Lunchtime.
My whole face and whole body are the same shade of pastel pink paint as Evie’s bedroom walls. However, that is a small price to pay, for Harmony has waxed me clean and I am fur-free. I had to cough up another fifteen pounds for an extra pot of wax so that Harmony could finish the job, but I don’t care because I feel so much better. Secretly though, I feel pathetic and hypocritical. The Go Ape challenge showed me how easily my self-confidence, self-esteem and behaviour were affected when others made me aware of my differentness. Yet, interestingly, when I was in school, being ‘different’ wasn’t an issue, and I was accepted for who I was – hair and all. I leave Harmony’s salon deep in thought about the effects and consequences of prejudice.
Later that afternoon, I quiz Bea about her time with Pippa. “Well, pet, apart from her appalling time management skills, complete inability to manage a budget, and extreme drunkenness ’cos they sneaked booze into Adriano’s and downed it in the ladies’ toilet, it went very well,” she laughs. “I’m sure she’s learned a few valuable lessons. How did your day go?”
“I learned tons,” I say. “I put up with a lot of crap. You were right when you said I’m stuck in the mould of a nineteen-fifties housewife. I’ve become a bit of a punch bag, and for some reason I selflessly work my life around my family while Geoff fits his family in around his life. Why did I let him persuade me to give up my singing group? Why must I go to bed when he says at ten-thirty? Why can he only have sex on Friday and Saturday nights? What if I felt like a midweek quickie?”
“I think you should get him tested for Asperger’s and while you’re at it, read up about Narcissistic Personality Disorder,” she replies.
“What?” I reply hotly. “It’s not that bad.”
“If you say so, pet.”
“Yes, I do,” I reply. “I know you and he don’t get on, and he has his faults. I have an ever-growing list of issues that need resolving,” I laugh, “but it’s all doable.”
“We’ll watch this space, then, pet.”
“Oh, yes,” I reply menacingly. “It’s going to be explosive.”
June
Week One. Adriano’s Restaurant. Friday, 9.00 p.m.
We are well into our quota of Pinot Grigio and delicious pasta main when I hear a familiar voice close by. I look up quickly to see who it is and choke on my drink. He is here; standing by our table and talking to Bea. I had completely forgotten about the six degrees of separation theory. How on Earth does Bea know Him?
I have a real urge to cough. I try to control it and spectacularly fail. The back of my throat is tickling. I am going to have a major coughing fit in front of Him. No, no, no – I must choke quietly. I think I’ll disappear for a minute.
Pretending to drop my fork onto the floor under the tablecloth, I slowly slither in a snake-like fashion downwards to join it. Ah, now I can cough and hide in peace. I strain to catch the conversation and hope I’m not discovered…
“Hello,” I say sheepishly as Claire’s head appears under the table.
“What are you doing down there? Get up!”
I slither back up, trying to appear calm. He is looking straight at me and smiling. “Nice to see you again.” He takes a swig of his beer, and his cornflower-blue eyes crinkle at the corners with what I interpret as genuine happiness to see me. I smile back, holding his gaze, and adrenaline courses through my body. I think the wine is causing me to experience a teenage moment.
“We must catch up properly. You were awesomely drunk at that divorce party.” He laughs and turns back to Bea.
Ohh! He’s smiled right into my eyes. We’ve definitely just shared a moment. I can feel my face reddening and check to see if any of my friends have registered what he just said. Phew. Claire’s texting, Cate’s at the bar and Bea hasn’t noticed. Anyway, I can’t speak. If I do, I will cough again.
He chats animatedly to Bea for a few minutes. His buzzing mobile interrupts their conversation, and he wanders off to take the call.
“Now, he is such a lovely man,” says Bea. “I’m desperately trying to find him a girlfriend, but it’s proving tricky.”
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can, fanning my face in an attempt to cool down.
