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

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He’d been threatening all night to slip Mr Scorpio a telephone number, say it was the National Leprosy Helpline and advise him to give the number a call if he developed any suspicious rashes within five to seven days of meeting me.

      Outside, the wind took my breath away–a natty distraction from the now-familiar shaking hands, dry mouth and sick feeling in my stomach. I could do this. I could. How bad could it be? At least Matt was easy on the eyes and had so far shown no unnatural interest in computer-simulated weaponry.

      I decided to plunge right in before my nerves took hold and I either froze up or started to babble.

      ‘So what would you like to do?’

      ‘Well, if it’s okay with you…’ Caring. Considerate. Consultative.

      ‘…my band got a last-minute gig and…’ Cancelled.

      ‘Sure, it’s no problem, we can meet another night, it’s fine, really, no problem, fine,’ I babbled.

      He laughed and spontaneously leaned over and put a finger to my lips: presumptuous, but strangely I felt absolutely no compulsion to complain.

      ‘I thought–again, if it’s okay with you–that maybe you’d want to come along. It’s only an hour-long set, and then maybe we can go and grab something to eat later. I know a great little Italian place near the club we’re playing in–nothing fancy but it does a great lasagne.’

      Okay, so now I’d been further demoted from ‘date for hire’ to ‘groupie’.

      Fabulous!

      I’d been waiting for this moment since 1995, when I’d discovered a teen mag feature entitled: 101 Ways to Meet Your Favourite Band. I’d tried all 101 of them and never got any further than a signed photo of the drummer from Blur and the threat of a restraining order from a band who had a number 16 hit and then split due to ‘creative differences’. Deep down I always wanted to be one of those cool girls who hung out with musicians. You know, standing at the side of the stage basking in their spotlight, the thrill of the live gig, going from town to town on the tour bus, in a hedonistic world of indulgence and decadence. So my inner rock chick was head-banging in joy at the prospect of being with the band, and it didn’t matter in the least that I’d never heard of them or that when we got to the tiny club there were only about fifty people in the audience. When we walked in and everyone turned to stare, a thrilling shot of adrenalin turned my cheeks purple (a look that was, thankfully, camouflaged by the dim lighting).

      Nirvana blasted from the music system as Matt grabbed a couple of beers from the bar and then took me over and introduced me to the rest of the band, all crowded around a huge amp at one side of the stage and sporting the same image: funky T-shirts, slouchy jeans and bed-hair. The reason that there was a disproportionate number of females in the audience was blindingly clear.

      Oh, the thrill of it. Miss Anxious Plodder, 2009, was now a hip, trendy groupie who was getting on down with a happening band. Groovy.

      Yes, I realised that my internal dialogue had tripped back to the Sixties, but I didn’t care–I had a feeling that tonight was going to be unforgettable.

      How right I was…

       8 Stars in Their Eyes

      ‘I’d like to dedicate this last song to someone special. This is for Leni…’

      The crowd went wild, although it might have had more to do with Matt peeling off his T-shirt than dedicating a tune to some female they’d never met.

      Taking a purely objective viewpoint, I could categorically confirm that The Black Spikes were absolutely brilliant. Turns out I hadn’t been far off when I’d said Matt resembled Paolo Nutini. They had the same hypnotic, gravelly vocals, although Matt’s music was more in the vein of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. As he flipped between rock numbers and a few soulful, heart-melting ballads, I wondered if it was still etiquette in situations such as these to throw one’s knickers at the stage (I suspected that wanton act was the reason that, despite having lust-worthy looks and a great voice, Stu had never pursued a music career–he’d be up there in a surgical facemask hosing down the stage with disinfectant).

      To thunderous applause, Matt gave a final wave and jumped off the stage, clearly buzzed up and looking more alive than anyone I’d ever seen. I suddenly realised that this was why I had embarked on this whole life-change plan. Worry and hesitation be damned! This was what I’d been talking about when I had made that New Year’s resolution to change my life. Right here, right now, this was what I’d been missing for so long–the excitement, the high, the grinning until my jaw hurt. I’d done it!

      ‘What did you think?’

      I decided to play it cool. ‘OH MY GOD YOU WERE AMAZING AND I’VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THAT AND YOU SHOULD HAVE A RECORDING CONTRACT AND YOU JUST WERE SO SO SO BLOODY BRILLIANT.’

      I was playing it cool in a hysterical, babbling sort of fashion.

      He grabbed my hand. ‘C’mon, let’s get out of here. Let me just get a quick shower in the staff room and I’ll be right with you.’

      He tugged my arm and steered me in the direction of the side of the stage, then through a black door that led out of the madness.

      ‘Grab a seat, I’ll be two minutes.’

      Now, that statement might sound utterly innocuous, but–I realised as he flipped open the top button on his jeans and then started on the zip–it depended on what he was planning to do for those 120 seconds and whether or not I’d be forced to witness it or participate. The euphoria was now punctured by just a few shards of apprehension and doubt. Do not panic. Do not panic. Was there a fire-alarm glass I could smash while my inner groupie came to terms with the fact that she was all talk and no action?

      We were in a square room, about ten foot by ten foot with coat pegs lined along every wall and a menagerie of hold-alls and backpacks on the floor. In the corner there was a shower, with only a tattered pink curtain protecting the modesty of the user. The flush of mortification started at my toes and worked its way up until puffs of steam were being ejected from the neck of my T-shirt.

      And still he was unzipping, unzipping…Where the bloody hell was the fire alarm?

      Suddenly he stopped, laughing as his glance went downwards and he realised he’d almost flashed me. ‘Oh shit, sorry! I just…I mean…shit, you must think I’m a complete maniac.’

      A firmly toned, unbelievably cute maniac with the voice of an angel who’d just scared the crap out of me.

      I shrugged, hoping I came across as blasé, cool and collected. Granted, the steam framing my purple face may have given the opposite impression.

      ‘Okay, close your eyes and I’ll tell you when to open them again. Unless you want to wait outside, but the pub’s mobbed and there are no seats in the corridor out there.’

      ‘No, no, it’s…erm, fine. I’m cool.’

      Uurgh–did I really just say ‘I’m cool’? Who did I think I was–Shaft?

      I closed my eyes and listened to the unmistakable sounds of clothes coming off and a shower going on. All the while he was chatting away, giving me the history of the band, how they were hoping that they’d get spotted by some A&R people this year, how they wrote their own music and…

      I tuned him out. Differences between males and females, number 2,343: he’s in the shower, thinking of nothing deeper than whether to use coconut shampoo or just give his hair a quick going-over with the shower gel, meanwhile I’m sitting five yards away thinking that this is the loveliest guy I’ve met in a while and yes, I definitely fancy him and would he ask me out again and what would I say and then what would I do about the other ten dates because surely he wouldn’t want me to go on them and maybe I could broach it with Zara because surely she’d understand. Of course,

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