51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  Bea grabs my arm and slurs into my ear. “Back to mine, pet.”

  There’s no escape.

  Midnight.

  I don’t care any more. I trust Bea. She knows Him. She definitely thinks that Geoff is a bit of an arse. She will advise me. She hands me a mug of hot chocolate.

  “Amy?”

  “Yes?” I wait expectantly. My stomach tightens.

  “I’m late, pet.”

  “What?”

  “I’m as regular as clockwork.”

  “Okay?”

  “I have a test here.”

  “Take the test, Bea.”

  “You won’t go, will you, Ames?”

  “How late are you?”

  “Late enough.”

  “Take the test, Bea.”

  “Now?”

  I take her hand. “You need to know.”

  “It’s Dave’s, from the Haunted House challenge.”

  “Really?”

  “Absobloodylutely.”

  She shrugs her shoulders and goes to the bathroom.

  She returns smiling.

  “So?”

  “This is a sign, pet. I haven’t been able to get pregnant since she died, and then this happens in my fortieth year. I decluttered my life, removed the stress and… voilà! Who’d have thought that an idea you had a year ago would lead to such unlikely consequences. Ah yes – it’s that Butterfly Effect.” She waves two pregnancy indicator sticks in the air. “I’m keeping this baby. I have finally been blessed with the opportunity to be a mum again, and I’m accepting the challenge.”

  “What about Dave?” I ask.

  “I’ll talk to him,” sighs Bea. “I’m not giving this baby up, though – Dave or no Dave.” She grins and pats her stomach.

  “Bea, we’ll all be there for you – you know that, don’t you? It’s a big decision, mind, and you have to be absolutely sure,” I say, embracing her.

  “I know, pet. And now I’m off to bed. Sleep tight.”

  Saturday, 7.00 a.m.

  “Amy? I know what happened that night, you know. You snogged Jason’s brother.”

  There, it is out. I concentrate on picking a speck of dirt off my jeans.

  “Jase told me, Ames.”

  The doorbell rings. It’s my taxi. “Bea? I need to ask you something.”

  “It was a challenge. Nothing more, pet.”

  “It’s not about the challenge. It’s about Geoff and me and something you said last night.”

  The doorbell rings again. “Go on, pet. The taxi’s waiting.” She pushes me out of the door. “Take a leap of faith and trust your instincts, Amy. You don’t go out to find love, it finds you. Think about it.”

  She goes inside quickly and slams the front door shut behind her.

  I arrive home to have Pippa and Evie dragging me excitedly into the kitchen.

  “Mum, you have a new challenge!” giggles Evie, thrusting a challenge slip into my hand and dancing around the kitchen. I have to:

  WEAR THE WRONG TROUSERS FOR

  FOUR OR FIVE HOURS.

  “Is it about Wallace and Gromit’s The Wrong Trousers?” she asks.

  “Perhaps. We should watch it and see if that helps,” I suggest. “Now, get yourselves upstairs and throw me down your dirty school clothes, please. You both know the rule that if a wash isn’t on by three, there’ll be no clean uniform – and right now, the washing machine is empty.”

  Piles of clothes fly over the bannister.

  “There’s mine!” calls out Evie.

  “Thank you,” I laugh, picking the items up one by one. I notice something that isn’t hers. “Evie? This sweatshirt belongs to Zac in your class. You must have been wearing his clothes all week. I can’t believe we didn’t notice. I’d better text his mum.”

  “Were you wearing boy clothes, then?” jeers Pippa. “If you did, then you were a boy.”

  “No, it’s a sweatshirt that belongs to a boy. I didn’t turn into a boy just because I was wearing his clothes,” retaliates Evie, her face reddening.

  “Girls!” I yell.

  They fall silent. “I know what my challenge is!” I cry with delight. “It’s nothing to do with Wallace and Gromit, but it is to do with wearing trousers. I am to wear men’s trousers and convince everyone that I am a man.”

  “You’re going to need to wear man clothes,” giggles Evie.

  “And get a man smell,” adds Pippa.

  “I think I’m going to need more than just clothes and BO to turn me into a bona fide bloke,” I sniff. “What are you doing?”

  Pippa’s tapping furiously on the family iPad. “This blog has tips on how to disguise yourself as a man.”

  We sit on the floor and she reads it out to us. I notice the time. “Come on, we’ve got an hour or so. Let’s go to the charity shop and see what we can dig up.”

  6.00 p.m.

  I am officially kitted out with a great set of ‘man clothes’, including hat, polo-necked jumper to hide my lack of Adam’s apple, baggy jeans and trainers. Pippa helps me to bind my boobs with bandages from the first aid box. She critically assesses me. “There’s one thing missing,” she says candidly. “A you-know-what.”

  “What’s one of them?” I ask, preoccupied with appraising myself in the bedroom mirror.

  “A willy.”

  Our eyes meet.

  I take four pairs of socks from Geoff’s drawer, fashion them into the right sort of shape and stuff the socks into where I think the appropriate place is for them to be. They move about a bit when I walk, so I wrap them in a couple of pairs of my knickers. “There,” I say, jiggling about. “That feels okay. Might as well be well-endowed. Where’s Dad? He’s gotta see this.”

  “He’s playing golf with his friend Jay. He’ll be back tomorrow. He said you knew about it,” remarks Pippa.

  “I don’t remember him telling me that at all – but never mind. Now, where’s that bucket with all the stuff in he used for cleaning recently? They’d make convincing plumber’s props.”

  I go to dig them out from the garage, but I can’t find them. I make a mental note to ask Geoff tomorrow where he stored them.

  8.00 p.m.

  My male persona is taking shape nicely. Evie has suggested I call myself Shaun (as in Wallace and Gromit’s Shaun the Sheep), and I’ve decided to be a plumber. I don’t know anything about plumbing, but I reckon I can blag it.

  I know that to really pull this off, I need to act blokeishly. I spend a happy half an hour practising some key man-isms: crotch-scratching and making inappropriate crass noises such as slurping and spitting and snorting. I can’t get the belching quite right, though.

  I ring Claire and ask her to rate my prowess in man-isms by spitting, slurping, snorting and swearing at her down the line. “It’ll be a doddle,” I say convincingly. “All blokes talk about is sport, gaming, sex and drinking. They don’t go for deep conversation. I’ll just grunt a lot and sup my pint,” I giggle.

  “Just as long as you don’t forget you’re in role and request a glass of wine, Amy, or you’re be rumbled good and proper. Goodness – you sound dead realistic. In fact, you’re making me feel ill. You’ll fit in brilliantly at a footie match,” she chortles. “There’s one on tomorrow. I’ll ask Bob to take you.”

  Excellent.

  Sunday morning.

  Ten minutes into the match and I’m totally out of my comfort zone.

  “Alright, mate? Bloody cold today.” Some guy on my right has acknowledged me as a man. That makes me feel so much better. If anyone guesses…

  “Freezing my bollocks off,” I grunt in reply.

  Bob nudges me gently. “Nice one, Shaun,” he whispers. “One nil to you.”

  At half time, I’m desperate for a wee. “Bob,” I whisper, “I need a… um… piss. I’
m going to have to use the men’s, aren’t I? Please come with me. I don’t know what to, erm, expect.” I stifle a giggle.

  Bob guffaws loudly. “Okay, Shaun, let’s go.” He pulls open the door to the men’s toilets. I take a deep breath to calm myself and retch at the stench.

  “Bloody hell!” I choke. “It’s worse than when I went camping with school to France years ago, and I thought that was bad enough.”

  “Keep in role, Shaun,” laughs Bob.

  My heart is pounding in my ears. What if I’m discovered? I could get arrested for this. What if I see someone I know? What if I see someone I know’s willy?

  Breathing through my mouth, I attempt to swagger into the toilets. I give my surroundings a quick once-over. Three men are at the urinals, and all have their backs to me – good! I slip into a cubicle and hover as I wee, trying to ignore the strange grunting coming from next door. What about hand-washing? I wonder. Is it the done thing? Nobody is by the sinks, and there’s no soap. Gonna have to be blokeishly unhygienic then, unless…

  “Bob, wash your hands – so I can, please?” I mutter. “I can’t bear to leave without doing so, even if there’s no soap.”

  “Oh, Shaun,” he sighs. “Come on, then.”

  We make to leave. I am so busy trying to catch sight of just one willy for posterity that I smack straight into somebody.

  “Watch where you’re going, pal.”

  I turn to see who it was. It looked just like Him.

  “Bob, get me out of here – quick!” I squeak.

  “You look pale,” grins Bob when we are back in the stands. “You’re doing great. Another pint?”

  “Not bloody likely – another pint will mean another piss,” I shudder, pointing towards the gents (and possibly another meeting with Him). “I’ll wait, thanks.”

  A problem with post-match bloke etiquette is that I am supposed to drink beer – and pints of the stuff – at speed. Bob takes great delight in seeing me struggle to keep up with him and his mates. Before long, the bar is propping me up as I concentrate intently on the lad-banter and behaving in a blokey way.

  “Stop sipping your pint,” whispers Bob.

  Ah yes… no sipping. Forgot.

  6.30p.m.

  Cue the bawdy sing-song. I’m feeling warm from the beer, relaxed and happy, and I can feel my blokeish persona slipping. By pint number four, it’s all a bit of a blur. I swear I can see Geoff chatting to somebody who looks remarkably like Josie Jamieson.

  7.00p.m.

  I am very blokeishly sick in a flower bed outside the pub.

  Monday.

  I awake to a bloke-sized hangover, my vibrating mobile reverberating in my ear. I squint at my texts and gasp. I’ve been sent an image… WHAT? It’s of Him giving me a fireman’s lift. You can’t see my face, but there’s no mistaking it’s me. My arms are dangling behind him, and he is grinning from ear to ear. And, oh my Lord! Geoff is there, glowering in the background… and I’m sure that’s Josie Jamieson standing next to Geoff. I didn’t know they knew each other?

  I flop back against the pillows, feeling totally wretched. The accompanying message makes me feel suicidal:

  Amaaazing challenge.

  You are some (wo)man.

  Bob took this as a momento.

  You crazy drunk.

  What the hell must He and everyone else think of me now? Me! A bawdy drunk dressed as a bloke with a massive dick. And in front of Josie Jamieson, too. It’s going to be all round school today… all round everywhere by tonight, and I’m going to be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood.

  At least you can plead that it was a challenge, says my inner voice. That’s true. I can’t remember anything, and Bob was looking after me, so I wouldn’t have done anything untoward. Would I? I pray that I didn’t come out with something inappropriate or vomit over Him. I’d better say sorry and explain.

  I remember my SMART objective. I can’t make contact with Him until the end of November. For the first time ever, I don’t actually want to reach out to him. I feel so ashamed. In fact, I don’t know if I can ever speak to him again. I stare at the pathetic image of me in his arms. Why isn’t Geoff carrying me? I examine the image of Geoff. He looks so angry. What was he doing there, anyway? I see Josie. I think back to what Pippa said – that our marriage is a car crash waiting to happen.

  A note left on the pillow informs me that Geoff will see me on Friday. A tightness grips my insides. I’ve been so stupid. Where did it all go wrong? It wasn’t meant to be like this. I sense that the safe, secure world that I’ve worked so hard to construct is collapsing around me, and I sob into my pillow, feeling a total idiot and wishing that things were different.

  9.30 p.m.

  The only person I’ve felt able to speak to about the whole sorry event is Cate.

  “Amy, today’s tittle-tattle is tomorrow’s chip paper. Let Mrs Jamieson gossip. It was a challenge that went slightly wrong, that’s all. Bob was totally irresponsible allowing you to get drunk like that. He knows your ‘three glasses of wine and you’re out’ quota,” she sympathises. I burst into tears.

