The List

by Joanna Bolouri

  Wednesday November 16th

  I’m in a funk and not a Bootsy Collins kind of happy funk. I feel lost. So utterly hopeless and lost. I need to have a party. A big one that will spill out on to the street and end with a massive Mardi Gras-style conga. I need my friends. I need a cuddle. I need loud music and balloons and streamers and a Seventies ice bucket shaped like a pineapple. I need to throw Twiglets at folk and drink Advocaat (even though I’ve never tasted it and it might kill me). I need poetry, and plaits in my hair and feminist rantings from a woman in stupid pointy glasses and most of all I need to know that at some point I’ll be happy again. Because I’m not. This whole journey of self-discovery has been pointless because regardless of who I’m fucking, and regardless of whether we spend the night together, I’m still going to bed and waking up completely alone. I never thought that one little list would turn my entire life upside down.

  Thursday November 17th

  Hazel phoned me first thing. ‘You all right, Phoebe? I got a really random voicemail from you last night. Something about Twiglets and pointy women? I couldn’t quite make it out.’

  I began to cry – sob uncontrollably is more accurate – and still had the phone in my hand fifteen minutes later when she appeared at the door. ‘Oh my goodness, Phoebe,’ she said quietly, putting her arms around me. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  I wiped my eyes with my dressing gown sleeve and sniffed. ‘I’ve fucked everything up. I’m such an idiot. He won’t even speak to me.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘This was bound to happen. Oliver didn’t stand a chance while you still had those feelings for Alex, and you can’t be blamed for feeling them. But it’s time to move on, Phoebe, you can’t spend the rest of your life wishing things were different. If you love Oliver then keep telling him that and don’t stop until he realizes what an idiot he’s been.’

  Lucy came round after work armed with flowers and we talked for ages. She was predictably more blunt that Hazel.

  ‘So you fucked up. Big deal. Nobody died, Phoebe. This year has been good for you. This was the year you stopped being so numb to everything and actually chose to experience your life instead of just muddling through, waiting for things to change. You changed them, so hallelujah to that!’

  Despite the fact I’m three days into my holiday and have spent a third of that pissed and crying, I don’t feel quite so desperate any more. Sure, my eyes are puffy, but I feel incredibly clear. I’m starting to feel like me again.

  Friday November 18th

  Going out with Lucy tonight and I’m going to avoid gin and anyone with a penis just to be on the safe side. It will be the first time in ages that I’ve gone out with the intention of not pulling. I feel liberated.

  Sunday November 20th

  FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK I’M HORNY! I was wondering when my sex drive would show up again. So far I’ve made my way through half a ton of rubbish porn, and completely soaked my sheets twice. I’m now sitting here wishing someone would just come to my house and lie on top of me. I should place an advert for that: ‘Emotionally challenged woman seeks man for lying-on-top duties and possible thrusting.’ Knowing my luck I’d get that swinging Storm trooper I saw online turning up and banging his head on the door frame.

  Wednesday November 23rd

  From: Lucy Jacobs

  To: Phoebe Henderson

  Subject: Tomorrow night

  Hello. I don’t care what you’ve got on this evening, you’re coming to watch Kyle perform at his spoken-word event in town. I’ve managed to dodge two so far and he’s insisting I go to this one. 7pm at the Gallery of Modern Art. You have to come.

  From: Phoebe Henderson

  To: Lucy Jacobs

  Subject: Re: Tomorrow night

  Oooh, OK. I’m dying to meet him. If it’s terrible, I’ll lie.

  Thursday November 24th

  I met Lucy outside the Gallery of Modern Art on Queen Street. She was waiting beside the Duke of Wellington statue which for once didn’t have a traffic cone stuck on its head. She waved me over.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’ she chuckled. ‘It’s going to be dull as hell.’

  ‘Probably,’ I said, sticking some chewing gum in my mouth, ‘but I’ve never been to one before. It’ll be an experience.’

  ‘Skydiving is an experience. This will be more like a punishment from God.’

