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

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       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?’

      I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Not sure. I just work for Zara, and all I know is that she’s writing some kind of relationship book and I’m helping out with research.’

      ‘So you’re not actually single and looking for someone then?’

      ‘I am. I mean, I’m single…’ The senses that hadn’t been numbed forever by three hours of death and destruction were warning me that an awkward moment was imminent. I decided to round up a posse of excuses and head it off at the pass.

      ‘…but I’m not really dating. Just focusing on my career right now. I’m only doing this so that I can add a research element to my CV.’

      Harry had the decency to look sad. For a gun-wielding maniac he was obviously well in touch with his sensitive side.

      ‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, what made you apply for this?’

      ‘Blokes at work. Last month I dared my mates Jammy and Kegsy to flash their tackle at the CCTV cameras in the High Street. The month before, Dudsy had to buy ten boxes of Tampax in Boots the chemist. Daft tossers thought they were stitching me right up making me do this. Wait till I tell them I had a bloody brilliant time. Ha!’

      I felt utterly blessed and flattered that I appeared to be rating above indecent exposure and the bulk buying of feminine hygiene products.

      ‘So СКАЧАТЬ