by Emlyn Rees
Roughly speaking then, disregarding the last dream, which is obviously to do with money, since I’m unemployed again, I reckon my issues are about successfully fighting demons and having a socially acceptable lover. I chew the already-chewed plastic end of the pen and survey the list. Not too bad, then. I’ll give the night seven out of ten. I flick through the other pages. Seven is good news. My dream scoring, which is pretty arbitrary, is on the up which means that the Change Your Life programme is definitely working.
Nearly one week and already I’ve changed beyond all recognition.
It all started on Tuesday. I’d been clearing up the flat, missing Maude and Zip as I tidied up their room, when I found an envelope by their bed. ‘Don’t think the customs men at LAX are lax about this! Enjoy!’ said the scribble on the front. Inside was their entire stash. I sniffed the contents of the bank bag. Skunk. Strong skunk at that.
I almost threw it out, and then I thought of Maude and thought, why not? It would be rude not to. So I kicked off the vacuum cleaner, made a pot of tea and flopped down in front of the telly.
I’m not so good at getting drunk, but I love getting stoned on my own. Before long, I was shouting advice at the people on the chat show and admiring myself for being so incisive and witty. That’s the thing with getting stoned for me: I always have the most blinding ideas and feel like I can solve the most traumatic of problems. Shame is, I’m always too stoned to remember anything.
Two hours later, when I’d practically melted, I found myself staring inanely at the TV, communing on a rather alarming level with the Teletubbies. They seemed to be speaking to me. Just to me! And I was understanding what they were saying. La-la was explaining that Dipsy was a proto-Fascist with designs to take over the entire town of Tunbridge Wells, brainwash the population and parachute them in to Parliament Square, on 31st December, 1999, in order to blow up Big Ben before the millennium could strike, thus stopping time itself and bringing the relentless march of democracy crashing to its knees once and for all.
Armed with this crucial information, I was just about to roll myself another spliff and was absent-mindedly rooting about for some roach paper when I found the Change Your Life leaflet that had been left on my car windscreen the night before, at Heathrow. I’d ripped a corner off it before I pulled my eyes away from the screen and realized what it was.
Five minutes later, when the Teletubbies had finished, I lurched towards the TV and switched it off. Maude and Zip were almost certainly arriving in Los Angeles right now. And what was I doing? Lying on the living-room floor on a Monday afternoon, behaving like a student.
‘Take action now,’ urged the leaflet.
I decided to go by bus.
I adore buses. I think they’re lovely. They certainly make being in London an absolute treat. I plugged in my Walkman, sat at the front up top and let my eyes float over the scenery, until the conductor tapped me on the shoulder. ‘All change, love. South Kensington. You’re the last off.’
The office of the Change Your Life programme was on the ground floor of a shabby Georgian mansion house near the Science Museum. When I stumbled in to the room, six people were sitting nervously in an array of tatty armchairs. They all had computer labels stuck to them, with their names written in schoolteacher’s handwriting.
‘I’m . . . er . . . er . . . here,’ I said, grinning inanely, as they all turned towards me.
‘Welcome to CYL. You’re just in time,’ said a woman, jumping off her chair in the bay window and welcoming me in. I squinted at the label stuck to her mohair jumper. ‘I’m Claire. Your group leader.’
Claire’s mouse-brown hair was scraped back into an elastic band and round metal glasses were hooked over her sticky-out ears. She looked as if she’d be far more comfortable running the poetry section of an obscure library than running a personal motivation course.
‘By stepping through that door, you’ve taken the first, most important step towards getting what you really want,’ she recited, in a little-girlie voice, blinking at me like an uncovered vole.
‘OK,’ I nodded, slumping down in to a dusty armchair and realizing that I was still completely off my head.
Claire produced a label for me and cleared her throat. ‘Now before we start,’ she said, smiling at each of us in turn, ‘let’s sort out the money, shall we? Just to get it out of the way, so that we can get on with Changing Your Life.’
I was so stoned and so pleased to be sitting in a comfy chair that I had my chequebook out in no time.
