The List (8 page)

Thursday February 10th

Lucy has a new man, a twenty-one-year-old ‘musician' called Sam who leads a double life as a shelf stacker in her local supermarket. Lucy has the ability to attract and conquer men even while pursuing mundane tasks like shopping. It seems he'd gone out of his way to find her an undamaged tin of pineapple and it was love at first sight. I say love; Lucy falls in and out of love very quickly. Her last boyfriend lasted three months until she decided one morning that he looked like a lizard and it was all off. The guy before that – Robert, I think – was dumped when she found out
he owned a Michael Bolton album. ‘Can you imagine what other little dirty secrets he's been hiding from me?'

Lucy loves being in love, or the idea of it anyway. She's always in a relationship or with a shagging partner until someone better comes along. For an independent woman, her need to be attached is quite staggering. She's a bit like Oliver in that respect – neither of them wants to be without someone, but they both won't commit to anything long-term. I know that Oliver would rather grate his own ball sack than get married. She also insists on dating younger men: ‘I love being Mrs Robinson. I wouldn't fuck Dustin Hoffman though.'

Work plodded on as usual. Frank still hasn't noticed his picture is upside down because he's a self-absorbed prick. I pity the woman who ends up with him. Speaking of which, it feels like love is in the air – I could hear Stuart whispering on his mobile to some mystery woman during his fag break earlier. STOP THAT, YOU HANDSOME PHONE-WHISPERER.

Friday February 11th

Ouch. That was nippy. The mole was removed by Dr Jekyll and his lovely nurse, Mary ‘Scissorhands' Reilly. They were very rushed and he started to cut before the anaesthetic had kicked in.

‘ARGH!'

‘You can't feel that, can you?'

‘Uh-huh. What? Am I not supposed to?'

(Ignores my question) ‘We'll use some more local anaesthetic then.'

He reckons it's scar tissue.

‘Do you remember sitting on something sharp? Like some glass?'

‘No.'

‘Are you sure?'

I thought of every drunken tumble I could remember.

‘No.'

Apparently it was deeper than he first thought and I got four stitches. So the ugly red mole has been removed, leaving me with an ugly red scar. I don't know which is worse, but my dreams of a blemish-free botty have been dashed forever.

Oliver came round just to see it. I felt like a freak show.

‘Oh, you poor thing! Does it hurt?'

‘Yes.'

‘Would it hurt if I bent you over the couch?'

‘I'm guessing, yes.'

‘Can I see it?'

‘Bugger off, Oliver, it'll be disgusting and weeping and covered in death.'

Even the sight of a bloody bandage and stitches doesn't curb that boy's sexual enthusiasm.

Saturday February 12th

Went over to Oliver's flat this evening, and even though I've been to his place many times it never fails to impress me, which, given that I live in a hovel, isn't surprising. It's very
big, with a marble fireplace, high ceilings and a view right into other people's windows, which has provided us both with many hours of amusement. His bedroom is also bigger than my entire flat. He makes shitloads of money working in IT, which he spends at an alarming rate. ‘Hey, Phoebe, are we sleeping with other people?' he asked as I got dressed to go home.

‘I'm not,' I replied, ‘but I'm only sleeping with you because I couldn't find anyone else, remember? We're not dating so there's no reason we shouldn't, is there?'

‘That's what I thought, but I wanted to check. There's a girl I'm into and I fancy shagging her.'

‘Ah, always the hopeless romantic, eh? Don't let me stop you. You can shag whoever you want, but if you give me any weird diseases, I'll kill you.'

But I felt miffed for a second that he wanted to shag someone else. Wasn't I enough for him? I'm not jealous, but we're barely weeks into our agreement and he's already thinking of moving on. Dammit, this is what I always do: assume it's because I'm not good enough. So instead I focused on how I'd jump Stuart, given half a chance, and that had no bearing on Oliver, or how good he was in bed, and it all made sense. So why am I still annoyed about it?

Sunday February 13th

Well, my unconventional sex dream suitors have returned. Last night I had the filthiest dream about Stephen Fry. He had great big hands like shovels and whispered the most eloquent filth I've ever heard.

‘Oh, I've had him!' said Lucy at lunch. ‘Well, in my head, of course. My most recent one was Gordon Ramsay. I woke up halfway through shouting, ‘YES, CHEF!' My best was with Noel Fielding, who shagged me in a lift. I still get shivers thinking about that.'

I wish she'd shut up.

Monday February 14th

The best thing about February is that the snow has finally started to melt and the worst thing is bloody St Valentine's Day. Out of all the saints, he's the one I hate the most. It's the biggest con since fake tan and yet people still insist on doing it. Every year when I've been single I know that I'm not going to receive an oversized, ridiculously expensive bunch of flowers, or chocolate hearts, or even a card, but every year there's still a tiny part of me that foolishly hopes someone out there is desperately in love with me and will finally make some sort of gesture. It never happens. I've never been properly romanced – well, not the romance that Hollywood vomits all over everyone, making us feel like lesser human beings because we know that no one will ever frantically run barefoot to an airport to stop us from taking that job in New York. Alex's biggest gesture was whisking me off to Rome for my 30th. I say ‘whisking', but it was more of a limp stir. He paid £40 for cheap flights and I had to get the hotel. That was where he told me he loved me for the first time. On our first Valentine's Day together I bought him a card and a CD and he bought me nothing. From then on it was just an unspoken rule that
this was something we didn't do. But although I don't really buy into the whole thing, part of me really wished that he'd make some sort of silly gesture just because he loved me.

