Amy Cole has lost her mind: The perfect laugh out loud, feel-good comedy (The Amy Cole series Book 1)

by Elizabeth McGivern

  It was the scent of home.

  I don’t remember the last time I was close enough to breathe him in; sure, we slept beside each other but I tend not to sniff him when he sleeps. I had a feeling it would be considered a bit odd.

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to shake myself after twenty minutes on a bench and just snap out of this, but if I wanted to prove Elle wrong and get my marriage back on track I would have to at least fake it for one night. The answer to my immediate problem was simple: wine.

  I decided to ignore the niggling worry that I was starting to depend quite a lot on alcohol to get me through any type of awkward situation. I had to power through with my plan to inject instant confidence into my system – for the greater good and all that.

  Before I changed my mind, I dug out my mobile from the bottom of my bag and rang the one person I definitely wasn’t in form for talking to about the problems in my personal life.

  “Hi, Mum,” I muttered.

  “Oh, I exist again? How nice. I suppose you’re phoning looking something?”

  “No,” I lied, “I was just checking in to find out the details about your birthday meal.”

  “That’s weeks away, why do you want to talk about that? I thought it ‘stressed’ you out.”

  I knew she was rolling her eyes as she emphasized the word “stressed.” The overuse of eye-rolling to illustrate our discontent was obviously a family trait.

  “I was actually phoning to talk to Dad about the surprise.”

  “What surprise?”

  “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you. Put Dad on the phone.”

  There was no surprise of course, this was going to put him under pressure to organise something extra for her birthday but at least she’d be in a good mood with him for the rest of the day.

  “For goodness sake, Amy. Your mother just gave me a kiss and said ‘thank you’ what have you said to her about the class?”

  “Nothing, but I will unless you suggest taking the kids for a sleepover on Friday night. Oh, and you need to have a surprise organised for her as well as the birthday meal.”

  “Are you blackmailing me?”

  “Yes, pretty much. Consider this payback for having me see the mole on your left arse cheek in painful detail.”

  He agreed relatively easily and if the suggestion of babysitting came from Dad, Mum couldn’t lord it over me and say I’m ‘gallivanting’ again. If you listened to her version of motherhood, she didn’t leave the house other than for mass or the school run in the eighteen years I lived in the house.

  Firstly: she was an atheist and secondly, I walked to school, every day. Also, I had a dedicated babysitter for every Saturday night, who invited her low-life boyfriend to the house as soon as my parents were gone so they could put me to bed at 8.30 p.m. and smoke in the garden. I brought this up when she got on my nerves about any time I wanted to go out for dinner with Ben. She would just look at me as if I’d lost my mind and deny all knowledge of said babysitter or aforementioned social life.

  All I had to do was get through the next couple of days and by Friday I could do a musical montage makeover in the house. The ones from the movies when the key change of the upbeat ballad kicks in, I would look so unbelievably different he'd forget that we'd been living like relative strangers for months and we'd probably hump right there on the dining table.

  Probably not, I mean do people actually do that? Isn’t it horrendously unhygienic?

  I heard Arthur starting to stir in his seat and I decide to rejoin the real world. This meant facing Elle at the coffee shop. There were still 301 things to sort out before the official opening party night and every day I wasn’t there, Elle found more unnecessary things to add to the list.

  Thirty seconds into consciousness Arthur was already demanding something to eat. By the time we reached Joseph’s our stomachs were in a rumbling competition and I headed straight for the tray bakes. It was then a very smug looking Mrs Clunting appeared and blocked my way to the counter. My face must have looked a picture as she seemed satisfied with my reaction to her surprise visit.

  “Amy isn’t it?” She asked.

  Swallowing hard I managed a faint ‘yes’ before she continued: “I remember you from your little visit to our parent and toddler group up the street. Tell me, were you interested in meeting friends and helping develop your child’s social skills in a fun and friendly environment or were you just out to size up the competition for this place?”

  She gestured around her, with a look of disgust at her surroundings. I could see Joseph pull Elle back into the kitchen and judging by her flaring nostrils it was the right decision.

  We had been working hard on getting a nice, family-friendly vibe in the café and had Elle been let loose that was about five seconds away from being smashed.

  Mrs Clunting’s eyebrow was raised as she awaited an answer to her loaded question. I offered nothing. My silence was beginning to grate her so instead she looked around at the customers who bought into the notion that this was the place for them and not her beloved Smug Club.

  “I won’t stay for tea, I just had to see for myself if this was for real. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be a case of tabloid fabrication,” she scorned.

  To have the local paper described as some sort of seedy red-top was laughable, but still, I said nothing. I knew she wanted some sort of reaction out of me but I didn’t have the guts or a quick enough wit that could wound effectively. If I started working on it this evening perhaps my withering comeback would be ready in six months or so. I tend to have excellent arguments with those that have wronged me, all while I’m in the shower and mostly years later.

  It’s not all bad, if I ever get the chance to confront that horrible two-timing teenage boy who first broke my heart, I’ll know exactly what to say to him (albeit sixteen years later).

  Mrs Clunting left with her head held high and an aura of entitlement from around her. The woman was a tactless bully, but she still smelled heavenly.

  Bitch.

  “What the bloody hell did she want?” raged Elle, when she finally managed to get free from the kitchen.

  “Swear jar,” I said, as I pointed to the ever-increasing collection of pound coins in the huge vase on the counter. “At this rate, you'll be able to get that extension you spoke about Joseph.”

  “Coming here is costing me a fortune, whose idea was this anyway?”

  It had been a lightning bolt of inspiration after a particularly irate review appeared online. It raved about the food, the atmosphere and Joseph himself. They weren’t, however, keen on the ‘mouthy Australian, who cursed like a sailor’.

  It took quite a bit of convincing Elle that she needed to tone down the language for the sake of business. When appealing to her business acumen didn’t work I installed the swear jar (if she didn’t fork out she was denied coffee – a fate worse than death for the ‘mouthy Australian’).

  “I can’t believe I’m being punished because some bloke with a stick up his arse can’t stand a woman speaking her mind. For one thing I’m South African, and secondly how about: ‘just fuck off, mate!’”

  The concept of the swear jar was having little to no effect but at least we were seen to be making an effort.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “what did our bosom buddy from up the road want? What horrible names did she call me?”

  “Believe it or not, you didn’t come up,” I replied with a forced air of easiness.

  She looked shocked and a little offended at the lack of attention she had been shown by her nemesis.

  “She wanted to know if I went that one time to be a spy.”

  “You? A spy?” she scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh. You would never have the nerve to do something like that. That’s not an insult… I don’t think it is anyway.”

  I rolled my eyes and decided to leave the conversation there. I asked for a tea and perched myself at the counter waiting for Joseph to go back out into the kitchen so I could have a priva
te word with Elle. This was always a dangerous notion as she had no volume control and was likely to repeat anything of a sensitive nature back to me while laughing and at least three times as loudly as was necessary for such a small place.

  It didn’t take long for Joseph to want to return to the kitchen and go back to shouting at Michael. Elle rested her elbow on the opposite side of the counter and asked: “Why so glum, chum?”

  “I was having a think about what you said the other night,” I said in a hushed voice.

  “You’re going to need to be a bit more specific, I say a lot of deep, thought-provoking things at any given time. Was it that thing about Neil Diamond? Or hamsters?”

  “Wait, what? What thing about Neil Diamond? Is it something to do with Neil Diamond and hamsters or are these two things not connected? No, stop. You’re going to get me sidetracked; I meant the thing after the art class.”

  “About making you sexy? Yeah, I remember. To answer your other question, I have this theory about Neil Diamond you see —”

  “Stop! No more theories, I’m still not over the last one you came up with.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “About using pumpkin pulp as a lubricant,” I whispered. “So, I don’t want to know about Neil Diamond.”

  I placed my hands over her mouth to physically stop any nonsense from coming out, therefore, preventing it from planting itself in my brain for eternity.

  “Firstly, I just want to make a couple of things clear,” I continued. “I don’t remotely need your help on how to be sexy, I’m plenty sexy. I don’t for one second think a quick fumble around in the sheets is going to sort my marital problems. While we’re at it, I don’t think it should be up to me to change anything. We're both grown adults and he has equal responsibility for the failing nature of this relationship.”

  I took a long, audible breath after my defensive argument and waited for Elle to laugh in my face. She didn't. Instead, she shifted her weight from one elbow to the other while a confused look was etched on her face.

  “You’re right,” she conceded, after a prolonged silence.

  “It shouldn’t be up to you to fix things with some sort of sex bandage. There’s obviously something deeper going on here. That was our problem, me and Keith I mean, anytime we would argue we just tried to screw it out but clearly, that didn't work. So, I’m all ears, Princess; what’s the plan to get the old marriage train back on track?”

  “I’m going to drink a bottle of wine and seduce him,” I said.

  “Right, of course, you are. That's a world of difference from what I suggested.”

  “Look, I wasn’t expecting you to be quite so reasonable and I had already planned that speech out so I thought it was a waste if I didn’t use it.”

  Her smug smile was unbearable, but I had to rethink my temper and reminded myself I needed her help.

  “I need a favour.” I continued. “I want to make an effort and I’m not sure where to start.”

  “I thought you were ‘plenty sexy’ and all that other stuff that I was definitely listening to as you waffled on?”

  “I should have known better than to ask the help of a mouthy Australian.” I pushed my stool away and went to walk towards the kids in the toy corner.

  “Stop calling me a fucking Australian,” she bellowed.

  “Swear jar,” I answered, without even turning around.

  “I’ll help, of course, I'll help. We can watch porn and…”

  “No.”

  “I’m kidding, that would be weird. Besides the noises they all make are so off-putting, don’t you think?” she asked with a wry smile.

  I started to clean up the strewn toys and resisted the urge to join the conversation. I knew she was waiting for me to jump in with my usual argument about the misogamy and degrading nature of all porn. Instead, I waited for her next suggestion in the hope it could be something useful.

  “We’ll go shopping and get you some highly uncomfortable underwear that will make you look like a sex kitten and you’ll get the ride. That better?”

  “Yes. Although no floss-like underwear, that’s just going to get swallowed up my arse crack and never come back.”

  We both giggled and simultaneously noticed the family sitting at the table beside us – complete with elderly granny. They had all stopped eating and were listening to every word we were saying.

  My mortification subsided when granny piped up with: “Primark does a lovely underwear section now. Leopard print always got my Derek excited.”

  “Mum!” cried her horrified daughter.

  “Leopard print it is,” replied a stunned Elle.

  Chapter 18

  That evening, Elle picked me up but didn’t come inside.

  When I got into the car it was obvious she had been crying and I was stuck in that difficult situation of wondering if I should mention it or pretend I didn’t see her puffy eyes and tearstained cheeks. The socially awkward jerk within begged me to look out the window and talk about something else. The decent part of me prevailed and asked what was going on.

  “Ah, nothing. Well, no, not nothing; I just don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

  “Ok, we don’t have to. How about we talk about Neil Diamond and his hamsters?”

  “I just find it funny that you can marry someone and be with them for over a decade and then they turn out to be this complete and utter turd posing in man skin.”

  I took a guess and assumed she wasn’t finished with this particular rant, so I sat back and waited – it didn’t take long for me to be proved right.

  “How did he fool me for this long that he was a nice guy? A nice guy who cared about me and the kids when really he was just a raging arsehole who only cares about himself?”

  Am I meant to answer that? Best stay quiet.

