The List (35 page)

Saturday October 22nd

My tonsils are the size of golf balls but I've managed to eat noodle soup and drink tea. I had a fever last night and could have sworn I was having sex with Oliver in my pyjamas. I had one cigarette which made me feel ill to my very soul. I can't find the remote and I want to watch
Criminal Minds
. Nothing is going right. Oh, WHY have I been forsaken?

Wednesday October 26th

I'm finally feeling better and made it back into work which, weirdly, I was actually looking forward to. But then I got the news: Frank has resigned and is going on garden leave at the end of the day.

‘Can I see you for a moment, Phoebe?' he called from his office.

I walked in and closed the door. ‘Nice to see you back. Feeling better?' he asked.

‘Much, thanks,' I said, trying to cut to the chase and find out what the fuck was going on.

‘You've heard I'm going then? Vanessa is setting up a new business in London and I'm going with her. It's nearer her sister and she has no family left here now. Be a new start for both of us. We fly down tomorrow.'

‘Wow. So that's what you meant when you said you hoped that Brian wouldn't be your problem for much longer! Sneaky.'

He smiled at me. ‘Yes. I didn't want to jinx things by saying anything too early.'

‘Good luck with everything. I mean that.'

‘You too, Phoebe. You too.'

‘Oh, before I forget, thanks for that email. You were right. I've dumped Alex, but not because of what you said, before you get all conceited and smug. And that will be the only time I ever admit you were right about anything.'

He left at five, with a bottle of scotch and a knowing smile we both shared as the door closed behind him.

Friday October 28th

I was going to take the weekend to recover properly but then I remembered Lucy's party tomorrow. Shit. I've got no time to organize another costume. I'll have to wear my half of the Eva/Che costume, even though it really requires Che to be there in order to work out who the fuck I'm supposed to be.

Reason number 1,232 to hate Alex.

Sunday October 30th

Feeling much better, I arrived at Lucy's party last night in my fabulous outfit, armed with two bottles of champagne and intending to get seriously pissed and ignore the fact I'm still on antibiotics and could fall into a booze-induced coma at any point.

The flat was packed with guests and I spotted Lucy straightaway, dressed as Wonder Woman.

‘PHOEBE! Why have you come as Margaret Thatcher?' she asked, doing a little spin.

‘I'm Evita, you cheeky cow. I'm a legend. Is Kyle here?'

‘No. He's up in Thurso or somewhere. Not back till Tuesday.'

‘That's a shame. I was looking forward to meeting him!'

‘Oh, you will! Soon. Now, get some booze down you, Maggie,' she laughed. ‘Everyone's here already.' And so they were. I looked around the room, smiling: Paul and Dan had come as Sonny and Cher, Hazel and Kevin had come as Morticia and Gomez, and Oliver … fuck … Oliver was here and he had come as a man who was going to ignore me all evening.

I grabbed Lucy. ‘You didn't tell me Oliver was coming!'

‘Of course I didn't,' she agreed, grinning. ‘You wouldn't have come. But he knew you'd be here and he still came.'

‘Is Ruth with him?'

‘No. Now relax, Mrs Thatcher, and if my milk disappears I'll know who to blame.'

And off she went, leaving me to hide in the kitchen and
drink my champagne. It took me three glasses to pluck up the courage to speak to Oliver. ‘What have you come as then?' I asked, looking at his pirate costume and wishing I hadn't asked such a stupid question.

Thankfully, he smiled. ‘Nice to see you, Phoebe. How have you been?'

OK, I thought. Polite, but he's talking. ‘Not well but I'm better now. Medicine's good, isn't it?' (What was I saying?) ‘But, yeah, it's nice to see you too!' We both smiled at each other and then someone at the other side of the room called him over and he walked away without another word. So what did I do? I did what I do best: I drank and flirted outrageously. On champagne I flirted with Dracula, on gin I flirted with a cowboy and on Jack Daniels I came on to James Bond, Al Capone and even a mermaid called Dave – although I'm not sure; I was pretty hammered by then. When the world started to spin, I went to Lucy's spare room to lie down. I was in there about ten minutes, and feeling a bit better, when I heard the door open and close. Then I heard Oliver's voice. ‘How's Alex? I hear he moved in. I'm glad things are working out for you.' I sat up too quickly and then fell back down again with an ‘urgh' sound.

