Relight my Fire

by Joanna Bolouri

  Thursday June 8th

  Highlights from our session with Pam today included:

  • We’re definitely keeping the sex jar. Pam has encouraged us to use it as often as we feel we need to.

  • Agreed to cut back our sessions to once a month, unless we feel we need more.

  • Most importantly: keep talking and don’t go to bed on an argument.

  I could see Oliver’s mind at work for new sex jar suggestions as we drove home. He appears to be motivated as fuck.

  Friday June 9th

  Things I know about our noisy upstairs neighbours: the woman’s name is Nicole and Nicole never listens. The reason I know this is because the man says it loudly every time they argue. Nicole also exercises after work every day at the same time and it sounds like the fucking Dawn Patrol from the Jungle Book on the ceiling above. Him? I have no idea about him, other than he appears to love the sound of his own voice, even though it breaks like a fourteen-year-old during their arguments. Oliver has gone up a couple of times to ask them to keep it down but it falls on deaf ears. We end up just banging the ceiling with a broom until they take the hint or start banging back defiantly. Fucking morons. I make a point of shouting HI, NEIGHBOUR when I see them to wind them up. It’s childish but I never claimed not to be.

  Sunday June 11th

  Hazel was forty-five today and just like every other birthday I’ve shared with her, she wasn’t happy. Kevin had arranged a meal for everyone at COSMO because now we have children, we don’t get to eat anywhere remotely high-brow.

  ‘I’M OLD!’ she yelled, as we made the mistake of wishing her a happy birthday. ‘Next year I’ll be middle-aged. This is not a time for celebration; this is a time for panicking and denial.’

  Lucy hugged her to calm her down, whispering something in her ear which seemed to work, while we all took our seats. Lucy is the Hazel Whisperer.

  We did presents while we waited for our drinks, handing Molly and Grace colouring books to keep them entertained for as long as possible. The place was packed, the lure of a buffet too great for many Glaswegians to resist.

  Molly was starving, dragging Oliver and Grace up to the buffet in search of noodles, pizza and whatever else she could balance on her plate before she began destroying the dessert section.

  Hazel flashed her new bracelet from Kevin, a white gold affair which dangled delicately from her wrist, while she opened the gift Lucy and I had clubbed in to buy her.

  ‘I love it!’ she declared, showing Kevin the spa package we’d got for the three of us. An overnight at Cameron House, with dinner, full use of the spa facilities, facials and massage. It cost a bloody fortune, but what the fuck do you buy someone who doesn’t need anything, except mud therapy with her mates?

  As Oliver and the kids came back with their plates piled high, the rest of us followed suit, planning to eat at least six plates’ worth but straggling to finish a second. Despite Hazel’s initial freak out, we all had a fun evening.

  Monday June 12th

  At lunchtime, Lucy and I went to look at wedding dresses. I was happy to go with her, as it’ll undoubtedly be the only time I’ll set foot in a wedding dress shop, unless Molly also goes down this route when she falls madly in love with someone I deem unworthy.

  We made it all the way to the front door of the shop before she suddenly froze, about-turned and started hurriedly walking the other way.

  ‘I’m not going in there,’ she stated, her pace reaching Usain Bolt level. ‘Nope. Uh-uh. It’s terrifying. I am not one of those women. Women change once they get that dress on. I’ve seen it on the telly. They become possessed. They start craving the perfect wedding – like ice sculptures and coordinating heel heights and fucking individually-wrapped kittens as wedding favours.’

  I thankfully managed to slow her and calm her down. She plonked herself on the kerbside and put her head on her knees. She was freaking out.

  ‘Are you having second thoughts about this?’ I asked cagily, sitting down beside her. ‘I hear it’s normal . . . I mean, if you are.’ I rooted around in my handbag looking for anything that might be useful: a brown paper bag to breathe into . . . a sedative . . . some wiser words than the ones I was currently using – anything.

  I found a Milkybar. Luckily, Lucy snatched it from my hand and began tearing it open without questioning.

