51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  “Yes?” I say breathlessly. Come on, come on, I yell to myself, my heart almost jumping out of my body.

  He pulls a piece of paper from inside his jacket pocket.

  “Tickets?”

  “Not quite,” he replies, his voice trembling. “It’s so exciting, Amy. Here.” He passes a letter to me. I finish reading and drain my glass.

  “Are you serious? Australia?” I say incredulously.

  “Isn’t it great? Top-up?” He reaches for the bottle, smiling broadly.

  “But why?” I demand, my anger rising.

  “Because it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and it’ll be good for us all. I have done this for us, for our family. I think it’s for the best.”

  I stare at him in complete disbelief. “You went and did this behind my back, without a word?”

  “I thought it would be a brilliant surprise. It’s what I really want to do, and I thought you’d be delighted for us. We’ve relocated before, haven’t we? When the children were small.”

  “But that was then and this is now,” I reply heatedly. “Things have changed, and back then…”

  “Back then what?” he interjects. “You’ve never complained about moving away before. Once you get your head round the idea, you’ll be raring to go. This time we’ll be able to afford a house with a pool. We’ll have sunshine instead of this bloody endless drizzle, and you won’t have to work for a while, either. Just imagine it, Amy. I’ve got until the end of December to decide, but it’s a no-brainer.”

  “But I won’t have my life – this life,” I whisper.

  “You’ll have me,” he smiles.

  No, I won’t. You will be busy cultivating your career and social life, and I will end up doing everything else. I will be back where I started at the beginning of this year, I think. I will have to start again, make new friends, deal with all the issues surrounding our children. I will lose my friends, my support network and my job. I will remain repressed; back as the dutiful wife and mother. I will be put firmly back in my box, which I think is where you want me to be.

  “Being with you – just you and the children – is not enough right now,” I say calmly.

  I take a long look around the restaurant, the place where we began and the place where we just possibly might end. I take a deep breath and look at him with determination. “I don’t want to go, and I don’t want to talk about it – not even to the children. Come on, we’re leaving.” I march purposefully out of the restaurant, leaving him sitting at the table.

  11.00 p.m.

  We are not on speaking terms.

  Week Two. Friday, 4.00 p.m.

  “I was supposed to rediscover the love of my life – my husband. However, what I actually discovered is that everything I hold dear – the loves of my life – are about to be whipped away by the so-called love of my life without consultation or discussion, Cate. I have learned so much, I don’t know where to begin. It was such a significant area for us to explore. We could have ironed out the kinks in our relationship. I went all out to try and bring us closer,” I sigh.

  “Your date didn’t quite go as expected, then?”

  I shake my head, lost for words, as I recall what happened. It’s thrown me into inner turmoil, and I swing between the desire to engineer his near-death experience and a plan to beg HR to tell him they made a mistake and the whole thing’s off. I spend all my free time daydreaming about how to make it go away.

  “So?”

  “He could change his mind, the job might be pulled or something might happen to make sure we stay, perhaps?” I reply flippantly. “I just don’t understand why he did such a selfish, self-centred thing? There must be a reason behind it? I thought he was happy in his work? I thought he loved his life?”

  “Oh, Amy,” replies Cate sadly. “What will you do?”

  “Nothing for now,” I state resolutely. “I’m trying to erase the whole conversation from my mind until the end of December, when my year of challenges will be over. I’m under the impression that he has until the start of January to decide. I can’t go near him right now without him somehow trying to bring up the damn conversation, though. He’s desperate for me to give him the decision he wants.”

  Manipulator, control freak, selfish bastard.

  “What’s he asking?”

  “Oh, stuff like: ‘why don’t you like Australia?’ or: ‘tell me the things you dislike about your life here’, or even: ‘don’t you want to let us all have a good life that we will enjoy?’ He’s even taken to leaving specific websites up for me to read – you know, to appeal to my better nature – ones that describe the country and the benefits of living there, blah blah blah.”

  “Why do you think he’s doing that?” she probes.

