The List (6 page)

‘I'd rather die.'

‘What about chat rooms then?' said Lucy. ‘You should go online and cyber some fellas. That would be good practice.'

It sounds like a good idea, but I'm scared I'll only find a dongle-charged world full of socially retarded lonely losers, all looking for other equally lonely losers to masturbate with, or husbands crying out that their wife doesn't understand them and they need some sort of escapism. Normal, happy people don't go online. Do they?

Wednesday January 26th

My boss Frank is obsessed with his new piece of ‘art', which he hung in pride of place in his office this morning. It looks like someone painted it for a dare. He'd been going on about what an important piece of work it is and how expensive it was, so when he went for lunch Stuart nipped into his office and turned it upside down. Frank left at half five and still hadn't noticed. Genius. We then all took bets on how long it would stay like that. I also noticed Stuart's bottom for the first time today. How slow of me but, my word, it's quite perfect. Unfortunately he caught me noticing too. I blame my hormones. Not just for this.

This evening I began my first challenge by joining a site called ‘Highland Flings', armed with a false name, fake picture and a 36DD imaginary chest. I can't believe I've sunk this low already.

I'm trying to be discerning in my choices, but it's tricky. The majority of profiles are from people who obviously didn't win any grammar competitions at school, and I can't bear the thought of having to read sentences with badly placed apostrophes all glaring at me, just waiting to be corrected. The messages come through surprisingly quickly. So far, some have tried the whole ‘getting to know you' shit, while others just get straight to the point and begin conversations with: ‘How big are your tits?' or the obligatory: ‘What are you wearing?'

‘I AM WEARING SOME CLOTHES, YOU CUNT! MAKE THE FUCKING EFFORT!' I didn't say that, obviously. I don't know if I can do this.

Luckily a call from Mum distracted me from throwing my laptop out of the window.

‘Hello, Phoebe, how are you?'

‘Good, Mum. How are you and Dad?'

My parents used to call every week when they lived in Glasgow. When my dad sold off his chain of hippy tearooms and they emigrated to Canada, the calls became less frequent and were replaced by random gifts of utter shite and postcards from their latest holiday destination.

‘We're going on safari, darling. Last-minute deal to Kenya. Heading off in about an hour so just thought I'd call before we're in the middle of nowhere.'

‘You can use your mobile in Kenya, Mum. It isn't the moon.'

‘Your father's decided we're not taking phones. He also decided we're not taking gin, but I vetoed that immediately. Everything OK with you?'

‘Yeah, everything's great … nothing new here … same old. Have fun! Tell Dad I said hi, and don't get mauled by anything!'

‘Only your father, dear. Oh, don't make that groaning sound, Phoebe – your father and I didn't conceive you by holding hands. Lighten up. Anyway, we're off. Take care!'

‘Bye, Mum. Speak soon.'

It doesn't matter how old I get, knowing my parents had sex in order to conceive me will never get any less distressing. If I wasn't an only child, I'd swear they've done it more than once.

Thursday January 27th

Frank wasn't in the office so I got to use his parking space today. Hurrah! No public transport for me. I got stuck on the motorway for forty-five minutes on the way home, but totally worth it as I got to sing along loudly to the
Rocky Horror Picture Show
soundtrack without fear of being heard. Tim Curry dressed as Frank-N-Furter gives me the horn.

I made pasta for dinner and opened a bottle of red wine before logging back on to Highland Flings. I tried to ignore my initial ‘What the hell am I doing?' thoughts and repress the overwhelming urge to send back an array of jokey, sarcastic responses and instead focus on why I'm doing this. I know I'll have to try it on Oliver at some point and it has to at least be smirk-free and somewhat believable. So far it's only been brief email/messenger flirting, but I'm getting more confident and I'm finally managing not to turn everything into a great big joke.

I told Oliver about my training regime and he thought it was hysterical.

‘You can't do this! You're too nice!'

‘No, I'm not. I can be filthy, GODDAMMIT!'

‘Phoebe, you called me a fucker while we were shagging and then texted me on the way home to make sure I knew you didn't really mean it. You're the kind of girl who might be able to tell me you want to suck my cock, but not how you'd actually do it.'

He's right. I hate it when he's right.

