The List

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Ha, that’s awful,’ I laughed, trying to picture this poor broken man and a very unimpressed Lucy standing over him.

  ‘It IS awful. BUT that wasn’t the worst part! As I got dressed, I noticed an A4-sized framed photo of his ex-wife on his bedside table. She had seen the whole fucking thing!’

  At which point I laughed for ten minutes straight. It’s nice to know Lucy’s sex life is as weird as mine.

  Friday June 24th

  Oliver got a big promotion at work and he’s thrilled. I’m really pleased for him, although I wonder why he never even mentioned he was up for it? I tell him everything, even when we get an extra half-hour for lunch or if someone in the office sneezes and farts at the same time, but it seems he doesn’t like to share with me. We might have to have words about this.

  We went out for dinner to celebrate and then back to my place, where we had a marathon session on the PlayStation 2 (I am about a decade behind everyone else).

  As I got ready for bed he put his arms around my waist and said, ‘You’ve put some weight on, eh? I like that – you’re all soft and squashy.’

  ‘SHUTUPIAMNOT!’ I yelled, frantically pulling a vest top over my head.

  ‘I don’t care.’ He shrugged, getting into bed. ‘Better than breaking my hand on your arse when I spank you. I’m talking from experience here. Pushing against your cushioned arse is so much better than pushing against a bony one.’

  I have put on weight though, loads in fact, but I don’t like anyone else pointing it out, thank you very much. I’m sitting here singing ‘Do You Know the Muffin Man?’ and thinking it’s time for action.

  Saturday June 25th

  I’ve started the Atkins diet, mainly because the only things I had in my fridge this morning were bacon which was almost out of date and two sad-looking eggs. After breakfast I went shopping and stocked up on everything meaty, fatty or eggy. ATKINS IS BRILLIANT! I’ve had fuck-all carbs, about ten fry-ups and pretty much just hooked myself up to a cream drip while throwing cheese and fried eggs into my mouth. Apparently I’ll get God-awful breath for a while but I’m feeling positive and not at all hungry! Result!

  Sunday June 26th

  Diet seems to be going well but I’m flagging. I’m three pounds down and living off cooked chickens from the supermarket when what I really want is pasta and garlic bread. Unfortunately the only place I’m noticing any weight loss is my collarbone, but at least it shows there’s still bone underneath all my flab. I’m also running out of exciting things to do with eggs – as if there was actually anything exciting you could do with them in the first place – apart from adding them to a big giant cake.

  Monday June 27th

  Fuck you, Atkins! I cannot face another egg or a chicken or indeed anything that once had, or came from, something with a face. I feel grotty. How do people live like this? Celebs lose shitloads of weight on this diet, but I guess they have chefs who cook for them to ensure that every meal doesn’t taste like Satan’s hoof. So, in conclusion, I hate you, Atkins. You’re not brilliant at all; I take it all back. I feel like shit. It’s only been three days and I’ve had enough. For the love of God, someone SHOW ME THE TOASTIES! Oh bread, how I’ve missed you and how I’m also scared of you now I’ve been brainwashed by the carbtologists. Maybe I should just stop eating crap, but then where’s the fun in that? At lunchtime I met Oliver in the pub. He was already halfway through a pint of lager when I arrived.

  ‘You’re drinking already? I’m only here for the food.’

  ‘Yes, Mum, I’m having a pint. So you’re back on the normal food then? Glad to hear it.’

  ‘Yeah, I need to feel satisfied, and do you know what satisfies me?’

  ‘Cock?’

  ‘No, the answer you are looking for is carbs. I was foolish to think I could live without them.’

  ‘Dunno why you even tried.’

  ‘You said I was getting fat! I blame you for this, Oliver.’ I said. ‘I’m now frightened of bread.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were “fat”, and now I’m sorry I said anything at all,’ said Oliver, staring at his sandwich suspiciously. ‘Jesus, it was meant to be a compliment. I didn’t know you’d get all concerned about it. I thought you were one of those women who doesn’t care about that stuff.’

  Has this man ever met me?

