The List (11 page)

Lucy grabbed his arm to take a closer look: ‘
My, my
. You have your initials on there and everything. That.
Is
. Special.'

The sad thing is, the majority of people in the office, even Stuart, were actually impressed, but I'll forgive him one tiny mistake because I love him.

Shit, I had totally forgotten. I must buy her that spa voucher. How do I manage to have any friends at all?

Thursday March 17th

I left the office in record time this evening and zoomed home to get ready for the first role play I had planned with Oliver. We've decided on three scenarios, and the first is based on the very common university student/lecturer scenario: Mr Webb and Miss Henderson having a one-to-one tutorial which inevitably ends up in some serious and somewhat illicit shagging. A no-nonsense prim and proper student arrived at Oliver's flat, complete with a folder full of essays (well, actually just a couple of magazines I'd been reading on the train), dressed casually in jeans with suitably provocative underwear hidden underneath.

‘Hello, Phoebe. Are you ready for our session?' were the first words ‘Mr Webb' uttered as he opened his door, dressed in a suit with his hair all dishevelled.

Fuck me, Oliver had made the effort.

We sat down, and as we stared across the kitchen table at each other I remembered something important: I hadn't planned this part. Shit. I had been so excited about playing out this fantasy that I'd overlooked a vital detail: how the hell do we actually act this out? My improv skills are dodgy to say the least, and I could almost hear myself being heckled with ‘Ooh, matron!' as I racked my brains trying to avoid anything that sounded like a Robin Askwith or Sid James line.

Oliver, on the other hand, had obviously put some thought into it, and just as I was about to panic he reached for something under the table.

‘I've got some material for you to look over, Miss Henderson. You can let me know if you need anything explained in more detail.'

He handed me three porn magazines and sat back.

I started to browse through them, pleased that they weren't ‘barely legal' or ‘gummy granny' mags and felt my cheeks go red, not so much because I was embarrassed but because this was starting to be the hottest thing I'd ever done in my life.

I undid some buttons on my cardigan, showing a glimpse of the red balcony bra I'd bought. He'd told me before that red underwear gets him hard, and I intended to find out just how true that was. I made him wait for a few minutes, studying the magazines, licking my lips and feeling his gaze fixed upon my mouth.

‘I don't understand this,' I said, sliding the magazine across the table. ‘Can you explain exactly how this works?'

He put on his glasses to look at the page I'd turned to and I started to ache. A handsome man in glasses has the same effect on me as red underwear does on Oliver. As he stood up to walk behind my chair, the bulge in his trousers told me everything I needed to know, so I undid another couple of buttons. He leant in and his breath on my neck made me tingle all over.

‘This is a complex position, Miss Henderson,' he whispered in my ear. ‘I could explain it to you or I could show you.'

He slid one hand inside my bra and I could hear him undoing his belt with the other. I was so turned on I forgot to be sensible, abandoned my character and turned around, pulling him in towards the kitchen table. He had my jeans off in record time but I made him keep his shirt and tie on. Oh, and his glasses.

My preconceived notion that role play is only for couples who've become bored with their sex lives has been totally overturned. I was still horny as I stood in the shower afterwards. To say it was a success would be an understatement.

‘I can't believe you have porn magazines. I mean, the internet is full of free stuff. Why would you buy those?' I asked, stepping out of the shower and beginning to dry myself.

‘I've had them for years. They might be collector's items one day.'

‘In what universe? The one where people collect old scud books covered in Irish DNA? If you shone a UV light on those magazines it'd look like a crime scene.'

‘Fair point.'

I made us some tea and we took it back to bed. I stayed over; it was too cosy to go home. Today was a good day.

Saturday March 19th

I was shopping for wine for Lucy's party tomorrow when I bumped into Alex AGAIN. What a feckin' disaster. Everything was fine at first: he was handsome, I got butterflies in my stomach and I even felt grateful when he was nice to me. I mean, really? It's like I've learned nothing. We began flirting (I'm such an idiot) and then Miss Tits appeared round the corner with a box of wine wedged between her breasts.

‘Oh. Phoebe.' She looked uncomfortable.

‘Brilliant,' I sighed under my breath. ‘There's no show without Punch, eh? I'm glad to see this charade is still being played out.'

As I started to walk away, Miss Tits shouted, ‘We're getting married, Phoebe! End of the year. Get over it.'

I could feel my face flushing and I swung around to face Alex again.

‘Married?! Oh, what an
idiot
I am! So one minute you're all flirty with me and the next you're GETTING MARRIED? To THAT? So telling me you didn't see the need for marriage was yet another lie? What, are you going to live happily ever after with that giant box of wine and her giant tits?'

‘HANG ON A MINUTE!' she shouted, looking as if she was about to spontaneously combust.

‘Hang on for what? So you can sleep with my boyfriend? Oh, wait, YOU ALREADY DID THAT!'

‘Let's go, Lexy,' she said, placing her hand in his while he stood there enjoying the carnage.

‘LEXY? Oh Christ, there's a pet name and everything. How about CUNTY? That seems more appropriate.'

As they rushed off grumbling I took the piss out of her age and wine choice by telling her that her box of wine was best served in ‘nineteen fucking seventy'. It was not my finest hour. I'm not sure whether I was angry, or surprised, or just annoyed with myself for letting my guard down with him. For a second while we were chatting I missed him, I
really
missed him. What the fuck is the matter with me?

