‘Cool. I fancy somewhere with rock music and tattooed women. I cannot be arsed with being surrounded by men who are all wearing the same shirt from Topman. Glass of wine before we go?’
I pulled my favourite black top with the sheer sleeves over my head and replied with a muffled, ‘Yes,’ knowing full well that one glass would quickly become more.
A bottle of chardonnay later, we caught a taxi to the Cathouse, home to ageing rockers, Emo kids and everyone in-between. We danced, drank, drank some more and, as I found out, 700 gin and tonics turns me into a complete idiot. Younger men seem to gravitate towards me these days – it’s unreal.
At one point during the night a twenty-something guy, who was completely pissed and hobbling with one shoe hanging off his foot, decided he’d chat me up: ‘Want to see how far I can kick my shoe?’
Quite far, as it happens. Best chat-up line I’ve ever heard.
Shoe boy was full of drunken compliments. but I stuck to my resolve, and even hearing, ‘You have the most amazing body’ didn’t make me drag him home, and the fact that he said it seventy-five times didn’t make it true. We did have a kiss outside and I swear he giggled when he touched my boob. Men closer to my age never hit on me any more. It seems that men in their twenties want an older woman but men in the thirties want someone in their twenties. But after the disaster with Richard, I think I’d like to play with someone my own age now.
Sadly the night didn’t end as planned as Lucy went home with the dirtiest man in the world, and not in a good way. We ended up back at his place (I have no idea what his name was), where I passed out on his couch. I woke up at 7 a.m. to the sound of them shagging, and when I finally managed to focus I wanted to run away screaming from the shithole we’d ended up in. The place was filthy. Actually that doesn’t even come close to describing the squalor this fella lived in. The floor was covered in fag ash and dirt, every piece of cutlery and crockery he owned was covered in old food and mould and I half expected to hear a voice say ‘ZUULLL’ when I opened the fridge. How the hell can anyone live like that? ‘He didn’t have any sheets on his bed,’ said Lucy in the taxi on the way home. ‘Christ, when did I stoop this low?’
She made me promise never to mention it again and spent the rest of the journey with her head in her hands, mumbling about celibacy and convents. I now realize that Lucy is just as messed up as I am and, if I’m honest, I’m just so glad it wasn’t me waking up on a bare mattress and staring at the man directly responsible for the next plague outbreak.
Sunday July 10th
I met Hazel and Lucy for lunch at Blackfriars pub in the Merchant City. ‘How was Friday night?’ asked Hazel. ‘Wish I could have come but the Cathouse isn’t really my scene. Everyone just seems a little grubby.’
‘It was, erm, fine,’ said Lucy, glancing at me. ‘Tell Hazel about your man with the shoe, Phoebs.’
Hazel laughed as I recounted my shoe-boy adventure. ‘And you didn’t pull him, Phoebe? He sounds sweet.’
‘He was,’ I replied. ‘I just don’t want another younger guy. I don’t get why younger men are so keen on older women.’
‘Young boys have always had a thing for older women. We’re experienced and we’re more comfortable with our bodies. It’s quite flattering really.’
‘Younger men are also more grateful,’ added Lucy, cramming a cheeseburger into her mouth. ‘I mean, they understand how lucky they are to be touching a boob; of course they’re going to be overenthusiastic.’
‘I’m too old to have my boobs giggled at,’ I mumbled, wishing I’d got a cheeseburger instead of pasta. ‘Oliver never giggles at my boobs. Or tells lies about my body.’
Hazel was already on her second gin. ‘Maybe you do have an “amazing body, dude”,’ she laughed. ‘Men don’t see what we see. They see lady bumps and round bottoms. We just see excess fat.’
‘Why don’t you just go out with Oliver?’ suggested Lucy, ‘God knows you see enough of him anyway.’
‘Oliver as a boyfriend? God no. He’s terrible at relationships, as am I. Having a relationship would ruin everything. We’re fine as we are.’
I saw Lucy and Hazel glance at each other.
Lucy smirked. ‘Whatever you say, Phoebe.’
Monday July 11th
With Oliver away, Frank and I apparently over, and no ridiculous younger men around, I did nothing in work today except look at Stuart’s bottom. Then I sent Lucy emails about Stuart’s bottom. Then I sent Stuart emails about his bottom, and when there was nothing left to say I watched a pigeon look stupid on the building across the road. Frank also noticed my lack of enthusiasm in the workplace.
From: Frank McCallum
To: Phoebe Henderson
Subject: A request
Phoebe, I know you stop for a week on Friday but do some work, please.
I ignored him.
From: Frank McCallum
To: Phoebe Henderson
Subject: Re: A request
Don’t make me bring you in here, Phoebe.
From: Phoebe Henderson
To: Frank McCallum
Subject: Re: A request
What for exactly? We’re not doing that any more, or had you forgotten?
From: Frank McCallum
To: Phoebe Henderson
Subject: Re: A request
I hadn’t forgotten, quite the opposite. I’m sitting in here watching you chew your pen, and if I stood up right now my erection would knock over that pigeon you’ve been watching for the past ten minutes. I’m running you home.
So Frank dropped me home and we had sex again. Why can’t we end this? It’s driving me mad. ‘Head office would have a fit if they found out about this,’ he grunted while on top of me. I rolled on to my side and he spooned me.
‘No shit,’ I moaned (I love that position). ‘We need to stop this. It’s crazy.’
He flipped me on to my stomach.
‘Let’s cool it then. It’s been fun, but [speeds up thrusting] … Dammit, Phoebe, it’s so good I could do this all day long.’ The rest of the conversation had to wait as he made me come and I was speechless.
Afterwards we both agreed that was the last time. I don’t even like him that much and I’m pretty sure he feels the same. ‘No hard feelings?’ he said to me as he left, and amazingly I resisted the urge to use the word ‘hard’ in a filthy reply.
‘Of course not. It’s best that this ends. I hate you anyway.’
He laughed. ‘I hate you too.’
Tuesday July 12th
The most interesting part of today was when a woman turned up to meet Frank in the office, whom he formally introduced as Vanessa. Ah, the elusive Vanessa. At least she exists. She was well dressed, late 30s, pretty, very thin and he kissed her in front of the staff – they all giggled like ten-year-olds. The happy couple then left hand in hand and Frank didn’t meet my eye as they passed my desk. I think this was his way of making our ‘end’ official. He looked really happy, and I feel relieved. Things were much simpler when he was just the annoying boss I hated and not the slightly less infuriating man I’ve now grown quite fond of. I genuinely hope it goes well for them.
Wednesday July 13th
Alex was waiting for me after work today. What an utter bastard. He hasn’t done that since we dated and I never thought he’d have the nerve. He stood there bold as brass smoking a cigarette, watching me walk through the doors, knowing I wouldn’t be able to leg it without him spotting me. If they had been revolving doors I’d have kept spinning and gone back upstairs.
‘Fucking hell! What do you want, Alex?’
‘Just to talk, Phoebe. You won’t reply to my emails.’
‘Doesn’t that indicate that I don’t want to talk to you?’ I said, turning to walk away.
‘Are you seeing anyone?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘That’s a no then. Look, I have some things I need to say. Please. Just dinner or something?’ he pleaded, walking after me.
/> ‘NO!’ I shouted, stopping dead in my tracks. ‘I’m not interested. Go away.’
He walked off shaking his head and I did the same. Who the hell does he think he is? Why is he asking me if I’m seeing anyone? He knows that if I was I would have answered yes to rub his face in it. Damn him.
Friday July 15th
First day of my holiday! A whole week to do nothing and I intend to do exactly that, AND I finally got an email from Oliver! I love you, internet.
From: Oliver Webb
To: Phoebe Henderson
Subject: HELLO!
What have you been up to then? I’m stuck here training a bunch of 20-year-olds, all male and all annoyingly chipper. One girl in marketing who looks about fourteen asked me out for a drink and I had to check her company file to make sure she was over twenty-one. I considered it for a second but thought it wise to keep my cock in my pocket where work is concerned. Anyway, email me back with tales of your sexual misadventures as I’m horny as hell. You’re going to bear the brunt of this when I get home – I hope you realize that.
I didn’t receive it until the early hours so I’ll get back to him tomorrow. It’s made me really happy and so I’m going to bed before anything happens to kill my buzz.
Saturday July 16th
I got my eyebrows threaded and my nails done as tonight was date night with stranger @granted77, who is called Scott when he’s not on Twitter. We met in town first for drinks as I wanted to be completely sure I wanted to sleep with him and also check for signs of weirdness.
I felt incredibly nervous as I walked into the bar. This wasn’t just taking someone random home after a drunken night; this was a premeditated, soberly planned hook-up and there I was on my own in a bar wearing my fuck-me boots and skinny jeans. It felt like the scariest challenge I’d attempted so far.
I looked around the bar for a face that resembled the one I’d seen on Twitter, but the place was so crowded I couldn’t find him. It was like a bizarre game of Where’s Wally? and in the end I decided to let him find me and sat down. I saw the barman walk over and rummaged in my bag for my purse.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Gin and bitter lemon, please. No ice.’
‘No problem. And then back to mine after?’
‘Pardon?’ I stopped searching my bag and looked up to see the tiny Twitter head in real life, smiling back at me. He looked exactly like his photos: my height, hipster glasses and short blond hair.
‘Scott? It’s you! You work here?’
‘I’m the manager. My shift finished half an hour ago, but we’re busy so I thought I’d help out till you got here. Slice?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Of lemon.’
‘Oh, ha,’ I laughed, completely thrown by what was happening. ‘Please.’
He handed me my drink and pushed my money away. ‘On the house. Give me five and I’ll be right with you.’
I took my drink and breathed a huge sigh of relief. He was a normal guy with a normal job, and from first impressions I fancied him.
He came and sat down beside me. ‘So here we are,’ he said, knocking back his whisky. ‘I assume you’re still up for this.’
‘Gosh, you’re subtle,’ I laughed, ‘but yes. I am.’
‘Good. Finish up then. I have no intention of spending the rest of the night at my work, getting too pissed to shag you. And believe me, I want to shag you. Let’s go.’
I was speechless. I downed the rest of my drink and was dragged by the hand outside. We flagged down a cab.
Scott lived on the ground floor of a traditional tenement flat in Shawlands, an area known for its beautiful park, skint students and frustratingly limited parking spaces.
We were barely into the hallway of his flat when he began to kiss me. I responded and he took off my jacket, moving me towards the pitch-black living room.
‘You’ve done this before, I take it?’ I asked as he fumbled for the lamp switch.
‘Course. Isn’t this what Twitter is for?’ He switched the lamp on to reveal an exceptionally messy living room. I was tempted to ask if he’d been burgled but thought it wiser not to make fun of the strange man I was about to sleep with.
‘I dunno. First time for me.’
‘Let’s make it memorable, then, shall we?’
I’ve never seen a man get naked so quickly. I barely had my jeans unbuttoned and he was already standing there, erect and ready to go. I started to unzip my boots.
‘I want you bent over that couch wearing those boots. Take off your jeans but leave the boots on.’
He got busy with the stereo while I removed my boots, took off my jeans, scowled at the mark they’d left on my stomach and then put my boots back on, but eventually I was ready. I turned around, grabbed the couch and braced myself. Then he shagged me from behind while Led Zeppelin played loudly on his stereo. It wasn’t great. He pretty much thrust in time to each song, even singing along with ‘Kashmir’. All I could think was, I hope ‘When the Levee Breaks’ doesn’t come on. I don’t want this to ruin that song for me. When ‘Moby Dick’ came on it was game over. To stop myself from laughing, I just started to moan really loudly and clenched to encourage him to come. Afterwards I thought, Thank fuck that challenge is over. I’d thought it would be dangerous and sexy and hot. It wasn’t. It was a huge let-down.
‘Well, that was fun,’ he said, watching me put my jeans back on. ‘God bless Twitter.’
‘Indeed,’ I replied, determined to delete my Twitter account as soon as I got home. ‘Can you call me a taxi? I have to get back.’
1.25 a.m. I arrived home a couple of hours ago, showered and now I’m in bed removing certain Led Zeppelin tracks from iTunes. It’s odd – I’ve just completed a challenge on my list and I’m not even vaguely excited. I’m done now with the solo items and all that remains is bondage, voyeurism and a final role play which I have to wait for Oliver to do with me. I don’t like it when Oliver’s not involved; it’s much less fun high-fiving yourself.
Sunday July 17th
I’ve been sitting here listening to the Flaming Lips in some sort of melancholic trance today, but of course Alex seems to creep into my head when I’m feeling at odds with myself. Ever since he showed up outside work, I’ve had him in the back of my mind.
I really hate the fact that Alex knows I’m single; he’ll take that as a sign that I’m not over him. Maybe I’m not, and it’s possible I won’t ever be until I let someone new in. I have no intention of falling in love, but maybe having someone around will get him to finally back off. He’ll be less likely to pursue me if he knows I have a big strong man on hand to fend off his unwanted attention. And I guess the idea of having someone in my life isn’t as unappealing as it once was … Shit, I think I’ve convinced myself here. Am I ready to start dating again?
Wednesday July 20th
From: Phoebe Henderson
To: Oliver Webb
Subject: Re: HELLO!
Dear Oli, (Yes, you hate it when I call you that, but you’re too far away for me to care). Things I have done:
1. I read a lot of words on some pages. This would be a book.
2. I slept with someone off Twitter, so the sleeping with a stranger challenge is now complete. It was so crap that now I’ve now deleted my Twitter account. Stephen Fry was never going to follow me back anyway. Please bring me home presents. Lots of them, not like that time you went to Canada and brought me back NOTHING, claiming you didn’t think I’d be bothered. I am bothered about presents, let’s be very clear on this matter. I’m almost at the end of these bloody challenges so now I’ll have to find something else to do. I think I’m going to start dating again. Is this the worst idea ever?
Hurry back. My vagina misses you.
From: Oliver Webb
To: Phoebe Henderson
Subject: Re: HELLO!
You’ve been busy. I’ve been stuck in a training room all day, accompanied by one woman who was incredibly hot and unfortunately married. I�
�ve considered just wanking myself into oblivion. It’s been nice knowing you. Dating? You want a boyfriend? Really think anyone is mental enough to go out with you, weirdy? I know the way your big ears poke through your hair makes me go all funny, but I doubt anyone else would want to date a real-life pixie. Good luck though. I’ll sit on the porch with my shotgun when your suitors come a-callin’.
I miss your vagina too. Probably more than I miss you, which isn’t much.
From: Phoebe Henderson
To: Oliver Webb
Subject: Re: HELLO!
Shut up. I’m a catch. I can play backgammon and I have 100% positive feedback on eBay. These are important qualities. They would have to be bed-head tolerant, mind you. You TOTALLY miss me because no one will play with your penis over there. My ears rock.
Friday July 22nd
I noticed a salon deal online this morning: full-body massage for fifteen quid so I called and managed to get an appointment for noon.
From the outside, Beauty by Betty looked remarkably like a pensioner’s hair salon, squashed between a pound store and a bakery. As I walked in, I noticed how tiny the place was. There was a couch, a front desk, a shelf with beauty products and one, somewhat menacing, large grey sliding door at the back.
I smiled at the dark-haired woman behind the desk, who stopped reading her magazine and stood up. ‘Hi. Do you have an appointment?’
‘Yes, for twelve. Phoebe Henderson.’
‘Oh yes, Phoebe. I’m Betty. You’ll be with me this afternoon.’
She took my jacket and walked me the ten steps to the grey door. ‘Just through here.’ It was the most unwelcoming door I’d ever seen and reminded me of one I’d seen at the back of a butcher’s shop when I was little. What the fuck was behind it? I suddenly envisioned it being pulled open and me getting clubbed over the head by Leatherface in his manky apron. She opened the door and I was faced with a surprisingly luxurious therapy room: dimly lit with scented candles and hanging fairy lights. ‘Wow,’ I said, admiring the fresh flowers in the corner. ‘This is beautiful!’
She asked me some general health questions and then left me to undress to the sound of pan pipes. ‘Just press the buzzer when you’re ready.’
The List Page 18
