“You’re odd.”
Who have I snogged? Musty Man is not Him. Where is this ear-licking man I’ve wasted my teenage snog on? I have to know.
I spy Cate across the room and sprint over to where she is standing. “Come with me,” I say. “We need a Girls’ pow-wow, right now.”
We congregate in the hall, and I briefly explain what has happened.
“Are you sure it was a man?” asks Bea, giving me ‘the eye’.
“It was definitely a man,” I reply firmly.
The hunt for Musty Man is on. We split up into pairs and discreetly sniff as many male guests as we can. Reconvening in the kitchen ten minutes later, we are none the wiser. I am determined to find out who he is. Maybe not tonight – but I will.
10.30 p.m.
It’s karaoke time, and the hostess is subjecting us to a delightfully awful rendition of Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. Claire has taken Bea home early, as she has a headache.
I sit on the stairs, slugging down glass after glass of rum punch and obsessing about how I can achieve the right teenage snog with Him before I leave this party.
Bolstered by alcohol, I make a decision to go for it and coolly saunter across to say hello. As he catches sight of me heading towards him, he breaks into a broad grin and waves. He smiles into my eyes and says he appreciated my text.
Ooh, I think. He really is pleased to see me. He is being so friendly.
This is my first opportunity to really examine Him up close. He is as scruffy as ever, dressed in a faded plain brown hoodie and grubby jeans. I note the tattoo. He really is not my type at all, and he stinks of whisky.
Why do I want to even do this? I wonder. What is my fascination with Him?
And then I begin to talk. I tell him at length and in great detail about the challenges that I have faced. I cannot stop talking. I think that I am talking complete crap, but he is listening attentively and asking lots of questions, and he is laughing – which is good. Perhaps he is just being kind. He is very kind.
Midnight
I am still talking at Him.
I notice the time. I need to go home. Even though my inhibitions are very much lowered, I can’t bring myself to ask him for a snog. It’s not going to happen. I prepare to say goodbye.
“Amy?” he interrupts me. “Before you go, tell me something. How do you feel about this teenage secret snog challenge?”
The words tumble out of my mouth.
“You know,” I say in earnest. “I am married with lovely children. I’d never do anything to hurt my family, but I have always been so damn sensible and this year, I don’t want to be. I’m realising that the husband I married is a bit of an arse, and I’m frustrated with what my life has become. This year is about having harmless fun and exploring myself.”
I catch my breath and carry on.
“Last year, the mere thought of snogging a stranger – let alone somebody I fancy – is something that I would never, ever have dreamed of doing in a million years – being married and all that. Yet, for some reason, this snog challenge was specifically chosen for me, and it’s my duty to carry it out as best I can. And do you know something? When I first read it, well, I was so scared and at the same time desperately excited to legitimately be able to um… have a go? And, well, I am so pissed off with my husband. He never calls me gorgeous… So how about a snog, then?” I shut up.
He gawks at me and is about to say something when Cate bundles me outside to our waiting taxi.
Monday, 9.00 a.m.
Thinking about what happened on Saturday night brings me out in cold sweats. On the way to work, I take appropriate action. In the car, I select Crush from my MP3 player on repeat and whack up the volume. Driving off at speed, I sing all the pain, guilt and longing out of my system. Of course, I alter the lyrics – an old habit of mine. It makes the track so much more meaningful and personal to me.
It’s just a phase, a snog, a kiss,
It’s crazy, God I can’t resist,
D’you see me? Let’s go get it on,
Heyyy.
I’m diseased. What’s up with me?
Need this snog, Him. Can’t you see?
Just a quick moment, Him, heyyyy.
Just one time, behind the door.
Come on now, please, that’s the score.
No strings, commitments oh, hey.
No ties, no lies,
A challenge filled with butterflies.
Let’s go. Just one old snog – for me… (oh, please!)
By the time I get to work, my voice is hoarse and my cheeks are streaked with tears. But I do feel better.
Week Two. Friday, 7.45 a.m.
Geoff reads out my challenge between mouthfuls of muesli:
GO APE! ALLOW YOUR BODILY HAIR TO
GROW AND EMBRACE YOUR NATURAL
BEAUTY. THIS CHALLENGE MUST BE
UPHELD FOR ONE MONTH.
“One month?” I complain, bemused.
“Well, we have to see your ’tash in all its glory. Can’t wait to parade you around town. Hand your shaving stuff over, wifey.”
The full horror of the challenge sinks in. Bloody hell – it includes facial hair. This is too much. I can cope with hairy legs and armpits; you can hide them. However, a hairy face is not a good look unless you are male or a furry animal. Hairy faces are visible and ridiculed. Even Cate carefully monitors the length of a single hair growing from a mole on her chin and plucks it out the minute she feels it. It’s just not done. But what can I do? I dutifully hand all razors, bleach, tweezers and lady-shave to Pippa for ‘safekeeping’.
Monday, 7.00 a.m.
I examine my legs, arms and armpits for evidence of hair. Yes, it’s sprouting nicely. After a shower, I carefully sniff my armpits for the slightest whiff of body-odour. All okay so far.
Tuesday.
