51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  We laugh uncomfortably. Nobody quite knows where to look. Bea raises her arms, oozing confidence and speaks with conviction. “I am decluttering my life of my husband. Tonight, I had a fling. Tonight, I purposely broke my marriage vows, and I’m no longer going to be a wife. My husband has set me free. As of tonight, I am going to be a free Bea.” She laughs at her joke for a minute. Then her mood darkens.

  “My fling tonight was the best birthday present ever. I have hurt my husband, for which I am truly sorry, but there is a lot of stuff that he has done to me.” She turns to him, and her tone becomes brittle. “Your faith didn’t stop you from doing stuff that perhaps led me to…” She stops abruptly and takes another gulp from the bottle. “Anyway, as of tonight, I am Bea… free… me… cheers.” She raises her glass.

  Nobody moves.

  “Come on. It’s my birthday and I’m forty. Turn the music up and dance.”

  What more can we do? It’s her party. We dance.

  Before Geoff and I leave, I remember to read the suggestions Bea’s guests have made to help her declutter her life. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice an Arab Sheik kissing Bea goodbye in the hallway. Bea waves me over to say hello.

  “Ameeeee, pet,” she slurs. “This is the Arab I wanted to introduce you to earlier.” She turns to the Sheik. “Have you met my dearest friend?”

  I turn to find myself looking into cornflower-blue eyes. I blink hard. I know those eyes. Where have I seen them? And then it hits me. It is Him. They are his eyes, the eyes of Him.

  I bet I could have grabbed a secret snog if I’d only met him earlier tonight, I shout inwardly. I could have decluttered my life of him had I known he was here, right under my nose. Why didn’t I interpret ‘declutter your life’ to mean ‘rid yourself of toxic people in your life’, like it says on the flipchart list over there? I scream at myself. I could have devoted this week to changing his status from lust interest to critical friend and book guru. I could have worked on finding lots of habits and personality traits I dislike about him. I could have moved on. Why have I been so blind? That’s yet another wasted opportunity to wash that man out of my hair, I screech.

  He, of course, has absolutely no idea what I am thinking. In my head, I’m shouting and screaming and tearing my hair out, but outwardly, I am the epitome of ‘cool’ – and furiously tearing at my scalp.

  “Konnichiwa, Amy. Kanpai.” He raises his glass of whisky in a toast and takes a gulp.

  “Sorry?”

  “That’s ‘hello’ and ‘cheers’ in Japanese. Nice wig. Bit hot, under there is it?” He laughs as I scratch.

  “Um, yes,” I reply, still rattled at meeting him like this. “But it makes the outfit, so I’m braving it.”

  “Started writing?”

  Hey, he remembers. That’s impressive. Most men I know wouldn’t remember stuff like that from one day to the next.

  I smile. I am on safe ground, talking about my year and my writing. My nerves evaporate. “Everything’s going really well, thanks. Should I really start thinking about the fifty-first challenge so early? I thought I might wait a bit.”

  “It’s never too early to start thinking about it,” he replies. “Is there a plot? Do you have a story arc? Who is your protagonist? That’s if your chosen genre’s fiction, of course.”

  My mouth gapes. I’m completely flummoxed. I don’t have a clue what he’s going on about. I itch my scalp again. I think it’s bleeding. All I can muster is an “I don’t know,” as I catch a glimpse of his muscular arms and my lustometer rises from lukewarm to steaming.

  “Well, you told me all about it at the divorce party, so I reckon you’re sitting on a lot of choice material already. Shame you’re leaving now. Text me when you’re ready. Don’t leave it too long though, eh?” He winks.

  “Actually, I have loads of questions for you,” I stutter.

  He’s standing so close to me that I can smell the whisky on his breath. This could be my chance to steal my snog and have done with it. Geoff is nowhere to be seen. My brain is whirring. I feel a tugging on my sleeve.

  “Taxi’s here.”

  I come to with a start. “Oh. Bob? Thanks a lot for delaying Geoff at yours this afternoon.”