  ‘I’m not having seconds thoughts,’ she insisted, biting into the chocolate, ‘I just don’t want a fucking dog and pony show. Kyle’s parents are trying to make us invite all three million of his extended family, his sister Gayle is insisting she’ll take over the seating arrangements in case Charles is sat next to Angus or within breathing distance of Marjory, and I don’t even know who the fuck anyone is. Kyle is keeping out of it and quite frankly I’ll be murdering him first if he doesn’t tell them to back off. I never realised he was such a fucking mummy’s boy.’

  She finished the Milkybar in two bites (must buy another for Molly) before resting her head on my shoulder. ‘I want to run away,’ she said quietly.

  ‘So do it.’

  She looked up at me, her blue eyes blinking away the little pools of stress tears that had started to form.

  ‘Go away and get married,’ I continued. ‘Go and do your own thing. Fuck what anyone else wants.’

  ‘But we’ve paid the deposit on the venue—’

  ‘And you can still use it for a party when you get back. Go to Gretna, just the two of you. Wear a bright green dress. Get married barefoot, whatever.’

  ‘And miss out on walking down the aisle looking fabulous in front of everyone?’ She gave me a nudge and grinned. ‘No way.’

  I laughed. Lucy will never surrender. ‘I just want you to be happy, mate. I’ll help in any way I can.’

  She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket and began to stand up. ‘Fuck it. I’m just going to marry you instead. Forget this place. I’ll look at vintage dresses online. It’ll give me something to do at work.’

  I don’t envy Lucy. I can’t imagine Oliver’s family demanding a religious ceremony and his mum taking over everything. My parents would show up with some hash and a bottle of organic wine.

  Tuesday June 13th

  Last night I dreamt that Oliver told me he’d kissed that woman again and he was leaving Molly and me to be with her. I woke up with wet eyes and a knot in my stomach the size of a fist. Even though it was just a stupid dream and intellectually I know that this won’t happen, my heart hurts. And it was stupid; he was wearing a cowboy hat, for fuckssake. I think I’m going to sit with this feeling for a while and if it doesn’t dissipate, I’ll bring it up at therapy.

  Wednesday June 14th

  Check-up at the dentist this morning which ended up costing me 120 quid for two fillings, an x-ray and a clean. I think I’d rather have kept the tooth decay. I then had to terrify my own kid with my slurring face and drink my tea through a straw afterwards.

  I dropped Molly at nursery, doing my best to not lopsidedly smile at anyone, but of course Lord Wilson cornered me in the cloakroom and I had to communicate using only half of my face.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she said robotically. ‘I’d empathise but my dentist says I have the healthiest teeth he’s ever seen . . . my sugar intake is almost non-existent, you see; Stevia all the way!’

  My urge to just stand there and drool on her Nikes was strong. Lately she’s always dressed like she’s either been or is heading to the gym, with a water bottle in her hand and a visible camel toe in her yoga pants. I may be podgy and eat a lot of sugar but at least my fanny doesn’t eat my clothing.

  ‘Nice seeing you,’ I mumbled insincerely, before ushering Molly into her classroom. I hoped that she’d pay attention to someone else but she fucking followed me, chattering about Wholefoods and her new personal trainer, Marc with a C. Before she could tell me her body fat ratio, I caught the attention of Molly’s teacher and pretended to have a pressing nursery-related question until Lord Wilson left. The fact that she refuses
to mention or even acknowledge the whole husband affair fiasco is a little disturbing and now it just feels awkward when we meet. I understand that she’s probably embarrassed but I can’t help feeling like I’ve been used in some way. Like I was useful at the time but now my services are no longer required.

  Thursday June 15th

  Frank told Lucy off for looking through bridal websites at work today.

  ‘This is not appropriate use of either work time or resources. I’m sure you can look at wedding dresses on your own time,’ he stated firmly but loudly enough for the whole office to hear from behind his closed door. See? Self-important prick. Thankfully, Lucy was on form as usual.

  ‘I think you’re being unreasonable.’

  ‘Well, you’re entitled to your opinion. However, I am the—’

  ‘Surely my excellent work ethic is valued enough that you’d trust my judgement to ensure my standards won’t slip,’ she continued defiantly. ‘Have a little faith in me.’

