Amy Cole has lost her mind: The perfect laugh out loud, feel-good comedy (The Amy Cole series Book 1)

by Elizabeth McGivern

  “I’ve always admired the way you were so comfortable with eating whatever the heck you wanted and never exercised – unless you call that sprint you'd do to the canteen when someone told us there was cake, amIright?”

  The last part was spoken in an unbearably obnoxious fake American accent.

  God, was she always this annoying?

  I didn't chance looking at Elle in case she was trying to see what vibrator she could impale this wretch with.

  “Look, I have to go I just have so much to do and some of us still have a little career to get on with,” she continued. “Ugh, I’m just so jealous of all your free time and you’re looking just lovely. Really…‘you’, you know?

  “We totally have to catch up and I mean it this time. I know you’re free all the time, Miss No-job, but I will have to check my diary and text. I’d better run before I spend another obscene amount of money in there. I keep telling myself: ‘Rita I know you have all this money but stop dropping £249 on lingerie.’ I’m just so crazy like that. So, so good to see you.”

  And just like that, she was gone leaving little miss no-job and her friend with the ripped skirt in her wake.

  “What just happened?” asked Elle, as she came out of a type of trance, “That poor woman.”

  “I’m sorry, poor her? She managed to rip me to pieces in under a minute. How insulting could she have been about my life, whilst simultaneously bragging about her own? That was repulsive.”

  “Yeah, maybe; but how sad must she be about her own life if she feels the need to boast about it constantly and put you down? I feel sorry for her.”

  “You never react the way I think you’re going to, Elle.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  We meandered through the rows and rows of sex toys and my novice nature was clearly etched on my face because a walking, talking, fetus with a name-tag approached me to ask if I needed help.

  “I don’t want to be incredibly condescending here but I have stretch marks that are older than you, I really don’t want to take sex advice from a tiny child,” I said.

  She mumbled ‘bitch’ under her breath, and I didn’t blame her. Nerves hadn’t brought out the best in my character but I wasn’t in the mood to be polite to a teenager who wanted to talk to me about my clitoris.

  “Amy, over here,” called Elle from the back of the shop.

  She was pulling up black latex gloves that went right over her elbow and she was looking fierce. I was terrified.

  “Imagine rocking up to Smug Club with these bad boys on, eh? Throw me the whip over, this is epic.”

  That was a sentence I wasn’t expecting to hear this morning, but I obliged. The sound from the first crack of the whip made the grumpy fetus assistant come over and ask again if she could help us.

  “You’ve got a challenge on your hands tonight. We’re going to kit out that very nervous looking woman over there and make her feel like an empowered, sex goddess, you got it?” Elle asked.

  “We’re closing in a half hour,” she replied, dryly.

  “Then you’d better move quick, darling,” replied Elle.

  She looked me up and down, trying to figure my size – well, that’s what I hoped she was doing – and walked off.

  “What’s her problem?”

  “I may have been one of those horrible customers who are mean to young people about three minutes ago.”

  “Ah. Well, then we'll be lucky if she brings back anything other than one of those giant inflatable penis costumes. Will that work?”

  “Not funny.”

  Despite my rudeness, the grumpy fetus (real name: Lucy) brought back a selection of rather nice – albeit flimsy – lingerie. I was pushed into a changing room and faced with a cornucopia of choice, I nervously tried on the first item my hands reached.

  It was lilac. I hated lilac.

  It reminded me of my granny’s house. I dutifully pulled the satin material over my head and shimmied around to make sure it was covering all the lumps and bumps.

  “I don’t feel very sexy,” I called out to Elle.

  “I’ll be the judge of that, come out so I can have a look.”

  I walked out and was greeted with a large belly-laugh from Elle and a look of confusion from Lucy.

  “Man, alive! Amy, you're still wearing a bloody sports bra underneath, of course, you don't feel sexy. There's more material in that sorry excuse of a bra than the rest of the outfit.”

  “I thought it was more hygienic to keep it on,” I pleaded.

  “It’s yellow, and I can see stains on it. Is it meant to be white?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember, it’s been in my possession for… a while.”

  The yellowing material squashed down my chest into one tube-like mound and wasn’t doing the sweetheart neckline of the lilac baby-doll nightie any favours.

  “I’ll go get some bras while we’re at it,” offered Lucy.

  When she left, Elle pushed me back into the changing room and ordered me to take off the “monstrosity” that was my bra and promise to burn it when I got home.

  The rest of the exercise was slightly more successful. I stayed firm on my stance of anything that resembled floss was to be kept away from my nether regions and we eventually settled on a black frilly number that helped keep things up where they were meant to. It also sucked in some of the mum-tum I was sporting.

  I had to admit that I was impressed when I looked at the woman in the mirror. With a bit of lippy, she could pass for an attractive specimen that may even get her husband interested in putting down his phone for the evening to look at her.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Lucy asked, already hoping we’d leave so she could close up and get home.

  “Yes, let’s see some bondage stuff,” said a gleeful, Elle.

  “Bondage? Are you kidding me?” I was already out of my depth by purchasing the black frilly napkin that I was trying to pass off as underwear.

  “Trust me, you’re going to need this with the next part of ‘Operation Sex Kitten’”

  “This humiliation has an operational name now, great!”

  Lucy brought over a selection of bizarre looking items, one of which was a ball gag.

  “No, just no. Let me stop you there, Lucy.”

  “These are just suggestions. Have you ever done a lap dance?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah, quite a few when I was an exotic dancer on my last maternity leave. It was just to help keep the finances afloat.”

  “Really?” asked the shocked looking assistant.

  “No, Lucy. I was not an exotic dancer but was there really need for that much shock on your face?”

  “I just thought with your thighs it was a pretty risky employment. Dancers need to have these strong thighs for the pole dancing bits and yours, well, they’re kind of flabby.”

  The silence was deafening as Elle and I just stared at her. While I was trying to decide which thickness of leather restraint would be best to strangle her with, Elle stepped in and thanked her for her help.

  After Lucy strutted back to the till to start cashing up, Elle said:

  “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, I think you could crush a man with those thighs.”

  I flopped down on the hard-plastic seat and let the feeling of utter shame wash over me.

  “What am I doing here?” I said. “If I show up in this stupid black thing Ben won’t know whether to laugh or run for the hills. This isn’t me.”

  “That’s the point though, isn’t it? Getting out of your usual routine and doing something new? Please remember this whole makeover nonsense, or whatever you want to call it, isn’t about pleasing him. Think of it as a self-care session for you.”

  My look of complete disbelief was enough to spur her on.

  “You are never going to get over this sex drought with Ben until you start looking in the mirror and liking what you see. When you feel sexy, you’ll want him to see you that way. It’s empowering, not degrading or like y
ou’re tarting yourself up just to keep him happy. It’s a win-win. Don’t you remember the feeling of being desired when you first started going out with him? With anyone? It’s intoxicating. I used to get such a high from the thought of this person being so obsessed with wanting to sleep with me that I would glow. Screw that pregnancy glow crap, I’m all about the pre-shag glow.”

  I laughed despite myself, and I figured I’d got this far I might as well go fully down the rabbit hole.

  “So, what's this stuff then?” I asked as I gestured to the array of straps, whips and what I think was some kind of clamp.

  “Lucy may have been on to something you know.”

  “Yeah? Well, the world of erotica has nothing to fear because I don’t have any immediate plans to take up a new career as a dominatrix.”

  “I’m talking about the lap dance.”

  “No.”

  “Hear me out,” she pleaded.

  “No, Elle.”

  “Look, I’m not talking about some choreographed Broadway number, I’m just saying that a little dance would definitely surprise him. You don’t even need this overpriced crap anyway, he could definitely gnaw his way out of these restraints no bother.”

  “Gnaw his way out? What the actual —”

  “Shhh, calm down, you’re doing that bulgy, angry eye look. Just sit him down on a chair in the bedroom, whack a couple of candles around the place, throw on a tune and wiggle your arse in that black thing and you’re sorted. He’ll think all his birthdays have come at once.”

  I had a list as long as my arm about the reasons why I wouldn’t be agreeing to this suggestion but I was tired. I also wanted to get away from the judgmental gaze of Lucy, so I just said ‘ok’ in the hope that would be the end of the conversation.

  It wasn’t.

  The whole way home it was a barrage of questions like what moves had I planned? What music did I have in mind? Did I want her to make a playlist for me?

  Staring out the window and largely ignoring these questions didn’t work so I decided to change the subject.

  “Are you going home to sit with your mother-in-law now?”

  “I’d forgotten about that.”

  I knew that would get the attention off me, yes it was a cheap tactic but it worked for now and that’s all I needed. I waved her off to deal with her in-law and I managed to arrive back home in the middle of bedtime chaos.

  “Arthur, for the last time: where are your pants?” demanded Ben.

  Another joy of parenthood is the bedtime routine. You may not believe it but the noise and the general shouting match was monumentally better than the infant days of night-feeds and the fifteen other times they used to wake up for no real reason. It was like surviving years of medieval torture methods and still loving those that put you through it.

  “Hey, Mum’s back!” shouted Ben. “Tag, you’re it.”

  He grabbed his phone and ran up the stairs to retreat into his sanctuary – the toilet.

  The amount of time that man spends in the toilet could be an entry in the Guinness Book of Records. I knew he was just sitting there, scrolling through his phone until he could hear the shouting or the tantrums come to an end. I don’t call after him, to be honest it gave me a break from him too.

  “Right, boys,” I said in my best authoritative voice, “Time to go to bed and leave your parents alone for a whole ten hours.”

  All three of us laughed because we knew it would be at least half that before one, or both of them snuck into my bed for some made-up reason.

  I tucked each of them in and said a silent prayer – to any deity that may have been passing by the house at that particular moment – asking that I get a night of uninterrupted sleep.

  Just as I was about to close the door and run down the stairs to freedom, and be reunited with my neglected phone, Adam took the opportunity to ask: “Mummy?”

  “Yes, sweety?”

  “When are you going to die?”

  Crap.

  “Not anytime soon, my love.”

  “Like what age?”

  “I’ll be at least a hundred.”

  “That’s not that far away.”

  Seriously? Kids are such jerks.

  “It’s a long, long, long time away actually. Go to sleep.”

  I closed the door and decided to start using the expensive night cream that promised to make me look ten years younger overnight, or something like that.

  I settled down on the sofa and my husband miraculously appeared out of the bathroom. He was also ready for our evening of staring at our phones whilst simultaneously pretending to be interested in whatever was on the tv.

  “Did you get anything nice when you were out?” he asked.

  I decided that I should start setting the groundwork for the sensual extravaganza I had planned for Friday night. I’m cringed even thinking about it.

  “That would be telling, now wouldn’t it?” I said in my best flirty voice.

  “Are you getting the cold? What’s wrong with your voice?”

  Yeah, that reaction sounds about right.

  I tried again, committed to humiliating myself as much as possible. “I just mean I have a sexy surprise arranged for you, this weekend. You eh… gorgeous, piece of ass.”

  Where the hell did that even come from? Please let the ground swallow me up.

  To say that Ben looked disturbed was an understatement, it probably didn’t help that we were both sporting matching looks of confusion and embarrassment.

  “Did you have wine while you were out? Or hit your head? Should I call for an ambulance?”

  “Jesus, Ben! I’m trying here, can you work with me please?”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sat down his phone and said: “Sexy surprise sounds great, and you also have a nice bum.”

  A look of panic was etched on his face but I decided we were going to power through this horrendous attempt at dirty talk.

  “Thank you, sexy. Sometimes I do squats.”

  “I can tell?”

  “Can you tell? Are you asking a question? Never mind, just say something else.”

  “Can we just kiss, Amy? I’m rubbish at this.”

  “No, this is all part of the seduction before Friday. Now, tell me what you want to do right now?”

  “I want to watch that zombie show we like, it’s coming on now.”

  “I forgot about that. Yeah, shove that on.”

  I reasoned there would be plenty of time after the show to pick up where we left off. Besides, we wouldn’t want too much practice at it. It was meant to be natural and romantic not like a pre-scripted performance.

  I fell asleep on the sofa before the end of the show and we went to bed, side by side, but barely touching as usual. We didn’t even kiss good-night anymore. I was convinced one of these days he was going to ask for a ‘fist-bump’ to end the day.

  As he snored beside me, I picked up my phone and decided to call in reinforcements. I frantically texted my sex guru and awaited instruction on how I could turn this train around.

  Amy: I tried to talk dirty to Ben. It didn’t go well; It’s possible I’m not as sexy as previously believed. Help.

  It didn’t take long for her to reply with her usual sensitivity to my personal life.

  Elle: I would give anything to have heard that. Did you tell him to keep the lights on when you shagged?

  Firstly, I would never have the lights on, that’s just off-putting for everyone but her smugness about how bad I was at this was unnerving.

  Amy: Just shut up and help me. Joseph’s tomorrow. Operation Sex Kitten is a go-go.

  There was no harm in getting a refresher course in what constitutes as sexy these days and even if was a waste of time I reasoned I could get some launch night work done.

  Elle: Alright Princess, we’ll get that libido going and I will enjoy your painful expression as you try to say the word ‘moist’ without dying of embarrassment. Lulla, out x

  Chapter 19

&
nbsp; The next day, Elle and I sat in the pretty little yard area of the café. We were surrounded by compost, ceramic plant pots, brightly coloured flowers and enough solar lighting to give the Vegas Strip a run for its money. We had been working sporadically in this area over the last few weeks.

  It had been used for empty boxes and random equipment that no longer worked. Joseph was a hoarder and instead of clearing this space for something pretty, like a little summer terrace, he would rather it be the burial ground for all the old sinks and dismantled extractor fans that time forgot. He’d given up arguing with us when we had a new idea, as long as the customers kept walking through the door he didn’t really interfere with our great vision.

  I liked it out here, I wished my garden would look as pretty. Mine still looked like it belonged in a dystopian universe. I liked to think that this was some sort of mindfulness exercise, but it was hard to be present and ‘in the moment’ when Elle kept asking me uncomfortable questions like: “Does Ben enjoy getting his arse played with?”

  I was hoping that ‘Operation Sex Kitten’ would be forgotten about. I was stupid to have even texted her about my failed attempt at dirty talk. I knew I was never going to live this down, but I was running out of time and soon I would have to face the music with Ben.

  To be honest, it was more of a countdown to drinking wine so I could feel confident enough to wear very little clothing and hope that I’m not rejected by my husband. Last night was more than a knock to my confidence but I was just going to have to bull through and hope that everything would just fall into place.

  “You’re going to have to talk me through the whole dirty talk scenario,” she asked.

  “No, I really don’t. It was just horrendous and I don’t want to even think about it, let alone talk about it.”

  “Why don’t you text him some smut now, I’ll help you. It’s been ages since I’ve had a good sexting session. Keith was always great at it; to be fair to him he was pretty great at all the sex stuff. He is just a useless husband and father.”