I add a bottle of wine and corkscrew to my bag – for medicinal purposes.
On the island. Monday, 6pm.
I am here to meditate and ruminate on life and my future. I will sit and be and live each day by the rise and fall of the sun and the moon. Installed on the sofa in my onesie, I reach for my novel and turn to page one.
8.15 p.m.
It is impossible to sit quietly. I’m not used to it. My novel remains unread. My mind keeps wandering. I pace around the house, exploring and tidying up.
9.00 p.m.
I try to open my novel to page one.
9.10 p.m.
I pour myself a glass of wine and open my novel to page one.
9.12 p.m.
My mobile pings. The urge to take a sneaky peek at the notification is too great. He has played his move on Wordie. Just one turn, I plead to my inner critic.
You are supposed to be getting away from screens, Him and your husband and thinking through your predicaments in peace.
That’s true, I say, but this will relax me, and I promise that I will stop after one go.
I forget the time. Despite the fact that my eyes are heavy with the need to sleep, by midnight I am still thoroughly enjoying myself, engaged as I am in a thrilling battle of words with Him. It’s only when the battery dies that I stop. Putting my mobile on charge, I climb wearily into bed, swearing that I will not play tomorrow.
Tuesday, midday.
I am in crisis. A Wordie addict.
Every time I make an attempt to pick up my novel, watch TV or think about Geoff and important stuff about my future, I have an all-consuming craving to play Wordie against Him. I can’t bring myself to stop.
Amy Richards – switch it off.
I open my novel to page one, but the words bounce around the page. My mind is too active. I can’t stop thinking about Him and longing to stay connected to Him through Wordie all day.
Flicking aimlessly through TV channels, I unintentionally drink the entire bottle of wine. It’s for medicinal purposes, and this is one time where I need drugs.
5.00 p.m.
I hunt out another bottle of wine from the kitchen cupboards. One more glass should do the trick…
9.30 p.m.
Absolutely hammered, I can no longer be bothered to fight against the allure of Him and the app. We play avidly for hours. The competition is fierce. He keeps making me laugh with quirky texts.
“I shall not text nor telephone you though, although I think you’d like me to,” I slur to myself. “Tomorrow, mobile of mine, you shall be in my bag and I shall be released from your baaad influence.”
Hey,
Jason and your mate Becca
are getting hitched.
Fancy being Chief Bridesmaid
to the Best Man?
“No?” I exclaim, flabbergasted, to my mobile. And without thinking of the consequences, dial His number.
“Hello, it’s me.”
“Yes, I know it’s you, I can tell.”
“Is it true?” I slur drunkenly. “Is she engaged to him?”
“Amy, you’re pissed.”
“Yesh, yesh. I have had a leetle wine for medicinal purposes only. How did this all come about?”
I hear peals of laughter down the line. “I knew that would be a sure-fire way to get you to call me.”
I grin, flattered by his cheekiness. “You are so bad! What do you mean?” I simper.
“Well, you were a bit reserved at your charity do, and so I wasn’t sure if you’d had second thoughts about us. And what was all that about in the café when you asked me to tell you something about myself that you could dislike? I’ve wanted to get you alone for ages, but it’s never been the right time.”
My heart is thumping so hard that I could scream. My head is crammed full of things I want to say. The impulse to confess to the inner conflict that has been consuming me for months is gut-wrenchingly powerful. I want to blame him for leading me into temptation and beg him for release from my torment so that I may return to normal, the way I was before that fateful February day at the doctors. In drink, however, I am desperate to disclose that the very thought of him exerts potent physical and psychological influence over me, and I want him to come clean, stop the flirting and admit that he feels the same way about me. “I need to tell you someshing,” I slur. “It’s important, very important, about you and me.”
“What, Amy? You’re not bailing on me, are you? I’ve told everyone now. Fuck knows what your friends and family must think about you and me hooking up, ’cos I’m getting shitloads of grief off my mates. They think you’re a bored wife who’s getting her kicks by grooming me.”
“Sorry? What have you been saying about us and to whom?”
In a puff of smoke, my heart is no longer pounding with lust but with fear and disgust.
“Nothing, really.”
“Well, you must have said something?” I reply tersely. “You just said that everyone thinks I’m grooming you. Have you told them about when you and I… you know?”
“Fuck, Amy. It’s only banter. Chill out, and I’ll speak to you when you’re sober.”
“Right. I was going to tell you something really personal, but I’m not now,” I grump.
“It’s not every day that a bloke my age gets involved with someone like you. I don’t know that many middle-aged women with a husband and family who are spending a year escaping everyday life and running around having mad adventures, do you? I told them because it’s good craic and because when they see us together discussing your challenges, I don’t want them to think we’re an item.”
It is when I hear those words that I instinctively know that it is time. Fear of damage to my reputation, of being mocked for being a cougar and of losing everything that I thought I wanted in life is the motivation I have been searching for.
I hang up on him, delete him from my list of contacts, switch off my mobile and fling it into the bottom of my bag.
Wednesday, 9.00 p.m.