  “He was meant to come over tonight and put the kids to bed while I was out with you and instead, he sent his mother over. His mother? I can’t stand that shrew at the best of times and he sends her over because he was tired from work and she let him go to bed while she offered to sit with the girls. What the actual fuck? Does he not think I’m tired? Does he not want to see his children?

  Another silence. Do I speak? Was she actually asking me this? Nope, this is dangerous ground. I’m saying nothing.

  “I bet she’s just loving this. She gets her precious son home and the grandchildren she wants without the hassle of being nice to me. She’s never liked me – and the feeling is mutual. As for him? He is a joke of a man. Not even a man, or a father. A glorified sperm donor. Yes, that’s exactly what he is.”

  For the remainder of the drive, she continued to mutter to herself about her family. I could only make out bits and pieces but I’m pretty sure I picked out ‘no jury would blame me’. That was the point I thought it best to speak up.

  “Elle, we can totally do this another time. Perhaps at a time when you’re feeling a bit less murder-y?”

  “What? No! You’re fine, this is exactly what I need. What’s the alternative? Sitting at home with my mother-in-law, both of us giving daggered looks to each other across the room?”

  We pulled up to the shopping centre and I automatically walked towards the giant discount clothing store until I felt a sharp tug on my arm.

  “Looking for leopard print are we?” Elle teased. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. It’s time we took you away from the cheap fanny pads and discount bras. If you are seducing your husband with my help then I will not be associated with anything that comes from that lingerie section.”

  “I didn’t realise you were such a snob for someone whose skirt has a giant rip in it,” I replied.

  “I’ll have you know my darling daughter ripped this stylish hole in my skirt, on purpose, with safety scissors and now I use it as a kind of pocket. Anyway, I’m not out to impress anyone – you are.”

  I knew she was taking me to the one ‘sexy’ shop in this town. The one that is always empty, because everyone i
s far too embarrassed to be caught dead coming out of it, but has always stayed in business. I guess their loyal clientele knew when the best times to get in and out without meeting their old primary school teacher and causing (both of) them to die of mortification.

  There was no point in asking Elle if we could do a casual drive-by to make sure there was no one around that I knew before going in. Suggesting that was as good as guaranteeing that she would shout my full name and address as we entered.

  I played with the tassel on the end of my handbag and looked at the ground as we headed inside the neon pink shop and hoped that I wasn't walking head first into a mannequin. Thankfully, I didn't. Instead, I banged into my darling ex-colleague, Rita.

  Bloody, Rita.

  “Amy!” she squealed, wholly unnecessarily. Now, my incognito entrance was completely gone. I did a quick scan of the people staring at the sound of the squealing woman.

  God, was that my old principal: Sr. Patricia?

  “Rita,” I replied, without an ounce of reciprocal enthusiasm. “How are you?”

  I resisted the urge to add: “Still stabbing people in the back?” I didn’t want to sound bitter.

  “Gosh, I’m so busy; like you’ve no idea,” she said. “You were such a smart cookie to get off that career ladder when you had the chance! I’m totally snowed under and I can see a little promotion on the horizon, cha-ching! You’ll never guess how much this bracelet cost, a small fortune I tell you. I hate talking about money, it’s completely ghastly but this was a steal for £10,000 – thank you disposable income. Thought I would come out and spread the wealth in the local business scene this evening. Like to do my bit for the little people. Your face! I'm kidding… no really; it’s so good to help out around here, I'm all about shopping locally.”

  “This isn’t exactly a struggling independent retailer, Rita? This is a huge chain,” I said, confused by the onslaught of information I was getting within ten seconds of seeing her. I dreaded to think what Elle was making of all this.

  “Oh, I know that. I just meant like keeping local people in their job. If there are no customers then there’s no need for them. Anyway, it’s so hard to find something that really fits well with my figure; it's constantly changing – I can’t stop losing weight and toning up – I’m such a gym bunny. You know my motto: eat clean, train dirty. This perfect ass doesn’t sculpt itself.