I continue in the same light, airy vein and animatedly describe how he offered to help with my fifty-first challenge. “He says he has contacts, Claire. They’d be useful. I haven’t a clue about writing, and he seems knowledgeable and keen to help.” I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly. “What do you think? Should I bite the bullet and text him again?”
Claire bites into her chocolate brownie and I chew on my finger, anxious to hear what she might say. She looks me squarely in the eye. “Text him. Meet in a public place – a coffee shop perhaps, but a quieter one. Have your conversation. Treat it as a business meeting; that way you’ll be able to control your emotions. No one will judge you. Just because he turns you on doesn’t mean you have to avoid him. Listen,” she blushes. “Nobody knows this, but I really fancy Steve Steele – my daughter’s physics teacher. Parents’ evenings are bliss, ’cos I get to stare into his eyes for all of ten minutes. Don’t get me wrong, Ames – I don’t go to parents’ evenings with the aim of seducing him. God would strike me down.” She laughs out loud and blushes again. “Doesn’t stop me thinking about it, though.”
“Does Bob know?” I ask incredulously. “I couldn’t tell Geoff. You know what he’s like. I know you love Geoff’s schoolboy humour…”
“Oh no, I’d never let on,” she replies. “Mr S is one of my two top-secret man fantasies. My faith keeps me on the straight and narrow these days. As for you, well, there’s nothing to tell, is there? Hey, is that the Bowl of Chance and Opportunity in your bag? May I?”
“Go on, then,” I say. “Make it a good one.”
Claire mixes the papers around and makes her choice:
HEALTHY BODY, HEALTHY MIND – RENOUNCE YOUR GUILTY PLEASURES.
“Bugger. That’s me in a bad mood for the next seven days. No tea, no coffee, no wine or crisps – and worst of all, no scones. How will I cope?” I complain.
“Look on the bright side, Amy,” smiles Claire. At least you’ll really savour your glass of wine next Friday night.”
Thank God for small mercies.
We leave the coffee house in companionable silence. I feel so much better. It’s as if a partial weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Perhaps I’m not going mad after all.
Back home, I go online to investigate juicing and healthy eating and decide to buy an Italian brand of super-high-speed blender. It sounds highly sophisticated and will look fab in my kitchen. Unsurprisingly, Geoff is supportive of me spending his money on this gadget. As he reads about the associated health benefits, he becomes visibly excited and praises the person who set this challenge.
“Pay for next-day delivery, Amy,” he says. “The sooner you start, the sooner we’ll see the benefits. I trust that this isn’t a one-week wonder, though? You kid yourself you’re fatter because you’ve given birth twice and it’s supposedly natural to gain a few pounds when you’re older, but I don’t believe it. I expect to see some return from my investment.”
I wholeheartedly disagree with his viewpoint, but to keep the peace and the blender, I humour him. It’s not worth starting an argument. The children are upstairs and the last thing Pippa needs is to overhear Geoff’s warped opinions about women and their weight. She’s embarrassed enough about her body as it is.
10.00 p.m.
Geoff has an early start tomorrow and has gone to bed. I’m trying to ignore an extreme craving for wine by composing my new improved text to Him. Without a drink in my hand, it’s extremely hard to do, and it takes several attempts before I’m satisfied. What I’m dying to write is the following:
DAMN YOU!
REPLY AS SOON AS YOU READ THIS
WHICH MEANS RIGHT THIS MINUTE
AND SAY YES.
I AM SITTING HERE WAITING.
MY PHONE IS GLUED TO MY SIDE.
I AM DYING WITH ANTICIPATION.
PLEASE DO NOT MAKE ME WAIT,
PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE IT OR SAY NO.
What I come up with, however, is slightly more restrained:
Hi.
We met at the surgery recently.
I’m the lady doing fifty-one
challenges this year and want to
write about them.
I read that back. It sounds professional, friendly and not pushy. I carry on.
I’d really appreciate your advice.
I like that too. Now for the most important bit.
Please let me know if you are happy to help asap.
I only hope he takes note of that last line. It’s so important that there is some sort of closure. Don’t leave me hanging – it’ll be pure torture, I think as I add a smiley face to lighten my message before pressing Send.
Saturday.
I am in a foul mood. I woke with a throbbing headache, and I know that today is going to be difficult as I can’t eat or drink my favourite things and he has not replied to my text.
Claire rings. “Have you done it?”
“I texted him last night, and since I woke up I’ve been checking non-stop for a reply. I’ve even taken to talking to my phone – begging it for a sign.”
Claire laughs. “My advice is to keep busy and remain positive. Blokes aren’t like us when communicating – you know that. He’ll get in touch when he’s ready. He won’t have a clue that you’re an emotional wreck waiting for his reply. He might stay silent for a few days ’cos that’s how men are, but do not, under any circumstance, text him again.”
“You’re right, Claire,” I say, resolute. I have much better things to do than waste time and energy on him.”
“And if he doesn’t reply, then you’re probably better off without him anyway, hon,” she concludes. “I’m sure you can find somebody else to help you with your fifty-first challenge.”
That afternoon, Evie and I assemble my new Italian super-expensive high-speed blender. Pippa’s plugged into her mobile as usual, refusing to participate. “Come and see!” I yell across to her enthusiastically. “This recipe booklet looks really interesting. It’s for bambini e adolescenti too and will help your acne.”
She casts a disdainful look in my direction. “Could’ve spent the money on a phone upgrade for me,” she huffs, and stomps from the room.
“Ignore the behaviour,” I breathe, and occupy myself with attempting to translate the instructions.
Evie examines a colour image of a smiling, slim, radiant-looking woman holding a luminous green drink in her right hand. She stares at me sceptically. “Mum, there is no way I am drinking that,” she says, pointing to the image. “It looks like snot.”
Later that afternoon, I persuade Pippa and Evie to accompany me to the supermarket, where we purchase at speed everything I need to achieve my challenge, as advised in the manuali de buone pratiche. I have promised to take them to the six o’ clock showing of How to Train Your Dragon II at the cinema if they help me. My trolley-full costs triple my usual weekly shop, but I console myself with the fact that for once it’s full of healthy stuff, so Geoff cannot complain.
We arrive at the cinema with minutes to spare before the film begins. I’m boiling hot, but I daren’t take off my fleece for fear of revealing hidden healthy treats. As we inch forward towards Screen 3, I scour the queue to try and see why it’s moving so damn slowly and freeze.
It’s Him – with a friend – and they are about to walk past me right… now. I hold my breath and my stomach in and try not to catch his eye, but he recognises me. Our eyes lock, and then he is gone.
Sunday, 11.00 a.m.
I surface late, having spent a couple of lazy hours absorbing Heat and OK magazines over my healthy breakfast pulverised drink. I’m ecstatic that I have already had four of my recommended daily fruit and vegetable portions – and it’s not even midday. I lie in bed, enjoying my freedom. I so love it when Geoff is away, as I can indulge in all the guilty pleasures he finds so shallow.
Before th
e children, Geoff and I would spend many a Sunday morning together in bed, nurturing our relationship. I have fond memories of us downing boxes of chocolates, listening to CDs and watching TV. Twenty-odd years down the line and two children later, this is a dim and distant memory. Nowadays, regardless of what day it is, he springs out of bed at seven. By half past eight (on a weekend) he has made me feel guilty enough to crawl out of bed, and by half past ten he is in full flow doing ‘stuff of value’ while I have been somehow press-ganged into whipping up pancakes for breakfast, baking Geoff’s weekly pie and fruit loaf, tidying the house, chivvying our daughters to get up and doing other ‘obligatory’ household chores.
I know that reading in bed and connecting with his wife on a Sunday morning is no longer on Geoff’s radar. In fact, it saddens me that this aspect of our lives has somehow been lost. I don’t think we’ll ever get that back again, though, however much I might like to, I reflect. Things have changed.