‘You’ll see,’ assured Claire, clasping her hands in front of her, like a Sunday school mistress. ‘This will be the best money you’ll ever spend. The CYL programme guarantees that if your life hasn’t changed by the end of the course, then we will refund you completely.’
‘You won’t regret it,’ beamed Claire, taking my illegible cheque from me and handing me a photocopied Change Your Life Guaranteed certificate. The words blurred since I’d forgotten my glasses, but it didn’t seem to matter. It was the rent for a month, but if I was guaranteed . . . who cared? I kicked off my shoes and pulled my feet up under me in the chair, ready to learn.
An hour or so later, I was completely engrossed. We’d heard all about Angie, who was desperate to leave her abusive husband and felt that she badly needed a makeover, and Gerald, trying to shake off the shackles of a miserable past, and I was beginning to think that this was better than Jerry Springer, Rikki Lake and Oprah all put together.
‘So,’ sighed Claire. ‘Michaela. Why are you here?’ She cocked her head earnestly at the large woman sitting next to me.
‘I do so want to change,’ whispered Michaela, running a large false fingernail under her thick eyeliner. ‘I want to go back to how I was.’
‘And how were you?’ asked Claire.
Michaela’s large features crumpled.
‘Take a breath,’ counselled Claire, breathing in and blowing out, as if she was trying to blow Michaela’s wig-like hair off. ‘Breathe in to the emotion.’
I followed her breathing pattern, until I was nearly hyperventilating.
Michaela looked at her huge hands. ‘I used to be a man,’ she sniffed. ‘I wanted the change, but now, now I’m a woman . . . I’m really . . .’
‘Take your time,’ soothed Claire and I realized I was staring, open-mouthed at Michaela. Now I’d really heard it all.
‘Can you share the emotion with us?’
‘I’m just so sad,’ choked Michaela. ‘And lonely.’
‘Why are you lonely?’
‘I can’t find a relationship. I can’t find anyone who’ll go out with me. There was this guy, Matt, once, but he rejected me when I told him and since then I’ve tried and . . .’ Michaela adjusted her shoulder pad.
‘You’ll find someone,’ I blurted, flinging myself at Michaela and giving her a bear hug over the arms of our chairs. ‘Honest you will. It’s not so bad being a woman . . .’
Michaela recoiled from my unsteady advance.
‘Thank you, Susie,’ interrupted Claire. ‘It’s important to show support. But we’ll have a chance for that at the end of the session when we’ve got to know each other a little better.’
‘But she’s lovely. Look at her. If I was a bloke . . .’ I began in earnest.
Claire shot me a warning glance. ‘I’d like to talk about the word “relationship” for a moment. This may help you all.’
I listened, trying to concentrate as I watched Claire’s mouth carefully, mouthing some of her words as they hit my fuzzy head like Velcro darts. ‘Project on to others . . . take responsibility . . . relate . . .’
‘Susie. Tell us your thoughts,’ said Claire, suddenly. All attention turned to me. ‘Tell us what you want to change about your life.’
I was silent for a moment. ‘Everything, well, um, I don’t know . . . not that much, really. Not everything. Some things. Some things definitely. Like er . . . like.’ I bit my lip, looking up and trying to grasp my train of thought that had just derailed
towards the ceiling. ‘Other people . . . and . . . things.’ I looked up at the group. They all looked confused.
‘I want . . . things. Like you were just saying.’
‘You want to relate to people in different ways?’ clarified Claire.
I sat in silence nodding slowly, trying to formulate my argument. All I could think about were my school dining-room alien dreams. What did I want to change about my life? Sitting in that room full of these people, everything seemed just dandy with me.
‘That’d be . . . ? Yeah.’ I shrugged. ‘Men. I’d like a boyfriend.’
Afterwards, back at home, when my head straightened out, I was mortified. Claire must have thought I was a complete fruitcake and besides, I don’t think I do want a boyfriend.
The next day, when I woke up with noticeably fewer braincells, I felt sick remembering the money. I fished out the guarantee, but I’d have to go for months to complete the course before I got my money back. With a sinking sense of dread, I opened the course manual. Just how much of an idiot had I been?
