The List (36 page)

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:

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,' said 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.

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

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?'