51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  Later that afternoon.

  Your delivery has arrived.

  I look forward to reading it.

  The thought of Him reading my work turns my stomach. What if he thinks it’s total crap?

  9.00 p.m.

  “Mum, I think these are yours? This one is about the blueberry challenge.” Evie is holding a pile of papers.

  “Here, let me see.”

  I go into slow mo as I realise that I have inadvertently forgotten to include six important chapters of my work. The version he has is incomplete. How can I have done that? It’s so unprofessional. What will he think? These chapters contain key material, and we can’t have any kind of meaningful discussion without them.

  I am so mad at myself for my total lack of organisation that I fire off a text without thinking:

  Are you in or are you out?

  Can I drop round some of the

  manuscript that I forgot to

  include when I posted it to you?

  It is important that you have a

  complete version – it won’t

  make any sense otherwise.

  9.30 p.m.

  He has not replied. I am frustrated.

  10.00 p.m.

  Nothing. I am climbing the walls.

  10.30 p.m.

  Sod it.

  Haven’t heard from you.

  I am passing your house in

  around half an hour

  and will post the missing pages

  through your letter box.

  If you would like to open your door

  and say hello, that would be lovely,

  No pressure. Amy

  I’ve had friends round.

  I am drunk.

  My house is a tip

  and not in a fit state

  to receive visitors.

  I’m not bothered what

  state your house is in.

  I only want to give you these pages.

  I am going to come round

  and post them anyway.

  It’s up to you if you say hi

  or not.

  I’ll meet you in my front garden.

  You can give them to me there.

  I casually tell Geoff that I am popping out to see a friend and will be back in about an hour. It’s a pitch-black night, and as I drive through his village, I become disorientated. Angry courage spurs me on. I haven’t got time to mess about looking for his place. I have to get this to him and get home. I call him on my hands-free. He answers on the second ring.

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m turning into your road but I can’t remember which is your house. Can you look out for me?”

  It is only when I see him waiting for me in his front garden and park up that the purposeful, determined woman instantly dissolves into a nervous, gawky teenager. I get out of my car and walk over to where he’s standing. Amazing! For once, his t-shirt isn’t scruffy and jeans aren’t grubby. He looks presentable.

  “Hello,” I say abruptly, taking an envelope from my bag and ripping it open. “Sorry for being so unorganised. Let me explain what’s here and where it fits with everything else you have and then I’ll go.”

  “Go on. Show me.” He flashes me an unreadable look as he puts a bottle of vodka to his lips and takes a long drink.

  Anxiety is replaced with eagerness and enthusiasm as I take out my papers. It begins to drizzle. Raindrops splash onto my work, smudging the print. “Hell. Trust it to rain now, I laugh easily. They’re getting soggy. Do you have a table where I can lay these out?”

  “Come in.”

  He leads me into his and Jason’s clean yet untidy lounge. I note a copy of How to Train Your Dragon sitting on top of the TV. “That’s how this all began,” I smile, pointing at the book.

  “Yeah,” he chuckles, taking another swig.

  I start to lay out my work on the table. He snatches up the first chapter, sits in an armchair and begins reading. I stand by the table watching him for his reaction to my writing. He laughs aloud. Wow! This is fascinating. He is laughing at my writing. Intrigued and flattered, I sit on the arm of his chair.

  “Where are you up to?” I ask.

  He ignores me and continues reading and laughing.

  “Where are you up to?” I repeat.

  His sporadic peals of laughter are infectious and I begin to laugh with him. I playfully lean across and punch him on his arm.

  “Oh, this is unbearable,” I giggle, leaning across him to get a better look at what is so riveting. “What’s so funny?”

  He steals a swift sidelong glance in my direction. I note it in my peripheral vision, but before I can do anything, he grabs me. In one fluid movement, I float from the arm of the chair into his arms and onto his lap.

  His mouth finds mine, his tongue wraps itself around mine and he devours me with urgency, passion and need. I know I should resist and withdraw, yet I don’t. I don’t want to, for if I do, I will regret it forever. I want to let go, to turn my fantasies into reality and allow emotions that have been pent up for so long to be set wild and free.

