‘No. Nope. Alex is gone. Away … away … You were right about him. Even my stupid boss was right about him. In fact I was right about him until I decided to become an idiot and take him back. So go on. Tell me you were right. Make fun of the crazy lady,’ I ranted, waving my arms around in the air above my head. There was no reply.
I felt his weight on the bed beside me. Then he lifted my head into his lap and stroked my hair. ‘I’m not saying anything,’ he replied, ‘but I’ll feel better in Chicago knowing you’re not with that piece of shit.’
‘You still care? Oh, that’s nice. We had sex in my pyjamas, you know,’ I slurred. Then his words actually managed to bypass the booze and penetrate my brain. I sat up again and managed to stay up. ‘Chicago? Again? You’re leaving?’ My stomach did a huge somersault. ‘When?’
‘Next week. Just for two months initially, and if it goes well I’ll stay on. I’ll be living with Ruth.’
I suddenly felt sober. ‘Gosh,’ I said, not really knowing what else to say. ‘Hope it goes well then.’
He just smiled, said, ‘Thanks,’ and gave me a hug. And as I hugged him back it hit me: He was leaving. OH FUCK HE WAS LEAVING. WITH RUTH! Panic set in. The thought of losing him completely made my head spin and my mouth go dry. ‘Don’t go,’ I whispered. ‘Oh fuck, please don’t go. What will I do without you?’
‘What you’ve always done, I imagine. Meet some blokes, maybe go out with a few, invent some new challenges if you’re bored.’ He grinned. I couldn’t let him leave. I had to think of something.
‘WE STILL HAVE CHALLENGES LEFT!’ I shouted in a panic, grabbing his face with both hands. ‘Remember? We still have a role play to do!’
‘Phoebe,’ he began, ‘I don’t think—’
‘No. Listen.’ I sat up properly and made sure he was looking at me.
‘Here’s an idea. What if we role-play that we’re a real couple? What if we pretend we’re in love? I mean, what if we pretend none of this shit ever happened and we pretend I’m not a selfish bitch who couldn’t see what was right in front of her. What if you pretend, just for a second, to believe every word I’m saying and know that I mean it?’
He just stared at me.
‘I fucking adore you, Oliver. I love you. I didn’t realize until recently but I do. I’m in love with you.’
He didn’t say anything. He walked to the door … and then he stopped. And locked the door.
We made love right there on the bed. There was no shouting, or gymnastics, or laughing. We were slow and quiet and we never took our eyes off each other. He was so gentle, and the moment he entered me I was so happy to have him back inside me again, to feel him moving his hands over my thighs and to feel his mouth on mine. It was so intense and I came before he did. It was beautiful.
This morning when I woke up he was gone.
I called him on the taxi ride home but he didn’t pick up. He returned my call about half an hour ago. ‘I’m glad you called, Oliver. Are you coming round?’
‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘I’m not.’
‘What? Why not? I thought last night …’ And then it dawned on me. Last night was his way of saying goodbye.
‘I’ve loved you for a long time, Phoebe, but you were right. What you said in that email after we slept together – you were spot on. I would get bored with you because I get bored with every woman I’m with, and I couldn’t bear to hurt you, and I know that you’ll fuck up my mind, more than you have already. We’re both messed up and that’s not a good combination. You went out of your way to date pretty much every man in Glasgow when I was right in front of you, spending all that time with you, sleeping with you, and you never once considered me. That says a lot about both of us. And after Alex again … I don’t think you know what you want, Phoebe, but I don’t think it’s me. I don’t know what will happen with Ruth, but she doesn’t confuse me, and that’s good enough for now.’
I tried to find the words to tell him how wrong he was about me, about everything, but the only thing that came out was a pathetic sob.
‘I didn’t want this to happen, I really didn’t, and I wish I could go back to just not giving a fuck what you do. But I can’t. Let’s just leave it at that. Take care, Phoebe.’
I didn’t think I was capable of getting my heart broken again after Alex. I guess I was wrong.
