“No, you daft cow. That’s the pints of piss they’re throwing at you. Should have bought a poncho.”
Fortunately, I can see that my mouth was shut.
Back home, I have scrubbed myself raw, yet I’m convinced I still reek of urine. I’m also sporting a shiny black eye. Geoff is mega-impressed. It transpires that the editor-in-chief from the revered rock music magazine is desperate to speak with me, and that Geoff has already given them some ‘cracking fodder’ for a feature (to be entitled Silver Surfers) and has negotiated a ‘decent’ fee.
I retire to my safe, cosy bed, just thankful it’s over. I have tried a new experience. I didn’t like it, but I did it. Lesson two. Move with the times. Don’t stagnate. Vegetate, and you deteriorate.
Week Five. Friday, 4.30 p.m.
Today, I am at the hairdressers – not because I need a haircut, but because I want to research the next challenge carefully. Becca, my gorgeous hairdresser, is a woman of the world. Her knowledge of life is extensive and I love to tap into it. Every time I visit, she has wondrous new tales to tell about herself, her family or her customers. I could sit for hours being entertained by her anecdotes: the teenage years of angst, the time she went inter-railing and slummed her way around Asia, relationship traumas… I always leave her salon feeling I have learned something. It certainly justifies the £70 I pay her. If anyone can help me with this challenge, she can. I show Becca the challenge slip. It reads:
BECOME A SEX CHAT LINE OPERATOR.
YOUR CALL MUST BE FROM A STRANGER.
She snips her scissors in the air with relish. “Now then,” she says with purpose. “How long have you been complaining that you’re lacking motivation at work? This is just perfect. It’s everything you need from a job, and it pays well too.” She goes off to make me an Americano, and I consider what she has just said. I would like a change of career. Don’t get me wrong; my job is fine. But perhaps it’s time for something different. Well, I say inwardly to my reflection in the mirror, that is exactly what this year is about, isn’t it? Exploration and having fun?
Becca returns and picks up her hairbrush. “Let me tell you why this career would be ideal for you.” She brushes my hair and continues: “Flexible working hours. You can work from home. No office politics. You’ll meet a variety of customers. Your services will be valued. High job satisfaction all round.” Becca puts down her hairbrush and we stare at each other in the mirror. She may have a point.
Saturday afternoon.
I am alone in the house. Pippa and Evie are doing their homework, and Geoff has retired to his Man Cave. It’s time to research. I set to work and Google ‘Sex chat operators’. Wow, there are pages of this. It’s actually quite technical. I begin by scrolling rapidly through several websites for ideas and decide that a good place to start will be to read the Frequently Asked Questions.
“How’s it going?”
“Take a look, Geoff. I’ve just discovered that I can call myself an Adult Chat Line Operator – sounds more professional, don’t you think?” I giggle. “I need to feel the part, if you know what I mean.” We explode into laughter. “I never realised that there were so many services on offer these days,” I sigh. “It’s all a bit confusing.”
Sunday, midnight.
My research into the world of Adult Chat Line Operators is almost complete. I have spent a fruitful day rereading the first part of Fifty Shades of Grey over a box of Maltesers, and I am now avidly watching the free ten minutes of Television Sexy, one of the many porn channels that I am entitled to access as a valued customer of the nation’s largest satellite TV provider.
The two female presenters are reclining topless on sofas and chatting to the viewers. I wonder if they are cold. Perhaps being topless helps them to get into role. How will I get into role? Should I go topless or get naked? I make a note of my thoughts on my laptop.
The next evening, Becca and I meet in town. I need advice on how to advertise my services. Somehow, I have to entertain a stranger. This is good, because – whatever happens – we will never know each other. However, this is also not good, because I actually have to find someone to ring me.