‘No. Nope. Alex is gone. Away … away … You were right about him. Even my stupid boss was right about him. In fact I was right about him until I decided to become an idiot and take him back. So go on. Tell me you were right. Make fun of the crazy lady,' I ranted, waving my arms around in the air above my head. There was no reply.

I felt his weight on the bed beside me. Then he lifted my head into his lap and stroked my hair. ‘I'm not saying anything,'
he replied, ‘but I'll feel better in Chicago knowing you're not with that piece of shit.'

‘You still care? Oh, that's nice. We had sex in my pyjamas, you know,' I slurred. Then his words actually managed to bypass the booze and penetrate my brain. I sat up again and managed to stay up. ‘Chicago? Again? You're leaving?' My stomach did a huge somersault. ‘When?'

‘Next week. Just for two months initially, and if it goes well I'll stay on. I'll be living with Ruth.'

I suddenly felt sober. ‘Gosh,' I said, not really knowing what else to say. ‘Hope it goes well then.'

He just smiled, said, ‘Thanks,' and gave me a hug. And as I hugged him back it hit me: He was leaving. OH FUCK HE WAS LEAVING. WITH RUTH! Panic set in. The thought of losing him completely made my head spin and my mouth go dry. ‘Don't go,' I whispered. ‘Oh fuck, please don't go. What will I do without you?'

‘What you've always done, I imagine. Meet some blokes, maybe go out with a few, invent some new challenges if you're bored.' He grinned. I couldn't let him leave. I had to think of something.

‘WE STILL HAVE CHALLENGES LEFT!' I shouted in a panic, grabbing his face with both hands. ‘Remember? We still have a role play to do!'

‘Phoebe,' he began, ‘I don't think—'

‘No. Listen.' I sat up properly and made sure he was looking at me.

‘Here's an idea. What if we role-play that we're a real couple? What if we pretend we're in love? I mean, what if we pretend none of this shit ever happened and we pretend
I'm not a selfish bitch who couldn't see what was right in front of her. What if you pretend, just for a second, to believe every word I'm saying and know that I mean it?'

He just stared at me.

‘I fucking adore you, Oliver. I love you. I didn't realize until recently but I do. I'm in love with you.'

He didn't say anything. He walked to the door … and then he stopped. And locked the door.

We made love right there on the bed. There was no shouting, or gymnastics, or laughing. We were slow and quiet and we never took our eyes off each other. He was so gentle, and the moment he entered me I was so happy to have him back inside me again, to feel him moving his hands over my thighs and to feel his mouth on mine. It was so intense and I came before he did. It was beautiful.

This morning when I woke up he was gone.

I called him on the taxi ride home but he didn't pick up. He returned my call about half an hour ago. ‘I'm glad you called, Oliver. Are you coming round?'

‘No,' he said quietly, ‘I'm not.'

‘What? Why not? I thought last night …' And then it dawned on me. Last night was his way of saying goodbye.

‘I've loved you for a long time, Phoebe, but you were right. What you said in that email after we slept together – you were spot on. I would get bored with you because I get bored with every woman I'm with, and I couldn't bear to hurt you, and I know that you'll fuck up my mind, more than you have already. We're both messed up and that's not a good combination. You went out of your way to date pretty much every man in Glasgow when I was right in
front of you, spending all that time with you, sleeping with you, and you never once considered me. That says a lot about both of us. And after Alex again … I don't think you know what you want, Phoebe, but I don't think it's me. I don't know what will happen with Ruth, but she doesn't confuse me, and that's good enough for now.'

I tried to find the words to tell him how wrong he was about me, about everything, but the only thing that came out was a pathetic sob.

‘I didn't want this to happen, I really didn't, and I wish I could go back to just not giving a fuck what you do. But I can't. Let's just leave it at that. Take care, Phoebe.'

I didn't think I was capable of getting my heart broken again after Alex. I guess I was wrong.

