The List

by Joanna Bolouri

  He arrived at half past eleven, briefly taking the time to thank each of us for our tiny contribution to The Post’s vast empire before disappearing with Frank for lunch at Malmaison.

  ‘I wonder why he’s here,’ wondered Kelly, making sure they’d gone before taking her nail file out of her drawer. ‘Maybe Frank’s getting the chop.’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘It’ll be redundancy talk. Seventeen sales executives were laid off last month in Manchester.’

  The whole office stared at her. ‘I’m kidding!’ she laughed. ‘Relax. Manchester doesn’t even have seventeen sales staff. It’s just his usual yearly meet with the regional managers.’

  Stuart started to laugh, much to Kelly’s annoyance. ‘That wasn’t funny, Lucy. You’re playing with people’s lives here. People who—’

  ‘Need people?’

  ‘What?’ asked Kelly, bewildered.

  ‘Are the luckiest people, in the world … Sing with me …’

  By this time I was in tears at Lucy’s Barbra Streisand impersonation and Kelly had stormed out of the office in her usual dramatic fashion. Lucy bowed and returned to her computer like nothing had happened. I really need to watch Funny Girl again.

  Frank and Hugo returned two hours later with wine for everyone and a ‘keep up the good work’ motivational speech given by Hugo, who more than likely didn’t know any of our names and was obviously desperate to get back to That London.

  After Hugo left, I heard Lucy and Frank arguing in his office just before half five. Every year Lucy books a last-minute holiday on her own – a week of sun, sea and her iPod. It’s like her little ritual. This year she’s chosen Greece, but Frank wouldn’t sign her holiday form because it was short notice.

  ‘Frank, no one is off next week, I’ve checked the holiday board.’

  ‘That may be, but you’re a separate department from sales. I need time to organize someone to do the admin.’

  ‘We had this discussion last year when I went to France and the year before that when I booked last minute to Rome. Maureen takes over the figures and Kelly runs the reports. I DO THIS EVERY YEAR.’

  ‘Well, not this year,’ he replied stubbornly.

  ‘I’ve already booked it. I’m going.’

  ‘Then I’ll have no choice but to fire you,’ he said, rising from his chair indignantly.

  ‘You said that last year. But fine. Fire me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, “Fire me.” If it’s less hassle for you to find someone, interview them, hire them and train them than it is to let me take my annual leave, then go for it.’ She folded her arms and began tapping her fingers on her forearm.

  He sat back down. ‘You said that last year, didn’t you?’

  ‘I’ve marked my days on the board. See you in a week.’

  She left his office and walked past my desk, giving me a little wink. I wanted to climb up on to my desk and applaud her, but I’m not as brave as she is, and the last time Frank threatened to fire me we ended up shagging so I sat quietly and got ready to leave work.

  When I got home I checked my emails and scary Alan had emailed me twice; the first included ‘fat’ pictures of himself to show me his weight loss and in the second he asked me out again. Neither email had an apology for his psychotic outburst. I sent a polite but firm, I’m not interested but thanks anyway, you mentalist. And why on earth would I want to see his before-and-after weight-loss pictures? Maybe it sounds a tad harsh, but give me a fucking break.

  Saturday August 6th

  ‘Are you awake? Let’s do something today.’

  ‘Oliver?’ I mumbled, looking at my bedside clock, ‘it’s 8 a.m. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?’

  ‘It’s a beautiful, warm, sunny day, grumpy arse. Let’s go out. I’ll pick you up in an hour.’

  Two hours later we were stuck in traffic, heading towards the seaside. ‘Jesus fuck,’ said Oliver, banging his fists on the steering wheel. ‘Did everyone in Scotland decide to come here today?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ I answered, turning on the radio. ‘Ooh, I love this song.’

  ‘Since when did you start liking Girls Aloud?’

  ‘Since they did this song.’

  ‘Fine, have it on; just don’t sing.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Two reasons: one – I hate this song; two – you sing in the key of pish.’

  ‘How dare you. I have singing skills. There’s obviously something very wrong with your ears. And taste in music. How can you hate this song? That’s like hating happiness.’

  Twenty minutes later we arrived at the beach and found a place to park. I stepped out of the car and breathed in the sea air, which instantly took me back to beach visits with my parents when I was a kid.