  He takes my manuscript from my hands and throws it aside. As it falls to the ground, I hear the papers scatter. “My papers,” I whisper to him wickedly…

  Cornflower-blue eyes smile deep into my soul. His mouth searches out mine again, his hands rhythmically stroking my hair, my face and my neck before raw lust overwhelms him and he grabs violently at my t-shirt, my bra straps, my bare skin, his mouth never leaving mine…

  1.00 a.m.

  Tiptoeing across the lounge, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. I don’t stop to look. I can already see what I need to see. I close the front door quietly behind me and I do not look back. I am emotionally freed.

  Back in my car, I check my mobile for messages. Three missed calls, two voicemails and five texts – all from Bea. I call her back. “Where the hell have you been, pet? No, don’t answer that. Just get yourself round to number nine, Worcester Drive, right now. What’s your ETA?”

  “About ten minutes. Why? That’s…”

  “Just put your foot down and get here as soon as you can. You can’t miss her house. I’ll meet you at the end of the road at number one.”

  Bea hangs up. Why is she ordering me to drive to Josie Jamieson’s house at this time of night? I wonder as I set off.

  Bea’s right. It’s impossible to miss Josie’s mansion. It stands out like a flashing Belisha beacon. Her front garden is festooned with Christmas lights and packed with boozed-up revellers.

  I park up outside number one as instructed and wait. A gnarled tree branch stabs me roughly in the small of my back and almost gives me a heart attack. I spin around to see where it’s coming from, lose my balance and topple backwards into a box hedge.

  “Over here, pet. Behind the hedge you are sitting in,” hisses Bea, crouching behind a low stone wall.

  “You’ve not gone into flipping labour, have you?” I ask, alarmed, brushing myself off.

  “No,” she laughs. “We need to be quiet and quick. What’s the charge like on your phone?”

  “It’s almost fully charged. Why?”

  “Turn it onto video recording mode, follow me and prepare yourself,” Bea whispers. “And put this on.”

  She hands me a black glitter eye-mask, a pair of black satin elbow-length gloves and a black-and-white-striped convict-style hat.

  “Why are we dressed as prisoners?” I ask. “You sure you should be walking about in those thigh-length stiletto boots? They are sexy, though.”

  Bea is unable to hide her exasperation. “It’s a cops and robbers party. We need to avoid detection so take my hand and try to appear pissed – shouldn’t be too difficult for you. Is your camera
ready? Now, would you please mute yourself for a minute or so and come on.”

  “We’re not going into her house, are we?” I splutter.

  Bea takes the lead, and we sway unsteadily through the front door and down the hallway. We stop by the downstairs toilet. The floor is vibrating with the pulsating beat of rock music, the air is thick with cigarette smoke, and the smell of weed, puke and scented joss sticks takes me back to forgotten student parties. There are people everywhere, dancing, talking, slumped in corners and making out.

  “We are going into this room. Keep quiet and calm and press record on your phone.”

  I hear the urgency in Bea’s voice. “I will record it too, just in case.”

  She does not give me time to respond. She opens the door, pulls me inside and pushes me up against the wall beside her. “Let your eyes adjust to the darkness and press record,” she breathes.

  And then I see. I see an audience and I see Geoff, Josie and Jess. Geoff is standing on a chair, his hands handcuffed behind his back. He is masked and stark naked, except for a pair of black-and-white-striped socks. A rope hanging from a meat hook in the ceiling is tied around his neck, and he is groaning in ecstasy as Josie and Jess whip him. The logo Jx2=OH! is stamped across their chests.

  “Come on, then!” Josie shouts, taking a swig from a bottle of wine. “Last time for you to have a big fat Oh with your two J’s before you leave us for the land of Oz, you bastard!”

  Bea drives me back to her place. She says I will be too shocked to take the wheel, let alone go home alone, but I’m not. The events of this month, culminating in what I have experienced tonight, have brought me release and closure.

  As we pass the familiar, the streets and shops and places I know so well, I sniff my arm and smile. It still smells of Him. Thank you, I think to myself, for helping me to rediscover who I really am and who I want to be. Whether you ever read the draft of my writing or help me with it is unimportant. I don’t know if I will ever see or talk to you again, but I can guarantee that Amy Parker will complete her fifty-first challenge.

  I reread my text conversation with him one last time. Then I delete it and him from my mobile. This time, I remember to block him. It’s time to turn the tide and embrace the unfamiliar – a fresh start on my terms. Life courses through my veins as I consider the possibilities and opportunities. What I plan to do feels right. Very right.

  “Well, pet?” sighs Bea, handing me a glass of Pinot Grigio and playing nervously with her hands. “I hope I did the right thing. When you asked us to choose your challenges, mine weren’t thought up at random. They were my way of giving you good counsel. I’ve known about Geoff’s demons for a long time, but if I’d confronted you with any of it, even three months ago, you wouldn’t have listened. Despite the mounting evidence week on week, you’ve been hell-bent on brushing your anger, frustration and tears under the carpet and trying to fix things your way.

  “Your challenges became a kind of light relief – a distraction from the underlying issues. I did try to reach you – dropping hints to you and Pippa.”

  “Like about the Butterfly Effect? I remember you talking about it the day after your fortieth, and Pippa mentioned it to me recently. I meant to look it up but I never did.”

  “I was concerned that you’d end up offloading everything in writing, producing some insignificant blog and seamlessly returning to the life you really wanted to ditch. Your Pippa’s a smart kid. We worked together to try to get through to you.”

  “I heard everything you both said, yet I convinced myself that it was never the right time to go for it. I desperately tried to shield Pippa and Evie from everything. I’ve only ever wanted to do the right thing, Bea. I thought that Geoff loved me…”

  “Yeah, pet,” she says sardonically. “He loves you when you clean and cook and make his meals. He adores you when you go on his walks, and he worships you when you give him exactly want he wants without question. He can’t love the new you because he doesn’t understand, and he never will. What do you want to do?” she sighs. “You might not want to tell Claire anything yet; Bob and your husband being best mates and all that.”

  I give a half-laugh. “Claire? She’s the last person I want to talk to right now.”

  “She’ll mither you both to work at your marriage and seek spiritual guidance, but you can handle her. Your friendship might change, though, if Bob puts pressure on her not to see you.”

  I realise that Bea has no idea what Claire has done and decide to remain silent. She doesn’t need to know the real reason why Claire and I can never be friends again. I rummage in my handbag for my mobile.

  “Now, show me how to upload this video I took and post it on as many social media sites as we can – and give me the contact details of the solicitor you used for your divorce. Then, I need to transfer all the money in our online bank accounts into my savings account and pop home to remove some key documents from the files before the shit hits the fan.”

  My eyes sparkle. “Are you with me?”

  Bea grins and hugs me hard. “Amy Richards. Have you come a long way. Mrs Harmer’s predictions were bloody accurate. I found love, a baby’s on the way – and as for you, you’re wide awake.”

  “It’s Amy Parker to you,” I laugh. “Yeah. That story about the sick tomato plant was a reference to Jx2=OH!, and I’m finally getting rid of the Mr Rhizoctonia solani fungus – aka Mr Richards. I still don’t get why the tarot reader thinks I have a son, though?” I keep quiet about the references she made to ‘cancer’ Claire and Him.

  “Any regrets, pet? What will you do next?”

  Thoughts of Claire, Geoff, Jess, my children, Him, my challenges and the past year flash before my eyes. “Bea,” I smile, raising my glass. “My marriage is over, and our Girls’ nights out at Adriano’s are no more – but it’s time for new beginnings, and the future is ours to make of what we will. You’ll have to wait and see what Amy does next. I always thought that this week would mark the end of my journey, but it’s only just begun. And d’you know what? Je ne regrette absobloodylutely rien. Come on, where’s your laptop? I’ve a lot to do, and this video needs to go viral.”