But when I started reading, surprisingly it all started making a lot of sense. I spent all of Tuesday in bed reading and by the Week Twenty-four guidelines, I was feeling very positive indeed. I hadn’t done anything, mind, but at least I’d come up with a purpose, as the manual suggested. I wrote it down on a large piece of paper:
My purpose is: to become friends with an attractive man and to present myself in a non-sexual way.
I said it over and over again, loads of times, to make it have positive energy. I left it overnight with a crystal on it and it worked. Because on Wednesday, I met Stringer.
And I knew, as soon as I saw him, he’d been sent as a challenge. Because normally I would’ve flirted outrageously because, just as Amy had predicted, he is absolutely divine. But when I sat next to him, at the meal, I made a conscious effort to think with my head for once. So instead of checking Stringer out, to see whether he was either a quick shag or a long-term prospect, I talked to him as a friend. And I think I did quite well.
I close my eyes, preparing for my morning meditation. I’ve been doing this every day since Wednesday and I’m sure it’s going to work.
I wriggle on the bed and breathe deeply. I make sure my eyes and face are relaxed and work through my body, until all tension has gone. It doesn’t take long since I’ve only just woken up.
I remember the advice in Chapter One of the CYL manual and the four steps to changing your life. Step one: define your purpose. Step two: visualize achieving your purpose. Step three: allow yourself to fill out every detail. Step four: think big.
I focus my mind and the image of Stringer comes to me. I picture us outside on a mountain, having a picnic. Everything is in soft focus. The sky is blue, with a few fluffy clouds, the trees are a lush green, the birds are singing and Stringer is lying, propped up on one elbow, sucking on a stem of grass. I’m kneeling beside him, wearing a flowery summer dress and I know that we’re friends. And I’m comfortable being friends. And I’m happy sharing my thoughts and secrets with him like this. I look out at the view, feeling totally content, but when I turn back to Stringer to speak again, his eyes are smouldering with sex and, despite myself, I can feel myself becoming hopelessly turned on. He’s looking me right in the eye and I’m leaning across to him and reaching into his trousers, and it’s big, really, really big . . .
No!
I jolt upright in bed and rub the vision away from my eyes. This keeps on happening and I can’t stand it. I want to know Stringer without sex being involved. How can I have a lasting friendship with him, when every time I think about him I’m stripping him off in my head and pouncing on him?
Obviously, I’ve got a very long way to go.
I get out of bed, sling on my kimono, feed Torvill and Dean and cook myself some poached eggs on toast. Over breakfast, I have a rethink and come up with some more purposes. Honestly, it takes up so much time defining what I intend to do, I don’t have time to do anything.
Fortunately Maude calls to relieve me from my head. She sounds tanned. You can tell by her voice. She’s all white teeth, frayed shorts and shining skin and I can picture her on rollerblades as she talks.
‘It’s amazing,’ she gushes, once she’s recounted the journey and described Zip’s mother’s house. She’s awestruck by the swanky kitchen from where she’s calling and makes me listen to the sound of the ice-making machine on the fridge. ‘I wish you were here.’
‘So do I,’ I smile, leaning back against the hall wall and peeling a banana.
‘Well, why don’t you come out?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I tut. ‘I can’t come out there. What would I do?’
‘I’m working on it. This is the place for you, Sooze, I’m telling you.’
‘Maude!’ I laugh, pulling off a piece of banana. ‘You’re crazy mad. This is my home.’
‘But you’re wasting precious time. You’re festering.’
‘I’m not festering,’ I protest.
‘But there’s the whole world out there. You’ve always said you wanted to travel . . .’
‘I know, but I can’t give up everything just like that.’
‘Why not? You have done before. What have you got to give up? You’re not making any money. If you gave up the market and sold your stock, you could get some money together . . .’
‘How come you’re on the other side of the world and you’re still organizing my life for me?’ I smile.
‘Because you need organizing,’ she replies.
‘I don’t,’ I say, before telling her all about the Change Your Life course.
She laughs. ‘Then visualize yourself in the sunshine, with your friends around you, chilling out, having fun, going to the beach . . .’
