Relight my Fire

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Thought you might need it,’ she stated as she advanced upon my desk. ‘Nice office. Smaller than I imagined.’

  Imagined? She’d literally only found out where I worked ten minutes ago.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The second person to ask this was Frank. Frank who’d bounded to my desk the moment he’d seen the blonde woman with the big fake tits approach it.

  ‘Sorry, Sarah was just returning my umbrella,’ I informed him, watching his face light up as she smiled at him.

  ‘Sarah, this is my boss Frank. Frank, this is—’

  ‘Sarah Ward-Wilson,’ she interrupted, sticking out her hand. ‘Sorry to interrupt, I just hated the thought of my good friend Phoebe being caught in the rain without her umbrella. Her car had a flat this morning, so I gave her a lift.’

  Good friend? I don’t even know her phone number.

  Frank laughed. ‘I thought she’d made that whole car story up. Well, that was kind of you. Phoebe’s very lucky to have you.’

  He’s talking about me like I’m a five-year-old. There was a pause while they both just smiled at each other; Frank adjusting his tie and blingy watch, while Sarah groomed her hair into place. Oh dear God, they were flirting and it was weird.

  I glanced at Lucy who’d noticed this too and was now pulling a wtf face from behind her desk. I coughed loudly, snapping them both out of their disgusting display of mutual attraction. I couldn’t cope with this shit at 9.30 a.m.

  ‘So . . . thanks, Sarah,’ I said, standing up between them. ‘I’d better get on with some work now. I’m sure you have a busy day ahead, too.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘OK, good. Bye now and thanks again.’

  Frank sidestepped me and cleared his throat. ‘Let me show you to the lift, Sarah. It’s just this way . . .’

  I watched dumbstruck as Frank led Sarah out of the office while Lucy rang my desk.

  ‘How do you know a Real Housewife?’

  ‘She’s that woman from the nursery I’ve told you about. Husband had the affair.’

  ‘Oh shit, that’s her?! Bloody hell, I thought Frank was going to faint. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people flirt so openly in my life. Shit, he’s coming back. Speak later.’

  For the rest of the day, I tried to ignore what I’d just witnessed but it was impossible. Somehow, the two most frustrating people that I’ve ever known have unexpectedly met. And I have the feeling it won’t be the last time.

  Thursday June 29th

  Today was my little Molly’s last day at nursery. Ever. They gathered all the kids in the brightly-decorated classroom and the parents watched as they were presented with A4-sized graduation certificates and their very first school tie. Oliver grinned so much I thought his face might split in two but me, I cried. Not an embarrassing wail, just a small blub, interspersed with sniffing and assuring Oliver I was fine. I could tell that Sarah Ward-Wilson wasn’t handling it very well either. This was the last of her brood now headed for Primary School and her mascara was making its way towards her chin in protest.

  I agreed to go into work tomorrow instead of using another holiday to witness this strangely traumatic event. Afterwards we took Molly for lunch to celebrate her successfully playing with other kids for two years.

  However, this now means that Molly is free to roam in the wild for six bloody weeks before school starts all over again. SIX WEEKS! We’re all doomed.

  July

  Saturday July 1st

  SPA TRIP!

  Having agreed to drive, I picked up Lucy and Hazel at half past ten this morning, giddy with excitement. Even though it would take less than an hour to get there, I’d loaded my iPod with tunes and provided granola breakfast bars for everyone.

  Lucy looked like she was going on holiday; hair swept back in a bandana, massive sunglasses and a small glittery overnight case. Hazel wore her gym gear, putting my flabby ass to shame.

  ‘I think you are my body goal,’ I admitted as she bounced into the back seat. ‘Jesus, do you have any extra body fat, woman? I have some to spare if you need it.’

  She laughed. ‘Stop it. Though, if you want to lend me your tits for an evening, I’m pretty sure Kevin would thank you.’

  The weather was beautiful, which of course meant everyone within a twenty-mile radius had decided to leave the house and drive slowly in front of us. Still, we had a playlist full of Garbage, Basement Jaxx, Bowie and Fun Lovin’ Criminals to pass the time.