Friday January 28th

Work today was a complete washout. I don't want to be there at the best of times, and I am so distracted by my project. Several times I was close to shouting: ‘FUCK YOUR TARGETS, FRANK – TELL ME IF I'M USING TOO MANY ADJECTIVES WHILE PRETENDING TO GIVE YOU HEAD.'

After work I made my way to see Pam Potter for our next session. She always looks dead pleased to see me and has a great big smile, like the Cheshire Cat. I keep expecting her to slowly vanish mid-conversation. For some reason it doesn't seem right just calling her ‘Pam'; it sounds too normal, which she isn't. Every mug in her office is animal-shaped, which isn't surprising as her organic coffee smells like dung. I was in need of a session, given my emotional state after running into Alex last week.

‘Do you think it was seeing Alex that upset you, or the fact he was with his new girlfriend?'

‘Both. It was like a great big slap in the face and I felt so vulnerable. It was a reminder of everything I've been trying to forget.'

‘You have to remember that the part of your life with Alex is over, Phoebe, but accept that you will be reminded of it every now and again, and that's OK. It's difficult to move on until you've made peace with your past. Are you using your free time productively?'

I could have told her about my list but I wasn't ready for that conversation. Perhaps ironically, the one person who was being paid to hear my innermost secrets was the
one person I wasn't willing to tell. ‘Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I spend a lot of time with friends; I'm not sitting at home obsessing over Alex. Well, not as much as I used to. I don't really have any hobbies. Is that what you're talking about? Shit, should I have a hobby?!'

She smiled. ‘Relax. Look at this time in your life as the beginning of your new chapter. You cannot rewrite what's already been written but you can determine where the story goes from here and you can choose which characters to keep or kill off. Metaphorically speaking, of course.'

I left her office feeling a bit like a character in a ‘Choose your own adventure' book: ‘
To allow yourself to forget Alex and begin to heal, turn to page 9 … To run Alex over with a tank, turn to page 12
.'

‘
To find a new therapist who also moonlights as a hitman, turn to page 87
.'

Later I got chatting to my first fella online. Bradley is a writer, twenty-six, with long hair, skinny and strangely attractive in an eccentric, Russell Brand kind of way. He approached me with a quirky ‘Let's discuss philosophy and Leonard Cohen over imaginary champagne and truffles', but pretty quickly his urge to appear interesting and cultured was overtaken by an even greater urge to discuss his fantasy of watching me have sex with another woman. Testosterone will always kick intellect's ass when it comes down to it. All I had to do with this guy was describe how my faux lesbian action was turning me on:

‘I'm getting so hot thinking about this …' (Wasn't.)

Then, ‘I'd lick her nipples slowly while you watched …' (Really? Would I? WOULD I?)

I couldn't tell him that I was only blowing smoke up his
ass and wasn't genuinely getting turned on by any of this, and I realized how unconvincing it must have been claiming to be playing with all kinds of toys, in all kinds of positions, while dancing the flamenco during orgasm. What was I typing with? My feet? Second up for cybering was Bill, who got me to watch him masturbating on webcam while I typed in detail what I'd do to him. He was a good-looking guy – brown, messy hair, a nice face, yet another man who was wafer bloody thin – but from what I could make out, had an incredibly small cock. A few times he stood up in front of the webcam to proudly show me his erection, and I had to peer into the screen. It disappeared when he wrapped his hand around it, and he had pretty little girl's hands so I couldn't even put it down to his having big bear paws. I mean, I prefer a medium-sized cock to some ten-inch monster doing me damage, but this was the smallest penis I'd ever seen. I'm grateful I wasn't in front of the camera; I'd have looked awkward, made an inappropriate joke and then blurted out an apology while he logged off.

Saturday January 29th

Oliver came over this afternoon and brought me lunch: a half-eaten pizza and a bottle of Irn-Bru.

‘Oh, that's very sweet,' I said, opening up the box. ‘Hmm, what's on this pizza? It looks weird.'

‘Dunno, I found it in a bin.'

‘Oh fuck off. Now I don't know if you're kidding or not.'

‘Course I am. It's ham and sweetcorn with sweet chilli
peppers. It's nice, but you'll have to eat some too in order to cancel out my chilli-pepper breath.'

I ate the rest, carefully studying his face in case it revealed that he did actually find it in a bin. I don't trust boys.

We sat on the couch and I put
Arrested Development
on. I had planned to have a lazy afternoon and send Oliver out for more pizza later, but he had other ideas. Halfway through the opening credits, he stood up and began to unbutton his black shirt. He's very aware of how good he looks naked and I think he knows I enjoy watching him undress. He didn't take his eyes off me as he stripped. ‘Horny?' he asked.

‘I am now.'

‘How's that dirty talk coming along?' he asked, pulling me in close to him and making me feel how hard he was.

‘Um, good. I think. It's interesting; you know … I'm feeling more confident,' I bluffed as he pushed back my hair and whispered in my ear, ‘Go on then. Tell me what you're going to do to me.'

So much for confidence; I started to blush.

‘I'm going to suck your cock,' I blurted out quickly.

‘OK … tell me more about that …' He was now kissing my neck.

‘Erm, I'm going to lick it and then blow you.'

I could feel him starting to laugh.

‘Blow me? Lick IT? Really? You do know there's no actual
blowing
involved, don't you? Have you done this before?'

I started to laugh too. ‘Oh God, I've put you off now, haven't I? You distracted me with the neck kissing!'

He pulled down his trousers. ‘Does this look like you've
put me off?' he asked, grinning. ‘Don't stress – some people just can't talk dirty. Maybe this should just be something I do, and you stick to listening.'

‘You just say this shit to wind me up, don't you?'

‘Normally, yes, but not in this case. I genuinely don't think you can do it.'

I felt determined to prove him wrong. After we had sex he showered while I made us a cup of tea. We sat on the couch and I watched him inhale a sandwich he found at the back of my refrigerator.

‘You're either starving or in a hurry. Which is it?' I asked as he pushed his crusts to the side of the plate like a four-year-old.

‘Both. I said I'd meet Dave for a pint, although I'd much rather take you back to bed.'

‘Tough,' I gargled through a mouthful of tea. ‘I have things to do. I'll text you later.'

I ushered him out the door and poured myself a gin and tonic to steady my nerves for what I was about to do. I'd decided it was time for desperate measures. It was phone-sex time. The whole concept of phone sex is hilarious. Firstly, you call up and leave a message for the male callers: ‘Hi I'm [insert false name here] and I'm feeling lonely tonight.' *hang up and place head in hands*

If any guys are interested they will then send you a message in return. Usually along the lines of:

‘Hi, I'm [insert false macho name here] and I'm a really “genuine” but horny guy, looking for a horny lady.' *hang up and put hand down trousers*

All going well, you can connect and chat about the
weather, football, crisis in the Middle East or engage in some dirty phone sex from the comfort of your own couch/car/shed.

It took me seventeen attempts and a lot of wine before I finally plucked up the courage to speak to someone.
Seventeen
. Eventually I connected with some random guy from London, who said he was just back from the gym (at 1.30 a.m. – do me a favour), all hot and sweaty and looking for a dirty chat. That's exactly what he got. I was so determined to prove Oliver wrong, I turned into a sexy, panting filth monster. I eloquently described what I'd do to him and he fapped down the phone for at least ten minutes. When he came I did a victory wiggle like I'd just progressed to the next level on X
Factor
, then hung up. I'm happy to be the porn-speak Queen of Glasgow, but I'm calling time on this now. People are weird.

Sunday January 30th

This morning all I wanted to do was lie in bed and read the papers, but instead I agreed to meet Hazel for brunch because I am an awesome friend and also because it was her treat.

She drove us to a little country pub which served giant pots of tea and the most amazing eggs Benedict I have ever had. I actually felt sad when I'd finished eating them.

‘Thanks for coming today; I just had to get out of the house for a bit. Don't get me wrong – Kevin is brilliant with Grace, and when he's on his own with her he copes like a pro, but when I'm there it's like he forgets how to think
for himself. She cries – he passes her to me; I'm in the shower – he appears two seconds later so she can watch Mummy. Then she sees me and wants a cuddle and I have to get out, dripping everywhere, and I JUST WANT TO HAVE A FUCKING SHOWER ALONE. PEOPLE NEED TO WASH THEIR HAIR!'