51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  Dan is messing about with the door. “The door’s fine, Amy,” he says, taking a pen and pad from the back pocket of his jeans and making some notes. “You’re Geoff Richards’ wife, aren’t you? I met him at the Society Dinner this year. He’s an inspirational and funny guy. He told us all about your year of ‘non-conformity and insubordination’ in a great speech about Privacy, Regulation and Compliance. Amy? Have you heard what I’ve just said?”

  “Yes…” I reply shakily, “… I have… Dan? Do you see that dim glow over there by the radiator?”

  “No, I don’t – but the Tron has spiked, so something’s going on.” He examines the dog carefully.

  I shut my eyes, count to three and open them again. The glow appears to be slowly moving across the far side of the room. I rub my eyes and look hard. “I really can see somebody floating there – over there – Dan? Now, don’t you dare start chanting or talking in tongues, or I will leave right now. She is young… white gown… there… and I can hear her… she is talking to me.”

  Dan pulls me close. I sense his presence and come to. Inside, I’m bricking it, but Dan’s calming influence is making me strong. I stare into his eyes, squeeze his hand and feel his joy permeate through my body as he realises a lifetime ambition.

  Thursday afternoon.

  I’m back home on the sofa, feigning sleep. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. Yet again, a challenge has taken me on an emotional journey. It’s difficult to return to normal life – whatever that means – and I cannot forget how deeply hurt I feel due to Geoff’s complete lack of consideration towards me. I somehow have to get him to put himself in my shoes and appreciate my point of view, but I need to choose my moment carefully… Geoff appears at my side, holding the house phone. “It’s Bea.”

  I open one eye and take it from his outstretched hand wordlessly. I can’t help myself. “You didn’t text me.”

  “Unfortunately not…”

  I open both eyes. “What does that mean?” I sit up, ready to have it out.

  “It’s no big deal. I didn’t. I forgot, okay? Stop hectoring me,” he sighs, clearly exasperated. The conversation comes to an abrupt halt as Evie throws open the door and runs across to hug me. “Poo, you stink, Mum,” she laughs. “Is it the smell of fear? Dad said you’d probably have it.”

  Beware, Geoff. It’s you who should have the smell of fear, I think grimly as I shoo them both from the room. I can’t believe that you just said what you did, even after Claire made a pointed comment about being a better communicator. Thank God you’re away from tomorrow.

  I turn my attention to Bea. “Hi.”

  There’s a pause. “I think I’m in love, pet.”

  “No, you’re not.” I retort. Take it from me. In lust, yes – but love, no. It’s called limerence. I read about it in…”

  Bea cuts in. “This was different, special. We connected. I feel alive. I can’t stop thinking about him. That clairvoyant, Mrs Harmer, said I was going to fall in love, and I have.”

  My eyes roll. “She said a load of garbage and earned a bomb that night. Get some sleep. See you Thursday.”

  “Okay,” she replies grumpily. “But I am in love.”

  What is going on with us all? Is she menopausal too? I wonder as I press play on my MP3 player and Mrs Harmer’s Go Comatose in 5 starts up. I burrow under my throw and tune into her hypnotic voice. Time to relax and sleep, I say to myself, mantra-like. Relax and sleep… relax… slee…

  Week Four. Friday, 10.30 a.m.

  Waiting in line to order my coffee, I feel a sharp tap on my shoulder. I almost collapse on the spot. It’s Him, standing behind me in the queue, and his mesmerising cornflower-blue eyes are staring into mine. Compose, calm, breathe… I manage a wan smile and hum that dreadful catchy tune from the Disney film Frozen under my breath. Anything to lower my heart rate. “Hello. Nice to see you… again.” God, that’s so stilted, Amy, I cringe, furtively taking off my fleece jacket.

  He shakes his head from side to side. There is a pause. “You phoned, Amy?”

  “Um… sorry… misdialled,” I lie, scuffing the floor with the toe of my shoe.

