51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  “Now, Amy,” he says as if addressing a child, “when you speak to me like that, it is so loving that I am quite willing to consider your point of view and be helpful. All you have to do is ask without getting so uppity.”

  “Why should I have to ask?” I reply. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Not to me,” he says. “Women are better at this sort of thing. You know what needs to be done. Now, let’s discuss this rationally, shall we?”

  I want to smack him for being an arrogant, sexist pig and somehow turning the conversation to his advantage. However, at least he has agreed to help out, so I give in. By half past nine, the cases are packed.

  Saturday, 5.00 a.m.

  On the way to the airport, I read out my challenge to my family:

  GO SCUBA DIVING.

  Geoff bangs the steering with the palms of his hands and the car swerves violently. “Brilliant choice. We finally have another challenge of substance. Always wanted you to try that, and I’m sure we’ll find somewhere for you to have a go.”

  “Brilliant? You know that I hate putting my face underwater, I’m not a strong swimmer and I can’t see well without glasses or contact lenses,” I reply glumly.

  “You need to try, Mum,” comes a voice from the rear of the car. “You always say that we shouldn’t knock it until we’ve tried it.”

  “I do,” I sigh. “Won’t be saying those words of wisdom again in a hurry.”

  Tuesday.

  I want to disown Geoff. Everywhere we go, he busies himself searching out scuba diving opportunities for me. We haven’t found anywhere yet, and I hope that I can delay the challenge until we return home. I’ve secretly messaged Cate and discovered that I can have a taster lesson in our local swimming pool. That would do fine.

  Wednesday, 2.00 p.m.

  Taking a stroll around the harbour, Geoff casually mentions that our holiday rep has found a company offering scuba diving adventures at sea. “I don’t think so,” I say firmly.

  “Dad!” interjects Pippa, “Let Mum do what she wants. She needs a break. Stop telling her what to do.”

  “Well, I think you should, Amy,” he replies, ignoring her. “I thought that you wanted to face your fears? Don’t tell me you’re going to bottle out? Tell you what, why don’t we just go and find out about it? No pressure.” He smiles seductively and I agree. Why not?

  The owners of Cypridive speak basic English and are incredibly enthusiastic about taking me out. They ply us with the local Aphrodite white wine while enthusing over their passion. Their hospitality seduces Geoff and, without my knowledge, he books us both onto a dive tomorrow at eleven o’clock. He pays up front. There is no going back.

  “Just remember, Amy,” he says, when he finally gets around to informing me. “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.”

  “Blimey – that’s deep, coming from you,” I say. “Who said that?”

  “Anais Nin,” he replies proudly. “Jess told me about her. She was one of the first prominent women in the Western world to write erotica. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Amy,” he smiles. “Now, come and help me to choose a handbag for my PA. She hinted that she’d love a red leather tote, whatever that is.”

  Thursday, 11.00 a.m.

  Geoff and I, four other tourists and two Cypridive reps are on our way out to sea – to who knows where. One guy steers the tiny motor boat while the other kits us out ready for our dive. The range of clothing available is limited, and everything I try on is too big. I attempt to use this fact to get out of the dive.

  “No, no, lady.” Stephan waggles his index finger at me. “A leetle big but fine.” He pulls at my wetsuit and winks. “Very sexy, Mrs Aimeeee.”

  “How do I look?” I shout to Geoff above the drone of the motor. He gives me the thumbs up. We are handed fins. Again, I think that mine are too big, but as I’ve never worn fins before, I carry on. As I waggle my feet around, I notice Geoff and Stephan deep in conversation and pointing to my feet. It makes me slightly anxious.

  The boat stops and the engine is switched off. We have arrived. “We are in the middle of the ocean,” I whisper to Geoff, panic-stricken. “I don’t want to do this… I don’t want to…”

  “Leetle lady.” Stephan pulls me across to the side of the boat. “You take this belt of weights and I give you the mask. Put on please.”

