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

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      I’d nodded reluctantly. Okay, so it was like entering a parallel universe on Planet Space Cadet every day, but at least it didn’t focus on the stark, banal reality of toilet fittings. And the alternatives still didn’t bear thinking about–more interviews, more new environments, more upheaval, and no more pornographic fantasies involving boss’s hot offspring.

      ‘Okay, your personal life now–do you or do you not want to go out on dates, meet new guys, and, in the words of the late, great Freddie Mercury, find somebody to love?’

      I’d nodded again.

      ‘And did you solemnly swear in this very room on New Year’s Eve that this was going to be the year that you broke out of your comfort zone and achieved your goals?’

      I blew my hair out of my eyes and briefly wondered if other people had a best friend so fierce that they regularly made them sweat under pressure. Trish had so blatantly missed her calling in life. She should have a job that would allow her to use her skills at the highest levels–for example, as a military interrogator. Or a high-class dominatrix.

      ‘Then get over yourself. So one was a dickhead–do you know how many dickheads I went out with before I met Grey? Loads.’

      I knew she was trying to make me feel better–using methods taken straight from the Sado-Masochistic Guide to Friendship–but I wasn’t convinced. Yes, her Grey was a lovely guy, kind, sweet and funny (I was choosing to momentarily overlook the penchant for sex in public places), and I’d love to meet someone like him, but let’s face it, what were the chances of a Grey-esque sweetheart writing in to Great Morning TV! and landing at my feet? Slim. I’d only ever met one man that I’d loved the way she loved Grey, and…well…

      ‘I still miss him, Trish. And when crap stuff like this happens I miss him even more.’

      She’d softened for a moment. More than anyone, Trish knew how devastated I’d been when I’d discovered that Ben was married. She’d spent weeks pushing the hair off my face while I exhausted the global stock of man-size Kleenex.

      ‘Look, that’s done. It’s gone. So pick yourself up and just bloody get on with it. And I say that from a place of love.’

      I’d mulled over her gentle advice. She was right. Broken heart aside, I’d had two bad experiences on the dating front, but I’d been paid for them and they had both taught me valuable lessons (stay away from blokes with arrested development and a penchant for computer-generated warfare; and lead singers are all devious, egotistical knobs).

      Millie’s voice brought me back to the present as it singsonged with a, ‘Good morning, Conn. Zara is upstairs and she asked if you could pop in and see her as soon as you arrive.’

      ‘Thanks, Millie. Morning, Leni–ready for another big night tonight?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ I replied. ‘Can’t wait.’

      ‘Great. I read your report on the last one–sounds like you had a rough time. Sorry about that.’

      ‘Oh, it was nothing–nothing that I couldn’t handle,’ I assured him, with an accompanying swatting gesture. Millie folded her arms under her bosom and fixed me with an amused, incredulous stare that lasted until Conn licked my face, thrust me against the wall, devoured me with wild abandon (twice), made my earth move (just once), then climbed the stairs, his beautifully carved, naked buttocks clenching with every step.

      Okay, so maybe he just gave me a distracted, encouraging smile and went to his office.

      ‘Nothing? It was “nothing” then?’ she probed, hardly able to contain her enjoyment as I squirmed.

      ‘Oh, don’t you start–I’ve already got one ruthless, mocking pal, thank you.’

      ‘I think Leni is trying to impress a certain tall, dark, handsome gentleman.’

      ‘I am not!’ I replied indignantly. ‘It’s purely professional. I just want him to think I’m really good at my job, that’s all.’

      I gathered up the morning mail and took a few steps towards the stairs, when I realised…

      ‘Conn didn’t say what he wanted for lunch today.’

      ‘Oh, I think he’ll be going out.’

      Ah, I had her! I already knew that Zara had taken temporary residence in an upmarket day spa, and that Conn was planning to work in the office all day before meeting Zara at 7 p.m. and going off to a fundraising ball they were attending that evening. Zara had donated a raffle prize of an hour’s free consultation, and in return they’d been invited to the star-studded meal prepared by Jamie Oliver and a team of dinner ladies from Southend.

      ‘Nope, sorry but you’re wrong,’ I argued, thrilled to bits that for the first time I had the upper hand, ‘and I do believe that you’ll receive a call any minute requesting…’

      Right, it was Thursday. What did he have last Thursday? Think. Think. Think.

      ‘Vegetable soup with a crusty wholemeal baguette,’ I announced with a flourish and just a smidgen of smugness. Cue one departing smidgen as I got halfway up the stairs and met Conn coming back down them.

      ‘Change of plan, Leni, I’ve got to meet with the event managers for tonight because they want Zara to do a live reading and I need to organise the set. I’ll be out for the rest of the day, but you can get me on my mobile.’

      It was official: what I knew about men could be written in capitals on a Post-it note. N.O.T.H.I.N.G.

      ‘Oh, and can you send champagne to these four ladies,’ he thrust a sheet of notepaper with contact details scribbled in red pen towards me, ‘and organise for the house, pool and gazebo to be cleaned today. Thanks, Leni.’

      Off he went, all suave and official, while giving me backwards glances that oozed wanton lust. Okay, so I was imagining that too.

      I trudged up the rest of the stairs in the manner of a death-row inmate en route to the chair with the big plug. And ten hours later, as I waited for Daniel Jones, 25, an accountant from Teddington, I was wishing someone would flick the switch.

      If this was such a ‘nothing’, as I’d blurted to Conn, then why was my heart thumping like a boy racer’s Corsa? And the less said about the sweat patches I suspected were forming around my hotspots, the better. This was hell. Hell. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be at home, lying on the couch, munching HobNobs and watching old episodes of Sex and the City with the volume up really loud, so it drowned out the Barry Manilow DVD that Mrs Naismith next door played on a nightly basis.

      Still, at least tonight’s rendezvous was local, so that would make it easier for the murder squad to track down my address book to obtain details of my next of kin. When I’d called Daniel to make arrangements and reaffirm that the content of the date was entirely up to him, I’d mentioned that I lived on the Slough/Windsor border, and straight away he’d suggested we meet at the bus station in Slough. My first reaction was that it was sweet that he didn’t want to make me travel; my second was that I was fairly certain that I wasn’t heading for an evening of five-star luxury and opulence.

      ‘Leni?’

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