“I’m not going until you say how bad they are.” She folds her arms in defiance and glares at me.
I have to answer her truthfully, and so I guide her towards the door, muttering “Your face looks like a pepperoni pizza. I’ll book you a facial. Bye.” And with that, I push her out of the house, lock the door and run upstairs to ring the GP. With any luck, she’ll have forgotten all about it by tonight, I cringe as I go, If not, I’m in for a fun evening… not.
The doctor’s surgery is always a hive of activity. I like it here, as you can bet you’ll meet somebody you know, and it is one of the few places where you can chat in relative peace without the worry that you need to be somewhere else or you have to move the car because your Pay and Display ticket is about to expire. Evie is dozing on my shoulder, and I take the opportunity to indulge in one of my favourite activities – watching people and imagining what their lives are like. I take in today’s clientele, and my gaze falls on a young man, probably in his thirties, sitting opposite and engrossed in a novel. He is of medium build, about five feet ten, possibly Spanish or Greek, and he hasn’t made a scrap of effort with his appearance. He’s wearing a paint-splattered navy hoodie, an un-ironed Quo t-shirt that was once white but must have been put in the wash with something dark and has now turned an unfortunate shade of grey and a pair of baggy jeans that could really do with putting into quarantine. His short, straight and very dark hair looks as if it hasn’t had a hair brush taken to it in a while.
My analysis of him continues. Bet he hasn’t got a girlfriend looking like that, I imagine. If he were taken in hand, I reckon he’d be quite good-looking. Dressed in one of Geoff’s designer navy blue suits and silk ties, he’d be hot. I wonder why he is such a scruff? That t-shirt has certainly seen better days. Builder or decorator? Mind you, his hands look quite soft. There’s a small scar on the back of his left one, but I can’t see any signs of hard manual labour. No dirty fingernails either, but they’re bitten to the quick. He might be shy… He might have a girlfriend or wife who isn’t bothered about his appearance. Brave woman, I smile to myself. I look for a wedding band. There isn’t one. Then again, I muse, many men, especially tradesmen, don’t wear wedding rings these days for health and safety reasons. I note a tattoo on his left arm. Yicht – hate them, though, I say to myself. I sneak another look at him, catch his eye and take a sharp intake of breath. Oh, you have the most gorgeous eyes. If I were younger… I feel a bit embarrassed by my rather scruffy appearance today and find myself surreptitiously taking my lip gloss and mirror out of my bag…
“Mum, why are you putting on lipstick in the doctors?” asks Evie suspiciously.
“Well…” Oh no – I have to tell the TRUTH. “It helps mummies to look, well, more attractive and feel better about themselves… and my lips are dry.”
The man takes a tattered copy of Cressida Cowell’s How to Train Your Dragon and a black plastic bottle from a carrier bag. Evie sits up and stares pointedly at him. “Mum?” she says loudly. “Why is that man reading a children’s book?”
“I really don’t know, sweetie.” I reply. “Perhaps he likes it.” I want her to shut up.
“But he’s old,” she says more loudly. Before I can answer her, she turns to him and says directly, “Aren’t you a bit old to read that?” I am about to quieten her down when the man looks up and asks if she has read the book. Evie replies that she likes it a lot and before I know it, she and he are deep in conversation about the qualities of the book versus the film. She asks if she can go and sit next to him.
“Of course,” I reply. Oh my, I think to myself, he is hot, in a scruffy sort of way. Well done, darling – you’ve given me a great excuse to legitimately ogle him. For the next ten minutes or so, I look on as the pair conduct a highly animated conversation. God, he really is lovely. Not many men would be able to engage a ten-year-old like he can. I wonder what he does for a living? He could be a teacher? No, he can’t be. They’d never let him teach children looking like that. I decide to ask him – as it’s Tell the Truth Day – and I inconveniently butt into their conversation.
“What do you do for a living?” I smile.
“I’m an engineer,” he replies, taking a swig from the black plastic bottle.
