51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  I have been home for half an hour. No one is in. I feel strange, out of place, unsettled. I sit at the kitchen table in tears; a glass of Pinot Grigio by my side, typing up the events from the past week. So much has happened. I can’t quite take it all in. I’m missing it already. And then I hear the front door slam and the clatter of feet, and my children run to me. They throw their arms around my waist and welcome me home as only families know how. I feel the love, the relief, the sense of belonging. I realise how much they mean to me; that I have missed them more than words can say. Geoff is not with them. He is at Claire and Bob’s. I start to cry.

  Saturday afternoon.

  Cate came round earlier, bearing gifts to assuage her guilt. My other friends have visited out of concern and love, and I have cried myself out in their arms. Geoff has not been kind. He returned home drunk at two o’clock this morning and spent a good half an hour guilt-tripping me about my actions. He woke early and went downstairs without a word. Pippa discovered a note by the front door informing me that he’s playing in a golf charity tournament in Scotland and will see me tomorrow.

  As I open a box of chocolates left by Cate and pop my favourite into my mouth, I remember that my mobile has been off since last Monday. I fish it out from the depths of my bag and switch it on. Amazingly, it still has charge, and I gasp at the number of unread texts waiting for me. I scroll through the messages, starting with those sent on the day I left for Amsterdam. Many of them make for painful reading. None are from Geoff. However, amongst them all is a text from Him.

  Where are you, Amy?

  Are you safe?

  He has reached out to me and shown that he cares, which is more than Geoff did. I feel that familiar rush of adrenaline and am taken aback by the intensity of my emotions. They are as strong as ever. I want to talk to him and thank him and tell him how I feel. I will not text him, I resolve. It’s not allowed.

  Two minutes later.

  I reread his text and feel that warm glow deep inside of me. “I will not text him,” I say aloud, putting down my mobile.

  Two minutes later.

  I pick up my mobile… I put it down.

  Two minutes later.

  Oh, sod it. I have to text. I can’t concentrate. My stomach is taut. Perhaps it’ll go away if I text? And this is an extraordinary situation, after all.

  Hi.

  Thanks so much for thinking of me.

  I am at home now.

  All fine.

  Challenge over.

  Got excellent material for my book.

  I can send what I have so far if you like?

  Amy :)

  I wait for a reply, but there is nothing. The Bowl of Chance and Opportunity catches my eye, and I select my next challenge in an attempt to push my disappointment aside.

  A FRIEND IN NEED IS A FRIEND INDEED.

  Relief. Tomorrow is all about helping Bea to move house. She is a friend in need and fits the challenge criteria perfectly.

  Sunday, 8.00 a.m.

  When I arrive at her house, Bea is sitting on the parquet floor in her cold, dim hallway, surrounded by cardboard boxes and weeping quietly. Outside, it’s teeming with rain, and a bitter wind whips through the trees. It’s been like this since last night – a depressing sight in mid-August. Her house feels cold and hostile. The electricity has been disconnected, and candles flicker wildly in the breeze. Peeling off my sodden raincoat, I sit at Bea’s side and wind my arms around her. “Here. I knew that today would be difficult, so I brought you something to cheer you up.” I hand her a box of her favourite liqueur chocolates. “Go on, open them.”

  “Why not, pet.” Bea smiles through her tears. She unwraps the box and we scoff the lot.

  By ten o’clock, Bea’s friends are arriving in a constant stream to help her pack up, and she is busy allocating jobs. “Would you mind detoxing my personal stuff, Amy? Just do what you did to yours, pet. You know, when you had to um… declutter,” she says. Her eyes flash. The word ‘declutter’ has evoked memories of the night of her fortieth birthday, the night she decided to declutter her life of her husband. Today marks the culmination of that process. She is leaving her family home behind.

  She recovers her composure. “Go to the spare bedroom and bag up whatever’s brought up to you,” she says, handing me a box of binbags and labels. “I’ve sent someone up to help you.”

