‘Lucy, you’re ruining the moment.’
‘Good,’ she replied. ‘I’m sick of talking about men and relationships and problems and weddings. It’s exhausting. We should just dance.’
‘Dance?’
‘Yes, Phoebe, dance. I’m sure therapy is very worthwhile but nothing is better for clearing the mind and soul than dancing.’
Without saying another word, she put YouTube on the television and found a 90s playlist. It didn’t take long for the kids to come through and join us. I hope that when Molly grows up, she finds friends just like mine.
Sunday August 27th
I finally slept like a baby last night. Perhaps it was the wine or the pizza or just the good company that relaxed me enough. Maybe my brain just ran out of things to try and shame and torture me with.
Oliver is back tomorrow which is cool as Molly has missed him. I have too but not as much as she has. Apparently he does funny voices better when he reads to her. Mine all sound the same. This is clearly untrue. My Billy the Badger voice is a triumph.
Monday August 28th
With Frank and Kelly in London, the office was super quiet today. Brian hammered through his work in the morning which left time for him to arse around all afternoon. My day wasn’t particularly productive but that’s normal.
When I arrived home at six, Oliver had already picked Molly up from the childminder and they were playing Connect Four at the dining table. While Molly was obviously thrilled to see her dad, I can’t say that I was quite so enthused. His presence can be confusing – as much as I despise what he did, I still fancy the arse off him. I’m confused by my ability to feel sad, annoyed and aroused by him at the same time. It’s very frustrating. The sadness concerns me, though: what if it never goes away? Can I stay in a relationship that constantly weighs heavy on my heart? It’s doubtful, and that grieves me most of all.
Tuesday August 29th
I saw Lord Wilson at the gates this morning, chatting loudly on her phone. I kept my head down, hoping she wouldn’t spot me, but she did, yelling my name in the middle of the parents’ car park.
‘I was just talking about you,’ she informed me, popping her phone into her handbag. ‘Your boss says hello.’ She giggled like a possessed doll.
‘Frank? You were talking to Frank?’
‘Oh yes!’ she beamed. ‘We’ve been chatting occasionally. He’ll be asking me out to dinner any day now, I just know it.’
‘Well, I’m glad that’s working out for you,’ I replied, doing my best to sound sincere. ‘I’m sure you two will get along famously.’
‘If you have any pointers you can give me, I’d appreciate it. He seems like quite a complex man.’
‘Complex? Really?’ I could feel my head tilt in confusion. Complex isn’t the first C-word that springs to mind when describing Frank. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know Frank well enough to help you in that department,’ I lied. The truth is I know him better than I’d like to; from his terrible taste in furniture to the splodgy-looking birthmark on his inner thigh.
She looked peeved that I wasn’t being more useful. ‘You look tired this morning,’ she said, scrutinising my face. I frowned. Everyone knows thatyou look tiredis actually code foryou look like dog shit.
‘You not getting the full eight hours?’ she continued without any encouragement from me. ‘I read somewhere that the less you sleep, the shorter your life will be. It’s all about being the best version of yourself, Phoebe! Anyhoo, must dash. Spin class in fifteen.’
I watched as she strode back to her car, wondering why the real life harbinger of doom goes to the gym in a full face of make-up. The best version of myself? But what if the best version of myself is me doing lines of coke off 1980s James Spader’s ass while driving my car the wrong way through traffic? She didn’t think that through.
Wednesday August 30th
I called Pam to discuss whether it would be appropriate for me to see her individually while she was also seeing us as a couple for therapy. She said probably not and recommended I see a different therapist while Oliver and I are working together with her. I don’t want to see a different therapist. I love her! I’d rather get a different boyfriend. I’ve arranged for us to go in and see her next month. I think we’ve made great progress since we first shuffled into her office but I’m still quite raw about what’s come to light since we did. I know I have to discuss this with Oliver but sometimes I want to just rant alone without risking any hurt feelings.
Thursday August 31st
At work today, inappropriate conversations were rife. Brian was telling us in graphic detail about a woman he’s dating who has one defunct nipple.
‘I swear you could take a blow-torch to that thing and it won’t respond. I’ve tried everything to make it hard.’
Kelly is looking for a new bikini waxer after the lady she uses ‘literally ripped the skin off my labia’. She showed Lucy the photos – I refused to look.
And finally, to put the cherry on the top of this disturbing office sundae, Frank called me in to his office just before five o’clock to tell me that he’d finally asked out Sarah Ward-Wilson. WHY AM I BEING DRAGGED INTO THIS SHIT?
‘You do realise that this is none of my business,’ I told him. ‘Sarah and I aren’t close. Or even friends really.’