Thursday November 3rd

The shops in Glasgow have already started putting up their Christmas window displays, which reminds me that this bloody year is almost gone. I started it with such enthusiasm and now all I want to do is start it all over again.

I'm still pining for Oliver, but I think I'm getting near the stage where I can go two minutes without wondering what he's doing. Maybe. Still, work today was interesting. Dorothy from the London office took over from Frank as head of sales and she arrived all bright-eyed and bushy-haired; I like her. She looks like she doesn't take any shit, but she secretly listens to Paloma Faith on her iPod and walks around her office with no shoes on, admiring her own feet. Also, she took us all out for drinks, which is a clever way to get the troops on side. She's given me the entertainments section to work on as she feels it will excite me a bit more than the bastarding motors pull-out and I agree. I need a change.

Friday November 4th

I resisted the urge to send Oliver an email and pour my
heart out because I know he won't reply. Everyone is trying to cheer me up, but it's not working. I want to go outside, throw my hands in the air and wail at the sky, but Lucy reminded me how disturbingly weird that would be so I won't. For now anyway. Tonight I rearranged my underwear drawer, occasionally looking at pairs of pants I wore when I had sex with Oliver and creepily hugging them. Enough is enough. He's not fucking dead, Phoebe, get a grip.

Saturday November 5th

OK, back to business, I am fed up crying over this. Oliver is clearly an idiot and a distraction I don't need; besides he's made his choice – he obviously wasn't as in love with me as he made out. So screw him. Any kind of self-respect I had at the beginning of the year has been lost. I have to get it back and remember that when life gives you lemons, add them to gin and stop fucking moping. I'm perfectly capable of putting this to the back of my mind and getting on with another challenge. I said I'd follow this list through to the end and I intend to do so. Voyeurism. Bring it on.

I'm not sure why I'm so drawn to this, but maybe it's because I like porn. I like watching people have sex. The sight of two slightly vacant, hairless people shagging each other senseless can turn me on. Not all porn, mind you. I prefer stuff where they actually kiss each other and smile, rather than the ones where they just look like they want to kill each other while they're screwing and shouting. Sex excites me and the thought of another couple having sex excites me – but would I actually get turned on watching
a real-life couple have sex right in front of me? I've placed an advert for a couple who'll help me find out. Get me, all businesslike and not thinking about Oliver's stomach and that ‘treasure trail' line of hair that leads down from his belly button … Nope, not at all. Oh, who am I kidding?

Monday November 7th

‘Morning, Phoebe. What's your opinion on performance poetry?' asked Lucy as soon as I walked into the office. I hung my green winter coat on the back of my chair and shrugged. ‘Um. I don't have one. Why?'

‘Because last night Kyle told me that he goes to open-mic nights and reads his poems to strangers and I have the feeling I'm dating a hipster.'

‘Ha, did he read one to you? Did he woo you with his rhythm and meter?'

‘He didn't, but the fact you know what that means leads me to believe you're a hipster too,' she sniggered.

‘What's the problem with hipsters?' I laughed. ‘Sam was one, with his guitars and his tattoos and his silly straight hair.'

‘Sam was young – he'd have grown out of it. Kyle is thirty-nine. It's too late for him now. I don't hate hipsters; I just hate the automatic pretentiousness that goes with being one.'

‘Go and see him perform before you start being all judgy about it. It might be fun.'

‘Fine, but if I do, you're coming with me. I'm not sitting alone in some beatnik cafe surrounded by girls who have
moustaches tattooed on their fingers and no shoes on, while he recites a sonnet about losing his iPhone.'

‘Deal. Even if his poetry is crap, it'll be fun to watch you silently implode.'

The afternoon was typically uneventful, but I'm almost enjoying my new section. Bar, club and restaurant owners are far chattier than the grumpy car dealerships I'm used to dealing with. I also managed to kick Oliver out of my head whenever he popped in there, being all sexy and distracting.

As soon as I got home, I logged on to my special email account with the false name and actually had a lot of replies to my ‘let me watch you shag' advert; (twenty-three in fact) and have duly sifted through them. The majority of them have been sent by complete maniacs, old-timers and people who compose their emails in text-speak: