Pam smirked and I died.
‘I just want us to be close again. Erm, physically. OK, my turn,’ I interjected, moving the focus away from my list. ‘Oliver’s choices are: “In My Life” by The Beatles, “Losing My Edge” by LCD Soundsystem and “Suddenly Everything Has Changed” by The Flaming Lips.’
‘And what do you think Oliver’s trying to say?’ Pam enquired as I glanced at Oliver but Oliver stared straight ahead.
‘I think,’ I replied, ‘that Oliver is a lot more romantic than he thinks! Also that he thinks he’s getting old and . . . I’m not sure. That he’s scared of how things have changed?’
Oliver put his hand on my knee and shook his head. ‘I’m not scared. It’s just . . . life is moving so quickly. Molly is constantly changing and growing, and us! – Our identities have changed. We’re no longer Phoebe and Oliver; we’re mum and dad. It’s a head-fuck when you think about it.’
‘Do you think your new role has changed how you feel about Phoebe?’ Pam asked. I took a deep breath, unsure of whether I wanted to hear his response.
‘God no, I love Phoebe just as much as I always have. I think it’s changed the way I think about myself. What if I’m a shit dad? What if I’m not good enough? What if she eventually decides she can do better? Christ, I just don’t want to end up like my parents.’
I sat there stunned. Suddenly the most self-assured man I’ve ever known was worried that he wasn’t good enough and his hands were trembling. He was also sharing more here than he had with me since Molly was born. Pam kept quiet as I took Oliver’s hand in mine. I had zero idea he felt like this. I felt my voice start to wobble.
‘I fucking love the bones of you, Webb. I always have. You and Molly – you’re the reason I breathe. I didn’t know you were that worried. You never—’
‘Course I’m worried!’ he snapped. ‘We’re in bloody therapy! What if we never get back what we once had? God, my mouth is dry. Is it warm in here?’
Pam poured Oliver some water. ‘The fact that you’re here is one of the healthiest decisions you could make for your relationship,’ she said calmly. ‘However, getting back what you once had is unrealistic. You are different people now. You know more. You’ve experienced more. What you can bring to your relationship now is far more valuable than what you could, say, five or ten years ago. If you’re ready for the next step, I think you’ll find it very useful.’
Oliver sipped his water and nodded at her.
She smiled. ‘Great. The next step is to do nothing at all because the next step is abstinence . . .’
Saturday February 11th
Drinks with the girls last night; our first night out in ages and fucking hell, how I’ve missed it. Oliver had agreed to stay in with Molly, giving me the chance to run Pam’s next idea past Hazel and Lucy. We started off in a pub near Central Station before moving on to Merchant City, planning to stay until closing, but under no circumstances end up leathered in a club at 3 a.m.
‘Abstinence? I thought you went to therapy to get your sex life back, not remove it entirely!’
Lucy took her wine from Hazel, who’d just got our third round in at the increasingly noisy bar. ‘What did I miss?’ she asked, handing me my Jack and Coke.
‘Abstinence.’
‘What? You wanted absinthe?’
‘No! Abstinence! Phoebe’s therapist has told them not to go near each other for two weeks!’ Lucy exclaimed. ‘TWO.WHOLE. WEEKS.’
Hazel looked surprised. ‘But you weren’t shagging anyway. How does that help?’ The wine spilling all over her hand let me know that she had definitely arrived in tipsy-town.
‘Seemingly, there’s a huge difference from not having sex to not being allowed to have sex,’ I replied, stirring my drink with my straw. ‘It’s all to do with wanting what you can’t have.’
‘So you can’t do ANYTHING?!’ Hazel seemed more horrified than Lucy. ‘Damn. I’m kind of sorry I suggested you see her in the first place.’
‘Oh, we’re allowed to flirt!’ I responded. ‘We’re allowed to be verbally sexual, make lingering eye contact, exchange photos . . . basically wind each other up. But no physical contact, regardless of how much we want to. And masturbation is also discouraged.’
‘YASS! I love that idea.’
We both stared blankly at Lucy. ‘You’re kidding. Right?’
‘Come on! It’s genius!’ she insisted. ‘By the end of the week, Oliver is going to be so wound up, he’ll last about three strokes! You’ll both be gagging for it. Your therapist is a mastermi—CAN I HELP YOU?’
It took me a second to realise that Lucy wasn’t offering her services, but was directing her question towards two men in their twenties at the next table who were listening in to our conversation. Red-faced, they both turned away and began to chat.
‘I suppose she’s right,’ Hazel agreed. ‘You need to make Oliver remember just how seductive you can be.’
I took a big swig of my drink. ‘I’m just not sure Oliver is into the idea. I mean, he’s been opening up a bit more but he hasn’t mentioned this since we left Pam’s office. I don’t want to send him pictures of my boobs if he’s going to be less than receptive . . . SERIOUSLY, BOYS. WE’RE NOT THAT INTERESTING. BUGGER OFF.’
They started laughing but Hazel leaned across towards them and in a sinister tone said, ‘If you don’t stop being a nuisance, I will pretend to be your very loud, very drunken mother, completely embarrass you and make sure that you have no chance of pulling anyone in this bar.’
They soon found another table.
On the taxi ride home, I decided that I’d speak to Oliver the following day and make sure he was on board with the abstinence thing. I planned what I’d say, in the least confrontational or demanding way possible. And maybe if I did it in a really sexy dress and flirted a little, I’d get a better idea of just how irresistible he finds me.
Sunday February 12th
Trying to flirt with someone who knows you inside out is mortifying. Standing beside me in the kitchen was the man who witnessed a baby emerging from my foof and now he was about to witness me disappear up my own arsehole, trying to convince him I’m still sexually alluring. Lucy had suggested I try and sell myself more, rather than acting like my usual self-deprecating self – you know, the one who isn’t getting laid.
My assault on his senses began in the kitchen where I sauntered in, nonchalantly, watching him pull out the roasting tray from the back of the cupboard.
‘Honey?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I meant to ask: you’re OK with all this abstinence stuff, right? You’d tell me if it became too much?’
‘What? Oh yeah. Sure. Can you grab the chicken from the fridge, please?’ The tray clattered noisily as he pulled it out.
‘Did you have a good day?’ I continued, brushing my hand across his back as I passed him to get to the fridge. I’d worn the little red slip dress I’d bought in the January sales; a tad overdressed for Sunday night dinner but it made my tits look spectacular.
He nodded. ‘Yeah. I was here. With you. All day . . . but yeah, I guess it was fine. Is that—’
‘Why yes, this is a new dress,’ I replied. ‘Thanks for noticing.’
He smirked. ‘Right . . . I was going to say “Is that chicken OK to reheat?” but yes, your dress is very nice.’
See? FUCKING MORTIFYING.
I told him that the chicken was fine, touching his back again for reasons unknown, before propping myself up against the kitchen worktop, hoping my tits would be enough to distract him from my faux-pas. I needed to make him think of sex. And me naked. Naked and wet.
‘I might have a shower later,’ I said, watching him busy himself with dinner. The moment I said it, I regretted it. I’d basically just told him that I was thinking of having a wash. A WASH! How is that sexy?!
But of course, I carried on rambling because it’s me and I fucking suck at this.
‘I could get soapy . . . you know . . . soap myself up . . .’
Oh GOD, now I was simulating ‘having a soapy wash’ with my hands while he paid little to no attention.
‘Get the gravy, will you?’
My hands went back to my sides and I sighed. ‘Sure. Will do.’
This was obviously the wrong strategy. Subtle, deranged, mime Phoebe wasn’t working. I need to think of something else.
Monday February 13th
‘Hi, I’m looking for Jay? I’m Phoebe from The Post. He’s expecting me.’
The terrifyingly facially-contoured girl behind the bar stopped stacking glasses and sighed, walking off towards the back and through a small black door without saying a word, leaving me alone in the empty bar. Despite Downtime Bar being two streets away from the office, I’ve never been here. Now that I’m the wrong side of thirty, I tend to frequent bars which don’t make me stand beside twenty-year-olds and wish I was younger or dead. It has the feel of a former dive bar, artfully disguised by plush booths, a vegan-friendly menu and an expensive cocktail list on the wall behind the bar.
I reached into my bag and put my phone on silent, preparing myself to meet my final bore of the day. The self-importance that radiates from some managers is—
‘Hi. Phoebe?’
I stopped fiddling with my phone and looked up to see a face I’d seen before. Only I couldn’t quite place him.
‘Jay?’ I replied. ‘Nice to meet you. Thanks for seeing me . . . sorry, but have we met before? You seem very familiar.’
He smiled. ‘No, I don’t think so. I must just have one of those faces.’
He motioned me over to sit at a booth while I hoped desperately that I hadn’t accidentally shagged him at some point. He’s hot, it could have happened. I definitely remember punching above my weight in the past . . . Christ, I ended up with Oliver. He’s a nine even when he’s hungover.
I tried to scan Jay’s face without it seeming too obvious. Black hair, thick-rimmed glasses, tattoo of an owl on the underside of his forearm . . . no, I’d remember that tattoo . . . unless he got it after I shagged him . . . maybe if I saw his cock, I’d be—
‘So what have you got for me?’ he asked, interrupting my very unprofessional train of thought. ‘I should warn you, our advertising budget is pretty minimal.’
‘You’re familiar with our Entertainments section?’
‘Not even a little bit.’ As he grinned broadly, his whole face lit up. Damn, he’s handsome. I hope I did sleep with him. Just for my ego.
I opened my presentation binder and began casually talking over readership, demographic, ad sizes, sponsorship banners . . . and then it hit me. I remembered. Eleven or so years ago, the Christmas before I met my ex, Alex (throws holy water), I pulled a guy in The Garage nightclub and we ended up shagging at his parents’ house while they were away on holiday. He made me toast in the morning and I broke one of his mum’s plates, much to his dismay. Jay . . . his name isn’t ‘Jay’; that’s his initial! He’s really called Jason and he doesn’t have a fucking clue who I am.
‘We always recommended doing a run of adverts and obviously you’ll get a discount.’ I awkwardly continued, thinking, How the hell can you not remember someone you’ve slept with?
‘And our production staff can help with any artwork, etc., if you need it.’
(Oh God, I must have been so unmemorable. Back then I was a lot less adventurous – even I wouldn’t remember sleeping with me. Maybe I just look different. Of course I do, I’m almost 39 and approaching maximum hag.)
We continued my boring sales pitch and I left him with my business card, which he took in a very uninterested manner, before yelling at the bar girl to ‘bloody do something other than your face’.
‘Thanks for coming in,’ he said, turning back to me and shaking my hand. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Thanks for your time,’ I mumbled back, just wanting to leave. Coming face-to-face with the Shag of Christmas Past is bad enough, but I was also faced with the fact that this super-hot man hadn’t even saved me in his wank bank. My ego is rescinding its offer to remember.
Tuesday February 14th
Oh fucking hell, I had THE most inappropriate dream last night. I’m still unsettled. I got into a taxi and Lucy’s boyfriend Kyle was the driver and we ended up shagging in the car park of the Science Centre. But the worst part is, it was hot as hell. There was hair pulling and hands pressed against steamy windows and WTF IS HAPPENING? I’m dream-cheating on Oliver with my best mate’s boyfriend now? Am I so sex starved it’s come to this? Oh God, I can never see him again – I think the skin on my face would literally combust with embarrassment. The fact that it’s Valentine’s Day doesn’t make it any easier either. It’s making me feel guilty when I haven’t even bloody well done anything! I DID NOT HAVE ACTUAL SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH THAT MAN. I did get two Valentine cards though - one from Molly that she’d made in nursery and one from Oliver which had a plain red love heart on the front and a handwritten message inside.
Roses are red
My balls are blue
In one more week
I’ll be inside you
Technically not the most romantic thing I’ve ever read but it did come with the Alexander McQueen perfume I’ve had my eye on. He’s become far less serious these days, I think we might be on the right track here. For his present, I got him a VR headset for his phone and some of those truffle things from Thornton’s he likes. Well, I like. He might hate them but that’s not important.
Surprisingly, the only person at work to get flowers was Dorothy, who placed them in the middle of the room for us all to enjoy. Within twenty minutes, Kelly was sneezing and demanding they be removed. Brian accused her of being allergic to other people’s happiness.
