51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  “Why, Bea?”

  “Do you love him, Amy?”

  “I think so… I don’t know…”

  “The choice is yours, pet,” she smiles. “You know the score. Be true to yourself, and when the time is right, you’ll do what’s right for you. Just do one thing for me.” She leans forward and whispers into my ear. “Look on the Mon-Keys’ website, and read up about the benefits of Jx2=OH!.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it. And Amy…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do it soon.”

  * * *

  “Is she fine, darling?” asks Mrs Mon-Key.

  “Yes, thankfully,” replies Bea. “This has got to stop, though.”

  “Yes, I suppose I should tighten security at our events even further,” broods Mrs Mon-Key. “Social media is such a curse at times. If it got out that our clientèle were in danger of being named and shamed, it would ruin us.”

  “No! I meant that Amy’s husband has to see sense and stop. He’s always had a bit of a roving eye, and now he’s playing with fire.”

  “Ah. But that is not my concern, Bea, darling. Geoff is a consenting adult, and it is not for us to judge what he does and why. We are there to provide a service and amusement for the community. I do feel for Amy – she’s gorgeous – and I sincerely hope that everything works out for them. I draw comfort from the fact that Jx2=OH! have convinced him that he should go away to try and cure himself. Sad, though. I’ve become very fond of him since I recruited him at that blueberry-eating challenge. Now, it’s late, and I must go. Busy night tomorrow. Toodle-oo – and try not to fret, Bea. I’m just glad one of her friends is aware, just in case, you know. It is best that they go.”

  Thursday, 8.00 p.m.

  I log onto the Mon-Keys’ website, as Bea instructed. The link to Jx2=OH! is in the Members Only area, and as I’ve not paid an annual subscription, I’m denied access. I try to recall who might be able to help me. Becca? She was at the Swinging challenge with me… Mr Steele? He was definitely there – he was with my sister. I’m sure she’d assist. I send Jess a text.

  Week Four. Saturday 17th December, 2.00 p.m.

  It’s my official week off from challenges.

  “Good thing, too,” pants Geoff as we lug a six-foot Douglas Fir through the lounge and carefully position it in the corner of the room. “There,” he declares, standing back to admire our efforts. “Right. You girls decorate the tree, and then Mum and I need to talk in peace. HR is pestering me for a start date, and I’ve promised that I’ll have all the paperwork done and dusted by the time I go back. I do hope you used that retreating challenge of yours to digest everything I gave you? You haven’t said anything, and there’s a bunch of stuff to do.” He turns to us, grinning. “We’ll get Christmas over, and then it’s bye bye, Britain.” He leaves the room oblivious to the storm clouds gathering.

  “He’s told me about Australia. You haven’t said anything to him, have you, Mum?” scolds Pippa. “How can you wimp out and let him talk you round into doing exactly what he wants again? Hasn’t this year taught you anything? Read your challenge diary. They were each chosen for a reason, Mum. Bea said they were ‘catalysts for change’. She said she wanted to open your eyes – but they are still tightly shut.”

  “Please. It’s Christmas, darling. Let’s try to enjoy ourselves. I’m challenge-free, you’re on holiday from school and Santa should be visiting very soon. We’d better make some mince pies for the reindeer,” I smile.

  “God, that’s such a cop-out,” she replies angrily. “Dad’s right. Now you’re using Christmas as an excuse to avoid stuff again. The longer you avoid issues, the more difficult it will be, Mum. It’s obvious to everyone that being with Dad is making you unhappy. And you being unhappy is making us unhappy; so admit it to yourself, have the conversation with him, and let him go and emigrate. Loads of my friends’ parents have split up and in the beginning, it’s tough, but things improve – and from what I see, everyone’s happier.”

  “Stop that right NOW!” I yell, slamming my fist into the sofa. “You and Dad are piling on the pressure, thinking you know it all and what’s best for me. However, neither of you know what the hell you’re talking about. You don’t know what’s best for me, and I’m not avoiding anything.” I catch my breath and slump onto the carpet, emotionally exhausted. “I’m sorry. I just want us to enjoy Christmas. Nobody is going to control me,” I beseech. “Please. Come and sit down, both of you, and take a choccy from the tin.”