And I do think about the ocean as I’m struggling across London on public transport. When I give up my seat on the bus for a woman, her shopping and her child, I cling on to the overhead rail and look out of the window at the traffic and the drunks on the pavement and the dirty, damp windows of the shops and I do think about clean air and sunshine and mountains and vast expanses of country to explore.
The sight of Amy cheers me up. She’s sitting in the coffee shop in Hammersmith Broadway with her hair plaited in two coils over her ears.
‘It’s supposed to be the trendy look for this season,’ she says, pursing her lips in disappointment. ‘According to Your Wedding.’
‘This season! What a load of rubbish,’ I laugh. ‘Come on, take it out,’ I say, attacking her plaits. ‘People will start requesting “Edelweiss” any minute.’
‘Thanks,’ she mutters, as I unravel her. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I soothe. ‘Get it cut and wear it down. You’re most gorgeous when you go natural.’
‘Oh, thanks!’ she says, hitting me. ‘Why am I bothering at all? According to you, I’d look best in a hessian sack.’
‘Correct.’
‘Sometimes I think it would be better just to elope and get married on a beach in a bikini.’
‘And miss Leisure Heaven?’
‘True,’ she sighs.
‘All set, then, for next weekend?’
Amy nods. ‘H has got the details for you.’
‘Who’s coming?’
‘Well, there’s you, me, H, Jenny and Sam from work, Lorna, an old mate from home and Jack’s sister, Kate. We’ve got two chalets booked so there’s more space.’
‘I can’t wait. I will be in your chalet, won’t I?’
Amy shifts in her seat. ‘I don’t know, I think H will sort it out.’
That means I’ll be relegated, I bet. H is so pathetically possessive about Amy, which annoys me a bit, because I’ve known Amy longer.
‘Bags I share a room with you,’ I smile and Amy nods. ‘Talk of the devil,’ I say, turning round as H rushes in.
‘Sorry. Overslept,’ she mumbles.
‘Overslept?’ guffaws Amy, nudging me. ‘So, what time did you leave the p
ub?’
H ruffles her short hair. ‘Not long after you.’
Amy raises her eyebrows. ‘How’s Matt?’
H looks at me and’ then back to Amy. She shrugs and sticks out her bottom lip. ‘Matt?’ she says. ‘Fine, I think.’
‘Come on, you two,’ says Amy, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at H and sliding off her stool. ‘We’re already late.’
I link arms with Amy as we go outside to hail a cab and H skulks behind us. I love chatting to Amy about her wedding plans, but H doesn’t seem interested.
Her odd mood doesn’t improve when we get to the wedding shop, which is heaving. We practically have to rugby-serum our way into the changing rooms and it’s very hot inside. H strips off cautiously, probably because she’s wearing slinky black underwear. She pulls and tugs at the dress, wriggling in front of the mirror.
‘It looks dreadful,’ she whispers to me. ‘Look at this.’ There’s a big gap down the back and she pinches in the material, whilst trying to keep the straps from falling down.
‘You’ve been losing weight, haven’t you?’ I say, eyeing her skinny body. ‘You should eat properly.’
‘I don’t have time,’ she says.
‘How are they?’ calls Amy. She wants it to be a surprise, so she’s waiting outside the curtain with our bags and jackets.
‘They’re beautiful,’ I call.
H scowls at herself in the mirror, but then pink really isn’t her colour.
‘I’ll fix it, if you like,’ I offer, going to help her. ‘Don’t bother Amy with it, she’ll only be upset.’
‘Amy will want the dress to be right,’ says H, haughtily. ‘Of course the shop will fix it. That’s what we’re paying for.’
‘Suit yourself,’ I reply, wanting to hit her for being so patronizing. ‘Ready?’ I call, before pulling the curtain back. Amy’s hands fly to her mouth, which is the desired. effect. To be honest, next to H, I feel like Jessica Rabbit, but it doesn’t matter. I do a twirl, feeling great, and I say so. I wonder what Stringer will think.
‘What about you?’ Amy asks H.
‘It’s fine,’ she grunts, but anyone can see she’s not fine. She looks like a little girl in her mother’s dress. I’m a bitch, I know, but hooray for boobs.
