Zara closed her eyes and was silent for a moment, then ‘A thousand pounds–she’ll make more than that opening a new supermarket.’
Did I mention that I’d discovered yet another surprising and fairly scary truth about Zara? Her image might be one of superior spirituality, she might be an earth goddess, she might even live within the principles of karmic equality, but when it came to her bank balance she was as astute as a supremely gifted accountant.
‘Conn asked me to pick up your crystals and organise the house cleaning, so I’ll do that while you’re with your first client. Is there anything else you need me to do?’
‘Yes, could you find out the dress code for the TV Times awards and ask Mrs Chopra to come in to discuss my outfit please.’
I made a note on my pad. Far from sourcing all her clothes in vintage markets and on her Third World travels (as many of her press articles claimed), Zara actually had most of them made by Mrs Chopra, a lovely little Indian lady who ran a sewing business from her two-bedroom terraced house in Hounslow.
I made my way over to my desk and chair–sorry, my cushion and tree stump–in the corner. As my coccyx thumped onto the floor, I reminded myself for the tenth time to pick up a pair of those cycle pants with the padded buttocks. Not a wardrobe item that I’d ever considered I’d need in my professional career.
My eyes immediately went to the red file in the middle of my desk. Or should I say bark? Anyway, no time for semantics because my brain was suddenly beating to the sound of da dum. Da dum. Da dum. Da dum. Then the hand tremors started and a solid mass formed in my throat making swallowing impossible. The da dums were speeding up now. I decided to add a defibrillator to the next office supplies order.
Da dum. Da dum. For two weeks I’d forced myself into denial, hoping that Zara would change her mind, think of a new plan, or get run over by a bus before I had to go through with this ludicrous project, but now the reality was in front of me in black and white–the first of the candidates selected from the bag of replies Zara had received after she’d announced to Goldie that she was looking for blokes who wanted to find their Miss Right.
At the moment I was definitely channelling Miss Absolutely Bloody Wrong.
A new wave of panic began to rise from my toes and stopped somewhere around my aching posterior. Why had I ever thought I could do this? Why? This wasn’t my role in the universe. In our daily existence, Trish took care of ‘fearless, outrageous and blunt to the point of abuse’, Stu took care of ‘gorgeous, thoughtful, funny and hip’, and I took care of ‘safe, dependable and predisposed towards the uneventful’.
I pulled out an A4 sheet of paper with a photograph attached to the top. ‘Harry Henshall’, the title announced. My stomach gave a lurch as I looked at the photograph and realised immediately that he was not exactly my type. Not that I had a ‘type’, as such (other than unreliable and prone to compulsive lying), but Harry looked like a boy-band member…ten years after they’d had a number thirty-two in the charts and split up to pursue solo careers.
I scanned the biography as quickly as possible, panic now at waist height. Harry, it transpired, was twenty-eight and worked in manufacturing for a fabricated panels company, and enjoyed reading, sport and socialising in his spare time. Panic was now competing with thudding heart. It was one thing mortally dreading this whole project, but I was even higher on the terror scale now that it was a reality.
Harry. Leni and Harry. Harry and Leni. Nope, wasn’t feeling it. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t. Very attractive sweat bubbles popped up on the palms of my hands to keep the nausea in my gut company. I wondered if I could get my old job back?
‘Ah, you found it then,’ Zara observed as she hovered over me. ‘We thought he looked like a nice chap. He’s a Leo.’
I wanted to add, ‘Who could also be running late for a meeting with his probation officer.’ I kept it to myself.
‘Now, as I’ve explained before, I’ve devised a new way of reading the stars that will revolutionise the current stereotypes that modern astrology holds for each sign–so I’m not going to give you any advice or background on his astrological character traits before the date. I want you to go in there with no expectations or knowledge whatsoever.’
I presumed that she meant no expectations other than the two I already had. Number one: if Harry had time to send his dating profile in to a telly show then he probably wasn’t beating potential girlfriends off with his love-stick; and number two: fear would kill me before I got there anyway.
‘Now, you have to leave absolutely everything on the date up to him–where you meet, where you go, what you do.’
There went my plan to have a quick drink and then leave–out of the pub’s bathroom window.
She thrust a sheet of A4 paper in front of me.
‘And we do have a few guidelines we’d like you to follow. Obviously you are representing the Delta brand, so we expect you to behave in a manner that won’t reflect badly on us.’
I had to really focus to stop my eyes rolling. This was the woman who had decided to illustrate her femininity by painting the huge canvas that hung in the hallway with her nipples. She had made a client cry last week when she’d told her that her missing Chihuahua had gone to the big kennel in the sky. And she charged celebrities up to three times the going rate. Yet she was concerned that my behaviour would reflect badly on her? Shit, she was looking at me with a really weird expression. Quick, nice things! Think nice things. Bloody, bloody bugger! It was bad enough having to go through with this mad, crazy notion without the constant bloody worry that Zara was reading my mind!
I couldn’t do this. Right now, I just wanted to put my head between my legs and wait for the terror to subside. I had a sudden urge to pen my own autobiographical, inspirational guide that others could learn from: Feel the Fear…then Shake Until Your Nose Bleeds.
‘Now, are you sure that you’re up to the challenge, Leni? Conn and I had a chat and we absolutely realise that this is a rather unusual requirement, so we thought that a bonus of two hundred pounds per night was appropriate, plus of course we’ll pay for all your expenses including transport there and back.’
Urgh, it really annoyed me that she thought I could be bought. I had morals! I had values! And I had a student loan/overdraft combo that was currently sitting at a couple of thousand pounds and could be wiped out by these lovely two-hundred-pound bonuses.
It was decision time. Two choices. Quit or go through with it. Quit. Go through with it. Quit. Quit. My opinions and concerns rose to a crescendo, and were then silenced by a thundering mental roar of Trish’s voice demanding that I pull myself together. I had to do this. I couldn’t quit after just a few weeks–where would that leave me? In the dole queue, skint, and thoroughly depressed that I’d let the prospect of twelve perfectly harmless evenings (with potentially axe-wielding maniacs) deprive me of the most interesting and lucrative job I’d ever had. Deep breath. Deep breath. And for the 243rd time in recent weeks, a silent vow of, ‘I can do this.’
‘Nope, it’s fine–I’m definitely up for the challenge,’ I assured her with an accompanying rallying sweep of my arm for added effect. I could do this (number 244).
‘We’ll also be providing the gent with a hundred pounds to spend–although he can of course exceed this amount at his own expense. You can withdraw the money from our petty cash account and courier it over to him on the afternoon of the date, together with a confidentiality agreement similar to the one you signed when you started here–saves dealing with the admin side of things when you’re out together.’
Great–now they