  I pass the tin around.

  “Listen,” I say gently. “Way back in January – feels like light years ago now, doesn’t it? – I never dreamed for one moment that I’d be in the situation I am in now. But that’s what’s happened. It’s easy to be a bystander, advising and passing judgement based on what you see and hear. I can assure you both that my eyes are most definitely wide open now. Here, take another choccy. But I am the one who must live with the consequences of the decisions I make, so I will decide what to do without outside influence. Do you understand?”

  Pippa nods.

  “I honestly do respect what you both say and think and how you feel. However, on this one, you do not know the half of it. You think you know what I should do, but you are too young to understand the complexities of the situation. Let’s try to have a fantastic Christmas – and promise me that you will stop trying to force my hand before I am ready. I swear that I have all our interests at heart, but this is a matter for me and your father. I’m sorry. That’s how it is.”

  My daughters fly upstairs in floods of tears. I let them go, overwhelmed by intense sadness and guilt at what I am putting them through. I try to compose myself by looking out of the rain-streaked window pane at the place we call home and at the two carrion crows flying overhead. My eyes vacantly follow their flight path and I am filled with a sense of foreboding.

  I absentmindedly reach for my mobile, my comfort blanket, to check for messages or Wordie app activity – anything to lift my mood, to relax me and to take my mind off things for a short while.

  Aymeee!

  I know you’re avoiding me.

  Didn’t mean to be an arse.

  I’ll treat you to a mince pie.

  The 27th? Deal?

  I burst out laughing at his cheek. When I deleted Him, I forgot to block him. The rush of emotion that floods through me spurs me into action. I can’t quite believe just how glad I am to have him back in my life. We agree to meet at Bromley’s department store.

  Week Five. Boxing Day.

  Jess phones.

  “Happy Crimbo. Just a quickie. We’re off skiing. Not that Adam Anthony wants to go. We’re gagging to get on the slopes, but he’s just not interested, and Stanley’s going ballistic again. If I could leave him with you, I would. Fancy having your nephew for a few days? He loved it the last time. It was so lovely to see him bonding with his uncle.”

  “Did you get my text?” I ask, ignoring her request.

  “I can’t help, I’m afraid. I’m not a member of Mrs Mon-Key’s establishment. Too bloody expensive for me.”

  “But have you been there? I’m sure my hairdresser Becca said she saw you when we went, as part of one of my challenges?” I lie.

  “I have made a guest appearance once or twice, so it’s possible she might have seen me. Why do you need to speak to a member? In my experience, most members prefer other methods of communication, ha ha.”

  “You can’t help me, then?” I sigh, ignoring her crassness.

  “Sorry, hon. A bientôt.”

  I refresh the Mon-Keys’ website, willing it to provide me with inspiration. The What’s On section has been updated with information on the many artists appearing over the coming year, accompanied by thumbnail images of the performers. I hungrily scan the list for Jx2=OH! – the act is on every Saturday night and has five-star reviews, but the acc
ompanying blurb isn’t helpful.

  It is the thumbnail, however, that makes me blanch. Oh, Mrs Mon-Key! What a breach of security! I think as I stare at the image of my smiling husband spanking… I enlarge the image of the woman’s buttock to be absolutely sure. That tattoo is of Daisy Hill Academy’s coat of arms, and that could only belong to one person. Josie Jamieson. The Josie Jamieson who was in the pub with Geoff on the night I was dressed as a man. The Josie Jamieson, ex chair of governors, who was dancing provocatively with Geoff and Jess at my charity night.

  I sit on my bed, feeling numb. Geoff’s been frequenting Mrs Mon-Key’s club and doing rather more than her accounts. He’s indulging in God knows what with J – Josie – and another J.

  I pull out the photo that I have kept hidden under the mattress and examine it for clues. My body trembles with disgust as I recognise the delicate filigree bangle I bought from Dubrovnik for Jess’s thirtieth birthday, adorning the wrist of the other half of Jx2=OH!…

  Bloody hypocrites. All that talk about me, when they have all been cheating and lying. Golfing pal ‘Jay’ must be Josie Jamieson or Jess. One of them gave Geoff the antibiotics. Were they to treat an STI? And that photo wasn’t Geoff at a work do at all. It was at Mrs Mon-Key’s, wasn’t it? So much for Jess’s ‘guest appearances’. Her job in the social care sector, ‘spreading joy and happiness’ is as one half of the sex act Jx2=OH!. Mrs Harmer was right all along. All that stuff about Blossom drop, betrayal and treachery has come true. God knows what other skeletons are hiding in the cupboard.

  What’s the number one thing you really do not want to do when you’ve just discovered that your husband is having an affair with not one, but two women, and that one of them is your sister? You definitely don’t want to sleep with him in his bed.

  I’ve always wondered how I’d be if I discovered something this terrible. On TV and in films, the aggrieved party often goes into some kind of psychological meltdown, rages or finds solace in a sharp implement.

  I, however, am completely calm. No finger-chewing. No wine-drinking. No kitchen-pacing. Maybe I’m in shock? I don’t know. I’ve never been in this position before. Perhaps it’s because they have inadvertently given me the perfect excuse to leave my marriage with my reputation intact. Oh, the irony.

  So, what next? I wonder if Pete felt similarly when he found out about his wife’s cheating, and what he did first. I Skype him for advice.

  “Without trust, you have nothing. You told me that yourself, Pete, and until now, I had never distrusted my man. Jess, my so-called sister, used to joke about him playing away, but I have never had reason to doubt him on that count. In fact,” I laugh, “he’s the last person I could envisage ever having an affair. He’s uber-concerned about what people think of him, his standing in the community and his status, and if he was having a fling, why would he be so excited about emigrating?

  “Okay, he’s sexist, crass and unthinking, not to mention controlling, selfish and self-centred. Plus he thinks he can fix me by convincing himself I need pills and medical intervention… He’s never been deceitful though – until now.”

  Pete nods, his eyes unwavering. “For what it’s worth, my advice is to do something, even if you decide to do nothing for a few days. Keep busy. When the time is right, you will know what to do – and I do believe that you will do the right thing, Amy baby. Do you have anything to take your mind off this?”

  “Yes, this,” I reply, waving my fifty-first challenge slip at the camera. It reads:

  IN JANUARY, YOU EMBARKED ON A JOURNEY OF SELF-DISCOVERY.

  YOUR AMBITION WAS TO EXPERIMENT, EXPERIENCE AND GROW.

  50 CHALLENGES ON, IT IS TIME TO REFLECT AND

  COMPLETE YOUR FINAL CHALLENGE.

  WHAT HAVE YOU LEARNED?

  SHARE YOUR NEWLY ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM.

  REFLECT ON THE

  WARMTH AND HAPPINESS

  YOU HAVE FOUND AND

  SPREAD AROUND.

  AND MOURN THE PAST –

  SHOULD YOU NEED TO.

  MAKE THE DECISIONS

  YOU NEED TO MAKE.

  DON’T LET ALL THIS HAVE

  BEEN FOR NOTHING.

  “So, crack on with that and sit tight, Amy baby. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  27th December, 8.00 a.m.

  I know what I want to say, but I can’t get it down on paper. Translating my notes and what’s swilling around my head into something that people are going to find unputdownable is impossibly hard. Rejected attempts litter the floor, and I’m slowly becoming more frustrated. At least I’m seeing Him today, I sigh, as I scribble furiously, read back what I’ve written and rip it up for the umpteenth time. Claire said I was smart enough to nail this on my own, but I don’t think I can do it without help.

  Geoff marches into the kitchen. “You’re up early, Amy? Most industrious.” He peers over my shoulder at what I am doing. “Ah, the infamous fifty-first challenge. So, what tasty morsels have you got in store for us, Amy? I’m dying to read this blockbuster – especially the bits about Him.”

  I stiffen. Our eyes meet. Mine emit horror. His signal amusement and triumph.

  “You think your friends really care about you, Amy? Only one of your friends has your best interests at heart, and I am really grateful to her for the tip-offs. The others, well, they have used you as their source of entertainment. You’ve been something to spice up their mundane lives. They’ve been playing with you, don’t you see? They don’t care about you. They are caught up in the spirit of the game and busy betting on how it will end. Then they will dump you and move on to something more interesting. Such is the shallow nature of man.” He admires his physique in the reflection of the oven. “Hey, I’m one sexy beast,” he preens.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but there is absolutely nothing going on and…”

  “I’m okay with it, Amy. I’m a modern man. It’s no big deal. This year of yours has been good after all. From frigid-fanny in January to come-and-get-it-cougar. Just hope you’ve kept it discreet. We don’t want anything to jeopardise the good name of Brand Richards, do we? How about a spot of role-play tonight? Just thinking about it is making me horny.” He leers at my chest.

  “Who’s been feeding you such garbage?” I whisper. “Whatever you think’s going on between Him and me is a figment of your imagination. I can’t believe that somebody has done such a vile thing and you’ve lapped it up. You’re unhinged. It’s you who needs help, not me.”

  I’m frozen to the spot. What does he know, exactly? Only Claire knows anything significant. I blink hard. She has always been close to Geoff. They’ve been friends since long before she introduced him to me, and I’ve never suspected anything untoward. Why would I? She’s been double-crossing me all year, probably. They’ve had tons of opportunities to talk and trade information about me. And that red tote bag I helped Geoff to choose for his PA. That wasn’t a present from Bob at all. It was a reward for grassing on me. Why would she do such a thing to one of her closest friends? I trusted her.

  I have to be sure. “Was it Claire?” I ask, panic-stricken.

  “Who knows?” he goads. “Shall we call her and find out?” He reaches for his mobile. “Ah, it’s in the car. Shame. ”

  My mobile pings.

  “Sexting with Luster-boy, eh?” smirks Geoff. “See you later for some hot lurving… ’gorgeous babe’.”

  I let out a huge sigh of relief as I hear his car reversing out of the drive and look to see who has texted me. If it’s from Claire, that bloody snake in the grass…

  It’s from Him.

  I’m sooo sorry. I can’t meet you today.

  “No!” I shout at my phone. “Don’t you turn on me too. You have no idea how infuriated I am with you. You make me smile. When I feel miserable, you lift my spirits. You are my anti-depressant, and I can’t write without your help. I was so loo
king forward to seeing you again. I’ll start to forget what I want to say if I leave it too long. You don’t get away with it that easily,” I mutter, blind with rage. “You’re the one who has been encouraging me to get on with it all year.”

  I text back.

  I have a rough first draft

  but I have writer’s block.

  May I post you what I have?

  Send me your manuscript

  and I’ll take a look.

  He gives me his full address, including his postcode.

  10.30 a.m.

  The document is bulky. I have it weighed at the post office and am politely informed that it will cost a fortune to send, especially as I am insistent that it should be signed for. I can’t afford for it to get lost.

  It’s expensive to post,

  so I will drop it through your door shortly.

  Hope you don’t mind!

  Happy reading! :)

  As I pull up outside his house, my mood changes. Now that I’m staring at where he actually lives, I feel decidedly uncomfortable. I have goose bumps and am gripped by the desire to run. I don’t want to be here. It doesn’t feel right.

  Amy Richards, just do it quickly.

  My nerves are jangling as I stuff the bulging envelope through his letter box. “I don’t know if it’ll fit,” I mutter. “It’s got to go, there isn’t any other way,” I say to myself firmly as I push and wriggle and squeeze the envelope through the narrow gap.

  I hear it plop onto the doormat, and I heave a sigh of relief.