Sunday March 20th

I arrived at Lucy's house at around eight for her birthday dinner with Paul and Hazel. Oliver had to work so I gave her a bottle of champagne on his behalf. She lives half an hour away from me in a house that her grandparents left her, on a tiny little estate which is quiet, pretty and very posh. The house is a two-bedroom bungalow with a massive living/dining room and a bathroom with a whirlpool bath. It's no wonder she's always late for everything; I'd be in no hurry to leave either. Sam was there to wish her happy birthday, but had to go to band practice. He swaggered off before we ate and, thankfully, there was no mention of Richard. Lucy loved her spa voucher and dinner was delicious. As a birthday gift Paul had paid a local Mexican restaurant to prepare a small feast for us. Paul and Lucy have a strange relationship. They also became friends when he worked at
The Post
but became much closer than Paul
and I ever did. They're rather like siblings – they love each other to death but pick on each other constantly.

After dessert we had coffee and tablet and I shared my earlier encounter with Alex and Miss Tits, hoping someone would make me feel better about it.

‘If he wants to shag someone a hundred years older than him, he's an idiot,' announced Lucy.

‘Well, you're shagging someone a hundred years younger. I'm going to start calling you Humbert,' Paul commented.

‘Stop being mean to me on my birthday, you gaylord.'

This went on until we started on the vodka and Hazel passed out in the toilet.

I'm home now and the question that's still gnawing away at my heart isn't why is he marrying her … It's why didn't he want to marry me?

I am not coping with this well at all. PAM POTTER, WHERE ARE YOU?

Wednesday March 23rd

I called Pam first thing this morning demanding an appointment and she agreed to fit me in after her last session at six. It's now just after three and I've been thinking about Alex and THAT WOMAN all day … and their wedding … and their future children … and generally just making myself ill over the whole matter. I want to talk to Lucy or Hazel about how I'm feeling, but I'm aware there's only so much whining they can take before they lose the plot with me for being so pathetic. God knows I'm angry enough at myself.

8 p.m
. My session with Pam went well. It was such a relief to just vomit out all the crap that's been festering away inside my head. Highlights included:

(On Alex)

Pam
: Why are you so angry that he's getting married?

Me:
He always said he'd never get married. Now I know it's that he just didn't want to get married to me. I feel like a fool.

(On this diary)

Pam
: We discussed keeping a journal last year. Have you made an effort to do that?

Me:
Yes. Oh yes. Lots of writing. I'm keeping a note of everything. Although the content is mostly sexual. It's like the
Secret Diary of Oestrogen Mole
. (She didn't laugh.)

(
On sex
)

Me:
I don't know why my sex life is so important now.

Pam
: I think the question should be why you didn't think your sex life was important then?

Good point. I feel a lot better having had a rant to someone other than my mates. At least Pam didn't start a fight and call me a gaylord. But at the end of the session she told me she's going to visit her family in Florida for a few weeks so I'll have to bore someone else with my troubles while she's gone.

Thursday March 24th

This month seems to be going from bad to worse. Just when I thought it couldn't get any more abysmal, something happened
today which made me wish I'd never embarked on this bloody list of bloody challenges. While Frank was out for a meeting, I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that I would use his office to give Oliver a surprise sex call at work. Only Frank came back, didn't he? He came back just as I was uttering the words ‘I'm going to take your cock in my mouth—' Frank took the receiver out of my hand, said, ‘Indeed you are not,' and hung up.

I have to go in first thing tomorrow for a meeting and I want to vomit. Of course, Oliver thinks this is hysterical and doesn't appreciate that my boss has no sense of humour.

‘He's a guy, Phoebe – he'll be laughing about this with his wife.'

‘He's divorced.'

‘OK, then he'll be having a wank while thinking about you putting his—'

‘ARGHH. Shut up!'

‘Look, I've met your boss. He's an uptight knob. This is probably the most exciting thing that's ever happened to him.'

‘So you don't think he'll sack me?'

‘Well, I didn't say that …'

‘Oh God. I'm totally getting fired.'

Friday March 25th

This morning I snuck furtively into the office only to discover that Frank wasn't in, which meant I was able to relax
for exactly half an hour before he rang and told me we'd have our meeting on Monday morning instead. Wanker. I now have the whole weekend to cry and job hunt. I spent the rest of the afternoon taking too many fag breaks and flirting on Twitter with @granted77. He's changed his picture to one of his face and he's rather attractive. I'm now at home, pacing up and down my living room, wondering if I should learn a trade.

Monday March 28th

I sat meekly in the morning meeting, wishing Frank would suddenly have a fatal heart attack and I'd be off the hook. Afterwards I crept into his office for my inevitable humiliation and sacking. Or so I thought.

‘We seem to have a problem, Phoebe. You used my office for personal calls and from what I overheard it wasn't a family emergency.'

‘Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad.' I tried to remember exactly what I'd said. ‘How much did you hear?'

‘Enough, Phoebe, I heard enough. From your emails I'm also aware that your mind hasn't been on the job for a while. These challenges of yours seem more important than giving a hundred per cent to your job, which is what you're paid to do.'

The sneaky bastard. ‘YOU READ MY EMAILS? THAT'S—'

He shushed me. He actually shushed me! ‘Do you want to keep your job, Phoebe?'

‘Of course I do! Look, I'm sorry. It was … unprofessional.'

‘With a poor reference from this company, chances of
finding anything else in the current market are pretty slim.'

‘I get it, Frank. I've apologized. What more do you want?'

He paused for a moment and began shuffling some papers on his desk. He seemed flustered.

‘Well … I …'

‘Put me on probation, anything.'

‘There is one thing that, um …'

He started typing on his keyboard, staring at his computer screen, which wasn't switched on.