  An hour and ten minutes later, we pulled into Cameron House, which sat on the banks of Loch Lomond. We couldn’t have chosen a more beautiful day to sit inside and sweat profusely in a sauna.

  ‘Look, Lucy!’ I exclaimed. ‘There’s another Loch for you to misidentify.’

  Hazel sniggered while Lucy muttered for me to shut my wee face before exiting the car. As our rooms wouldn’t be ready until later, we left our small amount of luggage and caught the shuttle service to the spa.

  It was a riot. Our first treatment required us to cover each other in mud before sitting in a steam room laughing at how fucking ridiculous we looked. This was then followed by showering, more showering and cries of ‘get this fucking stuff off me’ until we were clean. I fell asleep during my massage and Hazel got uncontrollable giggles during her facial, so much so that the therapist had to leave the room and come back when she’d calmed down.

  We got back to the hotel around 3 p.m., where we’d booked a room for Hazel on her own while Lucy and I shared. We could have gone for a stroll, or to the boathouse, but instead we chose to pass out face first until dinner.

  We ate in the Grill restaurant, which was a tad old-fashioned for Lucy, but we dressed up, drank champagne and put the world to rights over stuffed Dover Sole and flambéed prawns.

  Lucy was the first to show signs of alcohol mismanagement. ‘Do you realise that by Christmas I’ll be a married woman?! I’m the last one to finally reach maturity.’

  I poured myself more wine. ‘Nonsense. I spend many days in bed pretending to be Jason Voorhees on the PlayStation. I hope I never mature. Hazel is the only proper grown up here.’

  ‘It’s true,’ she agreed. ‘Husband, kid, mortgage, self-assessment . . . God, I’m dull. Did I ever tell you that I spent the night in the cells when I was twenty?’

  Lucy’s glass hit the table with a loud thunk. ‘Shut. Up. You did not!’

  She nodded proudly. ‘Yep. I fell asleep on a bus, gave the driver grief, passed out again and he called the police. I was far too drunk to remember where I lived so they banged me up for the night. I USED TO BE WILD AND IRRESPONSIBLE.’

  A couple in their sixties glared at us as they exited the dining room. It seems Hazel was just as tipsy as Lucy and also a hooligan in a previous life. It seems we’re all struggling with the realisation that being an adult is shite.

  Sunday July 2nd

  Devoured a massive, sausage-heavy breakfast at the hotel this morning so felt pretty sluggish most of the day. Lucy and Hazel recovered from their hangovers impressively quickly and were both delightfully chipper on the drive home – well, until a wasp flew near Lucy’s open window and she had a small heart attack.

  When I arrived back at the flat, Oliver and Molly were having a jammies day and sat cuddled up on the sofa watching some old episodes of He-Man that Oliver had found online.

  ‘Enjoying yourselves?’ I enquired, chucking my overnight bag into the bedroom. ‘I haven’t seen this show in years!’

  Molly was too engrossed to welcome me home, simply nodding in response.

  ‘I’d forgotten how brilliant it is . . . well, was,’ Oliver replied, motioning for me to come and join them, which I did, pulling the blanket from the back of the couch over me.

  ‘You smell like a Yankee candle,’ Oliver noted, sniffing my hair. ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘I’m freakin’ exhausted,’ I replied. ‘De-stressing has de-stroyed me.’

  ‘You’re such a lightweight.’

  ‘That’s blatantly
untrue.’

  Twenty minutes later I was asleep on Oliver’s lap with the sound of Skeletor laughing in the background.

  Monday July 3rd

  I’ve checked the holiday board at work and I can take ten days from the 19th July so Oliver and I will need to plan our holiday around that. Guaranteed it’s going to cost a bajillion pounds because it’s the school holidays, so we’ll have to choose wisely. I’ve explained to Molly that we can’t afford to hold a big party for her birthday and go on holiday but she’s fine with that. Apparently nothing will top her bouncy castle party last year anyway. Thank God she’s not a difficult child.

  Frank was hovering around my desk at work today, asking questions about Sarah Ward-Wilson. How long have I known her, was she married, how many children does she have . . . it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was fishing for her number, which thankfully, I don’t have.

  ‘Jesus, Frank, just Google her like a normal stalker! Pretty certain she’ll have a Facebook or a Twitter account or something.’

  ‘I looked,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Couldn’t find anything useful.’

  ‘Oh well . . .’

  ‘But you could give her my number . . .’

  Oh God, no. I was not getting involved in this. He seems to have forgotten that I helped him snag his last wife Vanessa – this is not part of my job description. Besides, it means I would have to go out of my way to talk to Lord Wilson and I’d like to not do that.

  ‘Sorry, Frank. School holidays. I won’t see her until the new term starts in August,’ I replied. ‘You’ll just have to figure this one out on your own.’

  He sloped away back to his office, tail between his legs. If there’s one thing I know about Frank, however, it’s that he’s determined. If he wants to get in touch with her, he’ll make it happen.

  Tuesday July 4th

  ‘Egypt is pretty cheap.’

  I looked over at Oliver who was scrolling away on his phone. ‘There’s loads of kid-friendly hotels,’ he continued. ‘We could do the pyramids and stuff, too.’

  ‘They’re cheap because no one wants to get terrorised by terrorists,’ I replied. ‘I’m not even sure the tour operators fly there at the moment. Same with Tunisia.’

  ‘Phoebe, I don’t think anywhere hasn’t been targeted by nut jobs.’ He continued scrolling. ‘This place in Turkey looks pretty decent. Four-star, all inclusive. Big waterpark.’

  ‘But wasn’t Turkey—’

  ‘Subjected to terror attacks at some point?’ he interjected. ‘Yep. As was London and Paris and America and Germany and . . . you see where I’m going with this?’

  ‘I know, I’d just like to be as far from the action as possible, thanks very much.’

  ‘Phoebe, some idiot tried to drive his car bomb into Glasgow Airport, remember? No one is ever going to be that far away from it.’

  I started to laugh. ‘I do remember. The baggage handler jumped in and booted one of the terrorists in the balls. Fucking love Scotland. OK, fine, I take your point. Email me over the link to have a look at.’

  Two hours later, we were booked up for ten days in Turkey. Sun, sea and as much food as I can eat without an intervention being staged. Bring it on.

  Thursday July 6th

  From: Phoebe Henderson

  To: Lucy Jacobs

  Subject: Holiday

  I need holiday clothes and a swimming costume. A big one. Would it be inappropriate to wear a burka as I really don’t want my flab on display?

  From: Lucy Jacobs

  To: Phoebe Henderson

  Subject: Re: Holiday

  Who the fuck is going to be looking at you? There will be twenty-somethings with flat stomachs and perky tits to bear the brunt of the male gaze and the female scorn. We’ve paid our dues – just wear something that keeps those giant boobs strapped down, Dolly Parton.

  She makes a sad, yet valid point. I’ll nip to the shops at the weekend. I saw some really nice swimming kaftans in Dorothy Perkins that I could cover up with. They had pockets. Pockets are everything.

  Saturday July 8th

  While trying on swimming costumes this afternoon, I came to the realisation that as much as I try to embrace my body, the truth is, I’m just not there yet. Maybe I’ll never be. It’s not going to stop me wearing a swimsuit, but it doesn’t mean I’m not going to feel self-conscious as fuck. Lucy was right, no one will be looking at me, but that’s not the point because no one will ever be harder on me, than me. I really have to make sure none of this bullshit rubs off on Molly. I wonder if Bethany has a beach-ready body? I bet she does. I bet she’s throwing herself around the gym when she’s not throwing herself at my damn boyfriend.

  Anyway, I bought a navy blue one piece with a red bow, a couple of kaftans, some three-quarter-length trousers, a couple of maxi dresses, a swishy skirt for swishy times and a whole trolley full of sunblock so we don’t all suddenly explode like the Terminator 2 dream sequence.

  Monday July 10th

  Sarah Ward-Wilson has emailed Frank. Well, she emailed Lucy’s admin address looking for Frank’s direct email and of course Lucy informed me of this new development the moment she hit reply.

  ‘I’m pretty sure she still lives with her husband,’ I said. ‘They have a weird separate bedrooms arrangement. He’s doing some younger woman he works with—’

  ‘—and soon she’ll be doing Frank. Poor cow. I think they’d make a good couple, though,’ Lucy insisted, chewing on her pen. ‘They both look like vacant arseholes – like attracts like and all that. He can buy her a designer vagina. Just be grateful he doesn’t want to buy you one.’