NOVEMBER
Thursday November 3rd
The shops in Glasgow have already started putting up their Christmas window displays, which reminds me that this bloody year is almost gone. I started it with such enthusiasm and now all I want to do is start it all over again.
I’m still pining for Oliver, but I think I’m getting near the stage where I can go two minutes without wondering what he’s doing. Maybe. Still, work today was interesting. Dorothy from the London office took over from Frank as head of sales and she arrived all bright-eyed and bushy-haired; I like her. She looks like she doesn’t take any shit, but she secretly listens to Paloma Faith on her iPod and walks around her office with no shoes on, admiring her own feet. Also, she took us all out for drinks, which is a clever way to get the troops on side. She’s given me the entertainments section to work on as she feels it will excite me a bit more than the bastarding motors pull-out and I agree. I need a change.
Friday November 4th
I resisted the urge to send Oliver an email and pour my heart out because I know he won’t reply. Everyone is trying to cheer me up, but it’s not working. I want to go outside, throw my hands in the air and wail at the sky, but Lucy reminded me how disturbingly weird that would be so I won’t. For now anyway. Tonight I rearranged my underwear drawer, occasionally looking at pairs of pants I wore when I had sex with Oliver and creepily hugging them. Enough is enough. He’s not fucking dead, Phoebe, get a grip.
Saturday November 5th
OK, back to business, I am fed up crying over this. Oliver is clearly an idiot and a distraction I don’t need; besides he’s made his choice – he obviously wasn’t as in love with me as he made out. So screw him. Any kind of self-respect I had at the beginning of the year has been lost. I have to get it back and remember that when life gives you lemons, add them to gin and stop fucking moping. I’m perfectly capable of putting this to the back of my mind and getting on with another challenge. I said I’d follow this list through to the end and I intend to do so. Voyeurism. Bring it on.
I’m not sure why I’m so drawn to this, but maybe it’s because I like porn. I like watching people have sex. The sight of two slightly vacant, hairless people shagging each other senseless can turn me on. Not all porn, mind you. I prefer stuff where they actually kiss each other and smile, rather than the ones where they just look like they want to kill each other while they’re screwing and shouting. Sex excites me and the thought of another couple having sex excites me – but would I actually get turned on watching a real-life couple have sex right in front of me? I’ve placed an advert for a couple who’ll help me find out. Get me, all businesslike and not thinking about Oliver’s stomach and that ‘treasure trail’ line of hair that leads down from his belly button … Nope, not at all. Oh, who am I kidding?
Monday November 7th
‘Morning, Phoebe. What’s your opinion on performance poetry?’ asked Lucy as soon as I walked into the office. I hung my green winter coat on the back of my chair and shrugged. ‘Um. I don’t have one. Why?’
‘Because last night Kyle told me that he goes to open-mic nights and reads his poems to strangers and I have the feeling I’m dating a hipster.’
‘Ha, did he read one to you? Did he woo you with his rhythm and meter?’
‘He didn’t, but the fact you know what that means leads me to believe you’re a hipster too,’ she sniggered.
‘What’s the problem with hipsters?’ I laughed. ‘Sam was one, with his guitars and his tattoos and his silly straight hair.’
‘Sam was young – he’d have grown out of it. Kyle is thirty-nine. It’s too late for him now. I don’t hate hip
sters; I just hate the automatic pretentiousness that goes with being one.’
‘Go and see him perform before you start being all judgy about it. It might be fun.’
‘Fine, but if I do, you’re coming with me. I’m not sitting alone in some beatnik cafe surrounded by girls who have moustaches tattooed on their fingers and no shoes on, while he recites a sonnet about losing his iPhone.’
‘Deal. Even if his poetry is crap, it’ll be fun to watch you silently implode.’
The afternoon was typically uneventful, but I’m almost enjoying my new section. Bar, club and restaurant owners are far chattier than the grumpy car dealerships I’m used to dealing with. I also managed to kick Oliver out of my head whenever he popped in there, being all sexy and distracting.
