The List (4 page)

I got up early to catch up on housework but approximately seven minutes after starting I remembered that housework is astoundingly boring and stopped again. This interlude was followed by showering, eating and a quick call from Oliver.

‘Want to go to the cinema tonight?'

‘What's on? I'm not going to see some superhero shite with you, Oliver.'

‘They're showing
The Breakfast Club
at the GFT.'

‘Really? I love that film! NO DAD, WHAT ABOUT YOU?'

‘Phoebe, I'm not letting you come if you just shout random quotes from it all evening.'

‘Will milk be made available to us?'

‘Forget it, I'll go with someone else.'

‘Ha ha haa, nooo, I'm sorry. No more. I'd love to go.'

‘OK, it starts at eight. I'll meet you there.'

He was standing outside smoking as I walked over. A group of girls behind him were looking over and giggling, clearly talking about how fit he was. Their stares of lust for him quickly became looks of hatred for me as I hugged him
hello. As I watched him smoke his cigarette I remembered the ‘Hey, smoke up Johnny' line from the film – the film I'd promised not to quote from. I pursed my lips.

He noticed. ‘You're dying to say it, aren't you?' he laughed.

‘Hmm? Say what? I wasn't going to say anything,' I lied, when in fact at that moment my need to say it was greater than my need to breathe.

He purposefully took long draws, smiling slyly as he did. It was torture, but my resolve was strong. HE WOULDN'T BREAK ME. If I just stopped thinking about it, the urge would pass and …

‘HEY, SMOKE UP JOHNNY!' I yelled in his face as he took the final draw from his cigarette, then proceeded to march into the cinema, leaving his group of admirers laughing, and me cursing myself for not being able to control my own geeky behaviour.

Afterwards Oliver dropped me off and I've been back here for fifteen minutes with no one to quote the film to. Dammit. Luckily Twitter is full of geeks just like me.

Monday January 17th

After the morning sales meeting, Marion announced that she was taking her maternity leave a week earlier than planned, her reason being: ‘I am too fat and too tired for this shite.' Frank agreed that she could finish at the end of the day and then we all watched him panic because he'd obviously forgotten to even bother looking for someone to cover her section. I reminded Brian that we were having
lunch and went to fix my make-up in the bathroom so as to give my potential sex helper one less reason to say no.

We trudged downstairs, ordered food and started to chat. Within about fifteen minutes I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew it wouldn't work. He most definitely wasn't the one. I tentatively approached the subject of sex (which he was more than happy to get into) but then listened, open-mouthed, as he bragged about his latest ‘conquest', who apparently was useless in bed and had no tits, followed by a story of when he forwarded a sex text from a girl at university to all his mates for a laugh. ‘It was dead funny; you should have seen her face.' Bah. Lucy was right. This guy would tell the office, his friends, their friends and the bloke who sells the
Big Issue
outside Boots. Probably his mum too. Not the discreet, mature set-up I have in mind. I changed the subject to something less salacious, finished my sandwich and told him he was a prick. He thought I was joking. I spent the rest of the afternoon drawing little hangman stick figures of Brian and putting nooses around their necks.

I went to see Hazel after work. She's been visiting family in London since New Year to show off her new baby, Grace, who, as far as babies go, is disgustingly cute. The walk over was freezing, and lethal due to the ice on the pavements. I despise January. It's slippery and cold and I spend most of it with a broken arse after spectacular public falls. Hazel welcomed me with a high-pitched squeal and ushered me into the kitchen, where she'd laid out mince pies and mulled wine. Her house is so impressive: hardwood floors, massive rooms and a huge garden with a hammock between
two tall trees in the centre (which I've drunkenly fallen out of more times than I care to remember). Her place is comfortable; it feels like a family home. When I come here I'm reminded of how much I hate my flat.

‘This is why I love you,' I said, sitting down at the table and grabbing a pie. ‘So how was the trip? Did you have fun?'

She handed me a glass. ‘It was great. Kevin's family are loaded. They have a bloody hot tub. I pretty much lived in there. I only came out to feed Grace and eat scones. Anyway, Grace is asleep with Kevin and I need a drink. How are you? You've coped well with your first holiday season without Alex.'

‘Yeah, I'm OK. Don't get me wrong, I've thought about him, but I've decided it's time to get him out of my system once and for all. Fuck, it's all I ever talk about these days … with Lucy, with Oliver, with Pam Potter, and now you. When will it end?'

‘He's just a habit you have to break. Like smoking. Or that time we both went to the gym three times in one month.'

‘I like smoking and a month's free gym membership can't really be classed as a habit, can it? Although, without it you'd never have met Kevin.'

‘Ah yes. In a sea of six-packs I chose to fall in love with the fat fella on the treadmill. His stamina was incredible. Still is.' She grinned.

‘I have no idea what to say to that.'

She poured some more wine. ‘It took me two years and a tequila drip to get over Jon. I was thirty-four when I
divorced him and was married to Kevin by thirty-seven. Life goes on.'

‘There were never any marriage plans with us. Alex made it clear from the start he didn't want to. I guess I just went along with it, in case he changed his mind about the whole thing.'

Hazel paused for a moment, chewing on a mince pie, and I knew she was thinking about Jon. She'd been divorced for two years when we met and she rarely speaks about him, but what I do know is that Jon was a doctor who'd been struck off for inappropriate conduct with a seventeen-year-old patient. ‘Do you think of Jon often?' I asked, wondering if I should have kept my mouth shut, but she laughed into her glass.

‘Sometimes I do, but never fondly. To be honest, the divorce settlement allowed me to stop working for that ad agency and set up from home, so I have that to be thankful for.'

‘Yeah, but now I have no reason to visit your office and pretend we're discussing clients. Jon made my day longer, so that's another reason you can hate him.'

She clinked my glass. ‘I don't need another reason, but I'm taking it. Do you realize it's been three years since you first came into my office? I wish I'd known you before you were with Alex. I'd have been more use in helping you back to your old self.'

‘God, everyone wants me to go back to the “old” me. The old me can fuck off. I plan to become a brand-new woman.'

I detailed my plan for sexual liberation, listing what I
wanted to try, but quietly in case Kevin overheard. Hazel listened with a massive smile on her face.

‘Bloody hell! You're so brave. At the moment my sex life is nonexistent. We grab the occasional quickie while Grace sleeps, but I think my vagina is still traumatized after giving birth. But you'd better tell me everything you get up to. Maybe you'll inspire me.'

‘I'm hoping to inspire myself. I just want to move on from Alex.'

‘Fuck him. You're already a year down the road; it'll get easier. You'll be fine. Trust me.'

Of course I'll be fine. I'll have to be – the alternative is too bleak to contemplate.

Tuesday January 18th

While walking up Hope Street on my way into work this morning, I saw Alex. Self-righteous, annoying, but still handsome Alex. I must remember
never
to date someone who works in a nearby office, let alone live with them. It would have been easier if it had just been him on his own, but oh no, it had to be him and Miss Tits getting into her flashy car. If I could have run away without being spotted, I'd have gladly kicked off my shoes and bolted, but I might as well have been holding a banner with ‘OVER HERE!' painted in neon letters as they both spotted me simultaneously. I could almost feel the cross-hairs from Miss Tits appearing on my forehead as if I was some kind of enemy target. She stole
my
boyfriend, not the other way around.

There was no conversation, just an awkward nod of
acknowledgement on his part. I did my best to stare straight ahead, when in hindsight I should have karate-chopped them both into oncoming traffic. Alex broke my heart with that woman and they haven't even had the decency to die in some random ‘evil couple eaten by pandas' incident, or at least leave the country. Sometimes, when I think about the whole thing, I imagine myself on one of those weird documentaries about female killers, with a dramatic voice-over intoning: ‘THEY BROKE HER HEART … SO SHE BROKE THEIR NECKS.' I got into the office and ran into the toilets. I didn't even hear Lucy come in. I swear that girl moves as if she's on castors. ‘What's up? You're not being sick, are you? You're on your own if you are – I'm allergic to vomit.'

‘I just saw Alex and that woman outside. I feel like throwing up, believe me. I saw them and it was like being punched in the face and the stomach at the same time. They looked fucking … happy.'

After hearing Lucy call him every swear word ever invented (and some I hadn't heard before, including ‘asshat') I felt better.

Wednesday January 19th

I arrived into work this morning to discover a new fella sitting at Marion's old desk. Distractingly attractive. So attractive, in fact, I want to sound a klaxon to show my appreciation every time he walks past my desk. A quick introduction later I discovered his name is Stuart. I watched Lucy drool over him before emailing me.

Reminded that I'd better be getting on with my search, I called the next possibility on my list, Paul, and arranged to see him this evening. I never usually fancy blond guys, but there's something very endearing about him. He used to work at
The Post
before he went back to university to study economics, and we've kept in touch since he left. He's a lovely guy, but nothing has ever happened between us and I've always secretly wondered why. We rarely discuss dating, or sex, or anything really, other than friends, music and how many drugs he's taken the previous weekend and how many I haven't. He's been in New York for the past six months and is back in Glasgow to sign papers on a flat he's just bought and to arrange his moving-in date.

10 p.m
. Just back from seeing Paul. We sat in his parents' house and had tea (not ideal when probing for clues as to whether he'd be up for shagging).

‘How does it feel to be home?' I asked, looking around his bedroom. ‘Jesus, Paul, have your parents kept this room
exactly
the same since you left home?'

‘Pretty much.' He grinned. ‘Although there used to be a signed Celtic photo on the back wall. My dad's probably nabbed that for his shed. It feels weird actually – so much has happened since I was last here.'

‘Tell me about it. Like, I've been forced to go to the cinema alone as “horror films are for dickheads with no imagination”.'

‘Lucy?'

‘Who else? Everyone is excited to see you though. Oliver says you've to call him for footie practice.'

‘What's been happening with you?'

‘Boring as usual,' I lied, ‘I've been filling my time with work, American TV shows and very little else. I'd much rather hear what you've been up to.'

‘Lots of sex,' he said confidently. ‘It's been wicked.'

‘You lucky shit. Was it the Scottish accent? How many women did you sleep with?'

‘Um, none,' he said, smiling. ‘Actually, I came out in New York. I met a guy.'

‘Came out where? Wait. What? WHAT? Oh. Shit! I had no idea!'

‘Yeah, it's taken me a while, but it's out there now. Mum's cool but Dad's not handling it too well. He keeps asking me if I like to dress in women's clothes and watch
Glee
.'

I decided not to tell him the real reason I had wanted to see him. His news was much more worthy than mine. There's a horror double bill showing at the cinema next week, so I'll tell him about my plan for the year then. Anyway, I've crossed him off the list of candidates and finally closed the ‘Why didn't we ever sleep together' file and moved it to the ‘Because I'm not a man' section. Two down, and only Oliver left to go. This might be a huge mistake.

Thursday January 20th

I invited Oliver out for a drink this evening and of course he said yes. Not because it's me; purely because the guy never refuses a pint. I sat waiting for him for fifteen minutes, worrying he'd somehow magically worked out what I was after and fled the country, but he finally arrived. As he walked into the pub, for a second he looked just like that sixteen-year-old boy who'd joined my high school in sixth year. I remembered being bewitched by his smile and that mop of black curly hair and how we'd become friends so quickly, much to the disgust of every other girl in school who fancied the arse off him. He'd never laid a finger on me, but we knew all the gory details of each other's early fumblings. Normally it was easy to talk about sex with Oliver but tonight I was nervous.