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

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СКАЧАТЬ we already had something in common.

      ‘So, er, what would you like to do then?’ he stuttered anxiously after we’d done the awkward introductions.

      That threw me. ‘It’s, er, up to you,’ I reminded him, trying desperately to suppress my tendency towards nervous irritation. I had enough to worry about, what with making conversation, keeping mental notes and trying not to crumble into a full-scale panic attack, without making decisions about the logistics of the night.

      After a tortured gap of hesitation, he took the hint. ‘Well, er, let’s go for a drink first then.’

      Oooh, what did he mean by ‘first’? Maybe I had made a rash and incorrect assumption. Had he made reservations at a nice restaurant? Did he have plans for a swanky night of gastronomic indulgence?

      ‘And then you can decide what kind of food you feel like: Indian, Chinese, pizza…’

      Cancel all thoughts of swanky plans.

      After a few on-the-spot shuffles we set off, strolling through the windswept metropolis that was the Slough pedestrian precinct. In the manner of an undercover operative (Mission Un-bloody-believable), I flicked some covert glances in his direction and committed the details to memory: auburn spiky hair (Jake Gyllenhaal meets hair gel), khaki combat trousers (well pressed, new) and pale brown cashmere v-neck jumper–fairly attractive, in an understated kind of way. And you could tell he’d made an effort. It was an image that said ‘thought has gone into this’, as opposed to ‘dragged out from under a pile of pizza boxes and a week’s worth of washing’.

      ‘This is, er, a bit weird,’ he’d perceptively observed, acknowledging that neither of us was entirely sure how to start a conversation based on a blind date set up by a mad woman on the telly.

      I nodded, hoping that he’d point us in the direction of a suitable destination before my feet began to ache. Damn those heels. I’d ignored Millie’s advice (comfortable boots, skinny jeans) and gone for smart black trousers and my favourite vertigo-inducing eBay specials. Big mistake.

      But back to the jolly, comforting tones of our strained silence.

      ‘Are you cold?’

      ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

      More silence.

      ‘What about there?’ he blurted, pointing to an outwardly respectable-looking wine bar with several loved-up couples in plain view behind the shop-style window.

      I shook my head. It might look okay, but thanks to a tip-off from Trish (obtained via a temp-agency waiter who supplemented his student grant by working in the TV studio canteen and acting as a naked butler for wife-swapping parties in the suburbs) I knew it was a major pick-up joint for swingers, doggers and deviants. Call me old-fashioned, but I felt that the prospect of being propositioned for a foursome by an ageing history teacher and his middle-aged nymphomaniac wife didn’t seem like it would be the best way to spend the next few hours.

      I shook my head. ‘What about in there?’ I pointed to a quiet little pub on the other side of the road. ‘I’ve been there a few times and it’s okay, I suppose.’ It was either that or bunions that may well have crippled me for life.

      We were barely in the door when he started ranting effusively. ‘Great choice, it’s lovely, brilliant, top option.’

      It was a tiny pub with beer coasters on the tables and a telly showing the snooker in the corner–I doubted it had ever been anyone’s ‘top option’. Nevertheless, I appreciated his encouragement and enthusiasm and it took the prospect of the rest of the evening down from ‘crippling dread’ to ‘might be just about bearable’.

      ‘I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t plan anything–I wanted to wait and see what you liked first.’ Sweet. Accommodating. A faint whiff of a cop-out.

      ‘What can I get you to drink?’ he continued.

      ‘A white wine, please–dry if they have it.’

      ‘Wow, that’s what I drink. How bizarre.’

      Indeed.

      ‘And I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you think I could have a packet of peanuts–I haven’t had time to grab anything since lunch.’

      ‘Not at all–I fancy some myself.’

      Once again, I give you Mr Sweet and Accommodating.

      I watched him as he curved his way round a table of sixty-something bingo players and three old men poring over the horse-racing page in a newspaper, and I couldn’t help wondering why he was here. He seemed fairly hygienic, he was personable and acted friendly enough, albeit in a shy, self-conscious kind of way. Did a guy like him really struggle to meet someone in the real world? Or did he have some deep-rooted personality flaw that I’d yet to discover? Dear God, please don’t let it involve body parts stored in his deep freeze.

      He returned with the drinks and we settled into the now-familiar small talk about Zara’s book, the dating project and Great Morning TV!, before he swayed the conversation into more personal stuff with a, ‘So, Leni, tell me more about you.’

      Ten points deducted off the dating scale for clichéd questioning.

      ‘What would you like to know?’ I asked breezily, while mentally preparing a completely fictitious profile just in case he was contemplating stealing my identity and selling it to Eastern European gang lords so they could obtain false passports for use in sex-trade trafficking. Note to self: must get irrational thoughts under control.

      ‘What kind of music do you like?’

      I made the snap decision that this would be of no relevance whatsoever to Customs and Immigration or whoever dealt with passport applications.

      ‘I think Amy Winehouse is great.’

      ‘Me too! Back to Black was a classic.’

      More things in common!

      ‘And I like loads of bands: Nickelback, the Killers, Razorlight, Snow Patrol…’

      I started to worry that his constant nodding would result in a severe case of whiplash. Call me psychic, but I was beginning to spot a pattern here.

      We were both drinking white wine, both eating Nobby’s finest, our body language identical, and he’d agreed with every single thing that I’d said.

      I decided to test my rapidly forming theory.

      ‘I think Pete Doherty’s a bit of a tit though.’

      ‘Completely! Totally agree.’

      ‘And I love listening to classical stuff in the bath.’

      ‘So relaxing, isn’t it,’ he nodded.

      I had to stop myself from throwing in that I fancied Howard from Take That!, just in case he agreed and was forced to re-evaluate aspects of his core personality.

      He went on to concur with my favourite colour (blue), my favourite car (Ferrari) and my dream holiday (a week on Richard Branson’s Necker with the СКАЧАТЬ