  ‘God, I haven’t been here for years. I remember eating ice cream and writing my name in the sand when I was about seven. I made a sandcastle and put a dead crab in the wee moat around it.’

  ‘How chilling.’

  ‘Shut up. I didn’t kill it.’

  ‘The beaches in Dublin were great. My auntie lived close to Dollymount and I’d spend weekends there with my cousins before we moved to Glasgow. We played football constantly.’

  ‘Sounds nice. I’d love to go to Dublin one day.’

  ‘I’ll take you with me next time I go back. We can stay with Megan – I remember when she visited last year; you spent more time with her than I did.’

  ‘I love your sister. She’s so pretty. Are there any ugly people in your family, Oliver?’

  ‘Yeah, my cousin Colin is a bit unfortunate-looking, though I think he might have been adopted. Funny as hell though, and has a huge knob so he still gets the women.’

  I placed my bright blue towel on the sand and sat down. ‘God, this is bliss,’ I said, closing my eyes and turning my face towards the delightfully warm sun. Oliver sat beside me and kicked off his trainers.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ he asked.

  ‘The sun. On my face. It makes me happy.’

  ‘You’re fucking adorable. I’m going paddling.’

  ‘We’re in Scotland. The water will be sub-zero, regardless of how sunny it is.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but you have to go paddling. It’s the law of the beach!’ he proclaimed, opening some sandwiches. ‘Here, I brought you chicken and sweetcorn.’

  ‘My favourite. You are lovely.’

  ‘I know. You eat – I’m going in the water.’

  He rolled his jeans up to his knees and walked away across the sand towards the sea. I began eating, watching families play with their children and glaring at the seagulls already circling like vultures for my sandwich crusts. This day was perfect. Looking across to the water’s edge, I saw Oliver take out his phone and start texting, smiling to himself. My mood suddenly changed. I felt my temper rise and thought to myself angrily, He’s texting that Ruth woman. We’ve only been here five fucking minutes and he’s already making other plans.

  Then I felt my own phone vibrate in my pocket:

  The water’s freezing. Get your arse over here and warm me up.

  I got up and walked towards him, carefully avoiding broken shells until I was ankle deep in cold, calm seawater.

  ‘Arghh! I cannot believe you made me come in here. My feet are numb!’

  ‘Me mam always said that saltwater was good for the feet.’ He smiled. ‘And the soul. Draws out all the bad energy or something.’

  ‘That sounds like something my mum would say,’ I laughed. ‘Must be something about being born in the Sixties that turns you—’

  My inane observations were cut short as Oliver suddenly placed his hand on the back of my neck, pulled me in and kissed me. It was firm at first but then became so slow and soft I felt my entire body tingle with pleasure. I moved my hand up to his face and kissed him back with an urgency I couldn’t explain. Usually kissing Oliver was reserved for pre-sex build up, but this time it felt different. There was no groping or expectation; it was ju
st two people standing in the sea, making out under a bright blue sky, totally unaware that nearby the seagulls had shat all over their nice clean towels.

  By six the weather finally remembered that it was Scotland and began to turn chilly. I smiled to myself as Oliver wrapped his hooded top around me without even asking if I was cold. We gathered our things together and walked leisurely back to the car, past quaint gift shops, bed and breakfasts and cafes.

  ‘Ice cream!’ I exclaimed, spotting a large 99 poster in a cafe window. ‘Wait here.’

  I ran in and purchased two cones from an elderly woman who expertly operated the Mr Whippy machine, despite quite obviously not being able to see two inches in front of her.

  ‘Two pounds, son,’ she said, holding out the cones.

  Son? I thought about protesting but the ice cream was already starting to drip so I took the cones and made my escape.

  ‘If you drip that in my car, you’re in trouble,’ said Oliver, taking his cone and licking the side.

  ‘What if I drip it on my breasts?’ I asked, staring at his tongue.

  ‘Then you’re definitely in trouble,’ he said, raising one eyebrow. ‘You’re coming home with me. It’s decided.’

  ‘Good. I’m horny now. Drive quickly.’

  He started the car and we began the journey home. We were almost back in Glasgow when he suddenly yelled, ‘FUCK! I completely forgot Ruth’s flying up tonight! I’m supposed to collect her at the airport at eleven.’

  I felt like I’d just been punched in the face. I’d been having such a perfect day.

  ‘Well, that sucks.’ I pouted. ‘But it’s fine.’ It wasn’t fine.

  ‘If she wasn’t flying up, I’d cancel on her, but I can’t now. That would be a shitty thing to do and—’

  ‘Honestly, it’s OK. I have a million things to do anyway. We’ll do it another time.’

  He dropped me home and I went inside, still peeved that I’d been dropped for Ruth.

  As those ‘millions of things’ I had to do didn’t technically exist, I slipped out of my clothes and into a yellow onesie and slumped down on the couch. As I turned on the TV and flicked through endless channels of crap, I wanted to scream with frustration. It was then that I vowed I’d never be left alone on a Saturday night again, dressed like a giant toddler.

  Sunday August 7th

  I’ve joined a new and bloody expensive, seemingly filled with hot men, dating site. I’ve only joined for a month though; even I’m not stupid enough to hang around on one of these sites for six months in the hope that some day my prince will log on. Still, after only a few hours I’ve already arranged two dates. Hazel seemed puzzled by this when she came round for coffee with Grace.

  ‘You’ve arranged them on consecutive days? Why?’

  ‘Because I’m determined not to mess about with this and I had nothing planned for Friday and Saturday night anyway. Might as well use my time productively, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so. What happened to dating one man at a time? Where’s the excitement? Where’s the romance?’ she asked, giving Grace a plastic spoon and cup to play with.

  ‘I’m not looking for excitement and romance, Hazel, I’m looking for a boyfriend. Those things never last anyway – that’s if they even exist in the first place. I just want someone I fancy to spend time with.’

  ‘And keep Alex off your back too?’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure Oliver would be happy to oblige there.’

  ‘He would but he’s dating a model. Anyway, Alex knows Oliver and I are just mates. He needs to know I’ve both physically and mentally moved on.’

  Hazel moved Grace on to the floor to let her play. ‘I think Alex would be less likely to annoy you if he found out you were sleeping with Oliver. I’d imagine Oliver’s quite intimidating to most men.’

  ‘It wouldn’t work. Alex wouldn’t believe for a second that someone like Oliver would sleep with me. He’d know it was a lie.’

  ‘Um. Phoebs?’ she said. ‘It isn’t a lie. You are sleeping with him.’

  ‘Yes, but not for real. He’s only helping me out with my list. He’s doing me a favour.’

  Hazel looked sad. ‘Phoebe, this is real. Your lack of self-worth astonishes me sometimes. Oliver is more than happy to be sleeping with you; it isn’t some sort of pity fuck.’ She quickly glanced at Grace to make sure the F-word hadn’t made her daughter spontaneously combust. ‘I think it’s great that you’re dating – just make sure you’re doing it for the right reasons.’

  She left when Grace began to nod off and I thought about what she’d said. I know she means well, but I know what’s best for me. I think.

  Monday August 8th

  Got into work and there was an email from Lucy!

  From: Lucy Jacobs

  To: Phoebe Henderson

  Subject: Hello!

  It’s 28 degrees over here muthaaafuccckkkaaa! Hotel is superb – right on the beach and I might never come back. I’m drinking a pineapple cocktail right now and it’s only eleven in the morning. Don’t bother replying. I only wanted to brag about the weather – I won’t be checking my email for a whole week now.

  Byee! xx

  I walked into the conference room, trying not to feel jealous that Lucy was living it up somewhere sunny while I was stuck here.

  The morning meeting went like this:

  1. Frank announced Lucy was on holiday. Kelly would be running reports.

  2. Kelly tutted and shuffled some blank paper.

  3. Frank went over sales figures for the week. Kelly moaned that Lucy was on holiday and now her workload had doubled.

  4. Frank told Kelly to stop complaining as she only had to push three buttons at quarter to five.

  5. Kelly tutted. Frank exhaled.

  6. Brian’s stomach made a noise like a cat. I laughed until I couldn’t breathe.

  7. Frank left the room.

  I have no idea how we all manage to function on any level. We’re hopeless.

  This evening was reserved for pampering, given that I had two dates at the end of the week. I had to do my eyebrows, give myself a facial and do something about the hairs that had appeared on my big toe. I had just applied a face pack and begun painting my nails dark blue when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello. What’s happening?’

  ‘Hello, Oliver. Not much. Just stuff

  ‘Stuff? Sexy stuff? I want details.’

  ‘No. I’m painting my nails and preparing my sagging face for my TWO dates this week. Is that enough detail?’

  ‘Are you using that green stuff on your face? Man, that stuff is scary. When it cracks you look like Dana escaping from that demon dog in Ghostbusters.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ I snorted. ‘It’s still drying.’

  ‘Hang on, two dates?’ asked Oliver. ‘You mean business.’

  ‘Indeed.’ I nodded. ‘I’m paying for this – I intend to get my money’s worth.’ I put the phone to my other ear and continued painting my nails. ‘But I was thinking – we still have the bondage challenge left to do and a final role play. Any thoughts?’

  ‘Nope, I’m now thinking of all the dastardly things I’m going to do to you in the bondage challenge.’

  ‘Like what?’ I asked. ‘Don’t do anything weird like punch me or drip hot wax on me.’

  ‘You’ll see,’ he laughed. ‘Anyway, you’re not the only one who has plans this week – Ruth has decided to stay on for a few days.’

  I stopped painting. ‘Don’t you feel bad about having her there and arranging this with me?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no.’

  ‘So you’ll be off-limits until when? That woman is ruining my sex life, Oliver. Where is she just now?’

  ‘At the shops. She’s heading back for a shoot on Saturday, so just a week. I’m working on Sunday so email me Monday.’

  ‘Will do. Hang on … Is this getting serious with Ruth?’

  ‘Speak later.’

  He hung up without answering. We’re going to have
to do these challenges soon before he marries that Ruth girl and she spoils all my fun. Now he’s busy all week as well as Lucy being on holiday? Fuckssake. I have really inconsiderate friends.

  Friday August 12th

  Oh, just kill me now. Tonight was awful. For my first date I found out I was being taken to a midnight showing of some hypnotist act with a shit name, my idea of hell, but Matthew wasn’t to know that. He thought it was inventive, but unless it’s Derren Brown I really have no time for showmen.

  Matthew was a stereotypical lad, another thing that’s high up on my list of pet hates (just below hypnotists). But he had a cool jacket and complimented my hair, which was enough to win me over sufficiently to hope he’d get me pissed at the bar. No such luck. We walked straight past the bar (damn him) and got settled in our seats. At least I had an aisle seat so I could make a dash for it if it came to the worst. Forty-five minutes into the show I was politely laughing at some poor bastard who was acting like a chicken on stage, when the hypnotist turned his terrible moustached attention to the fat bloke beside chicken boy, pretending to be asleep.

  ‘When you wake up on the count of three, you’ll think you’re Superman, racing to save a damsel in distress … One, two, three!’

  My polite laughing face quickly changed to one of sheer horror as Superman raced up the aisle, threw me over his shoulder in some kind of gymnastic fireman’s lift and carried me back to the stage, during which my skirt was hitched up and my pants revealed to the entire audience. Being laughed at by two hundred people because a fat man picked me up is not my idea of fun. Neither is being told by the middle-aged hypnotist that he ‘definitely would’ while my date almost pissed his trousers laughing and then proceeded to go to the bar afterwards and talk about my pants to other men. He continued snorting all the way home, by which time I’d made it clear there would be no second date but thanks for a humiliating evening. Stupid hypnosis.

  I now cannot believe I thought it was a good idea to arrange another date with a different man tomorrow. I might not have fully recovered from this one. What was I thinking?

  Saturday August 13th

  I made a point of asking my second date Craig where we were going tonight – I wasn’t taking any chances after last night’s fiasco. We agreed to meet in a small but trendy bar in town and I arrived there ten minutes early so I didn’t have to be the one walking around on my own like a tit, looking for someone who resembled a photo I’d once seen. Unlike Alan, his picture was recent but he’d lied about his height, and his build. He was around the same height as me and twice as wide. Not the six foot, slim build he’d lied about online. However, determined not to be so bloody shallow, I accepted a drink and we sat down. Craig was forty-one, a stockbroker who absolutely loved the sound of his own voice. That man went on and on and fucking on for hours about himself, what he did, what he thought, and only asked me questions so he could then disagree and tell me his reasons for doing so. His love of whisky meant he got hammered extremely quickly and then started prattling on about some twenty-five-year-old politics student called Mia who had rejected him and he couldn’t understand why. By the time I’d finished my third drink it was time to go.