  ‘This isn’t up for discussion, Lucy. I’ve said what—’

  ‘Frank, did you know that planning a wedding is one of the most stressful times in a woman’s life?’

  ‘What? Yes, I’m sure it is.’

  ‘And that stress is one of the biggest factors in long-term sick leave? I mean, what would happen if I became so stressed that I had to be signed off for months? MONTHS, Frank. In fact, even being dragged in here in full view of everyone is making my blood pressure rocket. I may have to lie down.’

  ‘Lucy, I know what you’re trying to do here and—’

  ‘Sure, I was looking at dresses on work time. I mean, it’s not like we haven’t all done something that perhaps HR wouldn’t approve of. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  I could almost hear his jaw fall open. Oh, she went there. Both my ears and my face were burning.

  ‘I liked the cream dress better,’ he said meekly. ‘The white was too frilly.’

  Friday June 16th

  I awoke to see the old couple from the sex jar staring at me this morning from my bedside table. Oliver had already gone to work but had slipped a request in there before he left.

  Buy lube, Henderson. I want a big, dirty hand job.

  I snort-laughed loudly, just as Molly burst into the bedroom. ‘Why are you laughing?’ I quickly scrunched his piece of paper up and stuck it under my pillow.

  ‘Oh nothing. I just remembered something silly Dad said earlier,’ I covered. ‘Do you want some cereal, honey?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, please. Dad is always saying silly things, isn’t he? He’s funny.’

  ‘He is,’ I agreed. ‘He’s been making me laugh since we were in high school.’

  Molly scrunched up her face. ‘Even in the olden days? That’s a lot of jokes.’

  I suddenly felt very lucky. Not many people get to have laughed as hard and for as long as I have.

  Saturday June 17th

  Had yet another dream about Kyle last night! However, this time he had really large balls – like two dangling melons. I remember staring at them in horror, a bit like when Mia Farrow stares into the crib in Rosemary’s Baby. I think I’ve now quashed any subconscious desires for Kyle. I don’t want to see that again. I’m done.

  Sunday June 18th

  Someone on Facebook used ‘lol’ today and it put me in a bad mood. In fact, Facebook in general puts me in a bad mood. If it’s not endless streams of motivational memes, it’s someone posting the same filtered selfie, at the same angle, for the 654th time. You have a face, it has a good side – WE GET IT. Still, at least I’m not on Instagram or Snapchat, that shit is worse. Maybe it’s my age, but I really have no interest in what your dinner looks like or that you’ve added a dog nose and ears to your face – it’s hilarious but you’re also forty.

  Monday June 19th

  As I took my make-up off tonight, it suddenly hit me that I’m starting to look old. Not Titanic-survivor-old but certainly not as youthful as I think I am when not confronted by my own face in the mirror. I swore I’d never be one of those overly neurotic women who gets hung up on her ageing appearance but now that it’s happening, I can’t help it. I accepted reality when my tits started heading south because my bra dealt with that but now that everything has started heading south, I’m wondering why there isn’t a hoist to help. My jaw isn’t as defined as it once was and the laughter lines around my mouth aren’t going anywhere when I stop laughing. I feel like Pennywise the clown. Not only am I drooping, I’m also producing grey hair at a rapid rate. Perhaps my first belated New Year’s resolution should be buying a hair dye to deal with the silver roots landing strip which has appeared on top of my gradually sagging head.

  Tuesday June 20th

  Popped to Boots after work to buy some dye. Why do I feel like the moment I hover near the hair colourants, people immediately start judging me and my hair? I should have dealt with this a long time ago and now I’ve reached a level of self-neglect that only L’Oréal, some rubber gloves and a triple sandwich meal deal can help with. I also picked up some new foundation, nail varnish, oh, and some lube for Oliver’s forthcoming sex jar request. I’ll look groomed as fuck while I’m wanking off my boyfriend.

  Thursday June 22nd

  Last night I made the very important decision never to buy, smell or be in the same room as strawberry lube, ever again.