“Back in the day, we made calls from phone boxes, and the walls of the booths were papered with ‘business cards’ advertising this sort of thing,” I explain. “Nowadays, though, I think the only way to advertise my services is through the local paper or leafleting around town, which sounds decidedly dodgy.” Becca looks thoughtful, leans forward and carefully explains exactly what to do.
Tuesday evening.
I have joined Nookie For You, an agency of repute which lists many testimonials from satisfied customers. They have confirmed that I have the necessary qualifications (in that I am over eighteen, I have a corded landline telephone, and I am comfortable with sexuality and sexual situations). Other reasons for selecting this agency are that it’s free to join and, best of all, I will receive a complimentary training course with certificate of competency to boot. Wow! I can add this to my CV.
To complete my Adult Chat Line Operator training, I take half a day off work on Wednesday afternoon and dial into a two-hour webinar. I am soon in conference with four other trainees and Marie, our trainer, deciding on our ‘user names’. Marie explains that exotic first names always go down well, and as we all know that France is renowned for its laissez-faire attitude towards sex, I have chosen Françoise for mine.
The training session ends with Marie informing us about our ‘assessment of competence’. Tomorrow, we will each receive a ‘mystery shopper’ type of call from one of their valued customers, who will provide constructive feedback on our performance. As requested, I book my call for between half past ten in the morning and midday, and I email the office to inform them that I will be working from home. Well, I will be working from home – just slightly different work than they expect.
Thursday, 8.30 a.m.
Once my daughters have been dispatched to school, I am able to focus on today’s competence assessment. I can tell I’m nervous because I’m manically cleaning: dusting, mopping, polishing… I must stop this and prepare myself, I think. I need to get into role and feel the ‘three Cs’ I learned about in the webinar: confidence, calmness and being coquettish (cleaning wasn’t mentioned). I force myself to relax by indulging in one of my guilty pleasures – watching an episode of Snog, Marry, Avoid on iPlayer. That always cheers me up.
10.00 a.m.
My workstation is plastered with multi-coloured sticky notes. ‘Listen’, ‘Never Divulge Personal Information’, ‘Be Open’, ‘Empathy’, ‘Sexy Voice’, ‘Breathe’, ‘Detach’, ‘Enjoy’, they say. A helpful A3 flow chart is taped to the wall to remind me of the standard call structure, the process and the various courses of action that I may choose to take, depending on the situation. As my trainer suggested, I have assembled a selection of helpful ‘aids for success’, namely a detailed thesaurus of ‘useful’ images and adjectives for sex words/acts to help my (and definitely their) ‘creative juices’ flow, a pot of squelchy stuff, a fly swatter to make slapping noises, a jug of water… I realise I have forgotten my vacuum cleaner and rush off to get it.
10.25 a.m.
Somebody is at the front door. “Oh, go away,” I yell angrily. It’s a parcel for Geoff. I grab it and slam the door in the postie’s face. “I am not being interrupted again,” I growl. “This is too important.”
11.20 a.m.
I have succumbed to a glass of Pinot Grigio and two paracetamol to settle my nerves and am now feeling strangely calm. I sit in silence, chewing my finger, watching the clock and waiting…
11.35 a.m.
The phone rings. I answer on the third ring, as instructed, my hands trembling as I take a deep breath and say hello. I hope my voice isn’t shaking. Remember the three Cs, I think. My client replies. He sounds fairly young. I open my mouth to ask him how he is feeling today (the opening question we were
told to use in the webinar) but before I can begin, he speaks. His opening line floors me.
“I love chicken. Do you have any?”
What? I glance at the flow chart: If the client asks a closed question, reply yes or no. I gamble.
“Yes,” I breathe sexily and cross my fingers. It’s the right response – phew.
“Good,” he breathes back down the line. “Do you have chicken breasts?” I smile to myself; ah, now I know where this is heading.
“Oh, yes,” I purr.
“How big are your chicken breasts, then…?” And off we go.