By half eleven, my gnawing guilt had subsided a little but the memory of how sexy that dream had been was still very much alive. It seemed my shocking dream betrayal had made my libido go from zero to sixty. I had to text Oliver. I knew he’d be working but I didn’t care.
I’m really horny right now. Seriously. I’m so wet, it’s distracting . . .
I didn’t hear anything back for two hours but then –
Damn. Do you think me sliding a hand into your knickers is against the rules?
Oh fuck me.
*
On the way home from work, I bought a giant romantic lasagne from Tesco and we all ate together. Molly told us about a boy in nursery who made Ruby a card and then Ruby’s mum made her point him out at home time. ‘I heard Ruby’s mum say that he didn’t look right. That wasn’t nice. Jack looks more better than her mum.’
‘It’s just “better” honey,’ I reply. ‘But you’re right, it wasn’t nice. I’m not sure she’s a very nice person.’
Molly laughed. ‘Ruby says her mum cries in the bathroom like a baby all the time. Can I have some more bread, please?’
As I passed Molly the garlic bread, I felt a pang of sadness. As much as I dislike Lord Wilson, no one deserves to be crying alone in a bathroom . . . and no child should have to hear that. Oh fuck, I’m going to have to be nice to her now, aren’t I?
Wednesday February 15th
Last night was intense. After our afternoon text exchange, it was obvious we were both up for it but of course we couldn’t physically do anything about it. We lay in bed, side by side, and every time our skin came into brief contact, it was like a jolt of electricity (the sexy kind, though, not the kind where a doctor shouts ‘CLEAR!’ first).
‘When you sent me that text, I fucking throbbed,’ he said, staring at the ceiling. ‘You haven’t texted me filth in a long time. Jesus, I love that.’
It turns out that my sexy dress, kitchen seduction was misjudged. All Oliver needed to wake him up was me being obscene. Part of me wanted to apologise for being lax in my dirty talk duties; admittedly it’s not top on my list of priorities after Molly, work, paying bills and perpetually trying to flatten that weird kink in my fringe, but we used to do it frequently and I’d forgotten how much he loves it. But I didn’t apologise. Instead
I decided to try to make him more aroused than he’d ever been in his life.
‘I’ve been thinking about your text, too,’ I mused, staring at the same spot on the ceiling. ‘About you sliding one hand into my knickers . . . I imagine you pushing me up against the wall and doing it slowly . . . maybe using your other hand to pull back my hair . . .’
There was movement under the duvet. He squirmed. ‘Are you still wet now?’
‘There would be an easy way to find out,’ I replied, turning towards him. ‘But you’re not allowed to, are you?’
‘You could check . . .’
‘Hmm, if you wanted me to . . .’
‘I do.’
‘But what if I get carried away . . .’
‘You won’t.’
I started to run my hand down my body. ‘Maybe just one finger but—’
‘OH FUCKING HELL, JUST DO IT!’
(I win.)
After we’d visually established my level of arousal, Oliver was practically climbing the walls. ‘There isn’t one part of you that I don’t want to fuck, right now. Seriously, your nipples are like bullets and I’m not supposed to touch them! Fuck this shit.’
My plan to turn Oliver on had one glaring flaw. Now I was also gagging for it.
‘Oliver, you’re so hard, this duvet is practically levitating.’
I threw back the covers and straddled him, pinning his hands back and leaning in close to his face. ‘We should wait,’ I whispered, gently moving myself against him. ‘Think you’re hard now? Just imagine how hard you’ll be when we—’
‘DAD! THERE’S A SPIDER ON MY CEILING!’
We both stayed silent, hoping that she was either sleep talking or that the spider would just eat her.
‘DAAAAAaaaaaaAAAADDDD!’
I sighed. ‘Hang on, Mol,’ he yelled back, getting one quick kiss in before I was forced to dismount. I loosened my grip on his arms and climbed off. ‘Is she ever going to get her own place?’ I said, as he tucked his cock into his waistband and threw on a t-shirt. We both knew that once they’d established that there were no spiders, she’d ask for a drink, try and keep him chatting and possibly ask to sleep with us. In other words, our brief, hot moment had passed.
Relight my Fire Page 5