The List (17 page)

‘Best get that whiff seen to then, eh?' He laughed loudly at his own joke, so in return I knocked his pizza on to the floor.

Tuesday May 10th

After work Hazel and I went to get haircuts using some vouchers she'd purchased ages ago and had forgotten about. I was happy to go; my hair was frizzy as hell and it gave me a chance to catch up with her.

‘So what's new?' she asked, getting her hair detangled by a grumpy, purple-haired junior called Morven who looked about ready to kill everyone in the salon.

‘Erm, not much really. Same old.' There was no way I was telling her about my rotten vagina in front of Morven.

‘We've just booked a holiday to Greece. Two weeks in the sun, all-inclusive. I cannot wait to lie beside a pool and read some trashy novels.'

‘Amazing! When do you leave?'

Morven moved on to me before pausing to sigh, ‘Tea or coffee?' in our direction. The look on her face said that if we made her walk to the kitchen, our drinks would be spat in. We declined and carried on chatting.

‘Saturday. Grace will love it. They have some sort of babies' club where giant tigers dance for them.'

‘I'm so jealous. I want giant tigers to dance for me. I won't get a holiday this year unless I win the lottery.'

‘You actually have to play the lottery to make that statement, Phoebe.'

A tall hairdresser called Patrick appeared to do Hazel's
hair and, compared to Morven, he actually seemed happy to be there. Unfortunately my hair was to be managed by ‘Eve', whose own hair looked like Kate Bush's after she's finished running up that hill.

‘What am I doing for you today then?' Eve asked, staring at me in the mirror.

‘Just a tidy-up really. Trim off the ends and my fringe. Nothing too drastic.'

‘You'd suit short hair.'

‘Nah, I don't think—'

‘You would. You should get something more stylish. This is very Sixties. It's not the Sixties any more.'

‘Thanks, but no. I had short hair once and I looked like a Lego figure. Y'know, with the clip-on hair that …'

She wasn't laughing. She picked up a plastic bottle and started spraying my hair with something that smelled like bubblegum. ‘Fine,' she shrugged, taking a pair of scissors from her belt. ‘Whatever.'

I shot a look of panic at Hazel, who was deep in discussion about her hair needs with Patrick and didn't notice. ‘Just a trim, Patrick, I like this style. Maybe a bit off the layers.' ‘No problem, Hazel.'

Ugh. Fucking typical. This was the worst fucking salon ever.

Forty-five minutes later we were all finished. Despite the fact she had so reluctantly trimmed my hair, Eve did a good job. I might have a defective vagina, but my hair is swishy and awesome.

Wednesday May 11th

After the morning meeting I nipped outside to call the doctor's and get my test results.

‘You'll have to come in and discuss them,' the receptionist chirped down the phone. ‘I can give you a five thirty appointment.'

‘What? Why? Is it serious? What do I have?'

‘You'll have to come in and discuss it with the doctor. Shall I book you in?'

‘Fine. OK.'

I came back into the office and called Lucy. ‘They won't tell me over the phone. I have to go in at half five. Should I worry?'

‘Yes.'

‘REALLY?'

‘No.'

‘Oh, you're no help. Stop laughing.'

‘Sorry. They never tell this stuff over the phone. It'll be cool. Relax.'

‘I'm not going to be able to concentrate on anything now.'

‘So what? It's only work.'

‘Fair point.'

For the next six hours I tried to distract myself by rearranging my desk, rearranging Lucy's desk, doing fifteen coffee runs and pretending to be interested when Frank told a story about some cheese.

I took a taxi to the doctor's and thankfully was only kept waiting for a few minutes before I was called in.

‘OK, your gonorrhoea and chlamydia tests were negative,' the doctor told me, ‘but we did find something: BV.'

‘Oh God. That's not good. I can't believe it. I'm always careful. What is it?'

‘Bacterial vaginosis. It's not an STI. It's when the bacteria inside your vagina become unbalanced.'

‘My vagina is unbalanced?'

‘No, the bacteria are. My advice is not to wash yourself with anything perfumed. Smokers are also more likely to get this, so that's another reason to give up. I'll give you a gel; it'll clear up quickly.'

Ten minutes later I was in the chemist waiting for my prescription, feeling very grateful I didn't have some weird shagger's disease. When I finally got home, Oliver was waiting for me.

‘Well? Are you all right?'

‘Yeah. It's BV. A vag thing, NOT a sex thing. I got some gel. It's all good.'

‘Do I need to get tested?'

‘Not unless you have a vagina.'

We went upstairs and he made coffee while I pulled off my shoes and lay on the couch. ‘This has been emotionally draining … and embarrassing. You are never getting within smelling distance of my lady parts ever again.'

‘Yeah, I'm guessing that won't last long. We both enjoy that too much. Anyway, be thankful I told you. A lot of guys would have kept quiet and just laughed about it drunkenly with their mates if you ever dumped them.'

I fear this is very true.

He finished his coffee and stood up to leave. ‘I have football
now, but I'll be back tomorrow so we can start on the couples challenge.'

‘Oh, will you now? What if I have plans?'

‘Do you?'

‘No.'

‘Shut up then. Tomorrow at eight. See you then.'

And so I was left alone to face an evening of gel insertion and rubbish telly. I'm so rock and roll.

Thursday May 12th

Ugh, I slept in for work this morning and had to run for the train like a fool. Then I was forced to sit beside some guy who reeked of garlic, applying my make-up and getting mascara all over my nose when the train stopped suddenly.

As I walked out of the station I realized I'd forgotten my cigs. I popped into a nearby shop, where I pulled out my purse to pay and found a sanitary towel stuck to it. The cute guy behind the checkout just laughed and said, ‘Don't worry. That happens to my mum all the time.' His mum? Little shit. This was not the best start to my day. Other highlights included falling up the stairs and dribbling coffee down my white top.

I had finished all my work by four so Lucy and I played text games to pass the last hour. The theme was ‘replace a word in film title with food'. We came up with several, including ‘The Lambshank Redemption', ‘The Evil Bread' and ‘Prawn on the Fourth of July' but Lucy triumphed with ‘9½ Leeks' just as Frank came out and threatened to confiscate my phone. By the time five rolled around I was
ready to go home and spend my evening with Oliver.

He came over later as arranged. He brought some beers and we got tipsy while looking for a couple online, as we'd decided the internet was the easiest and most discreet way to go about finding one. He's totally getting into this. He mentioned that his colleague Gary and his girlfriend could be up for it, but quickly rethought this plan when I reminded him that he'd have to look his friend in the face every day afterwards.

‘
Morning, Oliver
.'

‘
Morning, Gary. At some point today I'm going to have flashbacks of you balls-deep in my mate Phoebe. Your sweaty sex face will be imprinted on my memory forever
.'

‘I see your point.' He shuddered. ‘Game over.'

In order to get access to the site we had to place our own advert, which read:

A couple of minutes later we were registered and good to go.

Browsing swinging sites is like a looking at a car crash. A certain morbid curiosity takes over and you can't help staring. Lots of seemingly ‘normal' couples all looking to experiment and share sexual encounters with other like-minded people. We tried to take it seriously, but we're the world's most useless, giggling deviants. The webcam chat rooms were completely hysterical, ranging from couples shagging while voyeurs watched to blokes who looked like
they'd just been released from prison and one guy who sat naked in front of his webcam in a Stormtrooper helmet. There were also a staggering number of middle-aged, rough-looking married couples open to water sports and sex parties – call me old-fashioned, but I will not be diving head first into that puddle of desperation just yet.

Finding a good-looking, young couple who are discreet, have a sense of humour and practise safe sex should be simple, right? Fuck me, we might as well have been looking for a banjo-playing unicorn, they just didn't seem to exist. ‘What about them?' asked Oliver, clicking on a thumbnail. ‘They look all right.'

I read through the advert:

‘Their advert is better than ours. Yeah, OK.' I nodded. ‘Shall we email them?'

‘Their photos are hot. We should put some photos on; we won't get a reply without them.'

‘Yeah, you're right.'

Oliver looked surprised. ‘Really? I never for a second thought you'd be up for that. Get you.'

‘I know. I surprise myself sometimes. Just make sure my face isn't in them. Nothing to identify me.'

I had barely finished my sentence and Oliver was already stripping off and looking for my camera.

‘How should we do it? I'm not spreading my legs and letting you disappear up there with the flash on.'

He laughed. ‘Relax. I've done this before and—'

‘Of course you have.'

‘—AND if you don't want your face in them, it's probably easiest if I take them while we're doing doggy.'

I got undressed and knelt on all fours on the bed with Oliver behind me. I could hear him fiddling with the camera.

‘I feel like an idiot like this,' I said impatiently. ‘Hurry up before I change my mind.'

Then I heard the first of many clicks. He took pictures of him inside me, outside me, spanking me, grabbing my tits, coming on me and as soon as he'd finished I grabbed the camera, eager to see what he's taken.

‘OH FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK, MY ARSE LOOKS HUGE.'

‘So does my cock.' Smug bastard.

‘Ugh, I had no idea my bum hole looked like that. I need some bleach … and it's spotty. Delete these immediately.'

‘Nope. They're sexy. They're going on the site and then we can email Sue and Duncan.'

By the end of the evening, my big fat arse was online and a message was winging its way to Sue and Duncan. We'd also found another couple, J and Y, who weren't quite as attractive as our first choice but their advert made us laugh:

Oliver left at one, taking the memory card with him. ‘You'll delete these five seconds after I'm gone. I know your game, Henderson.'

‘What if one day we fall out and you use these against me?' I protested. ‘What if your camera gets stolen and my foof ends up on some weird porn site? This could happen.'

‘Two things: number one – only a lowlife would do something like that; and number two – there are 17 million vaginas on the internet. Some even have their own channel on YouTube. No one cares, Phoebe, stop worrying so much. I'll be back tomorrow to continue this; I need to be up at six for work.'

And with that he was off, taking my badly lit porn photos with him. After this challenge they're getting deleted off the face of the earth. Got a DM on Twitter from @granted77 just before I went to sleep, trying to engage in some late-night filth but I didn't reply. I have enough online escapades going on for now.

Friday May 13th

9 p.m
. As everyone has plans tonight, I've decided to have a ‘me' evening. Red wine, horror movies and as many Doritos as I can fit in my mouth.

9.30 p.m
. Found a copy of
Insidious
online, which is meant to be a pretty decent horror, and it stars Patrick Wilson, which is reason enough. YAAS! His face is quite perfect.

11.15 p.m
. Patrick Wilson's pretty face cannot make up for the fact that I'm bricking it. I don't cope well when there are clearly ghosts in every fucking house that was ever built. Might have to call Oliver to come and sleep here.

12.30 a.m
. The Doritos are finished and Oliver is refusing to bring more round despite my text pleas:

1.15 a.m
. Am watching rubbish romantic comedy with Matthew McConaughey. I'd rather go to sleep angry at this terrible movie than scared shitless. Oh dear, the wedding cake is ruined. Good.

Saturday May 14th

I was eating my breakfast when Oliver called me on my mobile. ‘Ghosts didn't kill you then? That's good.'

‘I didn't get to sleep till 4 a.m. I think Matthew Mc-Conaughey's hairless chest scared them off. Anyway, what's up?'

‘That couple we emailed want to meet us tonight.'