Over a work lunch date with Hairy Nina, I bring up the subject of facial hair in the hope that she can give me some top tips. Nina is a revelation. She informs me that she hasn’t removed any bodily hair for two years and that it has definitely changed her life for the better. “In some cultures, body hair is considered a beauty essential,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “It displays confidence and self-assuredness in oneself. My partner loves me, ergo he loves my hair – wherever it may grow. He says that going au naturel is sexy and makes me unique.”
“Don’t you get teased?” I ask. “And what about when you’re at the swimming pool?”
“If you are secure in your womanhood, you won’t care what narrow-minded people think. I refuse to remove my hair because some small-minded bigots decided that it is the right thing for women to do. What gives anybody the right to tell anybody else how they should look? People like me for who I am. It’s their problem if they can’t see through the hair and respect and admire the person beneath.”
“Not sure my husband will find my newly grown mono-brow and moustache sexy, Nina. I don’t have your self-confidence. I like to fit in. Perhaps this challenge is directly related to my insecurities about conforming?”
“Possibly. However, from what you say, it might be trying to tell you something about your husband and his, um, influence over you… perhaps.”
Wednesday.
I’ve been feeling unconfident all day, made all the worse because I totally forgot that I was due a facial hair wax tomorrow and I’m sure that the dreaded hairs are enjoying a growth spurt. I lie out in the garden under an overcast sky and hope the sun bleaches them – even a tiny bit would be helpful.
6.00 p.m.
The house is empty so I treat myself to a quick cup of coffee before I start on the evening meal and properly consider the Mystery of Musty Man. I am seething. “That bloody man stole my secret teenage snog. I am going to find out who he is and give him a piece of my mind. He will feel remorse,” I say tersely, scrunching scrap pape
r into a ball. “That kiss was supposed to be special, unique, and now it has gone. It has been ticked off the list. It is done.”
I pace the kitchen in frustration. That snog was meant to be with Him. I was going to use it to put my lust interest to bed. I smile at the double entendre. It was supposed to be the event where I would find out that he was smelly or the snogger from hell.
I kick the fridge in annoyance. I was so drunk that I can’t remember what I talked to Him about, what he was wearing, what he was drinking, if he was smoking and if he smelt alright or not. I might have found something that I hated then but I can’t remember anything except that I talked at Him. I shudder. Oh God, I talked at Him and I… I…
There is one thing that I distinctly remember. I admitted that I wanted a secret snog with him. I’m definitely going to have to find something to dislike about him so that I can get over him – and fast.
Week Three. Sunday.
Nina kindly emails me a link to an article portraying a gorgeous eighteen-year-old, arms raised above her head, proudly displaying her dark, ape-like armpits in all their glory. Her message reads: Hope you find this picture inspirational.
Nope.
I sneak out of the house. It’s time to:
DO SOMETHING ILLEGAL.
I drive to the large roundabout at the edge of town, check there’s no traffic about, say a silent prayer and slowly drive round it the wrong way. Then, I put my foot to the floor and fly down the dual carriageway as fast as I dare.
Unscathed and relieved the challenge is over, I quietly let myself back into the house, trip over Pippa’s ‘strategically’ placed boots and jar my back. Doubled over with pain, I hobble into bed, cursing her.
Monday.
The reward of excruciating lower back pain after last night’s escapade has given me the best excuse ever to sign off sick from work, become a recluse and by chance, turn into an avid watcher of the shopping channel Simple Pleasures. In fact, in just two hours I am named live on air as their number one online shopper! So much for saving money – I am spending it in fistfuls and enjoying every minute of it. “Well,” I tell Evie, as I commit to purchasing another hundred quid’s worth of designer cosmetics. “It can always go back.” (As if…)
I daren’t look at myself for longer than absolutely necessary in case I freak out. Geoff finds the whole situation highly amusing, remarking that he quite likes the fact that I’m beginning to look ‘unacceptable’ and ‘unappealing’ and constantly reminding me that I have to go to work next Monday. Every time I recall a remark he made to Bob last night about me having a great ‘cock-tickler’, I wince. What can I do to disguise it?
The news is on. There is a heated discussion in progress between politicians about air pollution in East Asia. It spurs me into action. I know what to do. I will pretend that I have a horrendously bad cold and cover my nose and mouth with a mask. I search through the children’s dressing-up box for their doctors-and-nurses set and I pull out a green surgeon’s face mask. It’s a bit crumpled, but it will do.
I go to bed feeling slightly better.
Week Four. Monday, 8.00 a.m.
Pippa is manically searching for school books, shoes, and her PE kit while Geoff meticulously polishes his shoes. My eyes dart to the clock. She has seven minutes before she misses the bus again.
You’re never going to make it, I think, resignedly, unlocking the car.
“Can you drive me?” she calls, flinging muddy trainers into a plastic carrier bag.
“Will you take her for once, Geoff? I need to get to work early.”
“Mum?” implores Pippa, flouncing into the kitchen and forcing text books into her school bag.
Evie is by my side, looking smug. “It’s Monday, Mum. Read your challenge. She jumps up and down with glee. “It’s so cool.”