“Look at him. He’s on the pop too much… and he’s never exactly dressed to impress the ladies, is he? He could improve on his personal hygiene routine too, although today he’s okay,” she sighs.
Well, that’s a bonus. I accidentally snog a man who wears musty clothes while lusting after a man with a possible aversion to water and washing machines. Somehow, I am going to have to get up close, check his hair and sniff him. Perhaps he smells alright? If he smells, if I can tell he’s been wearing the same clothes for days on end, if I can tell he has chip-pan greasy hair or worse, then there is no way on this Earth that I will ever entertain a snog with him. I can’t snog a manky man, and that will be the best reason ever for deleting him from my life.
During dessert, my mind wanders to what he said to me earlier. What did he mean when he said catch up with you sometime, you were awesomely drunk at the party?
I bet he’s intrigued by my obvious alcohol-induced hints that I’d like to snog him. I smile to myself. And then I remember something. Bea left the divorce party early. If only she’d been there, how different things might have been. Just my luck.
Saturday, 5.00 p.m.
The trill of my phone interrupts my train of thought while I’m typing up my challenge diary. It’s Claire’s landline number. Geoff’s voice startles me. “Why are you at Claire’s? You should be here. We’re running out of time.”
“Yes, I know.” There is a pause. “Anyway, I rang to say I’m sorry I’m late, and I’m on my way. You’ll never guess what’s happened. I’ve received an exciting email this afternoon. We’re being reorganised. I think I’m in for a promotion. If this comes off, I’ll be made.”
I register his enthusiasm and eagerness, yet I only feel apprehension and a distinct sense of foreboding. We’ve been in this position before. The word ‘reorganisation’ always means ‘trouble’.
As he rabbits on about possible future organisation structures, pay scales and colleagues who might be affected, I rummage in the Bowl of Chance and Opportunity for my challenge and make an attempt to draw the conversation to a close. I’ve had enough of it all for now, and I don’t want to even think about it until it happens. I learned that lesson the last time. “Just please try not to get too excited,” I caution. “It might not go as you imagine. Just get home. We’re going out, remember.” I hang up and close my eyes for a moment before looking down at the challenge slip sitting in my lap. It reads:
DECLUTTER YOUR LIFE.
Today is Bea’s fortieth birthday, and Geoff and I have been invited to her house to celebrate along with around eighty others. The party theme is ‘Around the World with Eighty Guests’. We have been requested to bring a dish from any country of our choice and to dress accordingly.
Geoff’s take on Mexican – complete with Sombrero and bushy, drooping moustache – is completely ridiculous but does he love his look. He struts into the kitchen, makes us all aware of his presence with a loud “Hola!” and persuades Evie to post several photos of him on Facebook.
I am a Japanese Geisha Girl, complete with ‘authentic’ wig that looks awesome but is becoming a bit of a problem. I’ve only had it on for ten minutes, and my head and the back of my neck are already itching. I can’t stop adjusting the damn thing and continually scratching my scalp.
“Hurry up!” I say irritably as I scratch. “We’re late. I promised Bea we’d be there by eight for pre-party drinks. What were you doing at Claire’s?”
“Stop itching your head, Amy. It looks as if you’ve got nits,” he says, pretending not to have heard and to be preoccupied with straightening his crooked moustache.
8.13 p.m.
I
am livid and no longer talking to Geoff, who is reclining on the sofa, supping a can of lager and engrossed in the footie. He stubbornly refuses to move until the match is over. “Fifteen minutes, Amy,” he pleads, his eyes glued to the match. “It won’t make any difference. It’s a party, we won’t be missed. SHOT.”
Be assertive, whispers my inner voice.
“Darling, it is not okay, and we will be missed,” I try to say calmly. “It’s Bea’s fortieth, a special occasion, and I am one of her best friends. I should be there to support her. Now, I appreciate…”
My good intentions rapidly disintegrate as he blatantly continues to ignore me. I begin to pace the room as fast as I am able, given my restrictive Geisha Girl costume.
