from ‘fearless’ to ‘realistic’–there was no denying that when God doled out adventure and ambition, I had refused with a, ‘No thanks, I’ll stick with consistency and predictability.’

I threw back a few of Nobby’s finest to break the emotional tension of it all. Take the job. Don’t take it. Take the job. Don’t take it. I used to be indecisive but now I wasn’t so sure. Once again, aaaaaaargh!

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake stop being so dramatic,’ Trish argued. ‘She’ll be fine. She might even meet someone who’s slightly elevated above her usual selection of losers and reprobates.’

Shucks. I didn’t know whether to be grateful to Trish for the encouragement, offended by the observation, or horrified that she didn’t seem at all perturbed that I might meet an axe-wielding maniac.

But her observation had already crossed my mind.

I was twenty-seven years old and I’d never had a serious/ humming-the-wedding-march/ flicking-through-bridal-magazines type of relationship. The longest one had been the two years I’d spent with the (as yet) only man I’d ever been in love with: Ben (sob–sorry, still can’t think about him without involuntary gulp and flaring of nostrils), the gorgeous stranger I’d met on a train a couple of years after I’d finished college. We were definitely world leaders in the ‘unlikeliest couple of the year’ award. Me: reserved, prone to wimpish behaviour with an adventure rating that never went any higher than trying a new muffin in Starbucks. Him: a serving marine, six foot four inches of testosterone-oozing manliness who–bearing in mind that he was a trained killing machine–had the sweetest, most caring nature. Unfortunately, at the end of two years I discovered that he also had a wife and child in army barracks in Felixstowe. Turned out that the majority of his ‘covert manoeuvres’ took place well away from the front line. Handling the Taliban must have been light relief after the stress of juggling a wife and a girlfriend, neither of whom had an inkling about the other until…nope, I didn’t even want to think about it. I threw back some more nuts and mentally fast-forwarded to the brutal aftermath that mostly consisted of me lying on the bathroom floor sobbing into the shower curtain, wishing hell and damnation of the entire male species. Since then, I’d just drifted along, embarking on a few flings with obviously incompatible blokes just to give myself a break from serial singledom.

In hindsight, what I should have done was loaded up a backpack and taken my mind off the heartbreak by trekking across Nepal seeking religious enlightenment. Or headed to the Great Barrier Reef to discover the wonders of nature and shallow sexual couplings with long-haired Australian surf dudes. Instead? Same job for years, unexciting love life, and I still lived in the same Slough/Windsor border, one-bedroom flat that I’d been renting since I first moved there. Actually, it was more Slough, but if I hung out of my bedroom window at a forty-five-degree angle clutching a set of binoculars, I could just about make out the castle. Not that I had. Well, only that once, and Mrs Naismith from next door had been holding my ankles to prevent me from plummeting to my death.

I took a long, deep breath, and in the manner of a fearless superhero (aka Nobbygirl), adjusted my jaw to a position of strength and determination. There was no way I wanted to look back on this moment and regret that I hadn’t grabbed the new opportunity with both hands (or at least the one hand that wasn’t busy chucking salted protein nibbles down my throat).

What had I vowed to do at New Year? Carve out a brand new me. And given the reminders of my mundane, deathly boring life and my deeply unsatisfactory romantic history, I was surer than ever that a little bit of crazy unpredictability was exactly what I needed to change my life.

And Zara Delta was definitely a little bit of crazy unpredictability.

Great Morning TV!

‘Now, Zara, I believe you’ve got an exciting new project that you’re working on this year and you need our help,’ said Goldie Gilmartin, the nation’s favourite sofa queen. In her mid-forties with a stunning auburn pixie cut and a body that was no stranger to the gym, Goldie bore more than a passing resemblance to a young Liza Minnelli. The British viewing public loved her, and with her sassy style, forthright manner and compassion-where-it-mattered, she was close to being declared a national treasure.

‘I have, Goldie, and it might just be the most important thing I’ve ever tackled. I don’t want to give too much away, but let’s just say I think I may have the answers for all you single girls out there looking for Mr Right.’

Goldie grinned as she turned to camera. ‘Maybe there’s hope for me yet.’

Goldie’s single status had long been a source of interest to the gossip mags. What they didn’t realise (and we did–courtesy of Trish’s insider information) was that for years she’d been happily having an unorthodox and wildly adventurous relationship with a six-foot-two stripper with the body of an Adonis who was almost twenty years younger than her.

‘Goldie, first book off the press is all yours, darling!’ Zara promised, before turning to the camera. ‘What I need from our viewers are single men. Ladies, is your brother, son or even dad living on microwave dinners for one? Or are you a single guy who is fed up with the dating game? Come on all you loveless gents out there, drop me a line, tell me a bit about yourself, enclose a photo and you could be lucky enough to get chosen to participate in a fabulous new challenge where we’ll set you up on the all-expenses-paid night of your dreams. Dating agencies charge thousands of pounds–we might just be able to find your perfect partner and we’ll do it for free. Intrigued? Well, all will be revealed when my new book is released at the end of the year, but in the meantime I can promise you this–if selected you’ll be in for an adventure that might just lead you to your soul mate.’

‘Great, Zara, thank you for that,’ interjected Goldie as she wound up the segment. ‘Now come on, guys, write in–and if there’s anyone that catches my eye I might just be calling you myself!’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.