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

But her observation had already crossed my mind.

I was twenty-seven years old and I’d never had a serious/ humming-the-wedding-march/ flicking-through-bridal-magazines type of relationship. The longest one had been the two years I’d spent with the (as yet) only man I’d ever been in love with: Ben (sob–sorry, still can’t think about him without involuntary gulp and flaring of nostrils), the gorgeous stranger I’d met on a train a couple of years after I’d finished college. We were definitely world leaders in the ‘unlikeliest couple of the year’ award. Me: reserved, prone to wimpish behaviour with an adventure rating that never went any higher than trying a new muffin in Starbucks. Him: a serving marine, six foot four inches of testosterone-oozing manliness who–bearing in mind that he was a trained killing machine–had the sweetest, most caring nature. Unfortunately, at the end of two years I discovered that he also had a wife and child in army barracks in Felixstowe. Turned out that the majority of his ‘covert manoeuvres’ took place well away from the front line. Handling the Taliban must have been light relief after the stress of juggling a wife and a girlfriend, neither of whom had an inkling about the other until…nope, I didn’t even want to think about it. I threw back some more nuts and mentally fast-forwarded to the brutal aftermath that mostly consisted of me lying on the bathroom floor sobbing into the shower curtain, wishing hell and damnation of the entire male species. Since then, I’d just drifted along, embarking on a few flings with obviously incompatible blokes just to give myself a break from serial singledom.

In hindsight, what I should have done was loaded up a backpack and taken my mind off the heartbreak by trekking across Nepal seeking religious enlightenment. Or headed to the Great Barrier Reef to discover the wonders of nature and shallow sexual couplings with long-haired Australian surf dudes. Instead? Same job for years, unexciting love life, and I still lived in the same Slough/Windsor border, one-bedroom flat that I’d been renting since I first moved there. Actually, it was more Slough, but if I hung out of my bedroom window at a forty-five-degree angle clutching a set of binoculars, I could just about make out the castle. Not that I had. Well, only that once, and Mrs Naismith from next door had been holding my ankles to prevent me from plummeting to my death.

I took a long, deep breath, and in the manner of a fearless superhero (aka Nobbygirl), adjusted my jaw to a position of strength and determination. There was no way I wanted to look back on this moment and regret that I hadn’t grabbed the new opportunity with both hands (or at least the one hand that wasn’t busy chucking salted protein nibbles down my throat).

What had I vowed to do at New Year? Carve out a brand new me. And given the reminders of my mundane, deathly boring life and my deeply unsatisfactory romantic history, I was surer than ever that a little bit of crazy unpredictability was exactly what I needed to change my life.

And Zara Delta was definitely a little bit of crazy unpredictability.

‘Now, Zara, I believe you’ve got an exciting new project that you’re working on this year and you need our help,’ said Goldie Gilmartin, the nation’s favourite sofa queen. In her mid-forties with a stunning auburn pixie cut and a body that was no stranger to the gym, Goldie bore more than a passing resemblance to a young Liza Minnelli. The British viewing public loved her, and with her sassy style, forthright manner and compassion-where-it-mattered, she was close to being declared a national treasure .

‘I have, Goldie, and it might just be the most important thing I’ve ever tackled. I don’t want to give too much away, but let’s just say I think I may have the answers for all you single girls out there looking for Mr Right.’

Goldie grinned as she turned to camera. ‘Maybe there’s hope for me yet.’

Goldie’s single status had long been a source of interest to the gossip mags. What they didn’t realise (and we did–courtesy of Trish’s insider information) was that for years she’d been happily having an unorthodox and wildly adventurous relationship with a six-foot-two stripper with the body of an Adonis who was almost twenty years younger than her .

‘Goldie, first book off the press is all yours, darling!’ Zara promised, before turning to the camera. ‘What I need from our viewers are single men. Ladies, is your brother, son or even dad living on microwave dinners for one? Or are you a single guy who is fed up with the dating game? Come on all you loveless gents out there, drop me a line, tell me a bit about yourself, enclose a photo and you could be lucky enough to get chosen to participate in a fabulous new challenge where we’ll set you up on the all-expenses-paid night of your dreams. Dating agencies charge thousands of pounds–we might just be able to find your perfect partner and we’ll do it for free. Intrigued? Well, all will be revealed when my new book is released at the end of the year, but in the meantime I can promise you this–if selected you’ll be in for an adventure that might just lead you to your soul mate.’

‘Great, Zara, thank you for that,’ interjected Goldie as she wound up the segment. ‘Now come on, guys, write in–and if there’s anyone that catches my eye I might just be calling you myself!’

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