“Ah, that explains why you are a bit well… um… unkempt.” I cringe inside as he looks surprised. “You should teach. You’ve got a lovely way about you, and you are doing a fantastic job engaging my daughter. I haven’t seen her this chatty in ages.”
“Mum has to tell the truth all day today,” Evie kindly explains. “She’s doing different challenges every week.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “She’s not normally like this. In fact, she never talks like this.”
“Why are you doing challenges?” he asks. And I find myself staring into a pair of incredibly alluring blue eyes.
I tell him as briefly as I can about my Year of Adventure and Self-Discovery, as that way I don’t have to be too truthful – but I let on that my fifty-first challenge is to write about what I do and what I learn, which will hopefully inspire others. His vibrating mobile interrupts our conversation. He puts his book and bottle away and gets up to go.
“Mum’s waiting. I’d better be quick or she’ll flip,” he chuckles. He thinks for a minute and picks up a pen lying on a nearby table. “Take my number,” he says, scribbling something on the back of a receipt he finds in his back pocket. “Give me a call. I have contacts and I think you’re awesome for doing this. It’s a fascinating project.” He passes the receipt to Evie. “That’s for your gorgeous mum,” he winks. My heart skips a beat and I blush. Oh no! I think to myself as I find myself accepting his offer.
Back in the car, I compose myself and add his mobile number to the contacts list in my phone. He hasn’t left his name. “What shall I call him, Evie? I can’t leave a blank contact in my phone alongside his number. I’ll forget who it is.”
“Well, he is a man, and we don’t know his name – so call him Him?” she replies gaily. And that is what I do.
8.00 p.m.
Lying in the bath and indulging in a small glass of Pinot Grigio, I reflect on my day. What have I learned about Telling the Truth? Well, Catherine of Siena, you cool fourteenth-century saint, I now completely understand what you meant when you said ‘Proclaim the truth and do not be silent through fear’. I told Geoff exactly what I thought of him this morning, which I wouldn’t normally do. Perhaps I should speak up more often? Then again, what if people don’t like it? Should it matter if they don’t? I know of a few women who have a bit of a reputation for being vocal, and I don’t much like what Geoff says about them.
I take a sip of wine. I have also learned that telling the truth is an art. Sometimes you have to be totally upfront. On the other hand, perhaps it’s kinder not to always say it as it is. Should I be advising Pippa and Evie to tell the truth no matter what? I ponder. It’s an interesting question, and I’m not sure what the answer is.
I take another sip of wine and think on. In fact, sometimes we do not lie out of malice – we lie to protect. It’s an act of kindness. I think back to this morning when I couldn’t lie to Pippa about her spotty face. On any other day, I would have lied through love for her – to protect her self-esteem – and I wouldn’t have felt bad about it. But would she have appreciated the lie? Would she have preferred that I tell the truth instead?
I take a third sip of wine and remember something totally unexpected that has resulted from my challenge. Today, something occurred that I never, ever dreamed would happen to me after too many years of marriage. Today, without warning, I met a man to whom I felt an attraction. No, today I met a man who really fascinated me. Deep inside, I know that for some unfathomable reason, I’d like to meet him again. I lie back in the comforting warm water, stretch, sigh and smile. And this year, I will. I am going to meet him again and find out why he fascinates me so much. Why not?
9.00 p.m.
I bump into Geoff. Wish I hadn’t. He is waving a credit card bill around and he has some questions for me that have to be answered RIGHT NOW. I shudder as I notice that he has switched to his Professional Voice. “Amy, we need to talk. What is this £39.99 payment for and what else have you been buying in Bromley’s?”
It’s tricky concentrating on what he’s saying because I am totally focused on his Pointy Finger, as we call it. It was Pippa who drew my attention to this habit of his. I’d never really noticed it before, but she is right. Whenever Geoff is in a particular frame of mind, he stabs around with his index finger. In fact, I think that one day, the Pointy Finger will mutate into a weapon of torture that I’ve nicknamed the Lightsaber Finger. The world will rue the day that happens.
I hate conflict of any kind and stand soberly in front of him, waiting for the ranting and pointing and steam that’s pouring from his ears to fizzle out. He finishes. Now, on any other day, I would manipulate the truth, just a little, to justify my purchases, smooth the waters and get out as quickly as I can. However, today isn’t over yet, and I have to tell the truth. So I do. I take heed of Catherine of Siena’s advice again and freely admit to what I have spent and why. Geoff leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, and listens. I finish and wait for the fallout, chewing nervously on my finger. “Thank you, Amy.” He smiles and files the bill, and his tone changes. “Fancy watching a DVD?”
“Yeah, great – I’ll get the wine.” Yippee! It’s over. I sigh happily and scurry off before he can say any more.
As we settle down in the lounge, I am struck by three thoughts. Firstly, why do I allow Geoff to talk to me as he does, and secondly, why do I put up with the Pointy Finger? During the conversation we’ve just had, it felt as if he was my boss, the accuser, and that I had committed some dreadful misdemeanour. I know he has to be a strong communicator, but he’s not at work now. And thirdly, I know sod all about our family finances. I’m sure I used to know more. I must get back up to speed again. I make a note on my laptop.
My mobile is bleeping. I rummage for it in my cavernous handbag and glance at the message. It’s from a friend asking if I can forward our next-door neighbour’s contact details as a matter of urgency. I search for the ‘Hillman’ number to forward, and as I do so, I see Him listed directly below. I stare at the phone for some time and am struck by the urge to thank him for suggesting that he might be able to help with my fifty-first challenge. Yes, I think. That would be a nice thing to do. I think he would appreciate it. I would. I compose a short, friendly text, keep it light and press Send. He now knows my name.
Week Two. Friday, 9.00 p.m.
Claire, Bea and I have just finished a trial ‘kill ourselves through keep-fit so we can have wine without guilt’ class. Hot, sweaty and smugly virtuous, we sneak to our local for an obligatory celebratory tipple and catch-up. Finding a quiet spot in the corner by the fireplace, Bea pours the Pinot Grigio while I initiate an animated discussion about the previous week’s ‘being truthful’ challenge. I describe my assertive moment with Geoff that morning and the incident with the credit card. “I’d never quite noticed how rude he can be, and this morning he ridiculed me in front of the children. Bea, what’s wrong?”
“Listen up, pet. Are you a woman of the twenty-first century or a nineteen-fifties housewife? You do so much for your family and you’re a fantastic role model to your daughters. Do you want them to learn that a woman should simply put up with that sort of crap from a bloke? He humiliated you with his words and his bloody Pointy Finger and you sat back and took it.”
“Calm down, Bea,” Claire cuts in. “I’ve known Geoff longer than the lot of you. In fact, I introduced Amy to him, and I can tell you that it’s just the way he is. He’s forthright and holds traditional values, and a bit of ‘bad boy’ lurks beneath his executive exterior – but he’s always been the same, and you’ve done alright by him, haven’t you, Amy? He’s the main breadwinner, for goodness sakes, and, well, maybe he was tactless when he challenged you about your spending habits. But thinking about what happened that morning, I would say that he was preoccupied and getting himself into gear for a busy day in the office. You read too much into it. And as for the credit card incident, he was probably worried about balancing the books. You said yourself: you’re out of touch with your family finances. You have a charmed life, Amy, and I’d give my right arm for a bit of that.”
“You’re talking complete garbage,” interjects Bea. “Amy, you’re not passive at work or with us, but when you’re at home, you change. Deal with it this year, and break out of the cycle. Telling the truth all day forced you to say what you really think. Write down what happens every week and think about it, pet.”
I remember to pull out this week’s challenge on Saturday morning and laugh aloud with relief. “Listen to this,” I remark. I read that I am to:
BE A GOOD NEIGHBOUR AND HOUSE-SIT.
Pippa unplugs from her phone and looks at me shrewdly. “Did you pull out that challenge on purpose?”
“No, I didn’t,” I reply truthfully. It’s amazing that I really am looking after Chris and Mel’s house, garden and pets next Monday until Wednesday evening. The forecast is for snow, and they really do not want to return home to frozen pipes or a slippery path.