  Bob looks confused. “I was here, helping Bea this afternoon. Claire did mention that Geoff dropped by. He’s left his jacket at ours, by the way. Bye.”

  Geoff appears, looking fed-up. “Come on, I’m tired. I thought you wanted to get back, as the kids are on their own?” he grumps, ignoring Him. “And I think that after her performance tonight, you should declutter Bea from our lives.” He takes my arm and pulls me away to find our taxi.

  Sunday.

  Bea and I are sitting at her kitchen table, dunking chocolate biscuits into mugs of steaming hot tea and candidly discussing her future. She is philosophical about the whole event. “We are where we are, pet. Last night I plucked up the courage to publicly announce that my marriage was a bad habit and that it was time to break the habit and deal with the shitty stuff. At long last, we are putting the wrongs right. No more stress and no more pretending.” She hands me the two sheets of A3 paper from her party. “Cate told me about this week’s challenge. Here, you take them. I don’t need them. I am decluttering my own life by renouncing wifedom and embracing singledom. I’m going to enjoy being me again.”

  My eyes fill with tears. “You were together a long time. Don’t you regret that it’s over?”

  “Don’t feel sad for me, pet. Life’s a learning experience. I live with many regrets, but they are part of my game of life. Every little thing we do – every choice and decision – can cause unpredictable effects elsewhere. It’s called the Butterfly Effect. When you chose to examine your life, you became that butterfly. You flapped your wings, and I’m absolutely sure you’re learning a great deal more than you could ever have imagined you would.

  “It’s what we do with what we learn that makes us who we are, Amy. Too many people make choices and decisions that in time don’t work any more, but although they whinge and complain or suffer in silence, they don’t do anything to improve their lot. Why? Are they too frightened? Perhaps it’s the fear of the unknown, or they’re too concerned with what others will think… eh, pet?” She sips her tea.

  I’m unnerved. I think she’s trying to tell me something, yet I’m too scared to broach the subject. I don’t want to hear what she might say.

  “I have changed,” Bea says, studying her graduation photo closely. “I met my husband just before this was taken. We’d taken our Finals. We got jobs, earned enough money to rent a flat together, and the pressures of life that are with me now weren’t there. I’m sure you remember what you were like when you first met Geoff? We were carefree. I knew that Christianity was important to him, but religion never came between us then.

  “Around two years into our marriage, our gorgeous daughter came along and we became a proper family. When she turned two, his career went through a difficult patch and he was forced to live away a lot – freelancing in the Midlands – so he joined the local church for companionship. He ended up being away from us for most of the week, every week, and I had to become more resilient.

  “For ten long, hard years, I cared for our daughter without much support, while he focused exclusively on building his career. My beautiful girl and I bonded and became very tight-knit. My husband wasn’t ever too bothered about our lives, really. He was preoccupied with his own. As long as when he was home, the house was tidy and welcoming and he could relax, see his mates, be looked after and have sex with me, he was happy. She and I didn’t mind, though. We knew he had to go away again, and so the time we spent together became quality time. We did a lot of fun things.

  “Then, when she died…” Bea’s eyes take on a faraway look, and her voice breaks. “When she… everything changed. He turned to his faith, and it began to affect our relationship. Whenever I trie
d to explain how shit I felt, he turned to prayer and quoted from the Bible – like Claire does. He told me to get a grip. He said that we still had each other, that we had God in our lives and that I should move on.”

  Bea pauses. “And I did try, Amy. I tried to rationalise things. You know me. I’m not very romantic. I did my damnedest to keep things in perspective and be a good wife. But too much had changed.”

  “We moved here. I found a job and met you lot. I had counselling and even tried to embrace his religious beliefs. I did everything to try and live my, no, our life again. However, over time, I grew to realise that this gnawing feeling of discontent deep in the pit of my stomach was not going away. I couldn’t be the wife he wanted me to be. We had grown apart, and although we were friends, that magic something had gone. Last night, I felt alive. I felt release. I don’t want to lose those feelings.”