Ten minutes later, I’m vigorously vacuuming the skirting boards. My, they are dirty. Moreover, the conversation with my client is getting rather dirty too. I am really getting into this sex chat. I lie on my back on the carpet, the hoover hose sucking up cobwebs, talking to my client as I work. The hum of the vacuum is doing its job exceedingly well. My customer believes it’s a vibrator (how mad can you get?) and I can tell that he’s having an exceedingly good experience by the way he’s responding to my questions.
The conversation has progressed from chicken breasts to chicken legs to chicken thighs, and I am now describing a “delicious coq au vin” to “fill a small hole”. This is right up my street. I adore chicken, so it’s easy to wax lyrical about its merits, and cooking is a passion of mine. I sit on the floor, the phone glued to my ear, surrounded by cookery books, trying to second guess where this is going. Perhaps I could turn the subject to ‘Coq Monsieur’ instead of ‘Croque Monsieur’? It is quite difficult to hear my client at times, mind you. It sounds like it’s starting to rain where he is. I look out of the window to check on the weather…
Another five minutes has passed and I am still vacuuming – having moved on to the window sills – and the chat is going strong. I’m sure it’s not raining where he is. If I listen carefully I can hear running water, and I think that he’s taking a shower. I can hear him soaping himself and some rather strange slapping sounds. The ‘rain’ at his end stops suddenly and a second later I hear a click as he puts down the phone receiver. For a minute, I’m confused, and then I realise what has happened. That’s it – job done.
Later that evening, I receive my feedback from Nookie For You. I scan it in total amazement. I’ve passed with flying colours. My certificate of competence is attached and Marie, my trainer, has included a personal note:
Our client thought you were a natural, and we would be delighted to offer you a position within our company should you so wish.
I beam with pride.
6.00 p.m.
My certificate of competence is framed and takes centre stage on the kitchen table. Geoff can’t see what all the fuss is about. He thinks any female can do what I just did and is unable to appreciate the range of skills that I’ve discovered. What he does acknowledge, however, is that what I’ve learned could be of benefit to him.
“You’ll have to try out some of this on me, Amy,” he says, “and I’ll take the greatest pleasure in assessing you.” He reads through the list of competencies that I have been assessed against. “I’d quite like to test out your ‘oral’ communication skills first.” He looks at me slyly and winks.
Bloody men, I think. So transparent.
Adriano’s Restaurant. 8.00 p.m.
The Girls take me out for a celebratory drink at Adriano’s – any excuse – and I recount the past month’s challenges in great detail, finishing with a blow-by-blow account of my amazing day today. The Girls listen, transfixed. I raise my dark glasses to reveal a black eye that has now turned a wonderful shade of greeny yellow, Claire plays back the YouTube video from my moshing challenge which is greeted with hoots of laughter, and there is rapturous applause when I admit to hating the HDs.
“Well done, Ames,” applauds Cate. “I never thought you would actually go through with some of those challenges. Have you learned anything from them?”
“Oh yes,” I reply emphatically. “I’ve learned quite a lot and I am loving my life at the moment.” I pause and look around the table at my friends. “The best thing of all,” I say carefully, “is that every day, I wake up excited, energised and invigorated and I think… no, I hope, that at the end of it all, I’ll be a better person.” I pass around my framed certificate and feedback sheet courtesy of Nookie For You. Everyone is mega-impressed with the comments.
“You scored such high marks,” exclaims Bea. “I’m proud of you, pet, especially the ten out of ten for ‘use of imagination, creative problem-solving, customer focus and interpersonal sensitivity’”. She reads on. “Not sure why you received a nine for ‘drive for results’ though? Did your client think you were rushing a bit? My Spanish ex-boyfriend once told me that ‘discreet stops make for speedier journeys’,” she quips.
“Yeah, perhaps I shouldn’t have stretched it out so much,” I laugh. “I did wonder if I was gabbling on a bit – especially about the coq au vin. Tell you what, though – it was an empowering experience. Nobody was standing over me telling me what to do. I used my brain, felt strong and in control and not only that – being able to take full advantage of a man was invigorating. This challenge has given me much food for thought.”
February
Week One. Monday, 7.00 a.m.
Evie has been up all night with a hacking cough, and as a dutiful, loving parent, I have been looking after her. Geoff is sleeping soundly in our bed. Not surprisingly, Evie and I are not in the best of moods. She sits slumped at the kitchen table, coughing sporadically, and I am by her side, nursing a super-sized mug of coffee. I take her temperature – it’s slightly raised. I attempt to cheer her up.
“You pick the challenge that I forgot to choose on Friday.” I rub her arm affectionately. A bleary-eyed Evie dunks her hand into the Bowl of Chance and Opportunity, pulls out a challenge and puts it on the table face down. “Wouldn’t you like to read it out, darling?” I coax. She looks at me as if I am a bad smell and has a coughing fit. “Ah yes,” I reply. “That’s a bit of a problem, so I shall read it out to you. Pass it here. Thanks.” I read to her that today, I have to:
TELL THE TRUTH ALL DAY.
“… And the challenge starts right now.”
I want to make light of the situation, but I can’t. Bugger, I think to myself. This could signal the start of a very difficult day.
7.45 a.m.
Geoff surfaces. I watch, detached, as he strolls into the kitchen and begins his breakfast routine, from which he never deviates. Without a word to anyone, he prepares his usual bowl of designer muesli, plonks himself at the kitchen table, opens his e-reader and buries himself in the Financial Times. I can’t help it. I grunt in disapproval. He looks up. “Anything wrong?” Now usually, I swallow any words of resentment swarming in my head like wasps around an open bottle of fizzy pop and focus on other, more pressing, matters until my top has been firmly screwed back on and I feel calmer. Today, though, is different. It is Tell the Truth Day, so I do – no holds barred.
“We have been up all night… without any sleep… I have made two packed lunches and three breakfasts, washed up, hung out the washing, got myself ready for work, checked school bags and uniform are correctly organised…” I am very aware that my voice is getting louder. “And I am now about to chase Pippa out of the door, minus appendage, to catch the school bus on time and try to blag an appointment at the doctor’s this morning for Evie.” I continue at full throttle. “You, on the other hand, have slept peacefully through the night in our bed, come downstairs at a time convenient to you and made your breakfast, yet you are somehow oblivious to what is going on around you. Have a lovely breakfast now, won’t you.”
As I storm out of the kitchen, I realise that I have actually never openly expressed what I feel about Geoff’s complete lack of involvement or concern with our morning routine. I often allude to needing help, but it’s ignored. There’s always something better or more important th
at comes along, and so I carry on regardless because I have to and because I can’t be bothered to rock the boat. I reach the top of the stairs and overhear Geoff’s indignant comment to Evie. “Your mother is tetchy this morning. Does she have PMT?” and he laughs.
8.00 a.m.
Pippa has precisely seven minutes to eat her breakfast, brush her teeth, find her coat and shoes and leave the house or she will miss the school bus. “Mum?” she asks, teary-eyed. “Am I spotty?” Oh no. I don’t need this. Usually, with less than seven minutes to go, I will do and say anything to ensure she leaves on time. Today, of course, I cannot.
“Yes, darling,” I am forced to reply. I stop. I want to say more, but if I do… I try to change the subject. “Put your mobile away. You can survive without your appendage until you get on the school bus.”
“Can you see the zits, Mum?”
I consider my response. Her nose, chin and forehead are covered with raised, inflamed red papules. What can I say? I glance at the kitchen clock… four minutes to go. I have to get her out of the house. “We’ll talk about this once you have put your shoes on and your mobile is safe in your bag,” I say icily. Pippa dutifully acquiesces and I am about to heave a sigh of relief when she throws a killer dart in my direction.
51 Weeks Page 3