As soon as I got home, I logged on to my special email account with the false name and actually had a lot of replies to my ‘let me watch you shag’ advert; (twenty-three in fact) and have duly sifted through them. The majority of them have been sent by complete maniacs, old-timers and people who compose their emails in text-speak:
Prof Cpl who have done this b4 but would love 2 do again LOL!
Why are you laughing? Stop pretending to text me.
I replied to a few with very specific conditions, like ‘must not be uncontrollably hairy’ and ‘no toilet activities’, and now all I can do is wait and see. Knowing my luck, I’ll get to watch Mr and Mrs Missionary who’ll stare at me during the whole thing.
Wednesday November 9th
I received two email replies back today. One from a couple who said they’d be happy to let me watch but only after their child was asleep (ARGH! I considered calling social services) and one from ‘Jamie and Lisa’, who seemed to fit the bill – photogenic, mid-thirties, married and as new to this as I am. We’ve arranged to meet up. It’s kind of nice to know that I’m not the only one into trying this stuff. Sometimes I feel wrong in so many ways.
‘You sure you want to do this alone?’ asked Lucy. ‘It sounds dodgy.’
‘I know it does, but they seem fine. And no, you’re not watching with me, before you ask.’
‘Well, I’ll wait in the hotel bar for you. Just to be on the safe side.’
That would make me feel better, although knowing Lucy she’ll have had four cocktails and be showing her boobs to the bartender by the time I come back downstairs.
Thursday November 10th
I’ve taken next week off work as I’m totally burnt out. Dorothy couldn’t care less as I’ve met my targets and I told her I liked her toe ring. I think this entire year has suddenly caught up with me and I feel drained. A week of relaxation and reflection is just what I need. In other news, I got an email from Jamie of ‘Jamie and Lisa’. They’ve booked the hotel for Saturday and I’m beginning to feel nervous. What if it’s too weird? What if I giggle? What if they don’t let me leave? What if … what if they hold me down and burst into an a cappella version of ‘Brand New Key’?
I should have thought this through more.
Hazel, Kevin and Grace have gone to Aviemore for the weekend, but she texted me on her way to the airport:
Good luck with your final challenge. You’re almost there! xx
I’m glad someone’s rooting for me.
Saturday November 12th
The big night. I met Jamie and Lisa in the hotel bar as planned. They were already sitting at a table when I walked in, trying not to stumble in new red heels. Lisa noticed me first and smiled, showing perfect teeth hidden behind adult braces. Jamie, tall and boyishly handsome, politely stood up to shake my hand.
‘Phoebe?’ he asked. I took his hand and it was sweaty. He must have been as nervous as I was.
‘I got you a glass of red – hope that’s OK?’ asked Lisa, tucking a brown curl behind her ear. ‘I tried the chardonnay and it was hellish.’
‘Perfect,’ I replied, feeling like I was there to interview them. I took a sip of wine just as Lucy wandered into the hotel. She walked past my table, winked at me, and perched herself at the bar.
Although the conversation wasn’t awkward, I still felt tense. Was I going to see something that would give me nightmares in bed for evermore? I steeled myself and made my move.
‘Shall we do this then?’ I asked, downing my wine.
‘Yep!’ chirped Jamie eagerly.
He hadn’t had any alcohol, whereas Lisa, like me, had inhaled her drink. As we all headed for the lift, I turned around to make sure Lucy was still there and – surprise, surprise – she was chatting to a man at the bar and paying no attention to me or my impending doom.
Once upstairs, Jamie closed the curtains and they both sat on the bed. I sat on a great big chair like Ronnie fucking Corbett, wishing that I’d worn my contacts instead of my glasses to make it less obvious I wanted perfect vision for this. But when they began kissing I started to feel like a big old pervert and wondered what the fuck I was doing. Would it be rude to run away screaming? I was very conscious of my presence in the room, and I had a million questions popping into my head: what should I do with my hands? If I can’t get a good enough look should I stand up, or is that just taking the piss?
At one point I did almost laugh out loud, but purely because my mind was in overdrive and from a certain angle Jamie’s cock resembled a root vegetable and I started reciting ‘One potato, two potato …’ in my head over and over. Thankfully, aggressively biting my lip stifled any giggles.
I must admit that as they got more into it, the less it did for me. I don’t know how much of the act was for my benefit, but they fucked like pros and even genuinely seemed to be enjoying themselves, but it left me cold. I wasn’t aroused, I just felt stupid. I didn’t touch myself or even speak, and my initial embarrassment was soon replaced by a desire to get the hell out of there. However, I stuck around and watched silently until they finished.
They tumbled on to their backs in bed, smiling at each other. Not wanting to appear awkward or insensitive, I mumbled something about keeping in touch and sheepishly backed out of the room. I mean, keep in touch? What? Are we going to be pen pals now?
Maybe I’d have felt differently if Oliver had been there, but equally I know there’s no way he’d have been able to sit still and resist the urge to whip off his clothes and jump in. One thing is certain, however, I will never look at a potato again in the same light.
I rushed back into the hotel bar, face flushed, wondering if somehow everyone knew exactly what I’d been up to. Lucy nearly fell over a chair, rushing to get all the details. ‘How was it? What happened? Did you join in? TELL ME!’
‘It was fine,’ I said with a shrug. I think I was in shock. Apart from the final role play with Oliver that would now never happen, my list was complete. Halle-fucking-lujah. Game over.
Sunday November 13th
I met Lucy and Hazel (and baby Grace) for coffee this afternoon.
‘I still cannot believe you did that,’ said Lucy, scooping the froth off her cappuccino. ‘It’s so insane. He was really hot as well. I’d have jumped him.’
‘Should we be talking about this in front of Grace?’ asked Hazel, glancing over at the buggy.
Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, she’s already seen it all with you and Kevin. You’ve scarred her for life – this conversation won’t matter a jot.’
‘We’ve never done it in front of … Oh, actually there was that one time where I looked over and she was staring at us, but she was only a few weeks old. They can’t even recognize colour at that stage, never mind –’ she dropped her voice to a whisper – ‘cock.’
Lucy smirked.
‘Oh!’ Hazel continued. ‘Before I forget, ladies, New Year party at the Royal Hotel – I’ve booked the tickets. You can pay me later, Kevin got them on his credit card. Anyway, was that your final challenge, Phoebe?’
‘There was one more role play to do with Oliver, but that’s not going to happen now anyway, so … um, yeah … I guess it was!’
‘Excellent work, young Henderson,’ sai
d Lucy, raising her oversized mug. ‘You finally followed through on a resolution. You’ve gone from suburban shagger to Mick fucking Jagger! I’m very impressed.’
I wasn’t. I’d completed my challenges, but I’d lost Oliver. I smiled, silently congratulating myself on being the stupidest person alive.
Monday November 14th
9 a.m. Holiday week! I’m up and ready. This is going to be a good week. I’m going to catch up on some reading, clean up this hellhole, dance around in my slippers to quirky music and make cocktails while watching Eighties movies.
11 a.m. I’m going back to bed for a nap because doing nothing remotely strenuous for the past two hours has made me sleepy. I also killed a spider on purpose. What a complete bastard.
5 p.m. I’m still in bed and have wasted the entire day. I don’t even feel like masturbating. My sex drive is at zero and I can’t be bothered to find new batteries for my vibrator anyway. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.
10 p.m. I’ve ordered curry and I’m now waiting for the delivery man in old jogging bottoms, no make-up and my slippers on the wrong feet. Lucky boy.
1 a.m. Still awake and listening to Kate Bush. She and Florence Welch make me feel like I should be running around a pretty field with a floaty dress and bells on my toes, instead of lying in bed, bloated, wondering where the fuck my life went. I need to sleep.
The List Page 27