  “He’s busy working on trying to change my mind, and it’s doing my head in. He’s trying to manipulate me and make me feel guilty for saying that I don’t want to go. He thinks I spoke in haste because I was shocked, and I’m sure he’s of the opinion that I will come round in a day or so, ’cos that’s what usually happens,” I shrug. “But this time, what he’s doing is only serving to strengthen my resolve. I simply don’t understand where this sudden desire to emigrate came from.”

  I drain my coffee cup.

  “And he’s chained to his mobile. Forever receiving and sending texts.”

  “Really? What do they say?”

  “I don’t know. Anyway, I’m not going to be emotionally blackmailed, and I won’t give my final decision about our move abroad until the end of the year.”

  “What about his decision? He’s accepted the job, hasn’t he?”

  “As far as I know, he has. That was his decision – not our decision,” I spit. “God knows what else he hasn’t told me. I wouldn’t be surprised if the one-way flight tickets are sitting in his wallet right now, and if he’s informed the schools and arranged our house sale. To think that he’s been merrily planning and scheming and making decisions that affect not only our lives but our children’s lives. He has completely ignored our needs, and he’s disrespected me big time,” I rant, tearing my napkin into shreds. “Has marriage removed my voice and right of choice? I will decide whether I go or not, and I will base my decision on the right reasons. God, I need another coffee.”

  “My shout,” replies Cate, getting up and going to the counter.

  “Let’s change the subject, I say on her return. “We have better things to worry about. What do you make of this challenge?

  DO SOMETHING WORTHWHILE FOR A CHARITABLE CAUSE:

  RAISE AT LEAST £500, FEED

  FIFTY-ONE OR MORE GUESTS

  AND PROVIDE LIVE ENTERTAINMENT. (Over 3 weeks).

  “Three challenges? That’s demanding.”

  “Nah. After yesterday’s revelations, nothing is too tough. The end of the year is nigh, so let’s go out on a high. This challenge is the perfect excuse to channel my energies into something positive. I’m going to throw a big bash, Cate. In three weeks’ time we’re gonna party like its 1999 and I’ll bag another three challenges,” I chuckle.

  Cate hugs me.

  “Oh, Ames, thank God for your sense of humour. You know we’ll all help you as much as we can – not just with this event, but with everything. You know what I mean.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to need all the help I can get,” I reply, my eyes shining with tears.

  Yep, I’m gonna need all the help in the world to get through the next few months, I think sadly as I drive home in total silence.

  * * *

  “I think we should tell her. We can’t wait much longer. She deserves to know.”

  “Why, Cate? Do we really need to hurt her?”

  “Are you out of your mind, Claire? We can’t sit by, knowing about this. We could help diffuse the shock, help her make decisions, support her, you know – deal with the fallout. Geoff�
�s been a right nob.”

  “We know that, Bea. You said that what goes on at Mrs Mon-Key’s stays at Mrs Mon-Key’s. If we said anything, we’d be breaking the rules.”

  “Who gives a shit about rules, Claire? Amy’s our friend. What he’s gone and done is unforgivable. One way or the other, it’s gonna destroy her – and what about the children? What he’s gone and done is beyond belief. Fucking dick.”

  “He’s being so blasé about it all. It’s only a matter of time before it gets out. Does he think he can cover it up? I mean, it’s quite a plan he’s put together, but if we don’t act…”

  “Cate! What are you saying! She’s married, with obligations! She was doing so well, refocusing on her relationship. The Lord told me they could come through this…”

  “Pffft, Claire. I respect your religious beliefs about death do us part and all that other nonsense, and if Amy decides to stick with that bell-end, that’s her business. However, it’s our duty to tell her… Anyway, what about his obligations?”

  “Sorry, Claire. I agree with Bea there. Amy has to know the truth before it’s too late. The question is how and when.”

  Sunday, 10.30 p.m.

  “Bedtime?” enquires Geoff, hovering by the lounge door. “I don’t think we concluded date night with the first-night bonk. Let’s recreate it tonight.”

  “Soon,” I reply, my eyes glued to the TV screen. “This is interesting.” I cannot look at him without feeling raw pain.

  “I always find that sex is a good stress-buster. We’ve not had a shag for ages now,” he flirts. “I’m sure I can make you like me again.”

  The thought of him coming anywhere near me is sickening.

  “We’ve not had date night since the evening you so kindly informed me that I was moving abroad,” I say. “And you never want sex on a Sunday, so why tonight? Sorry,” I smile sweetly. “I’m just not in the mood.”

  “I’m away on a training course until Friday now,” he huffs.

  “I know,” I reply, in as cool a voice as I can muster. I don’t want a conversation right now.

  His eyes bore into me. “Right. I am going to bed. Come on.” He switches the TV off.

  “Sorry?” I reply sharply. “I know that it’s your bedtime, but I’m not ready to go up yet. Please don’t make me feel guilty for not going to bed when you want to.” I switch the TV back on. The atmosphere is choking me. I want to light the touch-paper, but now is not the right time. As far as I am concerned, this conversation has run its course for now. “See you Friday. Sleep well,” I say, turning away.

  I listen hard and only relax when I can clearly hear his footsteps climbing the stairs. I flop on the settee, my stomach somersaulting with a mixture of alarm, guilt and anger.

  I’d run away if I could.

  Monday evening.

  Over Pinot Grigio and nibbles at home, I unveil my plan for this challenge to The Girls and my children. “This year has involved so many fantastic people,” I enthuse. “I’m ashamed to say that I haven’t kept in touch with a lot of them, and so I’ve decided to invite my significant others to a megatastic party.”

  “Cool,” says Claire. “Can you remember everybody you’ve encountered and their contact details?”

  My wonderful year of non-conformity flashes before my eyes. I can’t help it – tears spontaneously course down my cheeks. The thought of actually being able to see everybody again is overwhelming, and my heart is pulled apart with joy.

  One hour later, we’re agreed on the charitable causes (the Alzheimer’s Society and Grandma’s care home) and that the theme will be the seventies and eighties.

  “Auctions of promises raise quite a bit,” suggests Bea. “I won a naked male cleaner once. I paid twenty pounds for him, but he never followed through. It was most disappointing.”

  “You mean he never turned up,” I say, rolling my eyes. “My kids are in the room,” I whisper fiercely.

  Bea laughs loudly. “Oh, pet. There was definitely no turning up, ha ha.”

  “Moving swiftly on,” I sigh, “anyone up for a retro sweet sale?”

  “May I sell the sweets, Mum?” requests Pippa.

  “Of course. You and your sister must be there,” I smile.

  By nine o’clock, we are done.

  Week Three. Friday evening.

  The only way to describe my life right now is frenetic. My mobile never stops ringing. To-do lists occupy my every waking hour, and rainbow-coloured sticky labels plaster the study walls. It’s probably a good thing, as this way I don’t have time to think about Geoff and all the crap. On the outside, it looks like we’re the perfect family. Geoff and I are such good actors. Scratch beneath the surface, however…

  I call a planning meeting. “Okay,” I start. “We’ve filled ten tables and need at least one more.”

  “Invited your sister?” asks Claire.

  “Not yet. I better had invite Jess, though. Actually, I bet she’ll get on really well with the Mon-Keys. Geoff can do penance. I’ll sit him between Jess and Josie Jamieson on Mrs Mon-Key’s table,” I reply scathingly.

  “What about Weird Dan, Dave, Jason and his brother?” adds Bea. “Shouldn’t they be invited? They’ve played a significant part in your year of self-discovery and adventure.”

  “You can’t leave them out,” smirks Claire.

  “I haven’t seen Dave for a while. He’s in a bit of a state over the baby, but we are talking, and if I were to see him in a social setting, it might smooth the waters,” says Bea.

  It might smooth the waters… Yes. It might smooth the waters enough so that I can talk to Him sociably and sensibly. It is getting close to the end of the year, and seeing him at an event would be a good icebreaker, I think.

  “Okay. Go ahead and invite them.”

  Thursday afternoon.

  Fourteen tables are dressed for a retro charity gala event. Glitter balls and decorations shimmer. The retro memorabilia table is set, and lava lamps add glamour and atmosphere. Pippa is busy pinning signs to the wall advertising the retro sweets stall, while Evie pours flying saucers, blackjacks, fruit salads and chocolate mice into large plastic containers. The raffle prizes are labelled. I feel immensely proud as I cast my eye over the wonderful hampers that Pippa has conjured up. First prize is a food and drink hamper, second is a pamper hamper, and third is a large teddy bear.

  Week Four. Friday, 8.00 p.m.

  The raffle and retro sweet stall are doing a roaring trade, and there’s lots of laughter as people survey the memorabilia table. The Girls are doing a great job as my co-hosts, topping up empty glasses and putting everyone at their ease. I can tell that it’s going to be a good night.

  “Glad to see your husband’s well-occupied, Margot Leadbetter,” observes Claire wryly.

  “Glad you know who I am,” I enunciate in an upper-class voice.

  “So what is the craic with Geoff?”

  “I decided that as I don’t want him to have any opportunity to discuss you-know-what, the best policy is to keep him busy all night. And it’s working.” We look over to where Geoff, dressed as Mr T from The A-Team, is doing a sterling job as Chief Photographer. I smile as he takes snaps of Grandma’s care home staff and various friends emulating Abba. Oh, Grandma. I wish you were here, I smile to myself. You would have been in your element.

  “Time for dinner, Amy,” whispers Aidan in my ear. “Where’s Geoff sitting? He’s not on your table?”

  “No – Table 4, sandwiched between Josie Jamieson and Jess. I hope they keep him out of my hair.” And that’s an understatement, I think grimly.

  8.15 p.m.

  Everyone is seated and commenting on the menu: ‘Porn’ (Melon) Cocktail, Coq au Vin or vegetable stew, and ‘Fallen’ Angel Delight – all in memory of the Sex Chat Operator challenge.

  I drink in the atmosphere. The level of chatter is deaf
ening and reassuring. I quietly congratulate myself on how I handled meeting Him again. I replay the moment of introduction in my mind. Yep, I gave good eye contact. I was friendly. I didn’t kiss him, and he didn’t try and kiss me.

  The ‘how-should-we-say-hello’ issue had been secretly troubling me. Shaking hands was so much more formal and detached, and I didn’t feel anything, well, lustful. Perhaps I have finally fallen out of lust and can sign off my SMART objective.

  I hear Aidan introducing me on the mike. It’s time to make my speech. Can I do this without becoming emotional? I wonder. It won’t be a good look if I blub now. There will be absolutely no crying until after eleven, I tell myself firmly. I take a deep breath and begin, my voice cracking with emotion.

  “We connected through this crazy Year of Adventure and Self-Discovery, and every one of you here tonight is special to me. I want to thank you for helping me to learn and grow.” There is a smattering of applause. “I am thankful that this challenge has reunited us in celebration and friendship and united us in a common cause – to achieve November’s challenge. Now, before we eat and party, I’ll announce the winner of the Best Outfit competition. The prize is a highly desirable bottle of Blue Nun.”

  9.30 p.m.

  It’s live entertainment time. Oh, my Lord. I am going to do something completely out of my comfort zone; something mad. And in front of Him.

  “Ready, Ames?”

  “You’ve forgotten your rapperesque dollar chain, Ewan.” I place a handmade silver foil super-sized dollar sign necklace around his neck. “Now we are ready,” I chuckle. “Do you think it’ll work?” I chew on my finger, jiggling around on the spot in nervous anticipation.

  “It’s gonna be the best, Amy. Come on, it’s showtime!” Ewan and his mates run onto the stage to huge applause. Ewan takes the mike. “Hey, everyone. We helped Amy with her moshing challenge back in January, and we’ve agreed to help her again tonight. Amy’s put this together, and she’s dead nervous – so please give her a big clap.”