“I will, after…” I notice that Geoff has disappeared.
“After I’ve run madam to the bus stop,” I bark, stuffing the paper slip into my pocket. “and take that yellow hoodie off, Evie – where’s your proper school jumper? WILL YOU GET IN? IT’S OPEN!” I bellow to Pippa. “We’ve had this behaviour too many times this year, and I am at the end of my tether. If I have to drive you all the way to school again, I will ban all screen action for the week. Do you hear me?”
She saunters past and blithely asks if my face is feeling warmer thanks to the extra layer of hair. I bite my lip and start the engine, trying hard not to lose it.
Fortunately, we arrive at the bus stop on time. We sit in silence. I am stewing over her behaviour and Geoff’s lack of empathy. I break the silence first. “Well?” I begin.
“Well what?”
“Haven’t you anything to say to me?”
“Not really,” she retorts.
I am about to go into meltdown when I happen to take the challenge from my jeans pocket. I read it and my temper miraculously subsides. “Listen to this,” I smirk. “My challenge is for us to:
HAVE A FREAKY FRIDAY.”
Pippa looks nonplussed. “What’s that, then?”
“You’ll find out tonight,” is my parting shot as I metaphorically kick her out of the car.
9.15 a.m.
I sneak into my office and fire off an all-staff email:
Due to the unfortunate fact that I’m full of cold, I have cancelled all my meetings for the next few days. I really don’t want to contaminate any of you, so I will work quietly in my office. If you wish to communicate with me, please ring or email. I will let you know when I am better.
I stick a copy onto my office door – just in case. Then I tie my face mask and wait.
11.30 a.m.
Oh, this is going so well. I have managed to successfully avoid all my colleagues and Nina has kept me informed of any gossip. I celebrate with a cheese scone.
11.34 a.m.
A ‘high importance’ email pings into my inbox. I read it with horror. I have completely forgotten that the CEO is coming to our office this afternoon to present me with an award for the two-and-a-half grand I raised for the organisation’s nominated charity last year. I feel faint and grip the table. How am I going to deal with this one?
I read the attachment detailing the itinerary kindly sent from our PR department three times.
14:00 Josh Cummings CEO to meet Amy Richards in the Boardroom. All staff to be present.
14:15 Presentation of cheque to Charity Fundraising Director by Amy Richards and official photos.
Photo selection for Intranet Newsletter and External PR.
There is absolutely no way I can get out of this situation without getting myself into a lot of trouble.
To try and calm myself, I stare doggedly at images of cats on my mobile. Do I wear the mask? Should I do a runner? Can I survive this with my hand clamped across my mouth? Do I – dare I – show my face?
2.00 p.m.
I am summoned to the boardroom. Everyone is there waiting for the presentation to begin. I am brave and face the music, welcoming everyone with a bright hello. The room falls silent. Everybody stares.
Steve the trainee breaks the silence. “Cold gone?”
“Much better, thanks. Stay away, though. I’m still infectious,” I mutter.
Fortunately, the photographer rushes in to prepare me for the photos. She takes me to one side and hands me a tissue. “Wipe your top lip, dear. Have you been drinking hot chocolate?”
Oh, my Lord. How can I admit that it will not ever wipe off? I decide that the only way to go is to tell a white lie. “Regrettably,” I reply sadly, “my hirsutism is a temporary side-effect of my medication.” I laugh nervously and stroke my top lip gently.
“Still, your husband and children will be proud when they see you in Friday’s Advertiser. It’s a special colour edition, too.”
Proud? Colour edition? It’s been bad enough coping with Geoff’s constant
teasing, but it’s everyone else’s reaction that bothers me. What if my newly acquired caterpillar is seen by Him?
I turn to the photographer. “I can’t be in the paper,” I say calmly, “because.”
She touches my arm sympathetically. “Hey, there’s no need to be embarrassed. We can photo-shop the pictures, then nobody need know. Remind me afterwards to tell you about laser treatment. It worked wonders for my mother’s self-confidence when she went through the menopause and sprouted hair in odd places. She used to say that her hairiness was due to medication too.”
2.45 p.m.
I have persuaded my boss that due to my unfortunate physical condition (the side effects of my medication), I am psychologically fragile. He has agreed that I may work from home for the rest of the week. Result.
Head Teacher’s Office. 3.30 p.m.
For Freaky Friday to succeed, school has to be on board. I’m not prepared to admit failure a second time. I already feel bad enough about bottling out of the colonic irrigation challenge. It’s on my list of ‘things to resolve before December’.
“So, Mr Cope, the plan is for my daughter and me to swap places for twenty-four hours. I will be her and she will become me, and we will experience each other’s worlds,” I enthuse. “She’s old enough to be exposed to the stresses, challenges and joys of adulthood and parenthood. I think it’ll be good for her, don’t you agree?”
Mr Cope nods. Sales pitch over, I wait.
4.00 p.m.
He has been persuaded! Freaky Friday will become ‘Wacky Wednesday’.
I track down a copy of the film (1976) and download it. I’ve seen the one from 2003. However, in my humble opinion, it’s not a patch on the original.
51 Weeks Page 12