I put the phone onto loud-speaker and continue with my work as Grandma rolls out her usual spiel.
“What are you doing with yourself, bubelah?”
I take a deep breath. I need cheering up and decide to tell the truth and see what happens. “I’m going swinging,” I shout into the receiver.
“Ooh! Swimming! I won medals for that. The boys used to say I was the best swimmer in town.” I stifle a giggle. I’d just die if I held the title ‘best swinger in town’.
Much later that evening, I am finally strong enough to acknowledge my challenge. This one is easy to arrange, thank goodness, but I’m going to have to be brave to go through with it. My thoughts turn to the Mon-Keys, as they are the people I need to make contact with.
I first met Mrs Mon-Key through my hairdresser, Becca, one December. We were both having our Christmas trims, and we all got rather tipsy on supermarket own-brand fizz. Back then she was known as Miss Mong. Over the next few years, we would bump into each other at Becca’s, and it was there that she met Mr Key. She was having her hair bleached, and he was having highlights to disguise his silver fox streaks of grey. Romance blossomed over the hair dye, and they married soon after.
Mrs Mon-Key likes to present herself to the world as a flamboyant and extremely glamorous lady. She adorns herself in statement necklaces, her hair is always elegantly coiffed into a white-blonde beehive, and her make-up is simply stunning. She trowels on foundation that is slightly too dark for her skin tone and ends around her jawline, her cosmetically enhanced lips are permanently stained bright pink, and she never leaves home without her trademark long, thick black false eyelashes and the dreaded HD brows.
Her husband, a placid and generous man of around the same age, has a sense of style that is as interesting as his gorgeous wife’s. He favours bright Hawaiian shirts (worn open to the waist to reveal a steel-grey hairy chest), a man-tan, and skin-tight trousers that leave nothing to the imagination. He reminds me of a seventies porn star.
It is obvious that the Mon-Keys are deeply in love. Whenever I see them together, I can’t help smiling at their obvious continuing fascination with each other. Some people might find it embarrassing to see this constant show of affection, but I like it. In fact, I sometimes feel quite jealous of what they share. I smile to myself. I have a hair appointment for Evie arranged with Becca tomorrow. I’ll sort it all out then.
Saturday morning.
Evie is in the chair and Becca is snipping away. I casually ask when Mrs Mon-Key will be in next. “You’re in luck. She’s due in an hour,” replies Becca. She lowers her voice. “They’re hosting a party tonight.” She winks.
Evie stares at Becca through the mirror. “Why are you whispering about a party?”
“Nosy,” I laugh. “It’s a special party and they want to keep it a secret,” I lie. Becca and I exchange knowing glances. It’s special alright.
10.50 a.m.
Mr and Mrs Mon-Key make their grand entrance. He holds open the door to Becca’s salon, and his dear wife floats in, parading a voluminous multi-coloured Grecian kaftan à la singing legend Nana Mouskouri, coupled with four-inch white diamanté wedge shoes, a floppy straw hat and a pair of huge round plastic-framed sunglasses. Her husband follows her, carrying her bags and struggling to keep a sausage dog under control.
“Hellooo,” she cries. “Come faire la bise, darling.” She theatrically air-kisses Becca three times. “Mwoah, mwoah, mwoah.”
She spies me and Evie. “Ciao, darling – and this must be your mini-me?” She raises her sunglasses and examines Evie’s face. “Oh, you are just gorgeous, honey bun,” she smiles. She motions to Mr Mon-Key. “You can take care of Bratwurst, if you like. Pass her the lead, darling.”
While Evie is busying herself with their pet, I pluck up the courage to ask Mrs Mon-Key if she can help me. “Why yes, darling, tonight. Experience the joys of super-swinging at our one-hundredth party masked ball. Pass her an invitation, Mr M.”
“Er, tonight?” I take the invitation from Mr Mon-Key and put it in my pocket.
“No buts. You and Becca will have such fun. You can wear these.” She rummages in her handbag and hands us two shiny, bejewelled masks with elastic tied around the back. “It makes it all the more interesting if you can’t see who you’re shagging,” she says bluntly. “Wear whatever you like – anything goes, but you’ll probably be better off in PJs and dressing gowns this time. Oh, and don’t bother to eat beforehand, as there’s a buffet. Be at ours for eight. How wonderful that we met today. We must celebrate. Pass the fizz, Mr M.”
Evie’s asleep when Becca dumps a second empty bottle of Prosecco into the recycling bin. My mobile vibrates. It’s a text from Geoff demanding to know where I am, as it’s gone lunchtime and he hasn’t eaten yet. It sounds a bit angry. A few of the words are in capitals. I stare drunkenly at the message and press Delete.
7.00 p.m.
I have made my peace with Geoff in one of the best ways I know how – serving up his favourite meal (prawn red Thai curry, followed by apple pie) and plying him with beer. I am dreadfully anxious about tonight.
“Why are you ready for bed so early, and what’s with the mask?” he asks. “Am I on a promise tonight?”
“Nooo, I’m… er… at the Mon-Keys’ later, in aid of my latest challenge. But I’d rather not go,” I say half-heartedly.
“YOU have an invite to their hundredth shag-fest?” he asks incredulously.
“How do you know about that?” I say, surprised.
“What planet are you on?” He stares at me in disbelief. “YOU are going to the most fucking amazing event ever and you don’t want to go? You’re not even a member.”
“It sounds scary and, well, creepy, and not something I’d ever do.” I shrug. “And how do you know about it, anyway?” I repeat.
“Their parties are legendary. It’s every guy’s dream. Bloody wish I could come,” he says wistfully. “Get some action – a threesome or a gang-bang. Jess tells me…”
“STOP!” I yell, covering my ears with my hands.
“You’re such a prude,” he smiles, shaking his head in amusement. “Bring back some top tips. Go and learn how to use a whip,” he sniggers.
Blimey, I think to myself as I wash up. What on Earth am I going to see? What have I got myself into this time?
8.30 p.m.
Becca and I are at the party, dressed in our not-so-sexy pyjamas and dressing gowns. Mine are purple with a white reindeer design and are topped with a fleecy pink dressing gown. Becca is in red cotton stripy pyjamas with matching dressing gown. Our masks are secured, and we feel comfortable and – most importantly – anonymous and safe. The Mon-Keys greet us masked, but we know who they are because they are wearing name badges, like at a convention.
“Welcome, darlings!” cries Mrs Mon-Key, air-kissing us three times. “Shoes off!” She drops them into a rack behind her and hands us a glossy leaflet each. “Here’s a map of the house. Drinks are straight ahead, and the buffet is through there.” She indicates to a room off the hallway. A laminated sign headed Information and Rules catches Becca’s eye.
“Should we read through the rules?” she asks.
“Yes, at your leisure,” instructs Mr Mon-Key, ushering us away from the reception desk and into the hallway. “We’re not charging you tonight, as it’s your first time. However, when you leave, we’d be extremely grateful if you’d complete a feedback form. We’re always striving to continuously improve our service, you know.”
The doorbell rings again. The Mon-Keys drift away to greet more guests, and we are left alone.
We go to read the Information and Rules:
1.Condoms – varied types in the red labelled boxes in each room.
2.Respect sexual preferences.
3.No petting in the buffet room.
4.Wash your hands before touching any food in the
buffet room.
5.If a themed room is full, kindly wait your turn or go elsewhere.
6.The Hush Room is for relaxation, low-level chatting and sleeping. Anyone abusing this will be asked to leave.
7.The toilets on the Ground Floor are not for sex UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
8.Respect confidentiality and anonymity.
Concerns or questions? Dial 0800 113322.
“It’s a slick operation,” I remark. I don’t quite know what else to say.
“Come on,” hisses Becca, accepting flutes of champagne from a passing scantily clad masked male waiter. “Let’s explore.”
We enter the buffet room and stare in disbelief at the sight of two enormous trestle tables, groaning with food. Large printed signs in bold hang above each. We go left and read:
Finger Buffet.
Don’t forget to wash your hands.
Our eyes alight on a range of hot and cold dishes to suit all tastes including several tempting puddings. We look to the right and I snort with mirth.
Fingering Buffet.
Paper plates only. No cutlery allowed.
An impressive display of foods, tins and jars, including cans of squirty cream, chocolate spread, jam and peanut butter greet us. Bowls of cold baked beans and custard sit invitingly. Tubs of posh ice cream are stacked in a mini freezer alongside bags of ice cubes and tubes of yoghurt. You cannot miss the huge fruit bowl piled high with bananas, grapes and strawberries. It’s difficult to take it all in. Dumb-struck, we knock back two glasses of champagne each.
12.15 a.m.
We sway our way up to the second floor and the ‘dungeon’, a dimly lit room kitted out with exact replicas of the equipment described in the novel Fifty Shades of Grey. It’s mega-impressive.
Becca and I play about with the toys. I clock that she looks extremely interested in a set of handcuffs and the whips. She also looks extremely interested in a guy standing in the room close by, and he looks extremely interested in her. Leaving them to it, I decide to investigate the ‘playground’. I gently rock to and fro on a swing, enjoying the laid-back vibe.
And then I hear a familiar voice. It can’t be, can it? It’s my sister Jess, and she’s gently whipping a man called Mr Steele. My hand goes to my mouth, and I sneak closer to better listen in to their conversation, glad that my mask is concealing my identity.
“Mr Steele,” she moans, “tell me about physics. I just love to hear you describe Newton’s laws of motion. Let’s put his theories to the test.” Oh my God, Claire. Your secret lust, your daughter’s physics teacher, is getting it on with my sister.
I hide behind the penis-shaped conifer, howling with laughter. That has made my night.
At four in the morning, we collect our shoes from Mrs Mon-Key and thank her for an excellent party. “I had the best time ever,” says Becca, blushing profusely.
“Excellent, darlings. Here’s our membership details and payment plan.” Mrs Mon-Key smiles and moves away.
Saturday, midday.
Geoff’s relentless probing into the goings-on at the party is draining. I tell him as much as I want to, leaving out key details about Becca and my sister.
“Are you sure you didn’t get it on with anyone?” he asks for the third time. “I’m crushed.”
“No, I didn’t,” I reply, disgruntled. “Why? Are you disappointed that I didn’t commit adultery?”
“You’ve wasted a fantastic challenge. It wouldn’t have been adultery, darling. You had my blessing, for one thing, and it wouldn’t have meant anything; shagging a stranger. It would have been a mind-blowing experience. Most women I know, with a few exceptions like puritanical Claire, would have got right in there and brushed up on their skills – like Jess and Stanley do.”
“What?” I say incredulously.
He makes an obscene hand gesture and laughs. “I’m definitely calling you Prudish Parker from now on.” He winks as his mobile rings and strolls outside to take the call.
I sit at the kitchen table feeling distinctly uncomfortable at what he has just said. I ring Becca.
“And how the devil are you, this afternoon?” I ask wickedly.
“Fine, I’m fine.” Becca sounds hungover, yet chilled.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Okay.”
“Do you honestly believe that people have regular one-night stands without it damaging their long-term relationship? Can they compartmentalise it in some way?”
“Well, that’s what I did last night,” she replies without hesitation. “Do I feel I cheated on my Stu? No, actually. I believe that this experience will enhance our relationship. I love Stu, not that other guy. He and I were just horny and in the moment. It was certainly a night to remember.
“Listen, Amy,” she sighs, “It was a one-off. I believe that life is for living, and you only get one shot at it. I don’t want to have any regrets and I want a shedload of fantastic memories at the end. As long as I’m not obviously hurting anyone, what’s the harm in it? It doesn’t mean anything significant to me and I know it never will. If others criticise me for thinking like this, that’s their problem. I know you say you’d divorce Geoff if he ever cheated, but would you really? I see things differently. Just look at Mr and Mrs Mon-Key and their fantastic marriage. If they were monogamous, I bet that they wouldn’t be as happy. They’d probably be divorced or stuck in a rut, as so many long-term relationships become, spending their nights fantasising about celebs or somebody else and knowing that that’s it forever. No more moments of pure passion and fortyish bloody years relying on sex toys, booze, web porn and sex novels to get their kicks.”
I write up my diary entry on my laptop and reflect on the events of the last few days. As I recap and think of Him, my stomach somersaults and my legs turn to jelly. Becca’s views on monogamy echo in my head. She had been describing me – a sad married, fantasising about a stranger. Why? I could have got it on with anyone at that party. I had the ideal opportunity, but I didn’t… What if he had been there, though? I push the thought from my mind and concentrate on composing the text to say sorry for being so rude when we met at the café.
Hi, how are you?
I am sooooo sorry.
It was rude dashing off after
our meeting on Friday.
Hope you can forgive me coz
that’s not normally like me.
I add a smiley face…
Thanks again and sorry it’s taken
so long to text you.
conclude the text…
You were lovely.
Hope we can keep in touch
and you can give more awesome
top tips for my 51st challenge.
and press Send.
Week Five. Adriano’s Restaurant. Friday, 9.00 p.m.
“What’s this getting at then, Girls? Watching the entire box set of 24 in forty-eight hours was great fun last week, but this?
ENRICH THE LIVES OF THOSE YOU LOVE.
It’s obvious who the most special people in my life are. It’s just that I can’t think of ways to enrich someone’s life.” I take a sip of wine.
“You could enrich your husband’s life by learning how to use a whip like Jess supposedly can,” Bea jeers.
“God knows what Stan and Geoff talk about when we visit,” I shudder. “At least I’m never in the room when they bang on about their social life.” I smile at my joke. “No, I want to do good, in the community, perhaps? I’ll focus on people who would really benefit from my knowledge and experience,” I conclude. “If you think of anything, let me know.”
Claire is sitting to my right. She puts her mouth up close to my ear. “So, how’d the meeting with Him go?” Her question takes me by surprise and my finger goes to my mouth. Flashing her a look of annoyance, I discreetly check to see if anyone has overheard.
“M
eet Monday?” I mutter, desperate to change the subject.
“Ok, half-ten at Tea and Tranquility,” confirms Claire. “We’ll talk then.”
My gaze falls on my mobile. Why haven’t you messaged me? Should I delete you from my contacts? Perhaps it didn’t send. I scroll down to the message I sent to Him and catch my breath. It did bloody send. So why haven’t you replied? That’s so rude. I thought you liked me? For some reason, I feel quite upset.
Saturday morning.
Pippa and I are baking sultana wholemeal scones as a treat for Geoff. I’ve noticed that he’s become a bit snappy, and it’s been making me feel anxious and guilty.
“You’re full of surprises these days, Mum,” Pippa says. “Look at what you’ve achieved and what you’re achieving. You’re surprising me, and you must be surprising yourself every week. I think you’re discovering a new you – in a good way. At first, I was scared that the challenges would change you, and you wouldn’t be ‘Mum’ any more – but that hasn’t happened. Last time I spoke to Grandma, she said that you’re a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, and she’s right. You are happier than I have ever seen you, and I hope that at the end of the year you don’t go back to being how you were. You’re not unhappy and bored.”
I stop in my tracks. What she’s just said has made me feel unexpectedly emotional – so much so that I am about to boil over. I make an excuse to leave the kitchen, leg it to my safe, secure place where I can lock the door (the downstairs loo) and begin to cry. My body shakes involuntarily. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and my head throbs with the tension of silent sobbing. My pain feels so raw; it’s as if I am mourning a loved one. I dare not let anyone see or hear me like this, so I lie face down on the carpet, trying to muffle my suffering, rhythmically bashing the carpet with the palms of my hands. What is wrong with me? My emotions are all over the place. Perhaps I’m just tired.
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