The List (24 page)

‘Of course not. It's best that this ends. I hate you anyway.'

He laughed. ‘I hate you too.'

Tuesday July 12th

The most interesting part of today was when a woman turned up to meet Frank in the office, whom he formally introduced as Vanessa. Ah, the elusive Vanessa. At least she exists. She was well dressed, late 30s, pretty, very thin and he kissed her in front of the staff – they all giggled like ten-year-olds. The happy couple then left hand in hand and Frank didn't meet my eye as they passed my desk. I think this was his way of making our ‘end' official. He looked really happy, and I feel relieved. Things were much simpler when he was just the annoying boss I hated and not the slightly less infuriating man I've now grown quite fond of. I genuinely hope it goes well for them.

Wednesday July 13th

Alex was waiting for me after work today. What an utter bastard. He hasn't done that since we dated and I never thought he'd have the nerve. He stood there bold as brass smoking a cigarette, watching me walk through the doors, knowing I wouldn't be able to leg it without him spotting me. If they had been revolving doors I'd have kept spinning and gone back upstairs.

‘Fucking hell! What do you want, Alex?'

‘Just to talk, Phoebe. You won't reply to my emails.'

‘Doesn't that indicate that I don't want to talk to you?' I said, turning to walk away.

‘Are you seeing anyone?'

‘That's none of your business.'

‘That's a no then. Look, I have some things I need to say. Please. Just dinner or something?' he pleaded, walking after me.

‘NO!' I shouted, stopping dead in my tracks. ‘I'm not interested. Go away.'

He walked off shaking his head and I did the same. Who the hell does he think he is? Why is he asking me if I'm seeing anyone? He knows that if I was I would have answered yes to rub his face in it. Damn him.

Friday July 15th

First day of my holiday! A whole week to do nothing and I intend to do exactly that, AND I finally got an email from Oliver! I love you, internet.

I didn't receive it until the early hours so I'll get back to him tomorrow. It's made me really happy and so I'm going to bed before anything happens to kill my buzz.

Saturday July 16th

I got my eyebrows threaded and my nails done as tonight was date night with stranger @granted77, who is called Scott when he's not on Twitter. We met in town first for drinks as I wanted to be completely sure I wanted to sleep with him and also check for signs of weirdness.

I felt incredibly nervous as I walked into the bar. This wasn't just taking someone random home after a drunken night; this was a premeditated, soberly planned hook-up and there I was on my own in a bar wearing my fuck-me boots and skinny jeans. It felt like the scariest challenge I'd attempted so far.

I looked around the bar for a face that resembled the one I'd seen on Twitter, but the place was so crowded I couldn't find him. It was like a bizarre game of Where's Wally? and in the end I decided to let him find me and sat down. I saw the barman walk over and rummaged in my bag for my purse.

‘What can I get you?'

‘Gin and bitter lemon, please. No ice.'

‘No problem. And then back to mine after?'

‘Pardon?' I stopped searching my bag and looked up to see the tiny Twitter head in real life, smiling back at me. He looked exactly like his photos: my height, hipster glasses and short blond hair.

‘Scott? It's you! You work here?'

‘I'm the manager. My shift finished half an hour ago, but we're busy so I thought I'd help out till you got here. Slice?'

‘Pardon?'

‘Of lemon.'

‘Oh, ha,' I laughed, completely thrown by what was happening. ‘Please.'

He handed me my drink and pushed my money away. ‘On the house. Give me five and I'll be right with you.'

I took my drink and breathed a huge sigh of relief. He was a normal guy with a normal job, and from first impressions I fancied him.

He came and sat down beside me. ‘So here we are,' he said, knocking back his whisky. ‘I assume you're still up for this.'

‘Gosh, you're subtle,' I laughed, ‘but yes. I am.'

‘Good. Finish up then. I have no intention of spending
the rest of the night at my work, getting too pissed to shag you. And believe me, I want to shag you. Let's go.'

I was speechless. I downed the rest of my drink and was dragged by the hand outside. We flagged down a cab.

Scott lived on the ground floor of a traditional tenement flat in Shawlands, an area known for its beautiful park, skint students and frustratingly limited parking spaces.

We were barely into the hallway of his flat when he began to kiss me. I responded and he took off my jacket, moving me towards the pitch-black living room.

‘You've done this before, I take it?' I asked as he fumbled for the lamp switch.

‘Course. Isn't this what Twitter is for?' He switched the lamp on to reveal an exceptionally messy living room. I was tempted to ask if he'd been burgled but thought it wiser not to make fun of the strange man I was about to sleep with.

‘I dunno. First time for me.'

‘Let's make it memorable, then, shall we?'

I've never seen a man get naked so quickly. I barely had my jeans unbuttoned and he was already standing there, erect and ready to go. I started to unzip my boots.

‘I want you bent over that couch wearing those boots. Take off your jeans but leave the boots on.'

He got busy with the stereo while I removed my boots, took off my jeans, scowled at the mark they'd left on my stomach and then put my boots back on, but eventually I was ready. I turned around, grabbed the couch and braced myself. Then he shagged me from behind while Led Zeppelin played loudly on his stereo. It wasn't great. He pretty
much thrust in time to each song, even singing along with ‘Kashmir'. All I could think was,
I hope ‘When the Levee Breaks' doesn't come on. I don't want this to ruin that song for me
. When ‘Moby Dick' came on it was game over. To stop myself from laughing, I just started to moan really loudly and clenched to encourage him to come. Afterwards I thought, Thank fuck
that
challenge is over. I'd thought it would be dangerous and sexy and hot. It wasn't. It was a huge let-down.

‘Well, that was fun,' he said, watching me put my jeans back on. ‘God bless Twitter.'

‘Indeed,' I replied, determined to delete my Twitter account as soon as I got home. ‘Can you call me a taxi? I have to get back.'

1.25 a.m
. I arrived home a couple of hours ago, showered and now I'm in bed removing certain Led Zeppelin tracks from iTunes. It's odd – I've just completed a challenge on my list and I'm not even vaguely excited. I'm done now with the solo items and all that remains is bondage, voyeurism and a final role play which I have to wait for Oliver to do with me. I don't like it when Oliver's not involved; it's much less fun high-fiving yourself.

Sunday July 17th

I've been sitting here listening to the Flaming Lips in some sort of melancholic trance today, but of course Alex seems to creep into my head when I'm feeling at odds with myself. Ever since he showed up outside work, I've had him in the back of my mind.

I really hate the fact that Alex knows I'm single; he'll take that as a sign that I'm not over him. Maybe I'm not, and it's possible I won't ever be until I let someone new in. I have no intention of falling in love, but maybe having someone around will get him to finally back off. He'll be less likely to pursue me if he knows I have a big strong man on hand to fend off his unwanted attention. And I guess the idea of having someone in my life isn't as unappealing as it once was … Shit, I think I've convinced myself here. Am I ready to start dating again?

Wednesday July 20th

Friday July 22nd

I noticed a salon deal online this morning: full-body massage for fifteen quid so I called and managed to get an appointment for noon.

From the outside, Beauty by Betty looked remarkably like a pensioner's hair salon, squashed between a pound store and a bakery. As I walked in, I noticed how tiny the place was. There was a couch, a front desk, a shelf with beauty products and one, somewhat menacing, large grey sliding door at the back.

I smiled at the dark-haired woman behind the desk, who stopped reading her magazine and stood up. ‘Hi. Do you have an appointment?'

‘Yes, for twelve. Phoebe Henderson.'

‘Oh yes, Phoebe. I'm Betty. You'll be with me this afternoon.'

She took my jacket and walked me the ten steps to the grey door. ‘Just through here.' It was the most unwelcoming door I'd ever seen and reminded me of one I'd seen at the back of a butcher's shop when I was little. What the fuck was behind it? I suddenly envisioned it being pulled open and me getting clubbed over the head by Leatherface in his manky apron. She opened the door and I was faced with a surprisingly luxurious therapy room: dimly lit with scented candles and hanging fairy lights. ‘Wow,' I said, admiring the fresh flowers in the corner. ‘This is beautiful!'

She asked me some general health questions and then
left me to undress to the sound of pan pipes. ‘Just press the buzzer when you're ready.'

As I got undressed I was already feeling more relaxed than I had in ages. I lay on the table and covered myself with a white sheet before pressing the buzzer next to me.

She came in and began. I remember her massaging my legs and arms, but when she got to my back I must have passed out as the next thing I remember is waking up in a tiny little patch of my own drool. I apologized but she just laughed.

‘Don't be silly, it's very common. Do you have sinus problems?'

‘Oh God, was I snoring?'

‘Yes. We do Hopi ear candling here. You might have an ear-wax build-up. It'll help.'

So for an additional £10 she stuck beeswax tubes in my ears and set them on fire. The sensation was actually very relaxing, like a fizzing in my ear, but as I had a candle burning into my skull, I thought better of having another nap.

When she'd finished both sides she offered to show me the mountain of ear-wax which had been sucked out of my ears, but I declined because YUCK. Despite the snoring, I left the salon feeling refreshed, calm and like a normal human being again.

This evening was spent on the internet, reading about Zionism, how to bleed my radiators and looking at old photographs of Christian Slater, which took me back to being fifteen, when I used to practically mount the posters of him
I had on my wall while hating boys my own age. At that age I never doubted for a second that I'd find the man of my dreams and live happily ever after. I never doubted I'd be happy. Seventeen years later I doubt it every single day. I think I've been broken-hearted for so long I've forgotten how to function properly. Oliver was right; I am weird. Not ‘let me see the contents of your sandwich' or ‘look at my giant leg' weird, just a tad unconventional. I'll just have to hope that someone out there finds me endearing.