Chris and Mel are two eccentric ladies in their sixties. We’re not sure if they are gay, and (as I keep reminding Geoff) it really is of no consequence. However, the men in the village consider the very idea that they possibly could be lesbians to be of the utmost importance. After a few beers, several have been seen loitering with intent outside their house. Bea once caught Geoff peering through their kitchen window in the hope of witnessing some ‘lesbian action’, which didn’t go down well. In my opinion, their sexuality is their affair, and I refuse to discuss it.
Later that afternoon, I pop round to Chris and Mel’s, and they explain my list of duties:
•Water all house plants.
•Clear garden of leaves, twigs, general windfall items, each day.
•Feed and water Snack and Attack the guinea pigs.
•Food kept in the garage in large plastic container.
•Walk Rusty the Labrador twice a day. Feed and water.
•Salt driveway and path – rock-salt in sack at rear of garage to the left.
•Leave post on kitchen table.
•Bins out Tuesday evening.
•Clear the lawn of snow – blower in garage.
“That all looks fine,” I say.
“Before you go, Amy dear, we’d better introduce you to our pets,” says Chris. Ah yes, the pets. Now, one thing that Chris and Mel don’t know about me is that I am not overly keen on animals. However, I am prepared to try and bond with their beloved animals for the sake of neighbourly love and this challenge, and I have a sneaky plan to involve my daughters with their care if necessary. They lead me into their large garden to meet Rusty, a bouncy Labrador, and Snack and Attack, the guinea pigs, who are snoozing in their palatial two-storey cage. The cage is a bit smelly.
“All you have to do is provide our babies with clean food and water, cuddle them and sing to them every day. It’s good for their karma,” smiles Chris.
“I have to hold them and what?” I ask incredulously. “Um, how long should I sing for, exactly?”
“Ten minutes is usually enough,” replies Chris. “Here, hold Snack for me.” She passes a wriggling white ball of fur across to me and I take him reluctantly.
“Will he wee on me?” I ask nervously. Since my moshing experience back in January, I have developed an aversion to urine anywhere near me and even the smell of it causes me to retch. Chris laughs. “Perhaps, but don’t worry. Wee washes away.”
Chris and Mel sing their repertoire of guinea pig special hits to me so that I know what I have to do. I so want to laugh at the sight of two elderly ladies singing to rodents that I have to dig
my fingernails into the palm of my hand and bite the inside of my cheeks to keep myself in check.
Sunday, 4.00 a.m.
I lie on my back in the darkness, listening to the steady rhythm of Geoff’s breathing as he sleeps. All is still except for my brain that is whizzing away like an electric mixer on full speed. I can’t stop re-running clips of my and Evie’s chance meeting with Him and especially the part of the conversation when he gave me his number and called me gorgeous…
Bea has a point. I must record everything that happens to me over this year because otherwise I will forget it. I can’t afford to let any part of my journey pass me by. If I do, then there will be no writing to inspire others – no fifty-first challenge. I turn onto my side. And I will record exactly how I feel, what I have learned, the changes I might like to make and what should remain the same. I continue. I will start tomorrow.
At midday, Geoff finds me sitting on my bed, madly tapping on my laptop. I have been working on my diary entries all morning, and I am so absorbed that I have completely forgotten about lunch. “Amy?” I do not hear him. He taps me lightly on my shoulder and I jump. “How about a quick bite to eat and a family walk? It’s a beautiful day and I don’t want to waste it.”
Nooo. Please not today, I growl to myself. I don’t want to be interrupted, I don’t want lunch and I certainly don’t want to go on a family walk, even if the sun is shining. I only want to write and think. “Do we have to?”
“Come on, Amy,” Geoff groans. “I really could do with the exercise, and it would do you good too. What about if we have a quick something and go out for a couple of hours, and then you can come back and do whatever you want.” Uh-oh! Warning bells are sounding in my head. He sounds like he is going into one of his huffs that manifest when I don’t want to do something that he wants. Then I make an error. I do what I always do when we have this sort of conversation. I give in.
51 Weeks Page 4