  The spare bedroom door is shut, and so I knock gently before opening it. “Hello? Hell…” I see my assistant. My assistant fastens his eyes upon me and a wide grin spreads across his face. “Beautiful lady. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

  This can’t be real. I don’t want to see you, of all people, right now. I’m supposed to be in a Him-free zone, and you are related to Him. Not only that, but I might have to explain about my Let the Dice Decide challenge and how I used you…

  I realise that I am cowering by the door and gripping the handle tightly. I can’t quite believe that I have to work with Blue Jumper Man – who, incidentally, is wearing another blue jumper. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Blue Jumper Man is sorting books. His hair and clothes are dripping wet. “You should really take that wet jumper off. If you don’t, it’ll start to smell as rank as this room, and you’ll catch cold,” I say without thinking, my nose wrinkling in disgust.

  His eyes dance suggestively. “Yeah, it’s a bit stale in here. But as it’s so cold, I didn’t want to open the window to air the room. But if you’d like me to undress for you…”

  “Only take your jumper off if you have clothes on underneath,” I squeak. “I might take fright, and you’ll freeze.”

  I avert my eyes as he pulls his jumper over his head and throws it onto the bed in the corner. If he’s naked, I will have to leave. What would Geoff say if it got back to him that I’d been alone with a semi-clad bloke? The six degrees of separation theory would make sure of that, and then I’d be in big trouble. Fortunately, he is wearing a polo shirt underneath.

  “Okay for you?” he smirks. “Reputation intact?”

  “Oh, piss off,” I breathe shakily.

  He laughs. “You’re right, Amy, I feel so much better,” he winks. “Come on, there’s stacks to do.”

  5.00 p.m.

  “Bea, I’ve been thinking about all the stuff I’ve bagged up for you today and how I can help you make some money to spend on your new place, perhaps. I still have all my stuff stored in our garage, you know, from the challenge when I decluttered my home?” I hesitate. We’re back to that decluttering challenge. “Anyway,” I continue at speed, “I keep meaning to do a car boot sale, so how about we do one together and I’ll gladly donate all the money I make to you. What do you think? You know, a friend in need and all that.”

  Bea hugs me. “Aww, thanks, pet. You’ve taken a weight off my mind. I was worried how I was going to replace what my lovely ex-husband has snaffled.” She rattles off a list of household items that her husband has taken with him since their split. It includes half of her CD collection. She is especially annoyed about losing Madonna.

  “Never mind, Bea. It’s only stuff, and stuff is easily replaced. If we can sell half of what we have now, you’ll be okay.” I smile. “Can I smell pizza? I bet you haven’t eaten much all day. Come on, you’ve gotta keep your strength up.” I take her hand and lead her into the kitchen.

  9.00 p.m.

  The (after) party is rocking, and I have drunk far too much wine. Somebody opens the front door, and the bitter draught reminds me that I’ve left my coat upstairs in the spare bedroom. I decide to go and get it. It takes three attempts and a lot of uncontrollable giggling to stand up in my heels, so I take them off. “God, I am dangerously drunk,” I titter, staggering over to the staircase. “Up we go now, up, up, up into the sky,” I sing. “I am climbing in Austria, Geoff,” I chuckle to myself as I navigate the last few stairs on my hands and knee
s.

  I crawl the length of the hallway to the spare bedroom and reach up to grab and turn the door handle. On my third attempt, I successfully sway inside. “There’s my coat. Oh, Blue Jumper Man’s forgotten his jumper,” I slur. “I wonder if it smells of Him?” I pick it up gingerly, close my eyes, bury my nose in the sleeve and breathe in deeply. My eyes fly open. I recognise that smell. Oh, my Lord! I sniff the jumper again to be sure.

  The Mystery of Musty Man is solved.

  Week Four. Adriano’s Restaurant. Friday, 9.00 p.m.

  For some reason, I’m feeling off-colour. I toy with the stem of my wine glass, half-listening to Bea’s excited chatter. I’m definitely not in the mood for challenge chat but this week I’ve to:

  BREAK A RECORD.

  And I need help to do it.

  “Heard the latest about Josie Jamieson? She’s really doing my head in with her string of posts online, boasting about a new business she’s set up with an amazing woman she met at some parking enforcement event in Wigan. Does anyone know about it?”

