51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  11.30 a.m.

  At the supermarket, Evie bombards me with intelligent questions and observations about the challenge. “I think that you should have a go, and then we’ll know if you can do it,” she says gravely. “You need to eat one hundred and sixty-six blueberries in one minute to win. That’s a lot,” she adds in a serious voice. “What if you turn blue?”

  3.00 p.m.

  Evie and I are on a secret adventure. I am about to try a test run, to see if I can down one hundred and seventy blueberries in one minute flat. “Ready, Mum? Stop chewing on your finger,” she scolds. She gives me a cuddle. “Don’t be nervous. If you can’t do it, at least you’ve tried. You always tell us to have a go and that it doesn’t matter if we don’t succeed.”

  “Yes, I do, don’t I?” I say absentmindedly, staring down at the bowl in front of me. It doesn’t look very appetising. In fact, the thought of putting them into my mouth makes me feel distinctly queasy. “Okay, let’s do it,” I say, focusing on the task in hand. I take a deep breath. One… Two… Three… Go!”

  One minute later, Evie counts forty uneaten berries. “Never mind, Mum – it was a good try.”

  “It’s okay,” I croak, sipping a glass of water and dabbing at my streaming eyes. “I gave it my best shot.”

  Thirty minutes later.

  Evie is holding my hand in sympathy as I retch into the toilet bowl. “Eating fruit shouldn’t make you sick, Mum. Did you wash it properly?”

  “Water,” I gasp.

  “Dad,” she shouts. “Mum’s puking a lot. Can you get her a glass of water, please?”

  Geoff’s head appears around the door, and he takes in the scene. “What’s going on in here?” I can hear the irritation in his voice.

  “Mum tried to break the blueberry-eating world record,” says Evie, forlorn.

  Another wave of intense stomach-cramping makes me vomit again…

  Sunday, 7.00 a.m.

  The puking has continued all night long. My mouth is dry. My throat’s so sore. I want to brush my teeth, but I can’t move. I nudge Geoff. No response. I elbow him harder.

  “You’ll have to do everything today,” I breathe weakly.

  He grunts.

  “Aren’t you up yet?” Pippa is at my bedside.

  “Dying,” I reply feebly. “Dad will have to get up for a change.” I attempt to pull the duvet off him.

  “Dad,” shouts Pippa. “You can see that Mum’s ill. Get up.”

  “Get ready,” I whisper. “Drama club starts at half-nine.” I close my eyes to stop the room spinning.

  Pippa kisses me lightly on the forehead. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  Through half-closed eyes, I watch her tiptoe round to Geoff’s side of the bed, where he is lying motionless. A look of steely determination is set upon her face. I bite my lip, trying not to laugh as she picks up the glass of water sitting on his bedside table and deliberately pours the contents over his head. “There!” she shrieks, dashing down the hallway as he swears furiously. “You’re up now.”

  Brilliant, darling, I think, pretending to be asleep. Glad you’re assertive.

  Wednesday, 7.00 p.m.

  The contestants are crammed around my dining room table, sitting before plates onto which two hundred blueberries have been counted. There’s a buzz in the air, and the excitement is palpable.

  At the eleventh hour, Evie persuaded Geoff to join in as ‘Challenge Compère’ (because if he doesn’t, everyone will wonder where he is). He struts about the kitchen sporting an ‘Official Compère Crown’ made by her, and solemnly reads out the challenge rules and regulations (to ensure everyone is clear on what constitutes ‘good form’).

  “Hurry up and open the champers, somebody? We have to toast the challenge,” pipes up Mrs Mon-Key.

  “Epic,” grins Bea, glaring at Geoff. “Why didn’t I think of that? This is supposed to be fun, and it’s a bit too serious for my liking. Here – allow me, Mrs M.”

  “Madam,” stutters Geoff, horrified. “I think we should toast the winner after the contest.”

  “You think what, darling?” Mrs Mon-Key’s eyes widen. “Oh no! We don’t do bossy. Come over here, sweetie.”

  Geoff hesitates.

  “Come here,” she repeats more firmly, patting the chair next to her and gesturing for him to sit down. “You have to learn not to be so officious, you delightful man,” she gurgles, taking his hand in hers and stroking it provocatively. “You are too strained. Relax,” she purrs. “A tinsey-winsey glass or two of champers will help us all to enjoy the evening, eh Amy?” She winks at me.

  “Blimey, do they know each other?” whispers Claire, her eyes fixed on them. “She’s a bit forward, isn’t she? He’ll hate that.”

  “They’ve never met, but it’s good fun watching him being tamed by the man-whisperer,” I giggle as he quietens down.

  Mrs Mon-Key looks thoughtful. “Cate and Claire, darlings? Would you search out some nibbles? I quite enjoy a little something to chew on with my aperitif.”

  She watches them go into the kitchen, and her expression changes to one of unadulterated excitement. She gives her husband a covert nod, and he quickly refills Geoff’s glass.

  “Drink, my darling,” she instructs Geoff, her eyes hypnotically transfixed on his. Geoff takes a gulp of his champagne and grins. “All of it now,” commands Mrs Mon-Key, her eyes sparking. “Good boy.” A devilish smile plays across her face. “I’ve heard, darling, and I understand what you need. You’ll soon be full of good spirit again.” She leans forward and whispers something into his ear. Geoff’s eyes glint appreciatively.

  10.30 p.m.

  “Everybody, lishen up!” bellows Geoff. Muffled ‘oohs’ resound around the room, followed by raucous laughter. Geoff has miraculously morphed into a loveable Christmas pantomime actor, rousing his audience into a frenzy. His crown has slipped around his neck and now resembles a spiky necklace. “You have one minute to eat ash many blueberriesh as you can – but there ish a twisht!” He reveals a packet of cocktail sticks from up his sleeve. “No hands may touch the blueberriesh, only the coshtail stick. Three… Two… One… ”

  One minute later.

  Thank God it’s over.

  11.30 p.m.

  I must have dropped off to sleep, as I am brought to by Mrs Mon-Key announcing the winner. “By a very small margin, our champion is our darling Amy.”

  Rising unsteadily to my feet I make an attempt to give the victory speech that I prepared yesterday, in case I did win. But it won’t come out right. “I would like to sank you for… I can’t remember what I should sank you for,” I giggle. “Wheresh Geoff?”

  I scan the room for him. He should be by my side, puffed up with pride and sharing my joy, but Claire tells me that Mrs Mon-Key and Bea put him to bed before the results were announced. If I think about it too much, I know that I will cry again – this time with despair. Making my excuses, I go into the garden, where I pace agitatedly back and forth, flicking through my phone contacts, searching for somebody who will want to hear my news and be excited for me. My finger hovers over Him. I smile. He believes in me. He’s told me so. He won’t laugh at me or make me feel inadequate. He will make me happy and applaud my efforts. I bang out a text and press Send.

  September

  Week One. Friday, 7.30 p.m.

  “A drunk man wants to speak to you.” Evie passes me the phone.

  “Hello?”

  I listen, hang up, look to the sky and take a deep breath.

  “Mum?” Two worried faces stare into mine.

  “Dad’s been made redundant. That means he’s lost his job. I need to pick him up from the pub.”

  10.30 p.m.

  Geoff is slouched over the kitchen table. I attempt to be a good wife and comfort, reassure and provide hope. But he is furious. Noxious utterances fly from hi
s mouth like shards of glass. Whatever I say smacks against a high force field he has created and ricochets into the ether. Nothing can help right now. He needs to talk, shout and blame, and I am his punch bag. A few minutes later, I hear him on the phone and the front door slamming behind him. I let him go. What I’d really like to do right now is to reach for the Pinot Grigio, but I know that alcohol isn’t the answer, and I mustn’t use it to get rid of this big fat reef knot that somebody has kindly tied in the pit of my stomach. I start to clear the mountain of washing-up sitting in the sink. Right now, I feel helpless, and I can’t help wondering if Claire’s God is punishing me…

  Monday.

  For some inexplicable reason, in times of crisis, I have a need to reconnect with my family, and even though Jess is totally off the wall, I know that she went through similar with her husband a year or so ago, so she will understand. “Shit happens – it’s life,” Jess says flippantly. “What are you afraid of, sis?”

  “What if he can’t get another job? It’s a huge part of his life. Radio 2’s recent feature about the over-fifties being unable to find work in the current market scares me to death.”

  “Stop catastrophising,” warns Jess. “Not all men his age are like the ones described on Radio 2. There are loads of jobs out there. Okay, his ego will take a bashing. He’ll have to take a cut in salary and work alongside people beneath his station,” she laughs loudly, “but perhaps that’s a good thing. He always used to do my head in with his boasting about posh hospitality events and his going on about your fancy company cars. Take it from me – this redundancy is a blessing in disguise. He was well on the way to a heart attack or an affair.”

  “What on Earth gives you that idea?” I say, aghast.

  Jess sniggers. “You know. When the cat’s away and all that. Just remember why Dad left us. Geoff’s told me that you’re extremely busy these days. Don’t you ever wonder what he’s up to and with whom?”

  “Jess, I am not going there. Geoff is nothing like Dad. He’s not having, had or about to have an affair, nor is he on the way to a heart attack – and you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, as usual. He’s been made redundant. His work and my challenges have not caused problems with his health or our relationship.”

  “You know best, sis. Anyway, redundancy can be an opportunity. It was for us. I take it you don’t know I’ve gone self-employed?”

  “No! You’ve never held down a real job. What do you do?”

  “I am gainfully employed in the social care sector, spreading joy and happiness all around.”

  I hear her hooting with laughter for some reason, and I suddenly remember why I rarely speak to her. Her sense of humour grates on me. Unless I terminate our conversation right now, we are going to have words.

  “I really don’t need you to take the piss out of me now, Jess. Thanks for your advice. I must get back to work.” I close my eyes and make an ‘mmm’ sound to relieve the tension I feel. As I reopen them, I see my colleague, Hairy Nina, observing me as she washes her hands.

  “Nice vocal toning. I didn’t mean to overhear, but is your husband looking for work?” she asks.

  “Why?”

  “He’s an accountant, isn’t he? Finance restructured recently, and I know they’re looking to inject new blood into the team. Take a look at the intranet. There might be something there for him.”

  I immediately text Geoff.

  Finance Dept are recruiting.

  Ring and have a chat.

  Amy x

  The minute I get home from work, I take Geoff a cup of tea, ready to hear all about the call. He is on his e-reader.

  “Well?” I ask brightly.

  “What do you think I should say?”

  What? Does he really need me to hold his hand just to pick up the phone?

  I spend the next ten minutes motivating him to make the call.

  5.30 p.m.

  Geoff bounds up to me, waving an email in my face. “I’m in!” he whoops.

  We read the email together.

  “Well, you’re not in quite yet. It says here that you will have a competency-based interview if you pass two psychometric tests.” I read on. “They will be emailed to you at nine tomorrow morning, and you must complete them by midday. You will be informed by five whether or not you will be called back on Thursday for a formal interview.”

  “So, what happens if I don’t get the required pass mark?” asks Geoff.

  “It’ll be a case of ‘thanks, but no thanks’, regardless of how good a track record you have or how nice a guy you are,” I say simply. “That’s how they shortlist these days. I don’t necessarily agree with this strategy for recruiting somebody at your level, mind. I think that really good candidates often slip through the net.”

  He looks crestfallen.

  “Hey,” I say, giving him a hug. “You’re smart. You can do it.”

  “But I haven’t ever done tests like these. I’m disadvantaged before I’ve even begun. I bet there are loads of younger guys going for the same job who will have taken shedloads of them.”

  I think for a moment and become energised. The new and improving Amy Richards is going to use talents that have lain latent for too long to ensure Geoff has the best chance ever to land that job. “Okay,” I say firmly. “Pass me the iPad and the phone. We’re gonna prepare you good and proper. There’s no way that some poxy ability tests are going to stop you getting into that interview room. I know that you are good! I’ll use my Miss Marple investigative skills to suss out the type of tests you’ll have to complete. Come on. Let’s see what’s out there on the web.”

  “Thanks, Amy,” he replies, giving me a bear hug and smiling into my eyes. It feels good. It reminds me of times past. I smile back warmly.

  When I return home from collecting Pippa from a dance class, I discover Geoff analysing sample test questions on the PC over a beer. “Good, you’re back,” he snaps. “The amount of information available is pretty lame, the sample questions are shit and there’s no opportunity to time myself trying out an online test. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Give me a mo, I’ve only just got in,” I cry, kicking off my shoes.

  “But this is important. Come on, you’re good at this,” he wheedles. “That’s one of the reasons I married you. As soon as Claire introduced me to you, I knew we’d make a great strategic partnership and you’d help me get on in life. Help me to nail this job, and we won’t have to cut back on the kids’ activities.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well, I’ve worked out that if we stop the dancing and swimming lessons, we’ll be okay for a bit.”

  “But they love all that so much, and if I cancel the direct debits, then…”

  “Amy,” he reprimands sternly. “Kids don’t need all this entertainment. I thought that this would be the easiest way to trim off the fat, and it’ll do them good to stay at home and play. That’s what I did when I was a child. Now then, is it plum crumble with nutty topping tonight?”

  My eyes moisten as I stomp into the kitchen. Earlier, I had a glimpse of what we used to be, but now it has gone again. I take off my coat, make myself a cup of coffee – the first I’ve had since coming home – and start on the mash for shepherd’s pie. I won’t let them suffer, I whisper under my breath. Once we’ve sorted out your job, we’re going to sort out our life. Why don’t you cut back on your sodding golf or boozing down the pub for a while? That’d save us a fortune. I don’t want to compromise my integrity. I have strong moral principles, but… I steel myself and make the necessary call to Ability Testing HQ.

  6.10 p.m.

  Evie has been ceremoniously kicked out of the study, and Geoff is seated in front of the PC. “Watch,” I announce proudly as I log into my Outlook account and open an email from Ability Testing HQ.

  “What am I doing, exactly?” he asks.

  “I hav
e here,” I indicate towards the PC, “the actual two tests that you will sit tomorrow morning.”

  “You have what?”

  “I spoke to Ability Testing HQ and informed them that I’m considering setting up my own business and becoming an accredited tester, but that in order to assess the suitability of their tests, I really would like to have a go at doing them myself.” I point to the email on the screen. “And here they are. The tests for you to have a go at – right now.” I open up the link to the first test, and we read the instructions.

  “How long have I got to complete this?” asks Geoff, his eyes widening as he scans the instructions. “And how will I know how well I’ve done?”

  “Ah! I have thought of everything,” I say proudly. “I asked if I could be given the maximum amount of time available to have a go, and the person I spoke with agreed. When you do the test proper tomorrow, you will have twenty minutes, but… tonight we have fifty minutes for each test, which will give you quite enough time to have a really good crack at each question.”

  “No way!” exclaims Geoff under his breath. “Wow, Amy, how did you blag this?”

  “I simply asked, and they said yes. And what’s more, if you do the tests and submit your answers before seven tonight, we’ll get immediate feedback on the results. So, I suggest you get on with them right now. The log-on details are there, look. And remember that you are me. Have fun.”

  Wednesday.

  Geoff’s passed the tests. I heave a sigh of relief. Only an interview to go, and then this nightmare will hopefully be over. His track record at interviews is good. However, he might be a little rusty, and the letter did say it would be competency-based. I text Cate: