The List (15 page)

‘It's delicate. Let's just say I haven't been with anyone in a while. I'm nervous, and if you laugh I'll kill you.'

‘Ha ha … Oh. Right. I don't think I like where this is going. You want actual sex tips? No chance.'

‘Oh, come on, Phoebe! Just give me a few pointers – that's all. After overhearing your phone call, I'm sure I could learn a lot.'

‘Don't push it, Frank. I'm already feeling compromised by this.' He looked so pitiful that I finally relented. ‘OK, I'll see what I can do, but after this you're on your own.'

‘Deal.'

Christ, I'm the one who's supposed to be on a voyage of sexual discovery, not him.

Wednesday April 27th

‘You seem to be seeing an awful lot of Frank these days,' Oliver remarked when I went over to his place this evening.

‘This is the last time. I made him promise.'

‘Good, I don't like sharing you.'

The minute those words came out of his mouth I could see him start to panic. ‘I mean, do what you like, I'm just being selfish. We're both free agents.'

‘Ha, you secretly love me and this is driving you insane with jealousy,' I laughed.

Oliver laughed too but not very convincingly. I hope he's not getting fed up with me already.

Thursday April 28th

‘Is it just me or is Frank being more, well, normal these days?' asked Lucy, who'd decided to come and sit on my desk and chat while I was trying to work. ‘He actually thanked me for something this morning. That never happens.'

I shrugged and kept my mouth shut.

‘Sounds vile, but I really fancy him sometimes. When he's not being a dickhead. I had a dream where he—'

‘I don't want to hear it! It's going to be like that dream where you shagged Christian Bale in my house and made him shout at you like that viral off YouTube. Shit like that stays in my head.'

Lucy giggled. ‘GOOD FOR YOU! Fucking love him.
Actually, that's who else Frank reminds me of. Shouty Bale. Big ride that he is.'

‘Ha! Stop distracting me, I need to get these orders finished.'

She hopped off my desk and wandered back to her own, whistling the Batman theme tune as she went. I have no idea how I'm going to approach this sex stuff with Frank. What I do know is that Lucy can never know. She'd put me into a cannon and launch me into space.

Friday April 29th

The whole country was given the day off today to celebrate the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. I assumed that, like me, no one actually gave a shit and would use the day off to sleep, but both Lucy and Hazel turned up at eleven that morning, armed with cava and canapés. Lucy was wearing a tiara. I wasn't even dressed.

‘We're watching the wedding here,' said Lucy, thrusting the booze into my hand. ‘You have the good telly.'

‘Seriously?' I asked, as they rushed past me into the living room. ‘You're into this shit?'

‘Hell yes!' exclaimed Hazel, turning on BBC One. ‘Actual princes and princesses? You bet I am.'

‘I just want to see what everyone's wearing,' said Lucy, plonking herself down on the couch. ‘It'll be all massive, stupid hats and tummy-control pants under dull designer dresses. Someone always looks a fright – I'm here for that show.'

‘Well, make yourselves at home,' I said, shaking my head.
‘I'm off to shower and tidy up until you both leave and let me get back to bed.'

I busied myself with cleaning the flat, occasionally glancing at the screen when Lucy shrieked with laughter at someone's hat, but not really paying much attention. My attitude lasted until the actual wedding began, when I couldn't resist any longer. Giving in, I plonked myself between Lucy and Hazel, mesmerized by the sheer grandeur of the event. By the time they kissed on the balcony, I was on my third glass of cava, sobbing into a hanky. ‘She's a real-life princess now!' I sniffed. ‘I want to be a princess.'

‘You've certainly changed your tune,' laughed Hazel. ‘She did look beautiful though. Must be odd being on display like that.'

‘I know!' agreed Lucy. ‘Imagine that was your life. One minute you're getting pissed in the university bar, the next you're engaged to a prince and getting married in front of the entire world. If she so much as pulls her thong out of her backside in public, it'll be front-page news. I'd hate that.'

I took Lucy's tiara off her head and placed it on mine. ‘I hate being shown what I'll never be. It's depressing. I saw a video on YouTube of that lion hugging the man who'd rescued her and I thought, I'll never even be a lion rescuer. I don't like the thought that my life will always be this unremarkable.'

Lucy bit into her canapé and nodded. ‘I know what you mean. I remember when Obama got sworn in and I was like, “I'll never be the first black President of the United States!”'

‘Fuck you,' I laughed. ‘I'm serious!'

Hazel finally stopped laughing and said, ‘You've created a list which most women only fantasize about and you're actually doing it. You might not be a princess but you're an inspiration.'

I raised my glass. ‘YEAH, I AM. Here's to shagging my way to a more significant life!'

Around nine Lucy and Hazel finally went home and I fell into bed, still wearing Lucy's tiara.

Sunday May 1st

11 a.m
. I'm still considering the possibility of meeting up with Alex. Maybe it would help me get past all this. The list has shown me that I'm more than capable of change, of taking my destiny into my own hands and calling the shots. Perhaps this would be a good test of how far I've come. And he's offering sushi.

No. That's ridiculous, I'll buy my own sushi and he can go to hell! No amount of maki is worth this much hassle. I half wonder if he still has feelings for me, but the more realistic part of me thinks he's just playing his usual games. Whatever his motives, it seems things can't be going as well for him as I'd imagined. Maybe he's not randomly high-fiving strangers on the street before rushing home to have a laugh with HER at how blissful life is without me in it. Then telling her everything he felt he couldn't share with me because he never loved me the way he loves her. I bet she doesn't know he's emailing me. He's keeping her in the dark about this, and I have to admit, I'm finding it rather intriguing.

9 p.m
. After giving the matter a lot more thought today in bed, I have decided that I am NOT going to meet Alex, that's a definite. I think … Yes, it is. Despite my fantasy of me sitting there looking hot and him begging for forgiveness, I realize it would be nothing like that. It would inevitably turn into another slanging match, which I can do without. He'd just talk over the top of me in one continuous drone and I'd give up being sensible, or even reasonable, and start swearing. The best thing to do is ignore him. Pam Potter thinks I have a problem staying in control around him. She thinks he manipulated me so badly that I have trouble remembering who I am when he's there. She also thinks she'll one day persuade me to stand in front of her tapping my own head while telling myself I'm a great person and that isn't happening. I'm just tired of feeling angry when I see him, so the obvious solution is not to see him. I'd happily tap his bloody head though.

Monday May 2nd

I thought a little Bank Holiday boning might be nice so I tried to persuade Oliver to come round after he'd finished his football game this evening. I wanted to breathe in his man smell while squeezing his thighs, but instead he went out with that Simone girl again. Selfish. He called me on his way there.

‘I just remembered something really important. It's my birthday next month. What are you getting me?'

‘You're on your way to meet Simon and—'

‘Simone.'

‘Whatever, and all you can think about is your birthday? Poor cow. Maybe I'll get you an “I
Simone” T-shirt and matching pants?'

‘Don't get me something to wear. You're not my mother.'

‘Anyway, with all the sex we've been having, it must feel like your birthday every month, Oliver.'

‘Hardly, unless squirting all over my sheets is your idea of a present. Extra laundry is not a gift, Phoebe.'

‘Stop complaining. I'll see you tomorrow for our next role play.'

‘Oh yeah. Hooker time! Can I call you a different name? Like Candice? Or Chastity?'

‘If you must.'

So instead I dragged myself over to Lucy's house, where we ordered a takeaway and made our way through two bottles of wine. By ten I was face down on her couch with the top button of my trousers undone, suffering from naan-bread sweats, while Lucy lay on the floor and finished off the last of the popadoms. ‘Are you crashing here tonight? I have more wine.'

‘Nah, I spilled korma on these trousers, I'll need to go home.'

‘I'll give you trousers.'

‘You're a size ten. I haven't been a size ten since high school. I used to have a flat stomach and a space between my thighs, you know. Now I just eat until I can't see my feet.'

‘You left some black trousers here ages ago. And shh, you're gorgeous. Curvy. Like Christina Hendricks. She's a goddess.'

‘And you're drunk. But I agree I do look exactly like her; it's uncanny. Tell you what – I'll stay for wine if you put your
Mad Men
box set on.'

‘Oooh. Deal.' We watched
Mad Men
until three when Lucy began snoring loudly and I was forced to retreat to the spare room.

Tuesday May 3rd

I went into work with Lucy this morning, which of course meant I was late, wearing the black clubbing trousers I'd left in her bedroom last year after a drunken night at the Arches. Classy. Halfway through the afternoon I remembered that Oliver and I had a role-play evening planned and invented a hospital appointment to get away early. Oliver had emailed me a picture of the kind of ‘look' he thought I should go for, which felt more porn star than street-corner prostitute. The picture showed a heavily made-up dark-haired woman with a black miniskirt, stockings, suspenders and ridiculously high shoes, similar to the ones I'd bought last year in a fit of optimism but never wore as they killed my feet. I got home, showered, shaved my legs and blow-dried my hair, then spent twenty-five minutes putting on black eyeliner, 475 coats of mascara and some bright red lipstick. I wore a tight black minidress and tried to copy his picture as best I could: red underwear, black fishnet stockings and suspenders. I carried my high heels as I rushed down to my car in my stocking feet. I hoped to God I wouldn't get spotted, or stopped by the police as my vision was impaired due to the amount of mascara I had clogging
up my eyelashes. I must admit, even though I felt like a Halloween reject, I did get into character quickly and got completely turned on at what he might have planned. I climbed the stairs to his flat and strapped myself into my stupidly high shoes as I rang his buzzer. He opened the door wearing a bathrobe and I thought for a second he'd forgotten. However, looking down at his noticeable erection I guessed that I'd arrived right on time. I hobbled past him and threw my keys down on his hall table (they missed of course and landed in a shoe). Still, not put off by my clumsy entrance, I turned around and uttered the words ‘What do you want then?' in a startling husky voice even I didn't recognize.

He walked into the living room, dropped his bathrobe and told me to get on my knees. I took my coat off, managed to navigate my way into the living room in my idiot shoes and gratefully flopped on to my knees. I was halfway through one of my finest blow jobs to date when he pulled my face up to look at him and asked ‘How much for anal?'

I had to resist the urge to shout, ‘ONE MILLION DOLLARS!' but just shook my head, horrified that I couldn't remember when I'd last been to the toilet. Suddenly the fun was gone for me and all I could think was that if anything went wrong, I'd stab myself with my own stiletto.

He noticed my worried face and whispered, ‘Don't worry; if it's messy then it's messy. Just keep going.'

He started to fuck me from behind, but for the first time ever it was all very average. Just pounding with the occasional ‘You filthy whore' thrown in for effect.

I looked over my shoulder. ‘Not what you had in mind?'

He shrugged and stopped thrusting. ‘Nope. Not remotely. This was very different in my head.'

‘Is it me? I look ridiculous, don't I?'

‘Nah, you look sexy. In my head this was much seedier and without feeling. That's impossible to do when you're shagging your best mate.'

‘Feeling? Since when did you start feeling?'

‘Did I say feeling? I meant chafing. These sheets are really harsh.' He moved to the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. ‘I cannot believe this has ended with me thinking about thread count.'