  I do as he says. He stands back, admires me and, turning to his colleague, says something in rapid Greek. They laugh. I turn to Geoff, who won’t quite meet my eye. Before I can say anything more, we are asked to sit on the side of the vessel looking into the boat, and Stephan gives a short talk about what we are about to do. I can’t understand him very well and am preoccupied with my mask. I don’t think it fits properly.

  “Now you, leetle lady. I poosh you into the water and you wait.”

  “What? I’ve never…”

  “Opa!”

  He shoves me violently, and I topple backwards into the sea. Oh, my Lord. I’m going to drown. I surface, spluttering, and grab hold of Geoff, who is shaking with laughter.

  “And now we go,” announces Stephan, diving gracefully into the water. I cannot go. I try to move my feet, but they don’t activate my fins. My fins move independently of my feet. I cannot control where I am going.

  “You come with me.” Stephan takes my hand in his and drags me behind him for the entire dive. It’s all I can do to concentrate on keeping a tight grip of his hand. I don’t see a thing – I can’t see a thing. I focus on floating behind him, avoiding stuff in the sea. I can feel myself hyper-ventilating and make an attempt to slow my breathing. It’s reverberating in my head.

  Suddenly, I find I can’t move any further. My right fin is entangled in something that looks like fishing line. I try to kick it away from my fin and alert Stephan, yet he is oblivious to my plight and tries to drag me onwards. I become hysterical. Shit, I’m going to let go of Stephan any minute. My arm isn’t a piece of elastic. It’s going to give. Somebody grabs my fin and cuts the fishing line, and I ‘ping’ back to Stephan.

  I clamber back into the boat, crying with relief that it is over. Unfazed by the incident, Stephan hands round glasses of cheap fizz and takes photos in celebration of our achievement. I am so traumatised by the event that I down both Geoff’s and my drinks. All I want to do is to get off this vessel.

  7.00 p.m.

  Over dinner, Geoff theatrically presents me with a bottle of fizz to celebrate the successful completion of my challenge. “I knew you could do it,” he crows. “All it takes is for me to give you a push (get it, girls? a push) now and again, Amy, and you achieve greatness. Now, that was an appropriate challenge with great learning potential. It’s confirmed to me that it’s high time you became more adventurous. As I’ve said before, I think that you are ready to embrace a job that stretches you and expands your network and your horizons.”

  “Let’s have a look at the photo,” I say, blanking him.

  “Really?” Geoff looks nervous.

  “Yes.” I want to see what I looked like in my wetsuit and mask. I hope I resembled Jacques Cousteau.

  Pippa searches for the photo on Geoff’s mobile. I see her expression change from amusement to shock when she finds it. “How could you let Mum go out looking like this? Everything’s massive on her. It could have been so dangerous. Oh, Mum, you do look funny though. Look, Evie.” They double over with laughter.

  “Hand it over, please,” I demand, staring daggers at Pippa. She relents reluctantly.

  “You must admit, it is rather amusing,” quips Geoff. “It did the job though, eh wifey? It gave everyone a good laugh.”

  I stare at the photo for a long time. Oh, it is awful. You can’t see my face because the mask is so big and what is that black balaclava thing on my head? I don’t remember that at all. My wetsuit is bagging everywhere, I look scary.
My feet. Those fins…

  Simmering with rage, I assertively pour the nearly full glass of beer, which Geoff had just started to enjoy, over his head. “Don’t you ever do something like that to me again, you pig,” I say quietly. “You knew how dreadful I looked, and Pippa’s right – it was bloody dangerous. I have learned something of value from it but it’s nothing to do with learning to scuba dive or whatever else you think I should have learned from it. You took delight in arranging this challenge so that you could have a laugh at my expense, and that’s inexcusable. You went too far this time, and I won’t tolerate it again. Come on, girls.”

  I turn on my heel and stride off, leaving a soggy Geoff to his empty glass.

  Week Five. Saturday, 7.00 p.m.

  “You faced your fear, and here’s the evidence. Now you’ll never forget it.” Geoff hands me a framed photo of my scuba diving challenge and a glass of the Aphrodite wine we so enjoyed in Cyprus. “Cheers to that.”