Not again, I fume inwardly as I pace awkwardly. I don’t feel that you respect me or my friends and, to top it all, you are drinking when you’re supposed to be the one driving.
My laptop is lying open on the side. I make a quick note about what’s going on before shuffling back into the kitchen and asking Pippa to let Geoff know that I have gone – but only once the match is over.
As I make to leave, I happen to notice his car keys lying on the table and gently push them down the back of the radiator. “That’ll teach you,” I smirk with glee, pulling my dress up over my knees, scooping up my own car keys and making a quick exit before I am spotted.
Claire opens the front door to me. “You’re late, Ames. Awesome outfit.” She studies me more closely. “You okay? You look flushed.”
“It’s the wig, Claire. It’s like I’m wearing a hot water bottle on my head. But I’m not going to take it off. It took ages to find online. You look gorgeous too. Flick your castanets at me, you sexy Spanish Señora.”
She stamps her foot, shakes her Flamenco dress, clicks a castanet on her right hand and shouts “Olé!” A crowd of guests applaud in appreciation.
“Where’s Geoff?” Claire enquires.
“Tied to the damn footy. Who knows if we’ll see him later. I’m so bloody annoyed with him, and I don’t want to spoil Bea’s night.” I smile at her and scratch my head. “Come on. Perhaps a glass of Pinot Grigio will help cool my temper – and my head.”
A Grecian Goddess hugs us from behind. It’s Bea. She leads us into the kitchen, which is packed with her family and friends, exclaiming animatedly about the effort that everyone has made with their costumes. I can tell that Bea is already wired. She’s always entertaining (and often quite unpredictable) after a few drinks, causing me to wonder what might happen tonight.
“Hi, you.” She hugs me hard. “I take it that your lovely husband is glued to the football, like mine? He’d rather be watching the match upstairs on his own than celebrating his wife’s fortieth.” She chuckles and winks slyly. “I’m not concerned though, Ames, because I have a plan. I’m going to clear the dead wood from my life and start again. Why don’t you join me, pet? Cleanse your life of the shit you’ve accumulated – all of it.”
She drifts away, and I take a sip of my wine and rub my head. Has she just implied that I should get rid of Geoff? No, I can’t have heard right. She’s probably had far too much Prosecco and is feeling a mix of euphoria at being the centre of attention on her special day and royally pissed off with her husband.
As Claire and I head towards the living room, our attention is drawn to two A3 pieces of paper taped to the wall, headed:
Bea’s Life Cleanse.
Ideas for a new way of living without
clutter and crap.
“That’s a coincidence,” I say, scratching hard at a very irritating wig-itch. “This week, I’m to declutter my life and Bea’s just said that she is going to do the same now that she’s in her forties. Remind me to come back and read this list later, Claire. It might give me some ideas.”
10.00 p.m.
Bea appears, supported by Cate. She is so drunk that she can’t walk straight. “Amy Risshards. Come and look after this Arab Sheik for me, pleshe? He doesn’t know many people and I said that you are verrrry good at looking after people because you did so well when you looked after those poor people in the shooop kitchen, didn’t you, pet.” She pinches my left cheek affectionately. “And, he will cheer you up because your husband is such an arse and you deserve better, mush better.”
“Do I know this Arab, Bea?” I inquire, slightly put out at her insistence that I need to leave Claire, yet equally intrigued by the mystery party-goer.
“I don’t reeeemember.”
Just as Bea is about to take me to meet the mystery guest, she is whisked away to blow out the candles on her cake.
“Where is Bea’s husband?” I whisper to Claire and Cate. And where the hell is mine?
Geoff eventually turns up at ten-thirty. He finds me dancing in the lounge, puts his arm around me and kisses me on the cheek. I can smell more than one can of lager on his breath. I stop dancing and turn to him, my eyes cold and my expression fixed.
“You are rather late.”
“Sorry about that, darling. The babysitter didn’t arrive, and I came by taxi,” he explains, not quite meeting my eye.
“I think you came by taxi because you are over the limit,” I say evenly. “And who is looking after our children?”
“Stop nagging,” he barks. The kids will be fine for a few hours on their own, and I’m here now, aren’t I? Don’t go off on one. People will notice.”
I bite my finger, determined not to make a scene. It’s Bea’s party and I don’t want to cause any trouble. Before I can reply, Claire and Cate grab my arms, looking distressed. “Sorry about this, Geoff – we have a friend emergency,” smiles Claire, dragging me off.
“What’s going on?” I half-shout over the music as I try to shuffle as quickly as I can, given the restrictions of my Geisha outfit, towards the rear of the house.
“Shush,” warns Cate. We creep to Bea’s spare bedroom. It’s quieter at this end of the house and quite dark. As we inch closer, we can hear a female mumbling and a deeper male voice chuckling.
“Perhaps Bea and her husband are having words about why he’s been watching the footie upstairs,” I whisper.
“No, he’s crashed out on the bed,” whispers Claire into my ear.
The three of us crowd around the door and earwig into the conversation. “I think she’s taking off her bra,” says Cate, horrified.
Bea’s voice is clearer now, obviously being intimate with a stranger. “Do it now, before it’s too late and I am too old… I wanna feel passion… Put the va-va-voom back into my mundane life.”
Cate sneezes.
We scarper to the nearest place of safety, the downstairs loo, where we huddle together, watching in abject horror as Bea’s husband, escorted by some woman we don’t know, marches purposefully past us towards the spare bedroom, looking thunderous. We look on with bated breath as the door is thrown open and they go inside, slamming the door shut behind them.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “What has she done?”
An hour later, we find Bea’s husband alone in the spare bedroom, staring out of the window, his eyes puffy and red from crying. I hold out a glass of champagne to him, but he waves it away and turns his back to us.
“So, ladies. Were you aware that my wife had a one-night stand tonight?” he says quietly. He does not wait for our answer. “I know that we’ve not been happy for a long time and that I was upstairs earlier. I realise I take her for granted but a sordid bang in here?” He shrugs. “I can’t stay married to her now. This has changed everything. I won’t sit back and forgive her like some blokes might, even though I’ve been a complete bastard to her. You are her closest friends. Do you understand why I can’t be with her any more?”
I try to reason with him. “This must have happened because she’s unhappy for some reason. You’ve admitted that you take her for granted. Perhaps if you tried to make amends, you could get back to how you
were?”
“That’s impossible,” he replies in a cold, clipped tone. “We married before God. Beatrice has broken the commandment Thou shalt not commit adultery, and now, whatever I feel about myself and us and what we have become, whatever I did wrong – and, believe me, I have made many mistakes – my faith will not allow me to let this one go. Claire, you will understand where I’m coming from.”
He moves towards the door. “Perhaps it’s for the best, anyway. Perhaps it was inevitable. Excuse me.”
11.30 p.m.
Bea is ready to make an impassioned speech. She stands on a kitchen chair, her eyes glittering dangerously, her husband by her side. It is obvious to everyone that all is not well. A hush falls over the crowd as she raises a bottle of champagne to her lips and takes a glug.
“It’s my fortieth year and high time I sorted out what I want from life, because I’m halfway through. So, I decided that my birthday present to myself would be to declutter my life.” She smiles and takes another drink. “I don’t do gossip, and I don’t like rumour, and so we,” she motions to her husband, “have decided that I will tell you,” she motions to us, “my dearest family and friends, how I am going to clear the crap, the excess and the un-nec-ess-ary from my life.”
The room is in deathly silence.
“Firstly, I want to raise a toast to my husband. I want to thank you for giving me twelve years of marriage, one fantastic child and years of total shit.”
51 Weeks Page 14