  Oliver’s hand job request began with him sitting on the edge of the bed and me kneeling between his legs. Instead of the old reach-across in bed, he wanted to ‘look at me doing it, preferably with my tits out’ but that was my call.

  Having touched Oliver’s dick hundreds – nay, millions – of times, I knew what he liked – the pressure, the ball cupping, the double-handed moves that made him thrust towards me without warning – so this should have been a no-brainer. As I pulled the top off the lube and squirted some into my hand, the overpowering smell of overly sweet fake strawberry made me want to gag. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the texture of the lube was all wrong. It didn’t glide; it was sticky. It was sticky and it stank. Oliver appeared oblivious, eagerly waiting for me to begin while I casually tried to prize my now-gummy hands apart. Telling myself that what this situation needed was simply more lube, I squirted half the tube over my hands, his knob and the bedcovers, wishing to fuck I’d just bought baby oil.

  At first it worked. My hands moved over his cock easily as he watched, occasionally reaching down to make sure my boobs were still bouncy for reasons known only to him. But the lube dried quickly, the smell was becoming overwhelming and the more I applied, the more ridiculous the whole situation became. I was up to my elbows in strawberry glue while dodging the intermittent squirming of a man who was definitely getting the worst hand job of his life. Eventually he moved back on the bed and away from my grasp.

  ‘OK, enough!’ he exclaimed, picking up the sticky bottle of lube. ‘What in the hell is this shit?! It smells like a mixture of Starburst and spermicide . . . and it’s not even lubey!’

  I could feel it crusting in between my fingers. ‘I know,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘It was on offer. It was an impulse buy.’

  ‘It felt like you were pulling my foreskin off at one point.’ He looked so deflated.

  I placed my hands on his thighs to push myself up from the floor, pressing into a blob that had escaped and gone rogue. That was the final straw. ‘Right, fuck this. We both need to shower and I especially need to set fire to these sheets.’

  He didn’t even argue, he just threw on some underwear and headed for the bathroom while I pulled the duvet cover off the bed.

  We showered together, scrubbing each other to remove every trace of that lube, like we were cleaning up a crime scene and vowing never to speak of it again.

  ‘Can you hand me that shower gel one more time?’ I asked before he turned off the water. ‘I think I missed a bit.’

  Admittedly Oliver didn’t get the hand job I’d planned but it turns out zingy lime and lemon shower gel could save the day.

 
; Monday June 26th

  So, today was bizarre. Running late for work, I dropped Molly at nursery only to discover that I’d driven there with a flat tyre and no spare in the boot. Of course Sarah Ward-Wilson was the one to inform me because that woman misses NOTHING.

  ‘Oh, silly you. Just call the RAC. You do have roadside recovery, don’t you?’

  Silly me? Oh, do shut the fuck up, you annoying woman.

  ‘I do,’ I replied, putting up my umbrella. The rain began bouncing off the streets in huge, heavy drops. ‘But I don’t have time to hang around. I’ll just call a cab into work and deal with it later.’

  ‘A taxi at morning rush hour? In the rain?’ she scoffed. ‘You’ll be waiting just as long as it would take to get your car fixed. Where do you work? I’ll drop you.’

  Her random offer of generosity startled me. ‘What? No. No, that’s very kind but—’

  ‘Get in,’ she insisted. ‘We can chat on the way.’

  I found myself agreeing and getting out of the rain and into her car, unsure whether she’d drive away with me and never come back.

  Thankfully, I arrived at work, dry and grateful to Sarah for driving me. We talked about my job, and how she regretted not returning to her career in hotel management after she got married. Maybe she does have a good heart, she just keeps it hidden behind that snobbish façade.

  Fifteen minutes late, I made my apologies and told Frank about my car troubles, but either he didn’t care or he knew that it was pointless reprimanding me. I settled down at my desk, ready to enjoy another uneventful day at the office.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I glanced over to where Lucy sat in reception and saw Lord Wilson looking around the room, completely ignoring her question. ‘Phoebe! You left your umbrella in the car.’

  Before I had the chance to open my mouth, she was marching through the office like she owned the place, casually glancing at the rest of the staff who stared in disbelief.