51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  “I’ve done it,” confesses Claire boldly, her eyes shining.

  Bea sits up. “Really? When?”

  “At a school reunion, just before I got married. Well, I’d just found out that the man I thought loved me had gone and proposed to somebody else. Don’t go there. It’s a story I’d rather forget… and I just happened to meet Ben. You know, Ben the Bonk with the bulging bollocks? He was my humongous love interest back in the day.”

  She stares into the distance and hesitates momentarily. “I knew who he was as soon as I clapped eyes on him – even though he was almost bald – but I saw through all that. In my opinion, nothing had changed, and it was just like I was fifteen again. We got pissed and had a ‘moment’.” She blushes.

  “I take it that’s before you found religion, pet? Well, this week it’s Amy’s turn to be a hot milf.”

  “Bea, that’s gross.”

  “You can take it, Claire. And being called a milf is a compliment. Go kick ass, Amy,” retorts Bea. “You’re on a year of self-discovery and adventure. Just keep off the wine, and you’ll be fine.”

  Tuesday

  I’m to meet William tomorrow. I take a day’s holiday from work and spend it on making myself look absobloodylutely fabulous. It costs a bomb, but it’s worth it.

  Wednesday, 8.00 p.m.

  William is instantly recognisable. His once straw-blond mane of hair has thinned and now falls like gossamer around his shoulders, and years of smoking has ravaged his complexion, but the instant I see his smiling face I am teleported to another galaxy. I smile at him fondly, and as he gives me his trademark lopsided grin, any hint of guilt or nerves disappears.

  “Rat Face!” he cries, hugging me hard. “Looking good, babe.” He runs his hand through his hair and a fine shower of dandruff drifts onto the collar of his black polo shirt. “Your usual?” he smiles, and before I can reply, I find myself staring at a glass of wine and a packet of salt and vinegar. One glass won’t matter, I reason. It’d be rude not to, and I really don’t fancy him at all.

  9.30 p.m.

  Having drunk more than my safe quota of wine, my tongue has loosened considerably. I’d forgotten how well we got on, and it’s fun remembering the fantastic times we shared. We make small talk until I decide to pull the trigger. I take aim. “So, enough of the past…” And fire. “How do you think I’ve turned out?” I grin, Cheshire Cat-like.

  William takes a drag on his roll-up. “You, Amy Parker,” he pauses and laughs easily. “You were independent, fiery and brimming with ambition and ideas – the girl who would heartlessly dump anyone who didn’t match up to her criteria. I’m surprised you live the life you do now. I never imagined you as a wifey and selling your soul to follow some executive husband’s dreams with the obligatory two-point-four kids in tow. If the Amy I knew is buried deep inside, you must be bloody dissatisfied a lot of the time – dry-cleaning his suits and silk ties. I know you wanted security and status and to escape your mundane childhood, but I don’t get why you sold out. It must have come at quite a cost. You don’t sound too happy.” He sees my crestfallen face. “Sorry,” he shrugs. “But you did ask. You’ve gone from Rat Face to Mat Face.”

  “Is that really what you think?” I reply, aghast. “That I’m a doormat now?”

  “Oh, babe,” he replies, kindly. “You are exactly the same as you were back in the day, but the life you describe is far removed from what I imagined. Another wine?” He goes to the bar and I’m so upset that I leave before he returns.

  Thursday evening.

  Claire calls me, bursting to know what happened.

  “William said I’d sold my soul to follow my executive husband’s dreams.”

  “And?”

  The enormity of this moment is huge. My voice breaks as I try to explain. “Opening my ‘ex-box’ opened my eyes. I’ve learned that, for some reason, I took up the mantle of ‘wife’ to feel safe, loved and a ‘somebody’,” I laugh. “I had a list of criteria to ensure I went with my head and not my heart; to ensure that I chose with care – or so I thought. On Don’t Tell the Bride, they say that getting married is the best day of their lives. I think they should do a follow-up a few years down the line, called What They Didn’t Tell the Bride, ha ha.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean, Ames? You are a somebody – a friend, a mum and Geoff’s wife – with a family that others would die for. You just need something to give you back your lust for life… and talking about lust – what’s the latest with Him then?”

  At the mention of Him, I cheer up considerably. “He’s doing my head in,” I smile. “We text each other intermittently, and we were in a conversation a bit ago, but as soon as I asked if I could ring him, he didn’t reply. I felt really let down.”

  “So?”

  “I need his help. Is there something wrong, Claire?”

  “So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin. James 4:17,” she quotes. “I think this has gone on for too long, Amy. If this continues, you are going to get hurt, and you’re gonna hurt Geoff. Are you sure there’s no hidden agenda that you’re not admitting to? Are you certain you’re not getting off on this texting game? What is he giving you that Geoff doesn’t? You know what to do, Amy. Put the fifty-first challenge and Him on the back burner and focus your attention on what’s important – the here and now.”

  10.30 p.m.

  I know that Claire is right. My four statements of intent are written in bold on my laptop. I say them aloud, ticking them off on my fingers.

  I will sever all contact with Him for four weeks.

  Should he get in touch during this time, I shall ignore him completely.

  I will uncover something about him that extinguishes any potential further lusting.

  I will forget all about having a secret snog with him. That challenge is over.

  Then I will return to normal.

  I go to bed full of determination.

  August

  Week One. Saturday, 7.00 a.m.

  “Happy birthday,” sings Evie, handing me my birthday cards. Geoff’s reads To my beautiful wife, my world and informs me that he’s on an early morning hike. As Evie busies herself preparing a special birthday breakfast for me, I remember to select this week’s challenge. It reads:

  GO INCOGNITO AND HAVE AN ADVENTURE ALONE.

  GO WHEREVER YOU CHOOSE.

  COVER YOUR TRACKS.

  USE CASH.

  MOBILE: FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY.

  TURN OFF LOCATION.

  PASSPORT: IF GOING ABROAD.

  LEAVE 09:00 MONDAY AND RETURN BY

  FRIDAY MIDNIGHT.

  I glance furtively around the kitchen to see if anyone is taking any notice of what I am doing. The coast is clear. I read on.

  YOU MAY TELL ONE CLOSE FRIEND THAT YOU HAVE GONE.

  DO NOT DISCLOSE WHERE YOU ARE.

  THE FRIEND WILL BE YOUR EMERGENCY CONTACT SHOULD YOU NEED THEM OR SHOULD ANYONE NEED YOU.

  ON TUESDAY MORNING, THEY WILL INFORM YOUR FAMILY WHERE YOU ARE.

  Midday.

  Geoff sees me manically cleaning. He’s delighted.

  1.00 p.m.

  I’ve done an online supermarket shop that will arrive later. I can’t leave my family to starve while I’m gone.

  3.00 p.m.

  I write to-do lists for each family member.

  3.30 p.m.

  I remember that no one is supposed to know that I have gone. I burn the lists.

  8:00 p.m.

  Over dinner at our local Chinese restaurant, Geoff passes on some ‘birthday advice’ along with my present. “I’ve invested in a three-year gym couples’ subscription to encourage you to keep in shape and get rid of your hibernation overhang. I’ve given Adam Anthony one too. Jess thought it a great idea.”

  I put down my chopsticks, outraged. />
  “Don’t start, Amy. I should be able to say what I want to you, and you should accept feedback with good grace. Any other wife would be grateful for the advice and appreciate this gift. It cost a bloody fortune, almost as much as this meal, in fact.”

  “You both thought what? No, you thought wrong, and what are you doing spoiling that boy? You think more of him than your own kids, always treating him,” I say, utterly dismayed. “I can’t believe you’ve bought me that and commenting on my…”

  The last thing I want is a stand-up row on my birthday – about my weight – in a restaurant with my children looking on, so I count to five, thank him with a kiss and store the incident away in the ‘for later’ file.

  Geoff shivers. “It’s bloody chilly in here. I’ve mislaid my jacket.”

  “It’s at Claire’s,” I reply, busy scooping egg fried rice into my mouth.

  He tilts his head to the side and clears his throat. “You might be right. Can you pick it up for me when you next see her? Now, how about a glass of fizz before we go? Waiter? A glass of champagne for the birthday girl, please. Only the best for team Parker, eh, Amy? Drink it up quickly, darling. It’s late, and I’m knackered.”

  Calm down, Amy, ignore his comments, I say to myself as I force myself to knock back my drink as quickly as I can. I’m bloody glad I’m going away tomorrow, because the way I feel right now, I could do something to him that I deeply regret.

  Tuesday, 10.30 a.m.

  On the ferry to Amsterdam, I’ve met a lively Stag party who’ve kept me entertained with tales of their laddish lives. I love this kind of banter. You can learn things you’d never imagine likely or possible, and lads, when prowling in packs (and especially after a few beers) just love to boast about themselves and their exploits. As we disembark, they ask me about my plans. I make them believe that I am raising money for charity and returning home shortly. They are well-impressed, and I feel bad.

  It’s a beautiful day, and I amble towards the Centrum feeling content. In fact, I have almost forgotten that nobody at home has the slightest idea where I am, and I only remember that I am a fugitive when I see a child across the street who closely resembles Evie. My itinerary is mapped out – which is good, as what I am about to do is completely out of my comfort zone. I am determined, however, to Experiment, Experience and Grow.

  First stop: the Sex Museum. It’s packed with people of all ages and all nationalities, studying and sniggering over the various artifacts on display. It doesn’t take me long to get in the zone, pushing my way through the hoards of museum-goers to take a better look at the focal display entitled New and Exciting: Sex Toys Through The Ages. I stare at a multitude of what can only be described as sexual instruments of torture, trying to imagine what they could possibly be used for. “I simply can’t believe that people ever used this stuff for pleasure,” I remark pleasantly to an elderly couple standing next to me. They look at me strangely. “No?” says one of them as they pass through an unmarked door on my right.

  My curiosity gets the better of me, and I follow them – only to be greeted by a writhing mass of groaning bodies in a poorly lit room that smells of sweet incense and human sweat. I can’t quite make out what is going on. “Hi,” I say to a middle-aged woman wearing an official-looking badge. “Is this an interactive show?”

  “This is an interactive area. They are taking pleasure with replicas of the toys you will have seen outside in the new display. Please join in. It is for everyone. You leave your clothes over there.” She motions me to move forward.

  “Ah! I don’t really think this is for me quite yet – but thank you all the same. Where’s the exit?” I stutter.

  “Over there.” She motions towards the other side of the room. “Take care to avoid the people.”

  Shielding my eyes with my hand to ensure I don’t see too much, I deftly step over objects and writhing bodies, desperate to get out. Somebody pulls me into a passionate embrace. I feel an object vibrating against the small of my back and panic. I do the only thing I can think of under the circumstances; I stamp on their toes. Hard. They release me and I run.

  2.00 p.m.

  I’m desperately hungry but know that scones don’t exist over here. Anyway, I’m determined to try the local speciality – cake infused with cannabis. It’s on my list of key things to experience. However, I have absolutely no idea how to tell normal cake and cannabis cake apart. After a fruitless half an hour examining cakes in café shop windows, I decide to ask for advice at the Tourist Information Office.

  I hear a shout. It’s the Stags from the ferry. They cross the road and embrace me warmly. “We thought you were going straight home once you’d reached the city, Amy?” slurs Josh, the Chief Stag.

  “Um, I decided that since I, er, came all the way here, I might as well explore for a couple of days.”

  “Join us, Amy,” he smiles, picking me up in his arms and carrying me down the road to the nearest bar. “You can be our Stagette.” And that is how I join the Stag party.

  “Got anything to eat, Josh? I’m famished.” He delves into his backpack and hands me a brown paper bag. “There you go,” he grins. “Space cake will do the trick.”

  “That’s an unusual name,” I reply. But I don’t question it. I don’t normally like chocolate cake, but this is exceptionally good and I wolf it down.

  I only realise what I’ve eaten as a feeling of total calm and relaxation gently washes over me and I drop to my knees with an irresistible urge to lie down and stare up at the hazy blue sky. “I can see Pippa’s face in the clouds!” I giggle, squinting upwards. “She’s smiling down on me. Helloooo! At least you know where I am. Cate will have told you by now, and this must be a sign that all is well.”

  The Stags join me. We lie in in a row, staring up at the sky.

  The following night, as is customary, we investigate the Red Light District. The Stags find the whole event highly amusing, but I don’t. I’m intrigued yet just a little uncomfortable at such blatant advertising of sex. I stand apart, watching a female carefully ironing a shirt. I have an urge to enter her world and experience what it’s like to stand in her shoes, behind the glass. She stares me straight in the eye and smiles. I smile back and using sign language, I ask if I may speak with her. She invites me inside.

  Sammy from Leatherhead and I sit on her shocking pink sofa, and I listen intently as she talks candidly about her life as a sex worker. “I enjoy it, Amy, simple as that. Over here, I think that my work’s respected, and because prostitution is legal and regulated, I feel safe. I also do it for other reasons. I mean, I work the hours I want from home, there’s no office politics to piss me off, every day’s different, my services are valued and I get great satisfaction from giving pleasure to people who might otherwise not experience it.”

  “That’s exactly what Becca, my hairdresser, said when we were discussing the benefits of being a Sex Chat Line Operator,” I smile. “I completely get where you are coming from.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I’m conscious of a man staring intently at me, the intensity of his gaze burning through the glass. Curiosity gets the better of me and I steal a glance in his direction. I do a double-take. A triple take. It’s Pete. I run into the street and hug him hello.

  “Amy,” says Pete, quietly. “We need to talk.”

  He shows me a Facebook post on his phone. I stare at the phone. I stare at Pete. I stare at the post. I stare at the Stags. Everyone stares at the post and they all stare at me. Pete gathers me into his arms. “Why don’t you tell us all about it so that we can sort it out?”

  “It’s me. It says I am missing? I’m not missing, I’m supposed to be having a secret adventure; going incognito. I told Cate… she was telling Geoff… Oh, my Lord.”

  Pete puts his head against mine and takes my hands in his. I stare into his kind, sad eyes. “Amy baby, please don’t worry.”

  12.
45 a.m.

  Everyone knows why I am really in Amsterdam. Pete phoned Geoff and the police in the UK to let them know that I am safe and well. I speak to Cate briefly. “Ames, I feel dreadful. I totally forgot. There was a cyber-security breach at work – I had to drop everything and fly out to our HQ in Stornoway. Your husband has been horrible. He’s threatened to section you for leaving him and your children like that. I’ve tried to explain, but I don’t know if he understands.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it, Cate. We’ll talk when I get back. Just make sure that I’ve been taken off the official Missing Persons Register.” I end the call and can’t help but burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all.

  We toast the fact that I am officially found and that the trip has been ‘a blast’ (as Josh called it). We take loads of photos for posterity. I turn to Pete. “What exactly are you doing here?” I ask. “You can’t have been sent to track me down?”

  “I’m busking to earn some dosh and taking a break at the same time,” he explains. He pauses. “You look really happy tonight, Amy baby, as happy as when you were with us all in the soup kitchen. Have your challenges become your way of running away from your troubles? Use your insights to be strong and face up to what is stopping you from having a good life. Don’t be like I was.”

  He turns away. I am desperate to cry in his arms and tell him about the thoughts and secrets that are eating me up. I want to admit that what Pippa said on the Freaky Friday challenge is branded in my heart and haunts me every night. Why did I marry Geoff? Why am I still lusting after Him? But I can’t. I stare into Pete’s sad eyes and hug him tight.

  Week Two. Friday, midnight.