Nearly all the girls in the office got flowers; even Lucy got a bunch from her music man, which thrilled her to the point of shrieking at the delivery girl. I just smiled and tried not to notice the pitying looks that were being thrown my way from the office Botanic Gardens.

So this year was no exception and I know that tomorrow I'll remember why I've sworn off relationships, but tonight I'm desperately missing something I've never had: someone who gives a shit.

Tuesday February 15th

Stupid Valentine's Day. I had a think about things on the way to work this morning and have come to a pretty obvious realization. In previous relationships I've always been a total doormat, making myself completely available and always afraid to rock the boat. Of course no one has ever fought for me; I didn't give them any reason to. I'm positively bleeding self-awareness these days and grateful I don't have to worry about this crap any longer.

Work was still brimming with unimaginative bouquets of red roses, but it was back to business as usual. Stuart is still being secretive about his girlfriend and I saw him shuffling off to the toilets with a funny walk after a lengthy conversation with her at lunchtime. It must have been hot. I'm going to put his phone in the bin when he's not looking.

Wednesday February 16th

Oh, look, Alex outside his work having a fag at the same time as me. Is he doing it on purpose? That man spent most of our relationship moaning at me to stop smoking after he quit and now he's started again. Ha, maybe he's finally realized he's shagging someone who should be in a museum and the stress is too much. He looked good though. Really good.

The trouble is, no matter how much I hate him (and I do), every time I see him I still get a knot in my stomach and for a minute I miss him. I still remember how much I adored him. Then I remember how it felt when he cheated on me and it disappears pretty quickly. I know I loved him, but I can't quite remember why any more … so why won't the feeling go away?

He can spot me from his office window directly across the street. She converted some old office space into a physiotherapy clinic, which pretty quickly attracted a large client base of footballers and sporty types. I once visited his office. It's much fancier than mine – loads of state-of-the-art machinery and oak panelling.

The fact that our offices are on the same street and directly face each other used to be ‘cute' when we were together; we could wave at each other from the window, have our ciggy breaks together and meet up after work, but now that we hate each other it's just plain creepy. In future I'm going to have to adopt a cunning disguise, if he's going to come down to smoke whenever I do. I bet that while I
was waving at him in his office last year, SHE was under the desk giving him a tit-wank. The beasts.

Thursday February 17th

I managed to have my smoke breaks without catching sight of Miss Tits or Alex today. Of course, when I don't see him I wonder what he's doing, and when I do catch sight of him I'm praying he'll set himself on fire with his own fag.

Lucy came into work today covered in love bites, barely hidden underneath a white polo neck.

‘I know! Don't say a word,' she shouted over when she saw my face. ‘Bloody love bites. At my age!'

So Lucy's snogged girls and, more remarkably, I have an Auntie Pat! I don't. Was it a euphemism?

Friday February 18th

Back to my challenges, and the only thing I haven't managed to master in terms of masturbation is female ejaculation. It's more elusive than the G-spot, according to some people. I've only witnessed the phenomenon in porn films, where it basically looks like the woman is urinating over some poor sod and passing it off as an explosive, screaming orgasm. The more I've read about it, and watched it (mostly with a look of bewilderment), the more curious I've become. I'm willing to try most things on my quest, but if it turns out to be nothing more than a pissing contest, I'm not participating.

‘Making a woman squirt is about the horniest thing you'll ever do,' said Oliver, before admitting he's never actually managed it – it's at the top of his to-do list.

My G-spot might have eluded many men in the past, but I know it's there and I'm willing to become best friends with it. So, with this in mind, I've googled everything I can think of regarding female ejaculation, from where it actually comes from to how it's successfully done. In theory, it's all about pressure, build-up and release – simple enough – right? Wrong. I've been at it for about three hours now (admittedly an enjoyable three hours) but nothing. Not even a dribble. I'm beginning to think my initial bullshit theory is correct. This is far from simple and now I'm exhausted with a crampy, claw-like hand.

Saturday February 19th

It's getting annoying now. There should be a formula for it, like shampooing your hair:
lather, rinse, repeat
. Various websites and books have simply advised that some women can do it and others can't, but I'm not having any of that. One piece of advice that made me slightly dubious about the whole thing was: ‘You might feel the urge to pee but just keep going.' What? Keep going? But what about the pee? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHAT ABOUT THE PEE?

I fear that the only thing I might successfully accomplish is adult bed-wetting.

Sunday February 20th

I lay in bed until one today and I'm still tired, which means my period is on its way like one of the horsemen of the Apocalypse. I'm also horny as hell, another sure sign.

I don't mind having sex near the end of my period and I've never been out with a guy who finds it a problem – they didn't care that I occasionally looked like prom-night Carrie after sex.

I remember reading somewhere that ‘sex during your period is one of the great taboos', which I think is utter crap. You either do it or you don't; end of story. Unless you're a fifteen-year-old boy it's not a big deal to most guys, and it takes a lot more than a little blood to stop them getting laid. If roles were reversed, I certainly wouldn't give a shit. At the moment I feel like a sexual kettle that's forever
at boiling point, wishing that someone would just flick my damn switch.

Monday February 21st

Mondays are distinctly depressing when you've done sod all at the weekend. I did less than that, which didn't stop me consuming gazillions of calories. The horseman arrived as predicted so I've called in sick and all I want to do is glue a hot water bottle to my stomach and make snarling noises. I feel like having a hysterectomy and hiring out the empty space to struggling artists. I'm lucky though – my periods only last four days. Lucy gets hers every three weeks and they last about seven years. I joined in with the usual Monday moaners on Twitter to proclaim my hatred for everything and instantly received a direct message from @granted77: