The List (22 page)

‘You'd be perfectly annoying. Maureen worked in advertising for years before she moved into accounts. Stop being so pissy about it.'

‘Oh fuck off, Brian.'

They continued to argue while everyone else got on with making a shitload of personal phone calls, including me.

‘Morning, Oliver. Whatcha doin'?'

‘I have the day off. I'm playing football, then going for a massage. What are you doing?'

‘Boss is off all week. I'm calling everyone I've ever met to pass the time. I'm bored.'

‘When's the next challenge? And not another wanking one. The ones where I'm involved are much more fun. For me.'

‘I'll need to check the list, dude, but I'm sure there are plenty more hands-on tasks for you.'

‘Don't call me dude. You're not a surfer. Anyway, I'm off to football. Don't be thinking about me all sweaty now.'

I thought about it. ‘I hate you,' I muttered.

Lucy came round this evening, armed with a bottle of red wine to give me the lowdown on her date with David.

‘So, how did it go?' I asked, finally managing to uncork the bottle after quite a struggle.

‘Not great. He was more nervous than I was, but we hit it off pretty well.'

‘Sounds promising, but not nearly enough detail.'

‘Well, a couple of times I had to veer the conversation away from his ex-wife, but he was a gentleman and genuinely looked surprised when I replied, “Hell yes!” when he finally asked me back to his place for coffee. Anyway, he owns a flat overlooking the river. Actually, he owns a fucking
block of flats
overlooking the river, as well as the restaurant where we first met him, a PR firm and a bar in London that his ex-wife still runs. KER-CHING! He mentioned this quite casually – I kept hoping he would offer to buy me some boobs.'

‘So he has money. How was the sex?'

‘I made the first move and kissed him. It was all very polite: no tongue and lips firmly planted on mine. I half expected him to light up a cigarette and call me “dahling” halfway through.'

‘Jesus. You still slept with him?'

‘I almost didn't. Get this – first thing he said was, “Don't expect me to go more than once.”'

‘What? Was he kidding?'

‘Well, I laughed, but his face was so sincere, and he said, “I mean it. It won't happen.”'

‘Oh, in the name of the wee man. Was it awful?'

‘Pretty much. Lots of moaning in the wrong places, calling me “Baby”, telling me I was a “bad girl” – I fucking wish I'd been a drunk girl. We went at it for a while, but he was pretty exhausted afterwards.'

‘Ha, that's awful,' I laughed, trying to picture this poor broken man and a very unimpressed Lucy standing over him.

‘It IS awful. BUT that wasn't the worst part! As I got dressed, I noticed an A4-sized framed photo of his ex-wife on his bedside table. She had seen the whole fucking thing!'

At which point I laughed for ten minutes straight. It's nice to know Lucy's sex life is as weird as mine.

Friday June 24th

Oliver got a big promotion at work and he's thrilled. I'm really pleased for him, although I wonder why he never even mentioned he was up for it? I tell him everything,
even when we get an extra half-hour for lunch or if someone in the office sneezes and farts at the same time, but it seems he doesn't like to share with me. We might have to have words about this.

We went out for dinner to celebrate and then back to my place, where we had a marathon session on the PlayStation 2 (I am about a decade behind everyone else).

As I got ready for bed he put his arms around my waist and said, ‘You've put some weight on, eh? I like that – you're all soft and squashy.'

‘SHUTUPIAMNOT!' I yelled, frantically pulling a vest top over my head.

‘I don't care.' He shrugged, getting into bed. ‘Better than breaking my hand on your arse when I spank you. I'm talking from experience here. Pushing against your cushioned arse is so much better than pushing against a bony one.'

I have put on weight though, loads in fact, but I don't like anyone else pointing it out, thank you very much. I'm sitting here singing ‘Do You Know the Muffin Man?' and thinking it's time for action.

Saturday June 25th

I've started the Atkins diet, mainly because the only things I had in my fridge this morning were bacon which was almost out of date and two sad-looking eggs. After breakfast I went shopping and stocked up on everything meaty, fatty or eggy. ATKINS IS BRILLIANT! I've had fuck-all carbs, about ten fry-ups and pretty much just hooked myself up
to a cream drip while throwing cheese and fried eggs into my mouth. Apparently I'll get God-awful breath for a while but I'm feeling positive and not at all hungry! Result!

Sunday June 26th

Diet seems to be going well but I'm flagging. I'm three pounds down and living off cooked chickens from the supermarket when what I really want is pasta and garlic bread. Unfortunately the only place I'm noticing any weight loss is my collarbone, but at least it shows there's still bone underneath all my flab. I'm also running out of exciting things to do with eggs – as if there was actually anything exciting you could do with them in the first place – apart from adding them to a big giant cake.

Monday June 27th

Fuck you, Atkins! I cannot face another egg or a chicken or indeed anything that once had, or came from, something with a face. I feel grotty. How do people live like this? Celebs lose shitloads of weight on this diet, but I guess they have chefs who cook for them to ensure that every meal doesn't taste like Satan's hoof. So, in conclusion, I hate you, Atkins. You're not brilliant at all; I take it all back. I feel like shit. It's only been three days and I've had enough. For the love of God, someone SHOW ME THE TOASTIES! Oh bread, how I've missed you and how I'm also scared of you now I've been brainwashed by the carbtologists. Maybe I should just stop eating crap, but then where's the fun in that? At
lunchtime I met Oliver in the pub. He was already halfway through a pint of lager when I arrived.

‘You're drinking already? I'm only here for the food.'

‘Yes, Mum, I'm having a pint. So you're back on the normal food then? Glad to hear it.'

‘Yeah, I need to feel satisfied, and do you know what satisfies me?'

‘Cock?'

‘No, the answer you are looking for is carbs. I was foolish to think I could live without them.'

‘Dunno why you even tried.'

‘You said I was getting fat! I blame you for this, Oliver.' I said. ‘I'm now frightened of bread.'

‘I didn't say you were “fat”, and now I'm sorry I said anything at all,' said Oliver, staring at his sandwich suspiciously. ‘Jesus, it was meant to be a compliment. I didn't know you'd get all concerned about it. I thought you were one of those women who doesn't care about that stuff.'

Has this man ever met me?

‘I wouldn't expect you to understand, Oliver, considering you've never dated anyone bigger than a size eight. I keep thinking you're comparing me to them. I'll never be that thin.'

‘Yes, I've slept with thin women, Phoebe, I'm not going to apologize for it. But your body is great; sure you have a belly and your boobs are massive, but why do you think I've been sleeping with you for so long?'

‘Because I asked you to?'

‘Wrong. Because when we're having sex it's fucking fantastic, and do you know what? I'd take a belly over a
protruding ribcage any day. If you're unhappy with your body, do something about it; if not, eat your fucking bread and enjoy it. I couldn't care less.'

As I left Oliver and walked back to work I realized that I believed him and his annoying truth-telling. Clearly it was me who had the problem. Not him. Say to a fella that he's put on weight and he'll just shrug it off and rub his belly in the mirror. Say it to a woman and all she'll hear is, ‘You're a failure. You're hideous.' It's ridiculous. I'm ridiculous. The world isn't going to stop turning if I'm a bit overweight. Fuck it.

Thursday June 30th

‘I'm getting sent to train new staff at head office tomorrow afternoon,' Oliver casually announced this evening.

‘Oh, that's cool, how long for?' I asked, lighting a cigarette.

‘Just a month. It's in Chicago. I fly out in the morning.'

I swallowed my smoke and spluttered for a second, ‘A month? CHICAGO? BUT … BUT—'

‘But what?' replied Oliver, smiling. ‘I'm sure you can find someone else to keep you company. You don't seem to have a problem in that respect.'

‘Of course I can,' I said, smoking furiously. ‘I'm just surprised by your announcement, that's all.'

‘You could always just put things on hold until I get back.'

I thought about this for about a quarter of a second. ‘Yeah, I'll just sit here and wait for your return. Light a
candle … maybe write some poetry … I KNOW, I could put on a nightdress and wander around the moors, yelling Oliv—'

‘I get the picture,' he interrupted. ‘Don't be a dick about it.' He walked into the kitchen and I heard him open a beer.

‘Are you sulking, Mr Webb?' There was no reply.

‘See, in nursery school, were you one of those kids who didn't play well with other children?'

Still no reply.

‘OK, I'm going if you're going to get all hormonal on me.'

He walked back through to the living room and handed me a beer. ‘Have this before you go. Sorry, my head's just full of work stuff. I'll text you before I leave tomorrow.'

I left feeling rather annoyed. Why the fuck didn't he tell me he was going, and why is he the one in the huff when I'm the one who's going to be left without a fuck buddy for four bloody weeks? He really can be a selfish prick sometimes.

Friday July 1st

Oliver is now winging his way across the world for the whole month of July, leaving me buddy-less and in serious danger of doing Frank again. I grabbed a vanilla latte and a croissant on the way to the office, relieved that Frank was still on holiday, and I'd have some breathing space to work out what the hell I think I'm playing at. Truth is, I have no idea. Since I started this, I'm like a woman possessed. Is this how sex addicts feel? These days, life without sex is like a nail without varnish: bare and pretty much unforgivable, so I've decided to carry on without Oliver. After all, I've come so far in just six months and I really feel like I'm making up for lost time. My next challenge should be simple enough and one I'd have to do minus Oliver even if he was around. Sex with a stranger. No real names, no messy connections – just sex. After my disaster with Richard, I'm not taking my chances with any getting-to-know-you shit.

With Frank on holiday, the office was relatively relaxed. Lucy and I took an extra half-hour for lunch which was noticed by Kelly, who threatened to tell Frank on his return.

‘You can't just do what you like, you know!' she boomed with her hands on her hips.

‘Yes, we can,' replied Lucy, ‘and so can you. Tell Frank if you want to; you're mistaking me for someone who gives a fuck.'

Brian started applauding, told Kelly to ‘grow up' and then announced he was off to the shops to buy sweets for everyone. Brian the sexist moron has redeemed himself!

Saturday July 2nd

I thought I'd have heard from Oliver by now, even just an email to say he'd arrived, but I've had nothing. Meh, he's probably still sulking for no reason. Anyway, I have far more important things to worry about, like how I'm going to do this next challenge. I think it'd be easy enough to pick someone up in a bar or club but then I'd have to spend the evening looking for potential shags, making small talk, drinking too much and having to deal with the whole ‘I'll call you' nonsense afterwards while waiting for my taxi. It all sounds too much like hard work. Also, I don't want to invite anyone back to my house as I don't need them remembering where I live and stalking me or shimmying up my path for a booty call at 3 a.m., thinking I'll be pleased to see them. I think the problem will be not finding someone to sleep with, but rather finding someone attractive, discreet and, more importantly, who wouldn't decide I'd look better tied up in the boot of his car. I've placed an online advert which reads:

What I really wanted to write was: ‘
Woman wants man for NSA sex. Please don't kill me
.' I intend to proceed with caution on this one.

4.50 p.m
. Hazel popped over this afternoon with some muffins she'd been given by a client.

‘They irritate my stomach. Might be the bran. You have them.'

‘Thank you for giving me something that gives you the runs, Hazel. Yummy.'

I made her a quick coffee before she left to meet Kevin and Grace at some soft-play centre in town. ‘Kevin has to do that stuff. I hate those places. They're full of other people's children. Want to come over later? I have sushi.'

‘Tempting as that is, I need a night of couch-laying, film-watching and a couple of vodkas, I think. I feel like I need to unwind alone.'

‘That's cool,' she replied, pouring herself more coffee. ‘You've been drinking quite a lot recently. Booze makes you fat, you know. And depressed.'

‘I have, haven't I? And there was me blaming the carbs. Maybe I'm drinking because I'm fat.'

‘You're drinking because you're bored, and shut up, you're hardly obese. You've just gained a few pounds. Now don't go getting pissed this evening just because you're missing Oliver,' she said, smirking.