  No, I won’t – and I’ve learned some valuable lessons that I’ll never forget either, I add silently. Cheers to that.

  “I’ve picked my next challenge,” I say, quickly changing the subject. It’s to:

  INDULGE IN A SECRET PASSION.

  “Do you have a secret passion, Amy?”

  “That’s a toughie. I don’t think I’m passionate about much, really. Passion. It’s an emotive word.”

  “Oh, you can be passionate,” Geoff smirks. “You were passionately angry about scuba diving and passionate with lust when you were drunk not so long ago, ha ha.”

  “Oh, go away,” I bristle.

  “And,” he carries on, undeterred. “You have a real passion for shopping, scones, crisps and general untidiness. Those socks have been living on the floor over there for weeks. And, let’s not forget one’s passion for Pinot Grigio.” He eyes my empty glass accusingly. “That’s two you’ve had tonight. One too many glasses, perhaps, wifey?”

  “Don’t go there,” I warn. “I might be your wife, but you’re not my keeper, and your views on many things were duly noted in Cyprus. Not now, please. And this house is homely, not untidy.”

  Geoff looks as if he is about to say something, but he holds back. “Have you started job hunting? A new career with more status and cash in your pocket will fire you up. Pippa worries how you’ll be when the challenges come to an abrupt end in December, you know.”

  My finger goes to my mouth. I agree, I think. I know and kinda worry about that too, but taking on a new job is not the answer.

  My secret passion challenge came to me at three in the morning. If I’m honest, the question of whether I made the right life-partner decision has been preying on me more and more. Perhaps, if I revisit my past, it’ll help me to reconcile my marriage. But dare I do what I want to do, and how will Geoff react?

  The next morning, I consult Bea. “I’m thinking about tracking down William, my ex-boyfriend. He played an important part in my life pre-Geoff – well, I dumped him for Geoff, didn’t I – and I’d like to find out where life has taken him,” I explain, over a mid-morning coffee and apple scone. “Wouldn’t it be cool to reminisce? Do you understand what I mean, Bea?”

  “That’s an interesting secret passion, Ames. I presume this includes checking him out against that list of perfect partner criteria you had, to see if you made the wrong choice eh, pet?”

  “Between you and me, um… it has sort of crossed my mind if my ‘What I will do to ensure I am successful and nab the essential lifelong partner’ criteria list was flawed. Did I dump William for the right reasons? This is my opportunity to play detective.”

  Bea looks pensive. “I reckon you’ll learn a lot from this challenge – just as long as you don’t start imagining you’re eighteen again and shag him as a ‘social experiment’”, she laughs. “Don’t be too disheartened if he refuses your request – it is crazy – and promise me that if you meet up, it’s in public and you remain stone-cold sober.” She makes to leave. “My house move is arranged for the second week in August. Book out the whole day; I need all the help I can get.”

  “Don’t worry,” I reply, kissing her goodbye. “I won’t forget.”

  Geoff finds me lying outstretched on my bed, crying with laughter as I read about a particular cringe-worthy event from my teenage diaries. He tries to look over my shoulder. “No, you may not,” I reply, disgruntled. “These are my secret diaries from another time dimension, and it is my intention that they remain private forever,” I announce dramatically.

  “That’s ludicrous. You’re my wife. We should share everything. I wouldn’t mind if you read my diary. Have you got something to hide, then?” he accuses.

  “Of course not,” I say. “It’s not crucial for you to know every single detail of my life. If you read any of it without permission, I’d consider it an invasion of my privacy. Anyway, these are from many moons ago.”

  “Well, I don’t agree, and I don’t like your attitude. Married couples shouldn’t have secrets, and you shouldn’t be thinking any different.” He slams the bedroom door behind him.

  An hour later, Pippa pokes her head around the door to check that I’m still alive. “Any advice on relationships from back in the dark ages?” she laughs.

  “Now you come to think of it, yes I do,” I say. “Come over here and let me describe how not to end a relationship…”

  Geoff barges into our private conversation with a commanding “Ten-thirty. Bedtime,” and disappears into the en-suite. We hear the tap running. I catch the sound of a sharp intake of breath and watch as Pippa loses her temper.

  “That’s super-rude, Dad. Don’t you have any respect?” she hollers through the door. “We were talking. Going to bed a few minutes late won’t kill you, will it?”

  Geoff opens the door to the en-suite, toothbrush in hand. “This is my bedroom, and I always go to bed at this time. I think that you’ve been up here long enough, and you’re done with your inconsequential girly chit-chat.”

  “What? Are you sexist, just rude or a total control freak?” she yells.

  My heart is in my mouth as I battle to temper the desire to join forces with Pippa and have it out with Geoff, but I swallow the bile threatening to spew from the depths of my stomach. I know my time will come, but it must be the right time – and that is not now. “Go downstairs and give us a minute,” I say quietly to her, going into the en-suite and closing the door behind me.

  “Listen, Geoff. I know you don’t understand or agree, but this mother–daughter conversation is important, and we haven’t finished, so why don’t you go to bed and relax as you like to do, and we’ll go downstairs. I’ll be up shortly. Promise I’ll be quiet.”

  Geoff stomps back into the bedroom in a sulk. “Those socks still haven’t been put away. I’ll bin them if they’re still there tomorrow,” he threatens.

  12.30 a.m.

  Time stands still as Pippa and I study photos of William over a packet of Haribo. I well up as I tell her my stories. Intense love for my child envelops me. The wish to educate, protect and empower her is overwhelming. “Nothing really changes from generation to generation,” I explain lovingly. “People fall in lust or love every minute of every day, and when it happens, it’s just the best. Will it lead to a happy ever after? Well, we all kiss a few frogs before we hopefully meet our forever prince or princess. Then, it’s a case of crossing your fingers and hoping that the love spell cast is potent enough to withstand the test of time.”

  “Should marriage be for life?” she asks.

  “Well, to be absolutely honest,” I say, “marriage is a lottery. Saying ‘I do’ doesn’t guarantee a lifelong partnership of love and romance, whatever anybody says. Look at Bea and what’s happened to her. She didn’t marry thinking she’d be getting divorced now, but she is where she is,” I sigh.

  “How did marriage change you and your life, Mum?”

  I choo
se my words carefully. I want nothing more than to vent my frustrations but if I do, I might corrupt her young, impressionable mind – something that would be inexcusable. “People get married for all sorts of reasons – usually because they are in love. Life’s a mystery. Things happen – things you never dream of when you start out, but life goes on regardless. It’s when you come up against difficulties or change and you have to make choices and decisions that life becomes more complicated.”

  I don’t want her to know any more.

  “Promise me you’ll never be afraid to make difficult choices and decisions. Life’s too short, and I don’t want you to live with regret, married or not. I’m sure you will make good choices,” I say, planting a kiss on the end of her nose. “Choice is the greatest power we have. Now, go to bed.”

  Monday.

  I’ve been battling all night with the thought of contacting William. I clearly remember the last time our paths crossed (at a friend’s sixtieth, many years ago) and the emotions he stirred up. However, time has moved on, and things are different now. It still takes a sesh on my mindfulness app before I dare pluck up the courage to call him. It goes straight to voicemail. “Er, hello. Remember me? It’s Amy… Rich… Parker… um… I was reading my old diaries and thought I’d give you a call… perhaps catch up after all these years… You have my number… um… so hopefully you will ring… And this isn’t a pervy call, so if you are in a relationship, please don’t feel I’m trying to… um… rekindle romance… so bye.” I hang up, exhausted and shaking.

  Adriano’s Restaurant.

  The Girls meet up at Adriano’s on a Monday because it’s the summer holidays. I tell everyone about my potential rendezvous. “Ooh, I’m super-impressed. I’d love to do what you’re doing,” Cate says wistfully. “But I’d be too shy.”