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Oliver, considering you’ve never dated anyone bigger than a size eight. I keep thinking you’re comparing me to them. I’ll never be that thin.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve slept with thin women, Phoebe, I’m not going to apologize for it. But your body is great; sure you have a belly and your boobs are massive, but why do you think I’ve been sleeping with you for so long?’

  ‘Because I asked you to?’

  ‘Wrong. Because when we’re having sex it’s fucking fantastic, and do you know what? I’d take a belly over a protruding ribcage any day. If you’re unhappy with your body, do something about it; if not, eat your fucking bread and enjoy it. I couldn’t care less.’

  As I left Oliver and walked back to work I realized that I believed him and his annoying truth-telling. Clearly it was me who had the problem. Not him. Say to a fella that he’s put on weight and he’ll just shrug it off and rub his belly in the mirror. Say it to a woman and all she’ll hear is, ‘You’re a failure. You’re hideous.’ It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. The world isn’t going to stop turning if I’m a bit overweight. Fuck it.

  Thursday June 30th

  ‘I’m getting sent to train new staff at head office tomorrow afternoon,’ Oliver casually announced this evening.

  ‘Oh, that’s cool, how long for?’ I asked, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Just a month. It’s in Chicago. I fly out in the morning.’

  I swallowed my smoke and spluttered for a second, ‘A month? CHICAGO? BUT … BUT—’

  ‘But what?’ replied Oliver, smiling. ‘I’m sure you can find someone else to keep you company. You don’t seem to have a problem in that respect.’

  ‘Of course I can,’ I said, smoking furiously. ‘I’m just surprised by your announcement, that’s all.’

  ‘You could always just put things on hold until I get back.’

  I thought about this for about a quarter of a second. ‘Yeah, I’ll just sit here and wait for your return. Light a candle … maybe write some poetry … I KNOW, I could put on a nightdress and wander around the moors, yelling Oliv—’

  ‘I get the picture,’ he interrupted. ‘Don’t be a dick about it.’ He walked into the kitchen and I heard him open a beer.

  ‘Are you sulking, Mr Webb?’ There was no reply.

  ‘See, in nursery school, were you one of those kids who didn’t play well with other children?’

  Still no reply.

  ‘OK, I’m going if you’re going to get all hormonal on me.’

  He walked back through to the living room and handed me a beer. ‘Have this before you go. Sorry, my head’s just full of work stuff. I’ll text you before I leave tomorrow.’

  I left feeling rather annoyed. Why the fuck didn’t he tell me he was going, and why is he the one in the huff when I’m the one who’s going to be left without a fuck buddy for four bloody weeks? He really can be a selfish prick sometimes.

  JULY

  Friday July 1st

  Oliver is now winging his way across the world for the whole month of July, leaving me buddy-less and in serious danger of doing Frank again. I grabbed a vanilla latte and a croissant on the way to the office, relieved that Frank was still on holiday, and I’d have some breathing space to work out what the hell I think I’m playing at. Truth is, I have no idea. Since I started this, I’m like a woman possessed. Is this how sex addicts feel? These days, life without sex is like a nail without varnish: bare and pretty much unforgivable, so I’ve decided to carry on without Oliver. After all, I’ve come so far in just six months and I really feel like I’m making up for lost time. My next challenge should be simple enough and one I’d have t
o do minus Oliver even if he was around. Sex with a stranger. No real names, no messy connections – just sex. After my disaster with Richard, I’m not taking my chances with any getting-to-know-you shit.

  With Frank on holiday, the office was relatively relaxed. Lucy and I took an extra half-hour for lunch which was noticed by Kelly, who threatened to tell Frank on his return.

  ‘You can’t just do what you like, you know!’ she boomed with her hands on her hips.

  ‘Yes, we can,’ replied Lucy, ‘and so can you. Tell Frank if you want to; you’re mistaking me for someone who gives a fuck.’

  Brian started applauding, told Kelly to ‘grow up’ and then announced he was off to the shops to buy sweets for everyone. Brian the sexist moron has redeemed himself!