  “Whoever she’s working with must be strong-minded, Bea,” I yawn. “Jess would give her a run for her money. I could never imagine those two hitting it off, though.”

  “Who gives a damn what she’s up to, anyway?” smiles Bea. “I’m glad she’s left the governing body and her stranglehold on the school. Only wish I’d taken a photo of the moment when her dress was caught up in her thong, showing that school coat of arms tattoo on her bum, and sent it to Teacher Weekly,” she giggles. “Hi, Claire.”

  “Sorry I’m late, guys. I’ve been carrying out a nightmare review on the church summer school. Pour me a glass of Pinot Grigio, Ames.” Claire dumps her red leather tote on the table. There’s something familiar about it, but I can’t think what.

  “That’s a cool bag,” remarks Cate.

  “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? It was a present.” Claire strokes it lovingly. “I bumped into Geoff yesterday, Ames. He told me you hated last week’s car maintenance course challenge.”

  Bea chuckles. “I can’t believe that, pet. I’m gonna enrol on it. Getting down and dirty with greasy mechanics sounds like lots of fun, and I’m up for that now.”

  Claire sighs disapprovingly. “You’re not even divorced yet, Bea.”

  “Claire, stop being so disapproving. Just because…”

  I step in quickly. “Girls, I’ve important news. Last Saturday at Bea’s, I solved the Mystery of Musty Man.” There is stunned silence.

  “Are you referring to that man who stole your secret snog at the divorce party we went to in May?” says Claire, agog. “How?”

  “Yes, I am. You remember back in June, when I Let the Dice Decide?”

  “Course we do. You pulled a man in a blue jumper in the pub.”

  “Well, Blue Jumper Man and the secret snogger are one and the same – the mysterious Musty Man – and his real name is Jason. Exhibit One.” I pick up a carrier bag that’s been sitting by my feet and pass it to Cate. “Feel free to sniff.”

  “Oh God,” blurts out Cate. “That’s really awful.” She throws the bag to Bea, who sniffs gingerly, grimaces and passes it to Claire.

  “Oh, rank,” she mutters. “You stood by him in a pub and let him kiss you smelling like that? Didn’t you realise?” She sniffs again and retches. “It smells like he’s washed it and put it away before it was properly dry. You’d remember that smell anywhere.”

  “Precisely. That’s exactly what I thought when he… we… he snogged me in the dark. I thought that it was a garment that had been put away while still damp.”

  “But Ames,” says Cate. “How come you didn’t realise who he was that night in the pub? It’s so pungent.”

  “I didn’t get close enough to sniff his jumper then, unlike on the night of the secret snog at the party in May, when my nose briefly buried in his jumper and I got a good whiff of it. In the pub, he leaned forward and kissed me on my cheeks, so my face was nowhere near.”

  I take a bite of my bread and think on. “When my hands touched his jumper in the pub, it did feel damp.”

  “It’d been raining hard that night,” adds Cate. “Maybe you thought it was damp because of the weather.”

  “Spot on. I didn’t put two and two together,” I laugh.

  “When exactly did you realise that Musty and Blue Jumper are one and the same?” smiles Cate.

  “He left his jumper at Bea’s, and I brought it home for safekeeping. So that’s that. Would you mind returning it to him some time, Bea, and perhaps dropping a gentle hint about hygiene? Now,” I say, “onto more important matters. What’s my party piece? My challenge is to be a record-breaker.”

  Bea laughs heartily. “How about the ping pong ball one you rejected from the Learn a Skill to Impress challenge? It’s dead impressive to watch.”

  “That’s just vulgar, Bea. It’d ruin Geoff’s reputation,” tuts Claire. “Isn’t he trying for a promotion?”

  “Yes, supposedly,” I reply guardedly.

  “Oh, Claire,” Bea cuts in. “Don’t tell me you are subtly taking the piss out of Amy’s husband for once?”

  “Sorry?” Claire replies. “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “Knowing Geoff, he’d like nothing better than for his wife to get down and dirty, pet.” She pauses. “Shame, I thought I was on for a first, then. You know, you making fun of him?” she teases.

