51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  “A bored psychiatrist decides to spice up the daily grind of his life and lets the throw of a dice decide his actions and the course of his day. Once you hand over your life to the throw of a dice, anything can happen. So, Ames, how are you going to play this one then, pet? Tame or extremely dangerous?” She nudges me suggestively.

  “Well,” I reply excitedly. “Firstly, we need to decide on different things I have to do for each number on the dice. For example, if I throw the dice and it lands on number one, it might mean that I have to… well…” I hesitate. Well? What? “Help me decide my dice-play.”

  After much debate, this is what we come up with:

  1 = Live without technology.

  2 = Ravage my husband’s wardrobe and burn his favourite t-shirts and vests that he loves so much and that I cannot stand.

  3 = Go make-up free.

  4 = Chat up a man or woman in a pub and get their number.

  5 = Wear no underwear.

  6 = Steal something.

  Tomorrow, I will let the dice decide.

  Saturday morning.

  Geoff has no idea what this challenge is, thank God, and I have no plans to ever tell him about it. He’s at a university alumni reunion in Leeds all weekend, and when he gets back, it’ll all be over. I wait for him to leave, find a dice and sit in silence, rolling it around in my clammy hands and willing fate to be kind to me.

  “Please dice,” I whisper lovingly. “Be generous.” I shut my eyes tight and I roll… It’s a four. I have to go to a pub, chat up a man or woman and get their number.

  The phone doesn’t stop ringing all morning. Everyone’s ultra-keen to advise me on chatting up a stranger. Bea is surprised at how nervous I am. “But Amy,” she says. “You are such a sociable person. You, of all people, shouldn’t have any trouble chatting somebody up, especially in a pub. Once you’ve had your three glasses of wine, you’re up for anything, pet. This should be a doddle.”

  “You see,” I explain, chewing on my finger, “I have never, ever actually chatted up a stranger before. I have never needed to. I’ve had so few boyfriends and they always came onto me. I don’t know how to do it?” I continue in a small voice. “And,” I continue in an even smaller voice, “I am scared.”

  “I know exactly how to help you,” she says. “Meet me at two in T and T.”

  2.00 p.m.

  Bea turns up with a tall, dark stranger in tow. “This is Rom. He’s Italian, from Naples and staying with my friend. I thought he’d be able to help you practise your chat-up lines.”

  “Hello,” I say nervously.

  “Ciao, bella!” replies Rom in a drop-dead gorgeous Italian accent, kissing my hand. “I amm ’ere to ’elp you become a sexy seductress of man, no?”

  “I only want to chat someone up, not shag them,” I laugh.

  “Shag?” Rom looks confused. Bea explains what a shag is and his face clears.

  “No, tesoro,” he says, wagging his finger at me. “You do not want to make the love wiz ’im. You must try to make ’im feel that you want the, as you say, shag wiz ’im. Zat is ’ow you must chat to ’im. Zen he will give you ’iz numero di telefono. Andrà tutto bene. It will be fine.”

  I am sold. “Come on then, Rom. Teach me!” I cry. And everyone in the café looks round at me in surprise.

  An hour later, I’m finally putting my own stamp on the seductress persona. It doesn’t come easily to me, but I’m better able to use body language, touch and eye contact to convey ‘I am seriously interested in you’ and have learned some rocking lines of introduction. Although Bea is insistent I try, I’ve decided that chatting up a woman will be too difficult. I’m going to target a man.

  Claire readily agrees to accompany me to a local well-known ‘pulling’ pub for support and moral guidance. The venue is already packed when we arrive, and there’s a good vibe. We sit in a corner sussing out the talent. She insists on taking a photo of me in the pub ‘for my scrapbook’, which is nice.

  It’s great being away from my normal Saturday night routine of tea and telly, but my challenge is sitting like a monkey on my shoulder and I can’t relax. The only saving grace is that a disco of sorts is playing damn good music, and after two large glasses of wine and a pep talk from Claire, I’ve loosened up enough to give it some on the tiny dance floor.

  10.00 p.m.

  I’m parched and acutely aware that time is running out. I simply have to get on with it and find a suitable guy to chat up. I leave Claire dancing and stagger to the bar for Dutch courage and to prepare myself for action.

  It’s super-busy at the bar. There’s a lot of pushing and shoving to get served, and as I push my way forward, someone splashes lager over my right arm. Now I can add ‘l’eau de lager’ as one of the weapons in my arsenal of chat-up tools and techniques.

  I fidget impatiently as I wait my turn, my senses heightened to the high levels of testosterone around me. I’m acutely aware that a man in a mid-blue woollen jumper keeps glancing in my direction.

  Right, I say to myself. He’ll do. He looks nice enough, and he’s playing straight into my hands.

  I begin to tentatively play out what Rom taught me earlier. I tease my hair, bat my eyelids at him, smile shyly and… I am rudely interrupted by the bartender shouting at me above the din. “Sorry? Oh, a large Pinot Grigio, please.”

  I’m fumbling in my purse to pay when I hear a deep voice to my left. “I’ll get that for the beautiful lady.”

  Who has just called me a beautiful lady?

  I turn in the direction of the voice and almost faint as I see the bartender handing Blue Jumper Man my drink. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says apologetically, passing me the glass. “It is okay if I buy you this, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course,” I splutter. “That’s very kind, thanks.”

  Our hands touch briefly and I jump. I am so damn nervy. It’s the thought of what I must do. We make obligatory small talk. “I don’t often come here,” I say, and then I remember the challenge and add: “but I’m glad I did”. I smile into his eyes. Rom would be proud of me.

  “Me neither,” he replies, giving me the once-over. “I’m glad I did, too. What’s your name?”

  This is going too well, I think to myself as I pretend to be interested in his conversation and apply some honed eye contact techniques, ensure my body is turned towards him and smile encouragingly. He’s a bit pervy, but never mind.

  “What are you doing afterwards, Amy? Fancy a night cap in town?”

  That’s a bit forward, I think. However, tonight I don’t care. It couldn’t be going any better. This is the question that Rom and I have prepared a killer answer for. “Aww, I’m really sorry. I have to go soon, but we can swap numbers and keep in touch?” (Rom is applauding.) I give him my number. He sends his directly to my phone. Job done. It’s time to leave.

  “Goodbye, beautiful lady,” he says cheekily, leaning over to plant a kiss on my cheek. I don’t object. Well, he has said I am beautiful and helped me to achieve my challenge. However, just as he makes to kiss me on the other cheek, we are rudely interrupted by a friend jumping on his back. “Watch the lady, you fucking pisshead,” says Blue Jumper Man, pushing him off. “Sorry about that, Amy. Please ignore my ignorant brother. He’s a complete prat when he’s pissed.”

  I look up to see who Blue Jumper Man is referring to. I don’t believe it. It is Him, here in this pub and he is talking to the very man I am chatting up. This is just too much. It’s uncanny.

  “Brother… You’re brothers?”

  I stare at Him, lost for words. “Do you know Amy, then?” he asks Blue Jumper Man playfully. He has a certain look in his eye which I can’t quite decipher.

  “I do now,” grins Blue Jumper Man, leaning in to plant another kiss on my cheek.

  I am so stunned at the news that these two are related that I lose my b
alance and my hands land on Blue Jumper’s waist. Yuck. His jumper is damp. I tear my hands away and wipe them on my jeans. He must have been caught by the flying beer too.

  “Laters, babe!” shouts Blue Jumper Man as I speed-walk back to Claire, who has recorded the whole incident on her phone.

  “Yes, see you soon, Amy,” his brother echoes.

  “Who was that?” giggles Claire.

  “That was…” I stutter and, without waiting for Claire, I turn and run outside to find a taxi, completely dumbfounded.

  July

  Week One. Tuesday, 9.30 a.m.

  LEARN THE ART OF ASSERTIVENESS.

  I usually feel nervous at the start of training courses. It’s the fear of the unknown that gets to me. Today, however, I am glad to be away from home, focused on something much more important than fretting over whether Blue Jumper Man will text or phone and how to play it if he does. The thought of picking up top tips on how to manage Geoff better is my priority, and I am euphoric to be here.

  Our trainer, Eloise, is a boldly dressed woman in her forties. Seven bangles – the colours of the rainbow – adorn her right wrist, and whenever she writes on the flipchart, they jangle and catch the light, which is ever so slightly distracting. She stands at the front of the room in a smart red fitted suit accented with a brightly multi-coloured scarf and black tights. Her hair is bobbed. Not a strand is out of place.

  “She looks assertive, all right,” delegate Tony on my left whispers to me. “Wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her.”

  I giggle and Eloise frowns. Her hands move to her hips; her gaze (which seconds before was kind and friendly) is icy. Perhaps I’m not going to enjoy this as much as I thought, I ponder. Eloise scrutinises me for what seems like hours before breaking into a smile. Her eyes soften and she speaks to me kindly. “How do you feel?”

  “Must I?” I reply, trying hard to remain professional.

  “Please don’t be shy.” Eloise sits down and waits. The other delegates laugh nervously.

  “Upset and uptight,” I say quietly.

  “And why is that, Amy?” probes Eloise.

  “Because you were standing there right in front of me in a bright red smart suit and you gave me a look. You made me feel like I was a child, like my eleven-year-old daughter when she has done something naughty. I don’t know you and I feel intimidated. The way you looked at me made me feel very small, and I wanted to go home. In fact, if this continues, Mrs… Miss…”

  “Eloise,” whispers one of my colleagues.

  “Yes, Eloise… I think that I might have to leave right now because I know that I will not learn anything with a trainer who treats me like you just have… oh!”

  I remember where I am and crumple into my chair, eyes lowered, waiting to be given my comeuppance. I’d been so excited about today, and now, thanks to my big mouth, I’m about to be ceremoniously expelled from the course before it’s even begun and probably advised to take an anger management programme instead.

  There is silence and then a round of applause. I wait, stunned. “Good. That was very expressive and articulate,” nods Eloise. “If I were put in the same situation, without knowing how to deal with it, I might have done exactly as you just did. Thank you for starting off our day with a great example.”

  And that is how the course begins; with Eloise describing ‘the three Vs’ – that our body language (visual), tone of voice (vocal) and the words we use (verbal) give off signals about us.

  5.00 p.m.

  Armed with a bunch of really cool techniques to test out, I leave for home on cloud nine; the lyrics to D:Ream’s Things Can Only Get Better in my head on loop. It feels like I’ve been in counselling. It’s blindingly obvious what’s wrong with my marriage. For the first time ever, I’ve identified how easily Geoff pushes my buttons and why that impacts on our relationship – in a bad way.

  I’ve confessed to Eloise that the same thing happens with my mother and with my sister Jess, as well as with other significant people. I’m in a pattern of behaviour that I find almost impossible to break – but if I am to have a healthy, happy marriage, I have to. I can and I will.

  “I get it,” I say to my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I’m never going to be like Bea, but if I change my behaviour, then Geoff’s will change too, and things will improve. We will communicate in a loving way and treat each other with respect – and he will be more receptive to me. He will be willing to listen without criticism or derision.” Perfect.

  Just you wait, world, I think to myself. The worm has turned.

  Just three hours later, my euphoric bubble has burst. Reading back my course notes and my diary entries, I am at a low ebb. I don’t think doing this will be enough. Just a few short hours ago, I was certain that assertiveness would be my panacea, but there’s a bunch of other really challenging stuff to tackle, and right now, it all feels too much. God, I’m so stupid. Is there really any point? What if I try this out on Geoff and fail?

  Hey, soothes my inner voice. Slow down. This is just the start of things to come. Take small steps and keep the end in mind, and you will succeed. Assertiveness is just one tool in your toolbox.

  And if it doesn’t work, what am I supposed to do?

  The familiar sound of a text dropping into my inbox interrupts my train of thought. I reach for my phone. It’s from Him. I gasp, and as I open the message, that familiar feeling of trepidation and excitement punches me in the pit of my stomach, lifting me out of my dark mood instantly. It reads:

  Recovered from my bro’s snog?

  I’m gutted. ;)

  How’s you?

  Wow! I didn’t expect that. He sounds dead chatty and keen, I giggle to myself. I fire back a witty reply:

  Just been on an assertiveness course.

  Can’t believe I’m over halfway through.

  I’m gonna sort out my husband.

  Ha Ha.

  You don’t come across like a

  shrinking violet to my bro and me.

  Ooh, the cheek, I cringe, laughing to myself. I feel quite giddy, and I’m definitely glowing on the inside. What should I say next? Something about Blue Jumpers? No, I’d better not go there unless I have to. I feel bad for having led Mr Blue Jumper Man on, and I don’t want to encourage him further. I’m still praying he doesn’t get in touch.

  A second text pings in.

  So, tell me more?

  I’m interested.

  Now, if anybody else had responded in that way, I’d be straight on the phone talking nineteen to the dozen about what I’ve been up to and what’s been happening lately. We’d have a really cosy chat. However, this is Him. I so want to call Him, yet something is stopping me.

  My inner critic cuts in. If you keep texting and talking to him, you are a step closer to finding out something about him that you dislike, and then the spell will be broken. You will be able to declutter Him from your life. Take the chance. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Just do it.

  A second inner critic cuts across the first. If you keep texting and talking to him, you are a step closer to building an emotional relationship with him. You are more likely to seek out and find things that you have in common. You will find it more difficult to declutter him from your life and sort out your relationship with Geoff. There is every chance that you will want to connect with him again and again. You have everything to lose. Don’t do it.

  My finger goes to my mouth. My conscience has been pricked with a very sharp pin. This is the ideal moment to stop our friendship in its tracks…

  I’m not building any kind of emotional attachment to him – I’ve absolutely no intention of romance. It’s a friendship and a business relationship and nothing more. Anything else simply isn’t going to happen. I laugh. I suppose an emotional relationship is like having an affair – just without the sex. And we definitely are
n’t doing that. Dreaming about stealing a quick secret snog and harbouring lustful thoughts is one thing, but that’s not an emotional relationship, is it? It’s total rubbish. I’ll try to be assertive. My heart is fluttering as I text:

  Too much to say in a text.

  Can I ring you?

  Then I can delight you with

  tales of my antics, ha ha.

  No response.

  Twenty minutes later. Still nothing.

  “Okay,” I yell angrily at my mobile. “Be like that. What the hell is up with you? I thought we were in conversation? Am I your entertainment when you’re at a loose end or without a better offer? Is that when you contact me? You are seriously doing my head in.”

  I am mad. I feel let down and I know that I should just call it a day and tell him to jog on. The urge to delete his number from my phone is overwhelming. I can’t bring myself to do it. I stare at his number. I stare at the Delete Contact button. My finger hovers over it yet I can’t quite press it and permanently end our relationship. I fling it onto the floor in disgust. In a flash, my sense of joy has been flipped on its head and I feel intense emotional pain – the same pain I felt when my first true love dumped me because he said he couldn’t fit in with my life plan.

  10.30 p.m.

  As I hear Geoff’s footsteps coming up the stairs to bed, I turn onto my left side, facing away from him, and pretend to be asleep. I can’t deal with his questions and digs and ‘I thoughts’ right now. I need time to process my feelings.

  Okay. I’m still in lust with Him. He doesn’t know that, though, and that’s not a good enough reason to act in haste and frustration and permanently delete him from my life, is it? I think I will regret it if I let him go. I don’t get why, but I feel I need to stay connected to him and so, right now, I’m going to listen to my intuition. And anyway, I can delete him whenever I want to. I definitely will do after he’s helped me get going with my fifty-first challenge. I have control.