  “Hey, you’re working yourself up into a state for no good reason. So, some kind stranger is carrying you,” she soothes. I daren’t tell her that he’s a bit more than a stranger. “You’re not snogging him, are you?” she continues as I find myself retching, still sick from this morning. “And why shouldn’t Josie know Geoff? Perhaps Bob introduced them. He used to be a school governor at Daisy Hill. You’re in public, aren’t you? In fact, Amy, I’d be more upset that it’s not your husband who’s looking after you. I’d challenge him on that.”

  “So, what should I do?” I hiccup.

  “Geoff’s away, isn’t he? I’d leave it a few days and then, once the dust has settled and you’re feeling calm, talk to him, Amy. Indulge him. Take time out to reconnect, and I’m sure he’ll come round.”

  I end the call, vowing to do as she suggests.

  Thursday.

  A package arrives, addressed to me. I rip it open, and Geoff’s socks and my knickers tumble out. A Post-it note attached to one of the socks reads:

  You left these awesome undies. Can’t wait to help you

  de-code this one, ha ha.

  Give me a bell x

  I am so shocked that I get straight on the phone to Claire. “He’s seen my knickers,” I blurt out.

  “What?”

  “Does Bob know Him? They were in the same pub when I was being Shaun, and he has not only given me a fireman’s lift, but he has seen and touched my granny greys.”

  “You’ve lost me there. Hang on.” I hear her and Bob conversing.

  “Bob says that the guy found you puking outside the pub and came to your rescue,” she reports back to me. “They didn’t speak, but he was very caring towards you, and Bob thought he knew you well. Does that help? Gotta go. God bless.”

  As I stare into the opened package at the remains of my ‘package’, a warm glow spreads through me. He looked after me. He cared about me.

  It should have been your husband caring for you, though, goads my inner critic. This is all wrong, Amy, and you should put it right.

  “I know,” I say aloud. “I need to talk to Geoff – and I will – but what about Him? I need to explain to Him too – but I can’t.” I stare doggedly at my SMART objective and repeat it three times under my breath to ensure I stick to it.

  5.00 p.m.

  I want to text Him. I go for a run.

  6.00 p.m.

  I want to text Him. I lock my mobile in my car.

  Damn.

  Week Five. Saturday morning.

  Evie and I have been searching for an elusive Halloween bat costume (age 11) for two hours solid, and I’m gagging for a caffeine fix and a sit-down. My new ‘pleather’ boots are pinching. We make it to Bromley’s top-floor café, dum
p our bags at a free table and take five, waiting for Pippa to join us. Evie unfolds my challenge slip. It reads:

  GO AGAINST THE FLOW.

  “What does that mean? It’s your challenge,” she asks.

  “I think it’s about doing the opposite of what you’d usually do. Not conforming,” I explain. I have a flashback to my words many months ago: No, to conformity! I crane my neck to try to catch a glimpse of Pippa on the escalator. “Your sister’s late,” I say. And then I have THE idea.

  “You see that escalator. People are coming up the up one and going down the down one, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, if I went up the down escalator or down the up, I would be going against the flow,” I say triumphantly.

  Evie’s eyes widen. “Do it, Mum. See how quickly you can.”

  Fire burns in my belly. “Why not?” I giggle. “If I do it now, my challenge will be done.”

  Amyyyy. This is a Bad Thing. What if you get caught? chastises my sensible inner voice.

  Oh, go on – no one will notice, impels my inner devil.

  “I’m going to run down the up,” I announce. “I’ll start at the top of the store and fly down the four floors to the basement in one go. Come on.”

  I leave Evie in the basement ready to record the event on my mobile. “When you see me, press that button,” I giggle. “Okay?”

  I hare down the up to the fourth floor… to the third… then the second. Shoppers are staring and pointing. I avoid their gaze, absolutely determined not to fail or fall – and it’s bloody hard work.

  “Mum?”

  I glance sideways to see Pippa staring in astonishment and terror as I stumble past. Once in the basement, I cannot speak. “Need… water…” I pant. “Such… fun… though.” A wave of dizziness overcomes me, and I close my eyes briefly.

  “Mum?” hisses Evie urgently.

  “What?”

  “Excuse me, madam?”