I wake feeling calm. The rest of the day slips gently by. I read my novel in bed and watch wall-to-wall TV. I do not fidget. I do not channel-hop. I am still and able to reflect and focus objectively on everything I have learned from the past year and look ahead to the future.
Thursday, 11.59 p.m.
Back home, I wait for everyone to retire for the night before I go through my weekly ritual of unseen challenge selection for the last time. I want to do this alone. This is the final time I will feel trepidation, nervous anticipation and delight or despair as I take in what’s in store for me. My eyes fill with tears as I scoop out the one remaining slip of paper from the Bowl of Chance and Opportunity and hold it to my chest.
Let this, the last, be a good one.
DO THE THING YOU FEAR MOST, AND THE DEATH OF FEAR IS CERTAIN.
I chew on my finger. I chew and chomp and gnaw because I know what this challenge is telling me to do. It’s what I dread the most… It’s cursed me all my life. It’s to be true to myself. “Amy Richards,” I whisper aloud. “My nemesis… I will overcome… I will not let it define me any longer. It’s time to be completely honest with myself and Geoff. It’s time to stop list-making and lying and procrastinating. I have to let Geoff know how I truly feel.”
Week Three. Friday.
When Geoff comes home from work, I’m making papier mâché in the garage. “Whatever your views about my year of challenges, will you take part in my Closing Ceremony?” I ask him. “Here’s my torch.” I wave my masterpiece triumphantly.
“I was there at the start, and I will be there at the end,” he replies.
“Thanks.” I look at him levelly. “I know you’ve found it tough at times, as have we all, but I strongly believe that it has been an important journey for both of us, and if I don’t capitalise on what I have learned ove
r the year, it will all have been for nothing. You must understand that?”
Geoff stands there silently.
“What’s the point if on January the first I allow my life to go back to what it was, Geoff? I don’t want things to be as they were.”
“So what are you saying, Amy?” His eyes spark with displeasure.
“I’m saying that I want to be honest and upfront, stop hiding what I really think and feel because you won’t like it, stop forcing myself to do things I really don’t want to do and stop saying I’m okay when I’m not, just to please you. I just want to become the person I really am.”
“If you’re trying to tell me you’ve become bi-curious, then that’s fine. I’m sure Mel and Chris know some good lesbo clubs where we’re going – ha!”
“No, I didn’t mean that,” I sigh, struggling for the right words. “This is serious. You want me to stop avoiding issues, and so I’m trying to be true to myself and tell you what’s going on in my head. It’s taken this long for me to realise that this year has a clear-cut theme. It’s been about giving myself space to analyse the web of my life and my destiny – the web that I’ve spent the past fifty years crafting. It’s only now that I think I’m finally ready to rip it apart and re-design it. I have felt repressed and I crave change, personal growth and happiness.”
Geoff stares at me blankly. “But we are moving abroad so that you can do just that,” he replies. “You’ll have a fresh start in a new country, in a new house, with new friends and a new career! Amy, I don’t understand what you’re getting at here. I have tried to give you everything you have ever wanted, and I have never asked for much in return. And now you say that you feel… what was it? Repressed?”
“Yes!” I shout. “Repressed, frustrated, restrained, stifled, in a rut, a minion. I want to release my inner being and remove the millstone from around my neck.”
Geoff looks thoughtful. “Happiness comes to you, not you to it, and nobody’s life is great all the time. I don’t understand why people think that they are entitled to do whatever in the personal pursuit of happiness at the expense of others. Your life’s what you made it, Amy,” he says calmly. “You can’t replay it, so just lighten up, enjoy the ride and look on the bright side. You’re lucky. I don’t get why you’re angry and dissatisfied when you have so much and others have so little. It’s plain selfish. Think of the consequences, Amy. Think carefully before you decide to sacrifice everything we’ve worked for, harm our family, ruin our finances and damage our reputation – all because you’ve decided it’s time to go bohemian and be true to yourself.” His tone has turned sarcastic. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re going to run off with a penniless toy boy, live in a yurt and go tee-total. You’re living in fantasy land and need to see that GP. Urgently.”
His mobile vibrates. As he pulls it from the back pocket of his jeans, a small pink envelope falls to the floor. He does not notice. “Ah,” he mutters under his breath. “I’ve got to go out. Something’s come up. We’ll continue this later. But remember, Amy – your life is what you’ve made it.”
“You’re wrong,” I shout after him. “Life’s what I make it and…”
“Not now, Amy. Ring the GP.”
The front door slams.
I slide onto the carpet and put my head in my hands. I wonder if he is right. What if I do what I think I should and it’s the wrong thing? His words have reminded me of what Pete said about his wife when she left him. I’m not like she was, am I? Selfish? Escaping one life I don’t like for another that might suit me better?
I don’t want to put anyone at risk. I don’t want to appear shallow. I’m not young any more. I know I have responsibilities. I know I made vows and decisions of my own free will; I know that the time for making random choices and decisions by swiping left or right without a care has passed and that I should be happy with my lot. Moving away could be a new beginning for us.
My inner critic severely reprimands me.