I keep myself from thinking about Him and the absence of a text (even though he definitely recognised me yesterday) by cooking a roast dinner – a wonderful childhood tradition that never happens in our house when Geoff is around.
Pippa sees my efforts and kisses me lovingly. “Yummy! Why don’t we do this more often? Is it because Dad doesn’t like wasting the day eating and chilling?”
A wave of nostalgia washes over me. She’s right. He used to, once – but nowadays, the only time he’ll happily indulge in a hearty roast dinner is on Christmas Day. I grab my laptop and add comments to my diary entry about food, diet and weight.
By ten in the evening, my home is an oasis of calm. Evie’s tucked up in bed and Pippa, who is supposedly doing her homework, is chained to her mobile. We have had a lovely day, chatting, laughing and playing board games. I haven’t felt so relaxed on a Sunday for ages. I flop onto the sofa, ready to indulge in past episodes of Don’t Tell the Bride once I’ve typed up my diary entry. I can’t quite believe how easy it’s been to eat healthily. I have missed caffeine, wine and crisps, and my head is still sore – but I have survived. I feel most positive about the rest of this week, but I’m not so sure I want to keep it up for much longer, whatever Geoff says or thinks. The novelty of blending fruit and veg is wearing off a bit, and there’s a part of me that’s angry and wants to spite him and his sexist opinions. I’ll tell him I’ve lent it to someone, I think. That’ll keep him quiet.
My mobile bleeps with a message. Ah, telepathy, Geoff, I smile, flicking on the TV. I suppose that’s from you. I’ll pick it up later.
Monday, 10.00 a.m.
What with Pippa missing the school bus and my remembering at a quarter to nine that I had a blood test booked for nine o’clock, I haven’t had time to look at Geoff’s text. The unread message is not from Geoff at all.
Sorry not been in touch.
Keen to meet, babe.
You decide when and where.
I ring Claire, my hands trembling. “What do you think?”
“His text sounds friendly enough, and he’s keen to help you. It’s up to you now. Just remember what I said about meeting in a public place, and dress appropriately.” She giggles in a most inappropriate manner. “No Bea-style low-cut tops or push-up bras.”
“It’s not a date. I’m not going there with any intention of shagging him. He has no sense of style, he has tats and I am much too old for him. There is absolutely no way that anything is going to happen, is there Claire?”
“Not when you put it like that, Ames,” she jokes. “Wait until Friday before you reply. Then go for it. Find out what you need to know, stare into his beautiful blue eyes and get him out of your system. You are allowed to have a coffee with him, you know. You’re not betraying Geoff. Keep procrastinating, and you’ll overthink the situation and drive yourself mad. You’ll imagine things that aren’t real and, believe me, you don’t want to go down that road. I’ve been there. Take it from me – it’s not worth it.”
Week Three
Friday.
My lunch break usually consists of a quick whizz round the local supermarket. Today, I have to be extra-speedy because at long last it’s Friday and I’m desperate to reply to his text. It’s sod’s law that only two tills are open. The queue is long and I am impatient. I wait in line, fists clenched in sheer frustration as I inch towards the cashier.
“Hiya. Cash or card?”
“Card.” Be quick, be quick, be quick, I mutter inaudibly. I simultaneously pack my purchases and punch in my PIN. I have exactly ten minutes left to text and get back to my desk which is just enough time.
I’ve spent ages mentally creating my message, and once back in the office car park, I type:
How about next Friday afternoon at 3pm?
Do you know The House café?
It should be quieter there at that time
so we can talk.
If any problems, text me. Amy.
Hopefully, he will turn up.
3.30 p.m.
Work over. Next stop: Daisy Hill Academy.
This week’s challenge is to:
INSPIRE THE NEXT GENERATION.
I must organise it this afternoon.
I press the intercom and wait to enter. Hands thrust deep inside my pockets, I steel myself to smile at ‘Dragon’ Deacon, the School Administrator.
Mrs Deacon acquired this rather unfortunate nickname because, sadly, she is a fire-breathing, scaly creature who has held the same position at Daisy Hill Academy for nigh on thirty years. A formidable woman, arrogant, with an inflated sense of self-importance, she has complete contempt for whoever crosses her path – which unfortunately, we all have to do because her office is right by the school entrance and we cannot avoid her.
As an avid people-watcher, I have noticed something most intriguing about Mrs Deacon that few others have spotted. Only women trigger such derision from her. Men, whatever their age, elicit a totally different response, and today I am fortunate enough to see her in action. “Good morning,” I smile. “Is it possible to have a quick word with the headteacher, please?”
“Wait here,” she replies icily.
The intercom buzzes. It’s a delivery man. Hooray. Let the extreme flirting begin. I watch astounded as Dragon Deacon simpers, preens and flutters her eyelids at him. I text Bea:
Mrs Dragon is doing her stuff…
The reply is instant:
NOOOO.
Has the stroking begun?
On cue, Dragon Deacon casts her eyes briefly downward, and the blatant ‘come on’ begins. She smiles at him in an overtly sexual manner, fans herself under the pretence that she’s feeling flushed, s-l-o-w-l-y unbuttons her sensible black cotton cardigan to reveal a figure-hugging blood-red t-shirt and deliberately makes as if to brush imaginary fluff from her upper body; her hands gliding rhythmically from her shoulders, around her neck and across her ample bosom. The delivery man, (in his late fifties, I’d say) slides just a tiny bit closer to her, colour flooding his face as he realises her intentions, his eyes fixated on her heaving breasts.
I cough deliberately, unable to stomach any more of this schmoozing. Mrs Deacon comes to with a start. Her head snaps round as she remembers that I am there. “Ah, Mrs Richards,” she says coolly, “Class Three.” I thank her most profusely for her time and scuttle away.
Daisy Hill Academy. Tuesday, 3.15 p.m.
“Mrs Richards. So pleased that you can help us out,” says the headteacher, pumping my hand enthusiastically. “If you would be so kind as to follow me? No running please, Kerri… I’ll introduce you to Tamicka, our after-school club leader… Sorry about the noise… Year Five, stand in line quietly please, we have a visitor… Ah, here’s Tamicka.”
4.00 p.m.
Fifteen hyperactive ‘dogs’ wolf down toast and jam. Tamicka is the ‘chief dog’, and she sits on a throne of sorts, wearing a decorated paper crown.
&nb
sp; “Tamicka,” I whisper. “Why are you all woofing?”
“We’re communicating in canine,” she replies. “Tomorrow, we’re elephants or meerkats. We’ll vote on it later.” She turns to the children. “Mrs Richards is helping us out today. Shouldn’t she be a dog too?”
The children kindly nominate me to be ‘dog mother’, in charge of a rabble of naughty puppies. I spend the whole time disciplining them and putting them in the naughty kennel. They absolutely love it. I absolutely hate it. I thank Tamicka, take two headache pills and resolve never to do this again. I go to find the headteacher.
Wednesday morning.
Now, this is more like it. Assisting Year Six with French is right up my street. Mr Kniver, the class teacher, welcomes me warmly and admits that his French language skills aren’t that great. “I’m sure my pronunciation is a bit off, Mrs Richards,” he says. “Perhaps you could help me there?”
Oooh. Yes.
I observe his attempts to engage the class. His pronunciation isn’t ‘off’ – it’s appalling. Within minutes, three children are being ‘spoken to’, a group of boys are making paper darts and the rest of the children look thoroughly bored. I stifle a yawn.
In the staff room, we review what happened. Dare I tell him that his lesson was totally uninspiring? He hands me a steaming mug of tea and rubs his eyes. “That didn’t go too well, did it?” He looks quite upset.
“Well…”
“Be honest, Amy.”
51 Weeks Page 7