  Saturday July 2nd

  I thought I’d have heard from Oliver by now, even just an email to say he’d arrived, but I’ve had nothing. Meh, he’s probably still sulking for no reason. Anyway, I have far more important things to worry about, like how I’m going to do this next challenge. I think it’d be easy enough to pick someone up in a bar or club but then I’d have to spend the evening looking for potential shags, making small talk, drinking too much and having to deal with the whole ‘I’ll call you’ nonsense afterwards while waiting for my taxi. It all sounds too much like hard work. Also, I don’t want to invite anyone back to my house as I don’t need them remembering where I live and stalking me or shimmying up my path for a booty call at 3 a.m., thinking I’ll be pleased to see them. I think the problem will be not finding someone to sleep with, but rather finding someone attractive, discreet and, more importantly, who wouldn’t decide I’d look better tied up in the boot of his car. I’ve placed an online advert which reads:

  Female, 30s, looking to meet attractive man for NSA encounter. Must practise safe sex and be discreet.

  What I really wanted to write was: ‘Woman wants man for NSA sex. Please don’t kill me.’ I intend to proceed with caution on this one.

  4.50 p.m. Hazel popped over this afternoon with some muffins she’d been given by a client.

  ‘They irritate my stomach. Might be the bran. You have them.’

  ‘Thank you for giving me something that gives you the runs, Hazel. Yummy.’

  I made her a quick coffee before she left to meet Kevin and Grace at some soft-play centre in town. ‘Kevin has to do that stuff. I hate those places. They’re full of other people’s children. Want to come over later? I have sushi.’

  ‘Tempting as that is, I need a night of couch-laying, film-watching and a couple of vodkas, I think. I feel like I need to unwind alone.’

  ‘That’s cool,’ she replied, pouring herself more coffee. ‘You’ve been drinking quite a lot recently. Booze makes you fat, you know. And depressed.’

  ‘I have, haven’t I? And there was me blaming the carbs. Maybe I’m drinking because I’m fat.’

  ‘You’re drinking because you’re bored, and shut up, you’re hardly obese. You’ve just gained a few pounds. Now don’t go getting pissed this evening just because you’re missing Oliver,’ she said, smirking.

  ‘I’m not missing him, and I have no intentions of getting pissed.’

  8 p.m. I will not watch any horror films. I will watch something meaningful and thought-provoking. This vodka is really strong.

  9.05 p.m. Just started watching Black Swan. This should be good.

  9.55 p.m. This is not good.

  10.19 p.m. This can fuck off.

  11.15 p.m. I’m watching ZOMBIELAND!

  1.30 a.m. VODKA! VODKA!

  2.15 a.m. I miss Oliver.

  Sunday July 3rd

  I got up at four in the afternoon. Then I lay back down again. I got up again at seven, made some cheese on toast and checked my emails to see if anyone had responded to my advert: twenty-six replies. Blimey! However, twenty-five of them contained ‘cock shots’ with no indication of what the rest of the person actually looks like. I can’t make a decision based on a webcam photo of a penis – I don’t fancy a penis; I fancy the face and body it’s attached to. The other one (which had no photo) was sent by a man who was ‘60 years young and everything still works’. That’s the same age as my dad.

  This won’t do. This won’t bloody do at all. I’ve emailed Oliver. It’s much more fun when he’s around. It’s nice knowing that, whatever I do, he doesn’t judge me, and I think that’s why we’ve stayed friends for so long. Most people would have chased me with sticks towards some sort of drowning pond by now. How the hell am I going to cope without him?

  This is going to be a long month. I have some holiday to take from work, so perhaps now is a good time. I can’t afford to actually go anywhere, but a week pottering around at home sounds like it might do the trick.

  Monday July 4th

  We’re having a girls’ night on Friday. Dancing and cheap booze. You know, just once I’d actually liked to get pissed on expensive booze. God, if I said that in front of Frank he’d be thrilled. Speaking of Frank, I put my holiday request sheet on his desk so he can sign it off on his return. I wonder how his holiday with Vanessa went? I bet he romanced her with champagne and a box of Milk Tray by the fireside. I hope they melted. The chocolates – not Frank and Vanessa. Scrap that, I hope they melted too. Perhaps they had some sort of log cabin, surrounded by woods? And bears. BIG GIANT HUNGRY BEARS! Are there any bears in Scotland? I’ve just checked. There are no bears in Scotland. Disappointing.

  Tuesday July 5th

  As I’d finished my work for the afternoon I decided to go on Twitter, where there was a message waiting for me.

  @granted77 You ignoring me? I’m free next week. Let’s meet up.

  I was about to reply when Lucy appeared with a coffee and pulled a chair over. She peered at my screen.

  ‘I’m bored. What are we doing? Who is he?’

  ‘Oi, nosey! Guy on Twitter. Wants to meet up.’

  ‘Ooh, like a date? Or just a random shag he can tweet about later.’

  ‘I don’t really know him, so a shag would …’ I stopped mid-sentence. If this had been a cartoon, a light bulb would have appeared above my head.

  ‘A shag would what?’ demanded Lucy. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘A shag would mean I could tick off challenge number eight. It’s perfect. Why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘You did. Just there.’

  ‘Yes, but you inspired me. I’m going to tell him it’s on like Donkey Kong.’

  ‘That’s just weird, but you’re right. I am an inspiration.’

  I’ve sent him a message back telling him I’ll meet him. It’s perhaps not the completely anonymous deal I had in mind, given that I know what he looks like and we’ve spoken on Twitter, but after those replies to my advert, it’s about as close to a stranger as I’m willing to go. This would mean another challenge down and it’s only July! I’m way ahead of myself. I could come up with another thousand.

  Wednesday July 6th

  I got into the office this morning to hear Frank boring everyone with tales of his holiday. I overheard talk of fancy hotels and oysters, and although I clamped on my phone earpiece to block him out at that point, I imagine the great adventurer took a trip on a magic carpet and killed a fucking dragon while he was there.

  From: Frank McCallum

  To: Phoebe Henderson

  Subject: Pleased to see me?

  I’m back. It was great. Your holiday request has been grudgingly approved – going anywhere nice?

  I thought about you … a lot. I need to get you out of my system. This isn’t good for anyone involved.

  From: Phoebe Henderson

  To: Frank McCallum

  Subject: Re: Pleased to see me?

  You don’t pay me enough to afford somewhere nice. You’re right, this isn’t good for anyone, so here’s an idea – let’s not do this any more. Problem solved.

  From: Frank McCallum

  To: Phoebe Henderson

  Subject: Re: Pleased to see me?

  Fine with
me.

  I didn’t reply and he hasn’t emailed again. This made me feel relieved and, for some reason, annoyed.

  9 p.m. I’ve decided to catch up on my reading and not be led astray by mental boys and my hormones. I’m in bed, snuggled up with The Time Traveler’s Wife, and so far it’s one of the best things I’ve read in ages. Whatever happened to romance? Two people realizing they can’t live without each other and kissing properly.

  11 p.m. Gosh I’ve missed reading. I could spend all day lost in someone else’s imagination. I love reading.

  12 a.m. I can’t put this book down. I’ve made coffee and will sacrifice sleep in order to see it through. My life is an uninspiring sham.

  3 a.m. I’m completely distraught. Henry died. Reading is stupid.

  Friday July 8th

  I was so exhausted in work today I pretended to be ill and came home. Frank didn’t seem too convinced, so I told him disgusting fake tales of menstrual blood and clotting, and he almost booted me out of his office. I’ve had a nap and am now looking forward to a night with the girls, footloose and man-free. Frank didn’t mention anything about us so perhaps things will get back to normal. The annoying thing is, even if we go back to ignoring each other and keeping things work related, there will be that small matter of having seen each other all shades of naked.

  Still haven’t heard from Oliver, but he’s probably already hooked up with some gorgeous American stick insect called Brandy or Clammy and they’re off feeling each other up at fun-filled baseball games while eating six-foot-long hot dogs suggestively.

  Anyway, screw him – I have a night of dancing and general shenanigans with Lucy to look forward to.

  Saturday July 9th

  Last night was fun – I hadn’t been dancing in ages.

  I went to Lucy’s house to get ready as her shower is much better than mine and her straighteners don’t burn the ends of my hair, unlike my cheap ones.

  ‘I’m wearing my biker boots and that minidress with the floaty skirt,’ Lucy announced.

  ‘So we’re not going anywhere fancy then?’ I laughed. ‘Just as well, I’m wearing my jeans and Converse. I’m not in the mood for sore feet.’