‘But wasn’t Turkey—’
‘Subjected to terror attacks at some point?’ he interjected. ‘Yep. As was London and Paris and America and Germany and . . . you see where I’m going with this?’
‘I know, I’d just like to be as far from the action as possible, thanks very much.’
‘Phoebe, some idiot tried to drive his car bomb into Glasgow Airport, remember? No one is ever going to be that far away from it.’
I started to laugh. ‘I do remember. The baggage handler jumped in and booted one of the terrorists in the balls. Fucking love Scotland. OK, fine, I take your point. Email me over the link to have a look at.’
Two hours later, we were booked up for ten days in Turkey. Sun, sea and as much food as I can eat without an intervention being staged. Bring it on.
Thursday July 6th
From:Phoebe Henderson
To:Lucy Jacobs
Subject: Holiday
I need holiday clothes and a swimming costume. A big one. Would it be inappropriate to wear a burka as I really don’t want my flab on display?
From:Lucy Jacobs
To:Phoebe Henderson
Subject: Re: Holiday
Who the fuck is going to be looking at you? There will be twenty-somethings with flat stomachs and perky tits to bear the brunt of the male gaze and the female scorn. We’ve paid our dues – just wear something that keeps those giant boobs strapped down, Dolly Parton.
She makes a sad, yet valid point. I’ll nip to the shops at the weekend. I saw some really nice swimming kaftans in Dorothy Perkins that I could cover up with. They had pockets. Pockets are everything.
Saturday July 8th
While trying on swimming costumes this afternoon, I came to the realisation that as much as I try to embrace my body, the truth is, I’m just not there yet. Maybe I’ll never be. It’s not going to stop me wearing a swimsuit, but it doesn’t mean I’m not going to feel self-conscious as fuck. Lucy was right, no one will be looking at me, but that’s not the point because no one will ever be harder on me, than me. I really have to make sure none of this bullshit rubs off on Molly. I wonder if Bethany has a beach-ready body? I bet she does. I bet she’s throwing herself around the gym when she’s not throwing herself at my damn boyfriend.
Anyway, I bought a navy blue one piece with a red bow, a couple of kaftans, some three-quarter-length trousers, a couple of maxi dresses, a swishy skirt for swishy times and a whole trolley full of sunblock so we don’t all suddenly explode like the Terminator 2 dream sequence.
Monday July 10th
Sarah Ward-Wilson has emailed Frank. Well, she emailed Lucy’s admin address looking for Frank’s direct email and of course Lucy informed me of this new development the moment she hit reply.
‘I’m pretty sure she still lives with her husband,’ I said. ‘They have a weird separate bedrooms arrangement. He’s doing some younger woman he works with—’
‘—and soon she’ll be doing Frank. Poor cow. I think they’d make a good couple, though,’ Lucy insisted, chewing on her pen. ‘They both look like vacant arseholes – like attracts like and all that. He can buy her a designer vagina. Just be grateful he doesn’t want to buy you one.’
She’s right, of course, but the whole thing just leaves me feeling uneasy. What if he lets it slip that we were briefly intimate? What if she gets all weird about it and stabs me in my sleep? If things progress between them, I might have to have a word. I’ll be seeing this woman five days a week when school begins, the last thing I need is her giving me evils for having seen Frank’s knob first.
Tuesday July 11th
I got an email from Downtime today, only it wasn’t from Jay. It was from some woman called Denise, a new manager, who politely declined any future advertising. Methinks that Jay got the sack and the new woman is wondering why on earth he’d spent so much on promos in a newspaper whose biggest advertiser is orthopaedic beds and Saga holidays. Damn, I’ll have to find another sucker to take my space now. Some sales people thrive on this shit. To me, it’s nothing but a massive ball-ache.
Wednesday July 12th
Oliver and I have been so busy recently that neither of us have looked at the suggestions that remain untouched in the sex jar. In fact, apart from a half-arsed morning attempt last week, we’ve barely touched each other. I texted Oliver to remedy this as soon as possible.
I am hereby scheduling a shag. Meet me by the jar tonight after Molly goes to sleep. Message ends.
He responded:
