I wait for the storm to abate, splash my face with cold water and return to the kitchen to take the scones out of the oven. The timer is bleeping.
Home baking does the trick, and over lunch Geoff’s mood improves dramatically. However, when I try to engage him in conversation about my challenge, he becomes very obviously uninterested. “Hmmm… interesting,” I remark to him as I Google the meaning of ‘Enrich’. “Who’d benefit from my help? I need to find people who will gain something from my knowledge and experience.”
“Why not give it a rest this week, Amy, eh? It was nice to see you back in the kitchen earlier. It’s time to test a scone or two,” Geoff salivates. “I trust they are packed with fruit?” He pats me on the behind and goes to find some jam.
“Thanks, darling,” I mutter, mildly irritated.
Monday, 10.30 a.m.
Claire and I sit down to chat. She can hardly contain her excitement. “Well?” she says, “What happened when you met? Is he out of your system?”
I sip my coffee and reflect on that meeting in the café; how I felt, how time flew, how lovely he was and how I treated him at the end. I remember word for word the text I sent apologising for my rudeness and the coded message willing him to stay in touch.
I tell Claire everything. I don’t hold back this time. I need to talk, and I trust her. “I feel as if something has been unlocked deep inside of me, Claire,” I say sadly. “I want to forget Him, believe me, I desperately want to move on – but I can’t yet. Meeting him made things worse, if anything,” I admit.
She nods and waits for me to continue.
“Nothing has changed, nothing at all. I am in lust with a young scruff-bag whom I don’t know. It’s mental. But I don’t want to be in lust. Can you understand that? It’s affecting my safe, predictable world, and it’s mentally exhausting. My mad challenges are giving me quite enough to think about without added complications – in a good way,” I smile broadly.
On the outside, I portray a vision of calm. Yet on the inside, I’m a wreck. My heart is racing and my stomach is clenched. I sit on my hands to stop myself from chewing on my finger. “I am in pain and ecstasy at the same time, Claire. I think about him too much, and every time I do, I feel full of purpose, energetic and alive. I love it. There’s a part of me that wants to hug him and thank him ’cos in spite of everything, all this damn pain and angst, I feel wonderful.”
Claire’s eyes are very bright. She looks close to tears.
“There is something about him,” I say almost inaudibly. “There is something about this man that I have connected with – but I have to disconnect from him.” I look at her evenly. “So, I have decided that to put an end to this pointless lusting, if I can discover something I really dislike about him, hopefully something that I really hate, this something will make me see sense and realise that I’ve been premenopausal and pathetic and that my life is good as it is.”
Claire reaches for my hand and squeezes it. Her voice wavers with emotion. I really feel as if she understands, but how could she? “Give it time, Amy. One way or another, something will happen. Everything happens for a reason, – it’s part of God’s plan. We may not understand today or tomorrow, but eventually, The Lord reveals why we go through everything we do. I will pray for a sign.”
“I bloody pray your God gives a sign soon,” I laugh.
Noon
“Have you a minute, madam?”
I’ve been accosted by a woman in the street representing Elderly Cumbria. She hands me a leaflet advertising training on social media and informs me of the social, emotional and cognitive benefits for the elderly. I listen intently.
6.00 p.m.
The plan is to be away visiting Grandma in her Manchester care home until Thursday afternoon.
“Why on Earth, Amy?” declares Geoff indignantly. “You see her once a year, don’t you? Your place is here. This house has been in chaos recently.”
“There is something important I need to do,” I reply. “It’s my challenge, and it’ll be good for you to cook for the children for a change.”
“I am not being drawn into that conversation, Amy. I was kind enough to agree to spawn children. They’ll eat when they’re hungry. When I was a child, I was expected to feed myself, and I turned out alright. I have better things to do than spend all my time running around and mollycoddling them like you do.” I let him rant and rave and use his Pointy Finger.
“Well, I need to do this, Geoff. You’ll be fine. Claire said she’d help out, and it’s only for a few days.”
I cross my fingers behind my back and smile sweetly. Inside, I am seething at his lack of understanding and compassion. And what was that he said about our children?
I run upstairs to pack.
Tuesday, 9.00 a.m.
The fridge is full of microwaveable ready meals, and guilt has persuaded me to bake a crumble for Geoff. I leave the children fifty pounds for ‘feeding emergencies’ and go to the train station.
That afternoon, over tea and cake, I ask Grandma and her friends what they get up to during their day.
“Well, bubelah, we watch television, we eat, we sleep and on Mondays the hairdresser comes,” replies Grandma.
“A nice young couple sing every Wednesday afternoon, and there’s bingo on Tuesdays,” interjects Grandma’s friend.
“Do you see your friends and family often?” I ask.
The group falls silent.
“Amy, don’t drive me meshuganah,” says Grandma. “You know full well that we don’t see anyone as often as we’d like. We can’t walk, let alone drive or catch the bus – and as for shopping, I can only dream about getting to Bromley’s these days. We rely on others for most things now,” she smiles. “At least we’ve got satellite TV, though. All those marvellous channels.”
The senior staff confirm that there is adequate internet access and broadband. My idea won’t work if they haven’t. I carefully explain my plan to them.
Wednesday.
Five third-age-appropriate PCs have been located, and we’re good to go. I’m delighted that the staff in charge have agreed to designate a corner of the dining room as the care home’s very own ‘internet café’. All residents are informed of the improvements to their environment and the associated benefits. Everyone has been invited to participate in taster sessions for getting started on the internet. I can’t wait for them to join Facebook and dabble in some internet shopping.
I spend the afternoon teaching Grandma and her friends how to make the most of Skype. It takes hours and is one of the most frustrating and rewarding challenges that I’ve undertaken. However, the look of pure joy on their faces when they finally get the hang of it and see their loved ones live on the screen brings a lump to my throat. Grandma stares and stares at the image of Pippa waving to her. She puts her face really close to the screen – so close that her nose is touching it – and taps the image. “Is this real?” she says, stunned.
I feel very emotional.
Thursday.
Twenty-five care home residents are merrily surfing the net, Skyping and chatting on Facebook. There is such demand that the staff have had to enforce a strict rota. I’ve been assured that they will continue to coach new residents and will keep me informed if they are ever in need of further assistance. They thank me for my kindness. I thank them for being so open-minded. “It’s no problem at all,” I say. I’m so glad that I was given this challenge and that I finally understand what it means. I am proud and thankful that I have been able to enrich their lives.
I go to say goodbye to Grandma. It’s time for me to leave this challenge behind and revert to normal life. I find her dozing in the Day Room. I’m sure she’s lost weight since the last time I saw her. Terrible sadness engulfs me. I have a strong premonition that time is running out for her. I stand by her side, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest as she slee
ps, wanting to capture this moment for ever. The clock chimes. “Bye, Grandma,” I whisper lovingly and kiss her on her forehead. She doesn’t stir, but I think I see a faint smile play across her lips as I turn away.
I reach the door, hear a cough and turn to see her shoulders shaking as she laughs silently, her brown Paddington Bear eyes twinkling. “Give me one of those Sky calls when you get home.”
8.00 p.m.
Geoff is so relieved to see me that he hands me a bottle of Pinot Grigio on his way out to the pub. I accept it dispassionately. It doesn’t feel like a gift of love or appreciation, and I feel extremely sad. Pippa and Evie squawk with delight that I’m home. “So, how was it without me? Did you cope? Dad hasn’t really said. I’ve only seen him briefly.”
“We lived off whatever you left in the fridge, and Dad forgot to collect me from school one night,” Pippa laughs. “And he tried to force us to eat some soggy mixed veg stuff that he attempted to make in the wok. It was full of courgettes, mushrooms and peppers – gross. He’s lived with me all my life and he still doesn’t know what I like and don’t like.”
“Perhaps he’ll appreciate me more now, then,” I respond flippantly.
Evie eyes me critically. “He moaned a lot, so maybe. It was so cool what you did for Grandma and her friends,” Pippa smiles. “I’m happy you’re home though. We need you here.”
I feel so choked up with love for her, I’m speechless. I hug her hard and go to write up my learning on my laptop.
May
Week One. Friday lunchtime.
HAVE A SECRET SNOG WITH
SOMEONE YOU LIKE.
Bea and I meet in town to discuss my latest challenge dilemma. “Another ‘bad things’ challenge that Geoff will relish and that you think is just plain wrong?” Her acerbic tone cuts me to the quick.
“Well,” I reply tentatively. “Isn’t having a teenage-style snog with someone I find attractive defined as cheating and the first step on the slippery slope to marital misery?” I chew on my finger in silence.
Bea snorts derisively.
“But,” I continue at speed, “I keep telling myself that it’s only a snog and it doesn’t say anything about using tongues or anything, so perhaps I can get away with a quick peck on the lips – or cheek, even?”
“You’re over-analysing it, pet. Sometimes, you’re exasperating,” Bea replies good-naturedly. “All you have to do is find a nice guy or girl and give them a kiss. It’s no big deal. The worst that can happen is that you catch herpes or turn bi – ha. Anyway, your husband gave you permission to play away at the Mon-Keys’ house. This is nothing in comparison.”
We discuss my options: go to a dodgy nightclub, get drunk and flirt unashamedly with strangers in a pub, pick somebody up from a dating website, throw a party or go to a party where I don’t know many of the guests. We take a vote and make a decision.
8.00 p.m.
Bea has taken control of the situation and persuaded one of her friends from out of town to invite us to her ‘celebration of divorce’ party that weekend.
8.30 p.m.
I receive a text from Him:
How are the challenges going?
I’m going to a Divorce Party
tomorrow night.
That’ll be a challenge ;)
Are we going to the same party?
Really?
I’m going to one of them too.
The reply comes instantly:
Are you going with anyone?
Woah, I think. He’s coming on to me.
I force myself to put my phone away without replying. It’s absolutely possible that we’re going to the same party. How about a snog with Him?
Saturday, 7.00 p.m.
I’m sitting on my bed, surrounded by my entire wardrobe. Clothes, shoes and bags litter the room. After spending two frustrating hours on trying to create the ‘right look’ for tonight, I’m exhausted, and I don’t know if I can be bothered to go. Geoff’s lifting weights in the bathroom. “Another pointless challenge you’re rushing off to do? I hope you’re going to clear that lot up before you go, dear, or it’s going to charity,” he shouts across to me.
“We really do need to address your ataxophobia, darling.” I yell after him. “And they are not pointless. I’m learning loads, thank you.”
He doesn’t even know what this challenge is, I hiss under my breath. Bet you’ll give me a medal when I do it though. I bloody am going to do it – and damn well enjoy it.
In desperation, I call Becca. She’s a fashionista and will know what I should wear. We agree that, given the parameters of the challenge, I should aim to select items that will ensure I am only ‘available’ from the neck up.
7.30 p.m.
Dressed in leggings, a long-sleeved top and a leather jacket, I feel comfortable yet dowdy. However, once I add my prized eighty-five-pounds-in-the-sale silver sparkly wedges, I feel so much better. And teemed with matching tote (slightly more than eighty-five pounds and not in the sale) as possible use in self-defence should I need it, I am ready for anything.
The party is in full flow when I arrive. I’m greeted by the hostess, whom I don’t know, and push flowers and a bottle of Cava into her hands to atone for crashing her party. Thankfully, I am spotted by Bea and swept away for a much-appreciated glass of fizz. I spend the next hour drinking, dancing and chatting about girly stuff. I don’t mention anything about getting my teenage snog. That would be lethal.
10.00 p.m.
Still no sign of Him. I wander upstairs, wondering what I can possibly do to engineer my challenge secret snog. I’ve decided it just has to be with Him if he is here. He fits the challenge criteria, and this is the golden opportunity I’ve been waiting for to get him out of my system. One snog, and then I will be free of lust and free of another challenge.
I’m blindly picking my way past the hordes of party-goers littering the dim hallway when I do a double-take. That’s Him, going into one of the rooms on my right. My pace quickens. I can do it now – in privacy. Then, afterwards, I can explain and he’ll understand and we’ll both laugh and feel okay about it all. Brilliant.
In my haste to catch up with Him, I stumble over someone’s leg, lose my balance and fall into the room. A hand from inside steadies my fall. His hand. Oh my God. I couldn’t have planned this better. This is it. I’m going to have my secret snog right now. Weak with anticipation and befuddled with alcohol, I close my eyes and prepare to lose myself in the moment. All these weeks spent daydreaming are about to become my reality. I can’t wait to breathe in the yummy smell of Him.
Something is not quite right. As he pulls me closer, I get a faint whiff of what can only be described as mustiness. You know, as if somebody has washed their clothes, not dried them properly and put them away in a drawer. I sniff again and feel slightly nauseous. My face brushes against his jumper. This is definitely unpleasant. Perhaps if I can get to smell his face, it will be better. Oh yes, I am sure it will be better, He is so gorgeous.
I try to focus and get back in the zone. He is holding my hands… I can feel his breath on my face… closer… closer… and then it happens; my passionate teenage snog. Only it isn’t passionate at all.
He suckers his lips onto mine like a squid and stays there, motionless. I don’t quite know what to do. He does not move, I do not move. I try to move my face slightly to the left. His face moves with me, his mouth still firmly attached in the sucker position. Then, without warning, the vacuum is released and he begins to whisper a completely incomprehensible string of gibberish into my right ear.
This is bizarre. I strain to understand what he is saying. Is it in a foreign language? Before I have a chance to put my translation hat on, I feel a strange wet feeling. Shit. He is licking my ear. His entire tongue is… this is gross… it is moving all around… and inside… and round the back… lick, lick, lick. God, if he m
ews like a cat in a minute, I am going to scream. I can’t bear it. I sense that there is dribble on my neck.
That’s it, game over. I so need to get out of here. Feigning a coughing fit, I convincingly splutter that I need a drink, feel my way to the door and run.
I bump into Claire at the top of the stairs, grab the drink from her hand and down it in one. She looks at me in awe – I never do that – oh, and I ask her if she can sniff me to check if I smell alright.
“Hon?” she enquires sympathetically.
“Sniff me here.” I point to my neck. “What can you smell?”
“What do you mean?” she laughs.
“Do I smell, well, musty?”
“What?”
“Never mind,” I smile wateringly, turning to go downstairs. Actually, I am not ok, but I can’t tell her that.
Perhaps that is it, then. At least I can tick that bad thing off the list now. I should be pleased, but I am not pleased at all.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn to go back into the lounge. Then I stop and stare. He is in there, chatting to a group of people. He is not upstairs. Has he been upstairs, then? Did I miss him coming downstairs? Did I?
The wine has completely gone to my head and I feel confused and fuzzy. I sidle up to the group, who are deep in conversation, and gently pull one of the girls (whom I vaguely recognise from the school gate crowd) to one side. I whisper urgently in her ear. “Have you all been here for long?”
“Ages.”
“Nobody’s moved away or gone upstairs?”
“No.”
“None of you?”
“What?”
“Can you smell a musty smell around here?”
51 Weeks Page 11