“That is a lot of makeup for someone who doesn’t wear any,” I said.
“That’s a laugh, it takes a hell of a lot of makeup to make it look like I’m wearing fuck all, trust me.”
I made her promise to keep me pale and not put enough slap on that Ben wouldn't be able to pick me out of a line-up. After a half hour, she handed me a mirror, I could have cried but it would have spoiled the mascara – I looked beautiful.
I was pale and beautiful with subtle smoky eyes and suspiciously fuller looking lips. I was so happy. Elle marvelled at her handy work and called the girls in to praise me, too. I left her house with a glow and went home to try and make the house look a bit more romantic, as well as change into the dreaded black number.
But first: wine.
I didn’t mind stopping at the off license this early in the day because I was so dolled up people would have to assume I was going to some party and was not in fact an alcoholic. As I turned to leave, I caught my server give me a wink. Usually, I would have been disgusted by this but my new look was bringing out the unbearably shallow part of me that screamed: “he thinks I look pretty.”
Eleanor Roosevelt would be disgusted with you.
I decided on the fancy ready meals from the supermarket. That way, we could have something nice to eat without the hassle of me actually having to cook it and him running the risk of food poisoning.
Nothing kills romance dead like hearing your lover excrete the entire contents of their bowels over the course of a few hours.
I picked a white wine to go with the fish dish; I didn't give more thought to the drink choice than that. I just remembered being told that white wine went with fish. I don't know what kind of white goes with which kind of fish but I was pretty sure that the one that was on offer for ‘three bottles for £12’ would go down a treat. I wasn’t exactly a sommelier.
I had my first glass of Dutch courage before I’d even taken my coat off. I decided to put some music on while I ‘prepared’ the food and cleaned about the kitchen. I dug out all the tea-light candles I could find, from under the sink, and started indiscriminately placing them all over the room.
I was pleased by my natural knack for romance and decided to head upstairs to find a suitable dress to wear to dinner. I didn't think the lingerie was a suitable choice for the meal.
Maybe it is? No – what if one of my nipples pop out as I cut into my food, that’s just not pleasant for anyone.
I imagined when other people look through their wardrobe they decide on which colour would best suit them for that particular occasion; when I look at mine I’m greeted with a sea of black. Black for every occasion just about works for me. My version of a ‘summer wardrobe’ is the time of year I changed the black tights and boots for black leggings and sandals. I hated shopping at the best of times but now I wished I had something remotely fancy for the evening. I settled for a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, my defence being that the lingerie will make up for the seeming lack of effort I had made.
I put the food in the oven and remembered to take the plastic wrap off so we wouldn't have ingested something a lot dodgier than my normal cooking. I looked at the clock and realised there was at least an hour before Ben would be coming home. I poured myself another glass of wine and settled down to the kitchen table. I was too antsy to scroll through my usual social media sites, so I decided to video call Mum and see how she was holding up with the boys.
She answered almost instantly, meaning she had the phone in her hand.
Welcome to the lazy parenting club, Mum.
So far all I could see was the pink tinge of skin, no doubt she had put the phone up to her ear to speak without realising it was a video call.
“Mum put the camera down towards your face, I can't see you,” I shouted.
“Oh! Hang on. Right, there we go. Hello Amy.”
“Hi, Mum. How are the boys?”
“You could have warned me about the utter nonsense that goes on at that school run, I thought your father was going to have a heart attack with the stress of it all.”
“Isn’t video calling fun? This way you can give out to my face, as if I were really there.”
“Stop the dramatics, Amy, you know I mean well,” she snapped.
“How are the boys?” I asked, again.
“They’re fine, they’re helping their grandfather in the garden. They’re digging, or something, I don’t really know. I needed them out from under me while I typed a review.”
About two years ago my mother discovered the Internet and ever since she has managed to go international with her withering criticisms. She’s not an Internet troll per se; she just likes to leave overly harsh reviews for anywhere she’s ever been. It keeps her happy and she finds it much more satisfying than snail mail. Gone are the days when she would write letters to places she was disappointed in and receive a politely worded reply (if any). Now she was given instant access to those that ‘wronged’ her.
“Have they had dinner?”
“We're getting chips from the takeaway place I like – although I did tell them they were on thin ice with our custom if they kept being so liberal with the salt.”
“Send me pictures of them.”
“Of the chips?”
“No Mum, of the boys.”
“Why?”
“So I can see what they’re doing. I miss them, the house is quiet.”
“Well, you should have thought about that before you palmed them off on your elderly parents so you could laze around. Wouldn’t get that in my day, that’s for sure. My mother had spent her life raising her own children, she would never have agreed to start raising mine. You have it lucky.”
“Goodbye, Mum. I’ll phone you in the morning.”
Usually, my reply would have been quite snippy and I would have spent the evening re-running what I should have said. However, that wasn’t going to happen tonight. Tonight, I was relaxed and happy to sip my wine while I waited for my husband to come home. We were going to have a nice dinner, free from forkful negotiations and the word ‘poo’.
I could feel my whole body relax with every sip.
There were still forty five minutes on the clock and I was at a loss as to how to kill the time. I grabbed my phone and decided to put on some music. I was beginning to regret not taking Elle up on her offer to make a playlist for the evening, I had no idea what music goes with fish.
I decided to look up ‘romantic songs’. The usual cheesy nonsense came up, ones that are played at every single wedding you’ve ever been to. I knew they would be fine for ambience over dinner, but it wouldn't really suit dessert.
By ‘dessert’ I meant: the awkward sexual encounter I was preparing for by drinking my second glass of wine.
I changed tact and decided to try ‘sexy songs’. I barely recognised any of the titles in this category, owing to the fact that I only listened to radio stations that played songs from the eighties.
I clicked on the first playlist I could find and tapped my feet along with the synthesized beat. It was quite catchy and it definitely went with my wine.
I could be a sommelier yet. There’s a summery beat with a touch of autumnal grape. Maybe, I’m not ready for that change of career just yet.
I sat in my chair, listening to the next song and the next. They all sounded pretty similar and I had to keep checking my phone to make sure I hadn't just hit repeat on the very first one. The wine made my head feel a bit lighter and my legs were beginning to feel numb. My blissful state was interrupted by the timer on my phone alerting me to put on the remainder of the ready-meal containers. I had this romantic night in the bag. I loved feeling this smug about my abilities in the kitchen. It was easy when all I had to do was put things in the oven and pour myself another half glass of wine.
Just a half, I don’t want to get too sloppy before he even gets home.
By the time I heard Ben’s keys jingle in the door I had finished my sensible half glass and was concerned that there was ba
rely a glass left in the bottle for Ben.
Clever me for buying three.
He came in to find me half dancing, half swaying to the music. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling, but he wasn’t frowning, so I must not have looked too drunk.
He gave me a kiss on the forehead and I pulled his hips towards me to make him dance along to the music. Almost instantly he removed my hands and said he was going upstairs to get changed.
“Don’t you mean ‘get naked’?” I said, a little too eagerly.
“Eh, no. Just getting out of my work clothes.”
What a spoilsport. This is going to be harder than I thought.
I was thankful for the wine in my bloodstream and found myself getting more into the music, with every passing second.
“Young people have it so lucky with this music,” I called up to Ben. “I can definitely see myself in some hot new nite club gyrating to this with a toyboy.”
He didn’t answer.
My fantasy about the toyboy was getting a bit too graphic so I decided that maybe the wine was going to my head. I should go back to the romantic old tunes over dinner instead. I found a suitable selection of crooners while I dished out the food.
I was pleased to find that nothing was burnt – nor had any of the packaging melted onto the food.
I considered getting rid of the packaging to try and convince him that I had made it all from scratch but because he once thought my attempt at risotto was ‘gruel’ I didn’t think I would get away with it.
I served up the food as delicately as I could and waited for him to come down the stairs. As I was about to sit down I realised that I hadn't lit the candles so I scurried around the room lighting them and burning my fingers with wax nearly every time I set one down. I had two large candles on the table and managed to light them without setting the tablecloth on fire, so again, things were going well.
I couldn’t tell if Ben was blown away by the romantic setting he came into or if he was completely overwhelmed by the heat from the dozens of candles and the oven.
Did he just say ‘wow’ or ‘phew’? Best not dwell on it.
“Come and sit down, enjoy this food and sit down,” I announced.
“You said ‘sit down’ twice,” he replied as he wiped his forehead. “Bit warm with all the candles, isn’t it?”
“It’s called setting the mood and I am here to tell you, Mr Cole, the mood is being set.”
“Are you ok?”
“Yes, I’m more than great, I’m ok.”
He spotted the empty bottle of wine and said:
“Started the party without me I see?”
“Oh stop with the judgy judgment eyes. It helped me create this magnificent feast I’ve put together. Besides, there’s more wine in the fridge and I really think I’ve picked correctly because I’ve decided that I could be a Somali.”
“What?”
“A wine expert, it’s a legitimate career and I think I have the knack for it.”
“A sommelier?”
“Yes, now stop yammering and we’ll sit down and have a nice meal together and be nice to each other.”
So far, I was confident that he hadn’t picked up quite how tipsy I was, but I thought I should slow down my wine intake just in case. I handed him a glass and I sat down opposite him. I thought each of us sitting at either end of the table would make it feel like we were at a banquet. The problem was I couldn’t actually see his face because the two giant candles were in the way. It was quite disconcerting having a romantic meal with a talking candle. I felt a bit like Moses and his burning bush.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“The usual, just chiselling the Ten Commandments and such.”
“That sounds nice,” he said absentmindedly, as he picked through the meal in front of him, in search of raw fish. I didn’t mind that he wasn’t listening to my reply, I barely listened to him when he droned on about work either, but that was the problem here: complacency.
“Ben, I know you’re just a talking candle right now but I think we should be making the most of this evening and actually listen to each other. For God’s sake, stop inspecting your food! If I wanted to kill you I would have smothered you in your sleep years ago.”
“And they say romance is dead,” he replied.
I moved the candles over to the sideboard and was instantly assured that I was, in fact, talking to a human.
After that, the rest of the meal went well. We spoke – and listened – to each other as the wine flowed. It was so relaxing to enjoy each other’s company and it made me realise it had been a long time since we had made the effort to do so. We’d been so preoccupied with just functioning day-to-day we had forgotten to actually live as well.
When dinner was over, we left the dishes at the table and walked hand-in-hand into the living room. We were both a bit giddy and I had even convinced him to dance a little with me to the music on the television.
“This isn’t that bad,” he conceded.
“I know. I thought this young people music was all a bit naff but this is grand.”
I gave him a kiss and it went on for longer than I expected. Things were definitely heading in the right direction so I asked him to wait on the sofa and enjoy the warbles of one of those miserable-looking teenagers while I slipped into something else.
I tried to wink at him, but the weight of the fake eyelashes and the wine just made me do a prolonged blink. By the time I opened my eyes again Ben was looking at me and trying to figure out if I had, actually, just fallen asleep on my feet.
I ran up the stairs two at a time and by the time I got to the top I needed to dry heave.
I really need to exercise more.
I stood at the top, leaning up against the bannister and holding my side which had sprung a painful stitch. The recovery was taking a worryingly long time.
Why didn’t I just walk up the bloody stairs?
I pulled out my secret purchase from the bottom of my wardrobe and laid it out on the bed.
Along with the black ‘thing’, Elle had also convinced me to buy a suspender belt and stockings. She assured me these extra details would make him ‘blow his mind and his load.’
I felt ill when she said that.
Setting my nausea aside, I started to get ready and pulled the labels off with my teeth. I laughed at the thought of him seeing me now – hopping on one foot trying to get the damned thing on – it wasn’t exactly graceful or sexy. I was thankful he would only see the finished article: a sweaty, out of breath, finished article.
I was trying my very best to rub the stockings up my legs. I had a terrible habit of ripping at least one pair of tights before even getting out the door and I didn’t have a spare pair of these. Something told me my thermal navy woolly tights wouldn't really go with the rest of the ensemble.
After ten minutes of struggling with this contraption, I was tired, hot and not feeling in the least bit sexy. I decided to lie down on the bed to get my composure and when I closed my eyes I could feel the room spinning. I wasn't sure if I was that unfit or if I was drunk. Either way, I had to stand up in case I vomited or fell asleep. I took one last look in the mirror and decided that ‘Operation Sex Kitten’ was a success.
I looked like a new woman – this may have had something to do with the fact that my eyesight was a bit blurry and I wasn't entirely sure that it was me in the mirror. The wine had given me the false bravado I needed, but also made it difficult to see two feet in front of me.
At the last minute I grabbed a pair of stupidly high heels and popped them on. As I tottered down the stairs I heard that Ben had decided he was no longer impressed with the ‘new chart releases’ and had switched something a bit more mellow. I think that was Neil Diamond.
Please don’t be Neil Diamond I can’t bear to think about him and what he may or may not do with hamsters. That’s not sexy. Think sexy thoughts, think sexy thoughts…
New stationery.
Organised Tupperware
cupboards with no lids missing.
Brand new bed sheets.
Yeah, that's the stuff, now we're back on track.
I shouted to Ben to change the music and strip down to his underwear while I wobbled my way into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Now was my time to shine and I didn't want to ruin it by falling head first into the fireplace.
Can you imagine the absolute mortification of going to A&E on a Friday night for stitches on your forehead because you were trying to be sexy? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
I found the remains of my last glass of wine from dinner and decided that a final shot of courage would help things go smoother rather than water.
Once I let that settle in my stomach, I had a flash of inspiration. If I was really going to score, tonight, I was going to have to really sell this new, sexy persona of mine.
I grabbed one of the giant candles from the sideboard and dragged one of the kitchen chairs behind me into the living room. With each step, I dropped another blob of wax onto my wooden floor and I remained thankful that I hadn’t relented and put carpet everywhere like my mother suggested. She was convinced the house would be perpetually cold with wood and tiles everywhere – ‘sterile’ I believe she called it.
Stop thinking about your mother, you weirdo. Sexy thoughts, come on!
Parallel parking in one go.
That time you had no make-up on and got carded for wine.
Remembering every word to that Missy Elliot song you like and not messing it up.
Ok, we’re back in business.
I made my grand entrance and awaited my husband’s gasp of disbelief at the sex goddess that lay before him.
He was asleep.
“Ben!” I screamed.
There wasn’t a hope in hell that this was the way the night was ending. He jumped out of his skin and rubbed his eyes.
He looked more terrified than aroused. In his defence, he had been woken up by a flushed looking dominatrix wielding a candle.
“I’m awake,” he said, drowsily. “Well don’t you look… cute.”
Cute? What am I, a puppy?
Amy Cole has lost her mind: The perfect laugh out loud, feel-good comedy (The Amy Cole series Book 1) Page 17