  She’s right, of course, but the whole thing just leaves me feeling uneasy. What if he lets it slip that we were briefly intimate? What if she gets all weird about it and stabs me in my sleep? If things progress between them, I might have to have a word. I’ll be seeing this woman five days a week when school begins, the last thing I need is her giving me evils for having seen Frank’s knob first.

  Tuesday July 11th

  I got an email from Downtime today, only it wasn’t from Jay. It was from some woman called Denise, a new manager, who politely declined any future advertising. Methinks that Jay got the sack and the new woman is wondering why on earth he’d spent so much on promos in a newspaper whose biggest advertiser is orthopaedic beds and Saga holidays. Damn, I’ll have to find another sucker to take my space now. Some sales people thrive on this shit. To me, it’s nothing but a massive ball-ache.

  Wednesday July 12th

  Oliver and I have been so busy recently that neither of us have looked at the suggestions that remain untouched in the sex jar. In fact, apart from a half-arsed morning attempt last week, we’ve barely touched each other. I texted Oliver to remedy this as soon as possible.

  I am hereby scheduling a shag. Meet me by the jar tonight after Molly goes to sleep. Message ends.

  He responded:

  New phone. Who dis?

  Idiot.

  *

  I already had my hand in the jar when Oliver came into the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  ‘Isn’t it my turn to pick?’ he asked, watching me lift out a piece of paper. ‘Although, the hand job one was a bit of a write-off . . .’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t care whose turn it is as long as I get laid.’

  ‘You’re so romantic.’

  I unfolded the paper and smiled at the handwriting, handing it to Oliver who read it aloud.

  ‘Missionary – slow, hard and deep . . . Phoebe, this is verging on normal sex. I’m disgusted.’

  ‘But you have to follow my instructions,’ I explained. ‘You go at my pace, none of this thrusting willy-nilly.’

  He nodded. ‘My willy shall remain nilly-less. Now take your fucking clothes off.’

  Thursday July 13th

  FFS Henderson! Last night – I swear when you made me go balls-deep and just hold it there, I thought my entire body would explode. That was hot as fuck. You win this round.
See you later x

  I put my phone back in my pocket and smiled to myself, hoping the other people on the train wouldn’t notice the last night’s sex glow which radiated from every pore in my body.

  Friday July 14th

  Oliver and I watched It Follows in bed tonight which was clearly a mistake as now I can’t sleep and I’m sitting bolt upright in bed while he’s snoring away like nothing happened. Did he not see the same thing I did? I AM SCARED. I keep expecting to see a shadow under the door or someone walk past the window, despite the fact that we’re on the first floor. Evil doesn’t follow the rules of gravity, it doesn’t need to; it just needs to MURDER MY FACE. Why do I do this to myself?

  Saturday July 15th

  I SURVIVED THE NIGHT!

  I also only got four hours’ sleep and had to be alert and coherent for Lucy and Hazel who arrived at lunchtime to discuss wedding plans. As usual, Lucy was panicking.

  ‘He wants “Africa” by Toto for the first dance!’ she exclaimed. ‘Can you believe it? How the hell am I supposed to dance to that without looking like I was born in the seventies? No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ I replied. ‘Though, like you, that song came out in the eighties, so you’re just as screwed as the rest of us.’

  ‘It’s a great song, though an odd choice for a first dance,’ Hazel agreed, diplomatically. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  Lucy grinned. ‘“Kiss” by Prince. Who wouldn’t want to kick off their married life dancing to Prince? Kyle says it’s not unique enough. Fucking hipster. What was your first dance, Hazel?’

  ‘At which wedding?’ she smirked. ‘Let’s see – for my first we danced to “Your Song” by Elton John. With Kevin, we chose “Real Love” by John Lennon.’

  ‘I always forget you’re a divorced woman,’ Lucy remarked. ‘I hope I’m as splendid as you are when I get divorced, which will be the day after the wedding if Kyle plays bloody “Africa”. What would you have, Phoebe?’