Stop avoiding the issue and playing into his hands. He’s trying to push your buttons again. You’ve spent your entire life making calculated choices and decisions. They have served you well, but nothing remains constant, and your growing dissatisfaction is a clear indication that change is required. You have made many sacrifices, and you are wondering if they were all worth it. If you do not listen to your heart and the messages that this year has brought, then you will have willingly signed up to the fact that your future will always be your husband’s future, with all that this brings.
“I don’t want my future to be his future. I did once, I admit it. I was happy to live his life, but we have reached a new chapter. I want my future to be mine.”
Then be true to yourself, Amy Richards. What’s the worst that can happen?
I remember the pink envelope lying by the table leg. I pick it up to hand to Geoff later and notice that it is addressed to me. I recognise the handwriting as Cate’s. The postmark is dated as two weeks ago. Why hasn’t he given it to me?
I tear it open and a small photo falls out. It’s quite dark and grainy, but I can just make out Geoff. He is standing, dressed only in his underpants, between two women. They are wearing masks that completely cover their faces and tight white crop tops emblazoned with the logo ‘Jx2=OH!’. I flip over the photo to see one word and a sad face.
Sorry :(
Wednesday, 7.00 p.m.
Geoff symbolically hands me my Closing Ceremony torch outside Daisy Hill Academy and beams proudly for the crowd. I take it from him, avoiding all eye contact, and turn my back to him, holding my torch aloft. There’s a quick cheer of support as I link my arm in Bea’s, ready for the off. The haunting melody So Long, Old Friend accompanies us as we walk the first half-mile to where Cate is waiting for us.
The torch is carried by my friends along the moonlit streets, past Adriano’s and Tea and Tranquility to our cul-de-sac and into my kitchen – the place where it all began back in January. A mock-up Olympic cauldron, filled with red, yellow and orange tissue to resemble flames, sits on the kitchen table. Evie solemnly hands the torch to Pippa, who looks ashen. “This poem is for Mum,” she says in a wobbly voice.
“Thought this year would be scary,
You’d be on the sherry.
We were so wary,
At these challenges aplenty.
Didn’t know what they meanty (ha ha).
Now the pot’s almost empty.
We’ll miss all the drama,
The weekly palaver.
Hope you’ve found your karma.
Learn, grow and go forth,
Set your courth (like course, she whispers).
Be brave, bold and true,
Do what you have to do.
Don’t chuck what you’ve learned down the loo.
Or drink life away on Pinot Grigiooo.”
She smiles as everyone claps and cheers. I nod to Geoff, who turns off the kitchen light. Evie switches on the tea lights in the cauldron. “The cauldron marking the passing of Mum’s year is lit,” she announces solemnly.
“Please raise your glasses,” proclaims Geoff. “Amy Richards. Your year of Challenge and Adventure is almost over. I think you’ve enjoyed it, unlike some of us, ha! Perhaps now we can have peace and return to some sense of normality,” he snorts, waggling his Pointy Finger at me.
I visualise wave after wave of lightning bolts firing deep into my soul, and I read the coded message behind his words. What has become of you? Return to the fold. Resist the teachings of the Bowl of Chance and Opportunity. Do as I say, and all will be well. “So, what’s your idea of normality?” I ask coldly.
“I get my wife back, there’s an end to your immoral behaviour and indoctrination by this lot – and once we’ve moved, we’ll be free from these nonsensical escapades,” he replies.
There’s a gasp from Claire, and my blood pressure spikes. The h
ypocrite! Who is he to preach to me when I’ve got evidence in my pocket that proves he’s a liar and a cheat? All this talk about morality and normality.
“I find it amusing that you refer to my challenges as escapades,” I reply. “It looks like you’ve been enjoying a few of your own this year.” I fling the photo under his nose. “I’d like to know what’s normal and moral about that? And seeing that you’re such an expert on taking responsibility for one’s actions and looking before one leaps, so to speak, I’d welcome an explanation of what’s going on?”
Geoff bursts into peals of laughter. “That was a lads’ night out prank. You surely don’t believe that I would be so stupid as to jeopardise my reputation and sabotage my career prospects around here, do you? Surely this is not the time or place to discuss it, darling? Let’s not spoil this special night. Raise your glasses to Amy having survived her fiftieth year. Cheers!”
As everyone toasts me, a multitude of thoughts go through my head. Have I jumped to the wrong conclusions? Why would Cate have done such a thing? Why did Geoff conceal the envelope from me?
Cate drags me into the hallway, where The Girls are waiting. “Amy, I’m so sorry. Somebody sent it to me, and I felt you needed to see it. We are your friends, and we don’t want to see you hurt. We’re truly sorry if Geoff is telling the truth. Claire said we shouldn’t tell you and that it might do more damage.” She begins to cry.
“Calm down, everyone,” snaps Bea. “Amy, you know your husband is partial to a bit of porn. It’s no big deal, and it’s not as if he was pictured shagging them. I’m proud of you for being true to yourself at last and standing up to him – although it might have been better to have picked a better moment, pet! Throw the picture away, but if I were you, I’d keep an eye on him.”
51 Weeks Page 31