  We went downstairs to the gallery library where they’d set up an area of around twenty chairs in front of a small podium. The seats were beginning to fill up with the oddest group of people I’ve ever seen. There was a woman in her forties with a teacake in her hand, alternating between staring at it intensely and slowly tonguing the creamy filling. Then there was an elderly gentleman who wore a cravat, tapping his foot gently to music only he could hear. A crash from the back revealed four tipsy women in their twenties who couldn’t quite master the art of sitting down and, finally, several nervous poets clutching their notes. A fella wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with leather bands wrapped around his wrists began to move towards to us and I heard Lucy say behind me, ‘So what are you reading tonight, sexy?’

  He smiled and opened the paper in his hand. ‘I’m doing a sonnet and a haiku. Is this Phoebe?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Lovely to finally meet you!’

  ‘She’s a hipster too.’ Lucy smiled. ‘I have no idea what a haiku is.’

  He laughed. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Phoebe. A haiku is a short poem that follows a rhyming structure, Lucy, and if you call me a hipster once more I’m never taking you to Urban Outfitters again.’

  I think I’m going to like Kyle.

  The first person up was the organizer, thanking everyone for coming and reading a poem he’d written about a bus journey he’d once had and how the scenery reminded him of pompous ghosts (or something to that effect). Next was a tiny woman who’d written a poem to a man she hadn’t seen in thirty years – after hearing at length about her ‘empty chasm’ it was easy to understand why he’d fucked off. But when Kyle appeared on stage, everyone seemed to pay attention. He spoke beautifully, and although I’m not entirely sure what his sonnet was about, his haiku was beautiful and I remember every word:

  When I look at her

  My heart starts to see her in

  Ways my eyes cannot

  When it was over, Lucy clapped so hard I thought she’d damage her hands. ‘I didn’t expect him to be good! Shit, I might fancy him even more now.’

  We politely stayed until the end, enduring poets of all shapes and sizes, some with obvious talent and some who just shouted words out in no apparent order and called it free verse while Lucy and I silently shook with laughter.

  I left Kyle and Lucy kissing in the library and made my home feeling both excited that my mate was embarking on a journey with someone like Kyle, and sickened that I was going nowhere except home alone.

  Sunday November 27th

  I’m kind of glad November is almost over. It’s been an emotional one, to say the least. Couples have been watched, tantrums have been had, and tears have been shed on more than one occasion, but I feel better after my latest meltdown. Not having Oliver around has been strange, but I hope he’s happy whatever he’s doing. What I mean by happy is: miserable as sin and missing me terribly, but I’ll send good thoughts anyway.

  Monday November 28th

  I grabbed a lift with Lucy into work and I felt so much brighter and happier than I have in ages. I also didn’t think about Oliver once all morning. Breakthrough! But by the afternoon, he was all I could think of and the inevitable email was sent:

  From: Phoebe Henderson

  To: Oliver Webb

  Subject: Hi

  Hope Chicago is treating you well and the job too. The weather is now freezing here and, actually, fuck that – what I really want to say is that I miss you. I miss you terribly and I wish things were different and that you’d even reply to this to tell me to piss off. I know we haven’t discussed th
e last night we saw each other, not properly, but I meant every (coherent) word I said. I love you. Very much.

  Phoebe x

  So far no reply. This has to be the last attempt. I don’t want to still be emailing him in ten years’ time like some bunny boiler. Anyway, drinks with Paul, Dan and Lucy planned for tomorrow, which should be fun, and if I pretend I’m still depressed/suicidal I might be able to persuade them into taking me for sushi to ease my pain.

  Wednesday November 30th

  I’ve been sick as a dog all day, so had to cancel drinks with the team last night. I feel so yucky, what the hell is wrong with my immune system? First food poisoning, then tonsillitis and now some bloody tummy bug which is keeping me away from my daily Bounty fix. Bah. I feel awful and I’m so stressed out, and my period is late and usually that’s a good thing as it–

  Wait a minute … My period is late? My period is late! FUCK!

  DECEMBER

  Thursday December 1st

  ‘I’m late.’

  ‘You’re fine. It’s only just gone nine,’ said Lucy from behind her desk, ‘the boss doesn’t … Oh. Wait. Late? As in …?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Oh SHIT.’

  ‘I know. Just a few days … but I’m never late! Stress? Don’t you think it could be stress?’

  ‘When did you last have sex?’ asked Lucy quietly. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Of course I do! It was at your Halloween party. With Oliver. But I’m on the pill! I can’t be pregnant – I always take my pill for this VERY REASON!’

  ‘You were also on antibiotics at the time, Phoebe, and stop shouting at me. I didn’t knock you up.’

  ‘Antibiotics? Oh. Hmm … I’d forgotten about them. Oh shitshitshit!’

  ‘Stop panicking. Go and get a test at lunchtime, we’ll do it together.’

  And so we did. I bought my overpriced test from the chemist and peed on it in front of Lucy. We stood in the toilets and waited. It was negative. ‘Panic over,’ winked Lucy. ‘Now, stop being such a stress bunny and it’ll appear. Then you’ll moan to me about that instead of this. Trust me.’

  Saturday December 3rd

  Still no sign of my period and I’m still feeling rough as dogs. I’ll see the doctor on Monday and get something for this. I’ve been looking up my symptoms online and, having ruled out pregnancy, I’m either going through the menopause or it is just stress and my diet, which is probably much more likely. Maybe my ovaries are broken?

  Monday December 5th

  I went to the doctor and she doesn’t think it’s anything to worry about, probably stress, but she took a blood sample to check my hormone levels and so on. Apparently menopause is rare in women my age BUT not impossible. I don’t know what’s worse – the thought of being pregnant or the thought of never being able to become pregnant. I should have the results on Wednesday, which means two days of acting like a massive hypochondriac. Mum was due to call tonight but I texted her to say that I wasn’t feeling well so I’d speak to her later in the week. Of course she called anyway.

  ‘Feeling sick? Are your boobs sore?’

  ‘I’m not pregnant, Mum, I’ve checked. The doctor took some blood to check my hormone levels anyway.’ I started to laugh. ‘She’s even checking for early menopause. I’m only thirty-three!’

  ‘Well, I did go through the change at thirty-nine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And your grandmother too.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Oh, and your Great-aunt Helen. She was also about that age. So it might not be such a wild theory.’

  ‘ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Why on earth didn’t you mention this earlier? That’s only six years away!’

  ‘Didn’t I? Sorry, love. I’m sure it’s not that. I always put mine down to the copious amounts of drugs I took in the Seventies. Something had to give.’

  After I hung up, I threw up.

  Tuesday December 6th

  I’m feeling fine today. No period but a couple of cramps and the nausea has gone. I feel silly for panicking so easily. I made my way into work, stopping to get tea and a bacon roll from the cafe across the street. I felt ready to embrace the day.

  Dorothy has decided that daily morning meetings aren’t productive and so she scrapped them, saying she wants us to ‘hit the ground running at 9 a.m.’ Ugh, it seems that despite her endearingly quirky ways, underneath it all she’s still an evil saleswoman.

  Hazel texted to say she’s received our booking confirmations for the New Year party at the Royal Hotel, which reminded me I haven’t bought a dress. I spent most of the afternoon on eBay looking for one and wondering why the hell people sell make-up online that’s already been used. Bleurgh. ‘I have a rare but contagious weeping skin condition that this concealer wouldn’t cover up. I tried. Yours for only a tenner!’ Yeah, I’ll pass, thanks, scabby.

  Wednesday December 7th

  I called the doctor’s office, but again the stupid receptionist wouldn’t give me my test results over the phone so I have to go in and see the doctor first thing tomorrow.

  ‘After what your mum said, it probably is the menopause,’ Lucy laughed. ‘If you were of noble blood you’d be Barren Von Henderson.’

  ‘That’s not funny! I bet my iron levels are down or something, due to the millions of periods which have arrived ON TIME over the years. Maybe I’ve run out of blood. Is that possible?’

  ‘You need to calm down. Come over to mine tonight. We can eat cake and watch The Good Wife.’

  ‘Did you make the cake?’

  ‘No, Kyle brought it the other night.’

  ‘OK then.’

  ‘He said that he wanted me to lick cake off the end of his—’

  ‘LALALALALA!’ I shouted, covering my ears. ‘If you finish that sentence I won’t be going anywhere near your dirty little dessert.’

  ‘I was joking,’ she chuckled. ‘Got your mind off your results though, didn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t believe you, but thanks. I’ll be over at eight.’

  I popped in to see Dorothy and tell her I needed to see the doc in the morning. She twirled around in her chair to check the holiday board. ‘You still have a day to use up. Take it tomorrow if you like.’

  So I’ve got the day off tomorrow and I get to eat cake tonight. Things are looking up.

  Thursday December 8th

  I crashed at Lucy’s house last night. We managed to demolish the remaining three-quarters of a chocolate cake (which I checked first for penis imprints) and watched five full episodes of The Good Wife.

  ‘I could totally be a big-time lawyer,’ said Lucy, admiring Josh Charles in his suit. ‘I’d be all “OBJECTION!” The judge would sustain it and then the case would fall apart because of things that happened. Then I’d sleep with Josh Charles.’

  ‘He isn’t a real lawyer, you know.’

  ‘I don’t care. It’s my destiny.’

  I left her place at half eight this morning and drove over to the surgery to get my test results. Regardless of what it might turn out to be, I felt utterly and completely grateful that at least I wasn’t pregnant. THAT would have been a fucking disaster. The doctor saw me straight away.

  ‘From the date of your last period, you’ll be about six weeks gone,’ she said with a bright smile. ‘Would you like me to book you in for your first appointment?’

  I sat there stunned.

  ‘I’m pregnant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m pregnant?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘But I took the test. It said I wasn’t. I don’t … I mean … how can this … ?’

  ‘It’s not uncommon for tests to come back negative, especially in the early weeks. So, shall I book you in to see the midwife?’

  ‘No … I mean, I don’t know. I’m on my own. I don’t know if I can do this on my own. What would you do?’

  ‘Erm, I can’t answer that. OK. Take some time to think – it’s still early, and you have options.’

  I kn
ow what my options are and I can’t bear to even think about that. Not yet anyway. I went straight home and sat on the couch for, oh, about four hours. Lucy called four times but I didn’t answer. Fucking pregnant? I’m thirty-three and single. Oh God, what do I tell Oliver? This is bad. This is very bad.

  Friday December 9th

  The commute this morning was a blur. I remember sitting next to a woman who smelled like she was wearing all of the perfume ever made and the next thing I remember is Lucy picking up my coat, which had fallen from the back of my chair to the floor.

  ‘You’re a sleepyhead today!’ she chirped. ‘You didn’t call me back yesterday. Was it bad news? Are you going to get hot flushes and chew on calcium tablets all day long?’

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  I saw the smile evaporate from her face. ‘How? We took that test. I saw you pee. There was only one line! Two is for yes, one is for no.’

  ‘The test was wrong,’ I sighed, putting my head in my hands. ‘This is a nightmare.’

  Lucy pulled over a chair and sat down beside me.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t want it, and … It’s not a baby yet, you know, it’s a bunch of cells.’

  ‘I can’t think right now. I’ll try to get through today normally and then take the weekend to try to start processing this.’

  ‘You call me if you need me,’ said Lucy. ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  9.40 p.m. I’ve had a bath and I’m feeling calmer. I think I need to have an abortion. I’m not remotely religious and I’m practical. I have no partner, my family live in Canada, I have no savings and most importantly I know nothing about kids! I’ve never been maternal. Maybe I want them one day, but not like this. I would make a terrible mother. Children scare me – they’re noisy, uncooperative little rat bags AND I’d have to stop smoking. I’m too selfish for this. There’s no way I’m having a baby.

  Sunday December 11th

  I’ve had a lot of time to think about things. In fact I haven’t thought about anything else. I have a million questions like: what if I did have this baby? What if this is my one chance, only I don’t know it and I have an abortion and it’s too late? What if I spend the next twenty years waiting for Mr Right and he doesn’t turn up? Also, how much will it hurt?, and ‘will giving birth completely destroy my lady parts?’ – which aren’t as important but still crossed my mind. I haven’t told Hazel because I worry that telling another mother (not my own – God, not yet) would make it seem real, and at the moment it still feels like it’s happening to someone else. Good plan, Phoebe: head in the sand. I wish it was happening to someone else. I’d arranged to see Hazel tomorrow anyway. I’ll tell her then.