  “Ah, easily done. So, how about a dinner date? I’m freed up and firing on all cylinders.” He shakes his head violently again. My stomach contracts at the word date. I take a deep breath. My heart is pounding and my palms are drenched with sweat. I stare fixedly at his nose. I cannot bring myself to look into those hypnotic eyes again. He doesn’t appear to notice my state of disquiet.

  My brain and mouth disconnect. “Yes… we will… soon… I’m not quite ready yet… lots to sort out… but I will be ready… um… in two weeks’ time,” I gabble. “However for our… um… relationship to work, it’s vital that you think really hard and tell me something – or hopefully several things – about yourself that I might not like, or even better, something I’d really dislike about you.”

  I stop.

  What have I just said? I can’t believe I’ve gone and done that – I need to go, scarper, vamoose – right now.

  “Sorry, say that again?” He bangs his right ear with his palm. “This ear infection has buggered up my hearing. What should I tell you?” he asks, his eyes narrowing in concentration. Just then, his mobile starts ringing.

  “Hmmm, nothing, no nothing, forget that,” I stutter. Thank you, thank you, God. He hasn’t heard me. He is hard of hearing. I have been reprieved.

  “Madam?”

  It’s my turn to order my coffee. When I look back to reply he has gone.

  Adriano’s Restaurant, 8.00 p.m.

  I’ve purposely arrived early at Adriano’s to snatch some ‘me’ time. September is always a stressful month, what with the start of a new school year – let alone all the other activity that I’m caught up in. My emotions are all over the place. I briefly touch base with Geoff and Jess by text before looking at this week’s challenge slip:

  THROW CAUTION TO THE WIND – BE SPONTANEOUS AND RECKLESS.

  I bet Bea’s behind this one. She’s always joking that there’s something wrong with me because I don’t ‘do’ impulsiveness and I’m never reckless. I’ve experienced and witnessed the after-effects that come from people acting in the heat of the moment, and I vowed long ago that to be successful in life and avoid costly mistakes, I’d focus exclusively on achieving my dreams by using my head and not my heart. Geoff’s always admired me for not making rash decisions or taking uncalculated risks as it means he knows where he stands with me. In hindsight, however, I think that Bea may have a point.

  I thought I knew exactly what I wanted from life and how to get it, I think sadly, but now I’m not so sure. Was my ‘What I will do to ensure I am successful and nab the essential lifelong partner’ list a crutch – because I was scared of being trapped into a life like my mother’s?…

  Later that evening, The Girls bombard me with suggestions to unleash the reckless and spontaneous inner me. I’ve hardly eaten and am on my fourth large glass of Pinot Grigio, listening to their advice through a happy drunken haze.

  “Steal something.”

  “Flash your boobs.”

  “Start singing, and we’ll join in.”

  “Snog a stranger.” That one gets my attention.

  Snog a stranger, I smirk. Another snogging challenge alert. I could snog Him – third time lucky? It would be spontaneous and reckless and legit. Dare I try… tonight?

  At least then, he’ll be out of your system for good, justifies my inner voice, and nobody need know. Your reputation will be intact, and you’ll have satisfied your thirst, so you can get on with your life, guilt-free.

  Yes. I’ll explain to Him why I want a snog, so there’ll be no misunderstandings on the lusting front. We’ll have a laugh about it, and that will be that. And, hopefully, he’ll be a rubbish snogger or smell or something, which would be even better. I need to be more drunk… ano
ther… one more… right, Amy, do it, do it, do it!

  I pick up my phone. I put it back down. I pick it up again. Luckily, nobody is taking any notice of me. They are too busy discussing a trip to Manchester that we plan to make in the new year. I take a deep breath… Spontaneous and reckless, I shout internally. I send a text.

  Hi. Ears better?

  I have a tough challenge

  and I think you can help.

  Please text back.

  Amy.

  A reply flashes up on the screen.

  What is it?

  I’ve to be spontaneous and reckless.

  Where are you?

  At Adriano’s.

  He does not reply.

  10.30 p.m.

  Still no reply.

  I can hardly bear it and check my phone every few seconds. I’ve lost count of the glasses of wine I’ve consumed. He can’t do this to me. I have to leave soon. I won’t be able to do this tomorrow. It’s tonight or never. Do you hear me, Him, tonight or never, ever, ever.

  10.45 p.m.

  Rendez-vous at the Kings Arms

  in 20 minutes.

  Look for a red Mini.

  Oh my God. That’s a ten-minute walk from here. I should leave now.

  I am so uptight, I could vomit. I must compose myself. Making the weak excuse that Geoff is giving me a lift home and I can’t be late for him, I guestimate my proportion of the bill, throw cash onto the table, grab my belongings and speed-walk to our agreed meeting place. It’s the only way to rid myself of the adrenaline surging through my body. I feel jittery and excited and reckless.

  I arrive at the pub to see a Mini waiting for me. He flashes his headlights as I approach and winds down his window.

  “Jump in. Don’t look so nervous. I’m really looking forward to helping you with this challenge and I know exactly what we’re gonna do. Is this spontaneous enough for you so far?” he says, glancing at me coyly.

  I remove an empty bottle of vodka from the passenger seat, get in and sit on my hands to stop myself from finger-chewing. “Where are we going?” I splutter as we pass Adriano’s and I see Claire and Bea waiting for their lifts. I could swear they’re staring straight at me.

  “Not far. Trust me. Tell me about your evening.”

  He pulls over in a quiet layby on the outskirts of town and switches off the engine. I stop talking. I can hardly breathe. We are alone.

  “Amy,” he says quietly, staring straight ahead. “Do you remember anything about what you said to me at the divorce party a while back?”

  I blush. That party. The one where I told him that for some reason, I really wanted to snog him. I daren’t look at him. If I look into his eyes, he will see what he mustn’t ever see.

  He chuckles quietly. “I remember what you said. Every word. Enjoy your challenge, babe.”

  And then, it happens. It really does happen. He takes my hands, pulls me towards him roughly and snogs me.

  And it is perfect.

  Sunday, 2.30 a.m.

  It is no longer perfect.

  Geoff snores contentedly, while I toss and turn. Why oh why did I do it? My insides are coiled so tight that my core is aching. I’ve battled with my emotions all weekend, trying to rationalise the situation and concealing my conflicting feelings from the world. What I did weighs heavily on me.

  I lie curled up under the duvet, sniffing lavender oil and listening to a podcast entitled Unwind, Uncoil and Be Free. But nothing can help right now. Turning onto my left side, I poke my feet out of the duvet in an attempt to push the thoughts of last Friday night’s snog of snogs into the dim recesses of my mind. But they keep sneaking back, driving me demented.

  It was a damn good challenge, I think. And the outcome! I’d never have foreseen I’d get my secret snog like that. It was spontaneous and reckless. It was exciting and dangerous. I felt alive. That night, at that moment, I was Amy, not Mrs Richards, not Mum, not wife. I was me.

  Geoff mutters in his sleep, and my stomach knots with guilt. What would Geoff say? Will he quiz me about why I was out so late? What if he rang anyone to check up on me? And if Claire saw me?

  My inner critic kicks in: Stop right there. You did what you needed to do. It was a challenge, nothing more. Now you can move on.

  I turn onto my other side. Stop thinking about it, I reprimand myself firmly. I can’t. I don’t want to leave it behind quite yet. It feels too soon, and I know I’ll never experience anything like it again.

  I stare at length at my husband, a steady flow of tears trickling silently down my cheeks. I force myself into his shoes. How would I be feeling if he had done similar and I knew about it? I know the answer. I’d be feeling totally wretched, and I would despise him for his infidelity.

  What shall I do? I think. Forget? How could I forget all this; it’s an integral part of my year of self-discovery. I sigh deeply and make a decision. It’s alright to indulge myself tonight, but tomorrow morning, I will not think about it again. Distance will be my healer, and my challenges will be my distraction.

  Then it comes to me. I will take control of this situation and work it through with my head and not my heart by formulating a SMART objective: specific, measurable, achievable, realistic and with a timescale. My boss would be proud of me.

  By the end of November, I will be able to talk to you on the phone and text you without feeling lust. I will be able to treat you as my writing critical friend – which is how it was meant to be all along. My new mantra will be: It’s all about the book and not the boy.

  I slip into my dressing gown, creep downstairs and get it all down on my laptop. As the words appear in print, I feel a sense of purpose. Then, exhaling slowly, I close my eyes, press play on my mental video clip and relive every single detail from last Friday night.

  Monday evening.

  In celebration of the fact that I have my Evidence-Based Master Plan – ‘From Lust to Dust’, as I am now calling it – I throw myself into making a Christmas cake to the sound of a CD I recently unearthed. It is called Uplifting Music for Release From Those Moments. Thankfully, it’s doing what’s on the tin. I’m definitely having a ‘releasing’ moment belting out the lyrics to Bitch by Meredith Brooks.

  Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the sparkling oven door, I smile. “Hey, Meredith, you’re singing about me,” I say aloud. “I am a parent, a spouse, a confidante. I’m a pic’n’mix of good and bad, and I should be unrepentant for being all of those things. I am who I am, and everyone should accept, embrace and love me for it – especially Geoff.” I put the cake into the oven and set the timer. “If Geoff really cares, he won’t make me feel bad for wanting change. He won’t drag me down. He’ll love, support and encourage me. I only want for us all to be happy. He has to acknowledge that I’m… what’s the word…? Repressed.”

  I check the definition on Google:

  oppressed, subjugated, subdued, tyrannised, ground down, downtrodden, inhibited, frustrated, restrained, introverted, suppressed, held back, held in, kept in check, muffled, stifled, smothered, pent up, bottled up, unfulfilled.

  At last. I have described myself in my own words. It feels right.

  October

  Week One. Saturday, 8.00 a.m.

  Pippa finds me rummaging in the kitchen cupboards on my hands and knees. “Why are you cleaning so early in the morning, Mum? That’s not normal.”

  I sit back on my haunches and announce that I am on a ‘B’ day. My challenge is to:

  LIVE THE DAY BY THE LETTER B.

  I draw an imaginary ‘B’ in the air.

  “What?” she replies incredulously. “Have you been on the Bucks Fizz again, like last Christmas Day? Dad!” she shouts, “Mum’s been drinking alcohol in the morning again. She’s acting all weird.”

  I lie on the floor, clutching my sides. Hee Hee. I can legitimately get bambo
ozled on booze, and I have a bottle here. I chuckle at the number of ‘B’ words I’ve found before pouring myself a small glass of the fizz and downing it quickly.

  “How about eating this?” Evie’s holding a box of All Bran.

  I recover my composure. “Bran would work,” I reply, “but I don’t really like it. However, today,” I say, noting packets of breadsticks and bourbon biscuits lurking at the back of the cupboard, “as my challenge is to live by the letter ‘B’, I will breakfast on breadsticks, bourbon biscuits and Bucks Fizz.”

  “May I share your challenge and eat biscuits with you?” pleads Evie.

  “No,” I reply sternly, “Bad for your health and your teeth. Only those on challenges are allowed to do this, and for one day only. You could make me a hot drink beginning with ‘B’ though.”

  Geoff puts his two cents in, a plastic smile glued to his face. “I suggest black coffee and a bang on the bonce to make your mother see sense. I thought that you might have selected blueberries or a banana, Amy. That would have constituted two of your five-a-day.”

  “Yes, s’pose,” I mutter. “However, I thought that it wouldn’t be so much fun, and fruit didn’t come to mind. Oh, get into the spirit of it, Geoff. You can be such a…” (I mouth the word bastard at him).

  Geoff slams his e-reader shut. “Right. I’ve had quite enough of this. I’m off to the Mon-Keys’ and possibly golf with Jay. I hope you haven’t forgotten that my boss and his wife are coming over tonight for dinner?”

  “Who’s Jay?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Amy. God only knows what you are going to serve up! Does being on a ‘B’ day mean we’ll have to endure whatever you stumble upon that begins with that letter?”