  She looks at me, teary-eyed. “I am forty. I have considered my future, and I am not prepared to sacrifice my happiness. I don’t want go to my grave as a martyr. I don’t think it’s fair on anyone if I spend the rest of my life living a lie – married to a man whom I care for dearly but whom I don’t love in the way I once did. Am I expected to? Why should I? For whom? For him? For the sake of convention? Because it’s written in the Bible? Because I will be financially worse off and forced to depend on the state and my own resources to make ends meet?”

  She begins to clear the table. “You are a good person, Amy. I know that I will lose friends over what has happened. People can be cruel and judgemental when they haven’t the right to be, and too many will judge me harshly. I think that you get it, though, and I hope that we will remain close.”

  A tear trickles down my cheek. She has touched a raw nerve, yet I cannot talk about it. Not yet. I need to make my own choices and decisions. “Bea, I will always be your friend,” I say, a lump in my throat. “I understand. I really, really do.”

  Monday evening.

  My Declutter Your Life list is taped to the kitchen window. I call my family into the kitchen. “Behold,” I announce proudly. “Let me read it out to you.”

  GROUND RULES

  •Everything I own must be useful or there because I really love it.

  •I will cull my cuddly toy collection and cookery book stash and create scrapbooks of prized recipes.

  •I will dump or donate the kitchen gadgets I never use.

  •If I haven’t worn a piece of clothing etc. for a year, it will go.

  •I will tidy and categorise my PC files and documents.

  “Great,” applauds Geoff. “Here’s to a tidy house. I thought you’d go further with it, though. I’d be happy to suggest lots more decluttering that you could do. So, when do you plan to do all this then? I reckon it’ll take a year or two.”

  His hands go to his hips. His eyes are mocking. His sarcastic tone is all too much and I feel the resentment rising. I clench my fists and bite my tongue in frustration and disappointment. For a split second, I consider doing a Bea and adding him to my declutter list.

  Thankfully, Pippa comes to my rescue. “Well done, Mum,” she compliments, kissing my cheek. “I think it’s cool. I’ll help you to declutter, if you like?”

  “Thanks,” I smile, an atom of resentment dissipating. “I suggest we draw up a plan of attack and start tomorrow. Let’s do it over popcorn. That’s the way to be supportive,” I remark to Geoff. “Can’t you just be pleased that I’m making the effort?”

  I turn to Pippa. “Just give me five.”

  I run to the kitchen and make a quick note of Geoff’s reaction and my feelings on my laptop – before I forget.

  Thursday.

  The garage is piled high with neatly stacked boxes and bin liners full of things to sell, donate or dump. My kitchen cupboards are no longer stuffed full of gadgets I never use, and my favourite cookery books are neatly displayed. I have even let my favourite dress and matching heels go. The dress is too small and the heels were badly scuffed – but they held lots of great memories.

  “Only the PC to sort, and that can wait,” I say proudly. “Thanks for all your help, Pipps. I could never have done it without you. Let’s show Dad what we’ve achieved.”

  I hug her and go to find Geoff who follows me out to the garage and casts his ‘professional’ eye over the scene before him. “Isn’t it a great improvement? My team-mate and I have worked really hard, and I only have the PC to deal with now. Then I shall be well and truly decluttered.”

  “Yes…” He pauses. “I have to admit that our house does look better, Amy,” he says, his eyes firmly fixed on the boxes and bags. “Please ensure you do something with all… this… or else all the clutter will simply have been transferred from one place to another, won’t it? Don’t forget.”

  “I’m not going to leave it all sitting here,” I exclaim, “and I plan to declutter regularly in future.”

  “Really? Are you sure this ‘challenge’ isn’t another one-week wonder?”

  It’s taken one sentence to successfully suck the enthusiasm out of me again. I feel deflated, tired and irritated. “Why, oh why aren’t you just happy or pleased for me, Geoff? Why is there always a ‘but’ or a dig at me or a caveat or… or… an ‘I thought’?”

  “Calm down, dear,” Geoff replies under his breath.

  “Oh, go away.” I barge past him and storm upstairs to take my frustrations out on my laptop.

  Pippa has overheard our heated conversation. “Leave it all there in the garage for a couple of days, Mum,” she says quietly.

  “Yes,” I say with passion. “I bloody well will, just to annoy him.”

  11.25 p.m.

  I want to talk to Geoff; to clear the air. I hate conflict, and I’ve been told that you should never go to sleep angry or mad at your partner. But he is asleep, and I know better than to wake him.

  I felt G disrespected me today. And why does he think my challenges are one-week wonders? I type. I don’t. Some of them seem ridiculous, but they are making me think. They are challenging my opinions and beliefs. I’m gaining a new perspective on life. I’m trying out new things and meeting new people. I am only sorry that Geoff can’t see it, and it saddens me. Perhaps he will in time.

  Week Three. Saturday afternoon.

  Mrs Harmer is the renowned tarot reader and psychic round here. Everyone rates her, and the best news is that she has agreed to come over to my house tonight at five. “Yes!” I thump the table with delight. Last week’s Experience Disability challenge (when I had to do everything without using my thumbs) was enlightening, but this one:

  CONSULT A CLAIRVOYANT

  AND ‘SEE’ THE FUTURE

  … is relevant. I sincerely hope she will tell me how to curb the lusting and provide comfort that all will be well at home. I text The Girls:

  5pm Tarot, tonight.

  £20 a reading.

  Bring and Share tea.

  Text back what you are bringing.

  I’ll provide the wine.

  5.00 p.m.

  Mrs Harmer is settled in my bedroom, ready for her first client. I have decided to go last. As each of The Girls has their reading, the rest of us tuck into the food and wine.

  7.00 p.m.

  Claire’s eyes are swollen from crying. Cate is comforting her. “She’s wrong – she has to be. He must care, because he said I was wonderful and he gave me… Oh, Amy.”

  “Can I help?” I say.

  “I’ll be fine in a minute. It’s nothing…” she hiccups.

  “It’s something about an old flame who has used her or is using her,” Cate says. “Whatever,” she mouths to me.

  “Amy, your turn, pet.”

  “How did your reading go, Bea? I hope it was better than Claire’s. She’s in a right state,” Cate asks.

  “I’m supposed to fall head over heels in love and have a baby. I’ll believe i
t when I see it – especially the baby. Anyway, pet, you’re on. I’ll stay with Claire.”

  I take a deep breath and go to find Mrs Harmer.

  “Shuffle and select seven cards,” she says. “Hmmm. The Fool, swords and cups. You are working on a creative project. Do not stop.” She pauses briefly. “Visualise two tomato plants. You are enthusiastically feeding the first with nutrients required for growth and good health. In return, it is rewarding you with vigorous growth. This is pleasing you, but it will never reward you with fruit. I see Blossom drop.” She leans forward, her eyes impassive, her tone measured. “The other plant is wilting. Lord Rhizoctonia solani, Lady Cancer and the Japanese Knotweed twins are at work. Be mindful.”

  I yawn, bored by the gobbledygook she’s spouting.

  Mrs Harmer catches her breath, tuts disapprovingly and rubs her eyes, distinctly ruffled. “Someone you know abuses alcohol, my dear. Perhaps they drink for Dutch courage? I see many bottles.” Startling green eyes lock onto mine. “Pick two more. Your eyes are open, yet you are fast asleep. Enabling many to achieve dreams is commendable. However, I fear that their happiness may be at your expense. Wake up and tend to your plants.”

  She folds her arms over her chest. “When your son’s Venus Fly Trap becomes infected with grey mould, he will call you for help.”

  “But I don’t have a son,” I say indignantly.

  “Take heed of my messages and the future is yours. Do you have cash on you?”

  I leave the room, my head spinning. I don’t believe a word.

  Week Four. Adriano’s Restaurant. Friday, 8.00 p.m.

  LET THE DICE DECIDE.

  Now, this is a cool challenge. Years ago, Bea suggested I read Luke Rhinehart’s The Diceman, and it really appealed to my dark side. To actually get the chance to try it out is thrilling. At Adriano’s, Bea describes the meaning behind the challenge.