  “Oh, shut up, Bea,” mutters Claire crossly, “You know he’s an old friend. Amy, I was thinking more along the lines of an eating challenge. Something to do with crisps or scones, perhaps? I’ll Google ‘eating challenges’ on my phone.”

  I go into finger-gnawing mode as the table is cleared and the sweet trolley is wheeled into view. I am racking my brain for ideas. “Here’s one,” Claire says, squinting at her mobile. “In two thousand and one, someone set a record for eating individual cold tinned peas in three minutes. You needn’t eat peas, and three minutes seems a bit excessive, but we could find something else… like…” She scans the sweet trolley. “These.” She points to a cake overloaded with blueberries. “How about seeing how many blueberries you can fit into your mouth in one minute?” she says excitedly.

  “It’s an interesting idea – but a bit dangerous, don’t you think?” I muse. It sounds like a choking disaster waiting to happen. I don’t much like the idea of having somebody on standby to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre. Let me think about it.”

  “Amy,” sighs Bea. “I can just see the headlines now. Mad mother embarking on adventure and self-discovery for her fiftieth – buried by blueberry misadventure. You are always so cautious and sensible, pet. Do something impulsive for once.”

  “You are over-exaggerating,” agrees Claire. “We could hold a competition to see how many blueberries we can eat in a given time limit, the winner being the one who ate the most. It says here, on this website, that the official record for the most eaten in one minute is one hundred and sixty-five.”

  At long last, I feel a familiar spark of excitement. This has the making of an excellent challenge and will take my mind off the complex emotional rollercoaster ride I’m on. I beam at my friends. “That’s the one, then. I’m not sure if I’ll try to break the world record, but we can set a record for eating blueberries that will stand in our village. Will you all take part?”

  “Absolutely,” they reply in unison.

  “Let’s crack on then and do it… on Wednesday.”

  On Saturday morning, Evie and I eagerly digest the rules and regulations – should I wish to formally challenge the world record. There’s a part of me that would so love to be a bona fide world-record-breaker. Grandma would be so proud. Geoff takes a peek at what we are up to and snorts derisively. “Another brainless challenge, Amy? You could do so much better.” Arms folded, he continues to read over my shoulder, sniggering. “At least there’s added health benefits. Littl
e chance of piling on the pounds scoffing blueberries, eh?” he taunts, pointing to my stomach. “And although there’s no way you’ll do it, if you manage to eat that many, I reckon you’ll increase your IQ by at least ten points.”

  Without warning, an internal volcano that has been simmering deep inside of me erupts, and fiery, frothy frustration spills from between my lips. “How can you stand there, pointing that finger, ridiculing me and talking about failure and how stupid it is when I haven’t even had a go – and in front of Evie, too? Other people believe in me. They don’t put me down. But you…”

  I feel my body tensing, fists clenching, heart splintering. Breathe, calm, don’t say anything silly… I can’t control myself this time. “Listen here,” I hiss. “I was set this challenge for a reason. It’s about pushing boundaries and striving to achieve. It’s about being the best one can.” I wait for him to come back at me, but he is silent. “This is a good challenge for me. I haven’t tried to achieve my full potential for many years now. I’m not even sure what my potential is any more – I think I buried it years ago. But this year, I’m exhuming a gobsmacking amount of information about myself.”

  Remembering Eloise’s assertiveness training, I stand up before I lose it. The dreaded tears are threatening, and I want to remain strong. “In fact,” I state, my hands flat on the table, leaning towards him. “This challenge has given me an idea. I’d like to organise an annual family community event where people can compete against each other to set and break records. You know, a bit like the Olympics, but with a more eclectic range of challenges – like standing on one leg for as long as possible while balancing a beanbag on their head, perhaps. This event will be about giving children and adults an opportunity to learn and grow. What I mean is, they’ll be able to experience stuff in a fun and safe environment, learn from their experiences and, as a result, grow as individuals. Their confidence will improve, and their horizons will broaden.” I flee upstairs, launch myself onto my bed and lie on my back staring up at the ceiling, feeling totally frustrated.