Free The List by Joanna Bolouri Page A

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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜That’s what I thought, but I wanted to check. There’s a girl I’m into and I fancy shagging her.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 thatthis 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