Chapter 9 #2
“Fuck no. If that’s his A-game imagine him after six months. He’d probably microwave a Tesco ready meal and call it our anniversary dinner. ‘Happy six months, love, I’ve heated you up some shepherd’s pie. The plastic film’s only slightly melted into the mince.’”
I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this. It’s nice to be living with someone my own age for once.
“What about you?” Fee asks, curling up against the armrest. “When was your last date?”
The laughter dies in my throat. Do I make up some disastrous Tinder hookup to sound normal?
“Um… three years ago,” I admit sheepishly.
“Bloody hell. Three years?”
I shrug. “My ex was a bit of an asshole. It put me off.”
Bit of an asshole. Like saying the Titanic had a small leak.
Fee’s expression softens. “Oh, love. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I say quickly, taking another gulp of wine. “It’ll just bring the mood down. I want good vibes only tonight.” I force a smile. “I need a new list of priorities. I feel like I haven’t been… living properly lately.”
Fee’s eyes light up. “A list? Oh, I bloody love lists.” She jumps up, swaying slightly. “Wait, there’s a chalkboard in the kitchen. Let’s make your list properly.”
“What?” I laugh, but there’s a flutter of panic in my chest. “No, I didn’t mean an actual list.”
“Why not?” She’s already halfway to the kitchen. “We need a visual manifestation of the new Georgie.”
“I mean… I do love lists,” I admit, trailing after her. “But for work. Not… life.”
“Life is more important than work,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is to everyone else.
I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already grabbed my hand and is dragging me to the chalkboard.
“Right then,” she says, grinning. “What does New Georgie want to achieve?”
I feel ridiculous standing here while she writes GEORGIE’S TO-DO LIST in bold letters across the top.
“Swim in the Fairy Pools,” I mumble, because I have to say something.
“Okay, that’s an easy one. We need to go deeper. More ambitious.”
“Hike up the Old Man of Storr,” I continue, gaining confidence.
“Sounds like a euphemism.” Fee giggles, and I snort despite myself.
We’re both laughing as the list grows: dolphins, puffins, surfing, haggis, whisky tasting…
With every chalk squeak, I feel something in my chest uncoil.
When was the last time I wanted something just for me? Not for work. Not because someone else told me to?
Fee tilts her head. “What about men?”
“What about them?”
“You need to pursue your sexual awakening here, girl. The kilts alone are enough to cause orgasms.”
I giggle. The wine makes me brave. Or unhinged.
And there’s something about seeing Patrick in his helicopter because, fuck me, that was hot. Heat pools low in my belly just thinking about it.
It’s made me remember that I’m twenty-five years old, and I have needs and wants that have nothing to do with debugging code.
I look at Fee, feeling reckless. “Have athletic sex with rugged Highland man?”
“Yes!” Fee writes it down with theatrical flourish. “Now we’re talking! Except…”
She scores out “man” and replaces it with “men,” underlining it three times.
I burst into giggles. “That’s… ambitious.”
“Go big or go home, I say.” She waves the chalk. “You’ve got years of repressed horniness to make up for. One Highland man isn’t going to cut it.”
Somehow, through wine-fueled giggles, we create something between a bucket list and a manifesto for sexual chaos:
GEORGIE’S SKYE TO-DO LIST
Swim in the Fairy Pools (probability of spotting a hot farmer: TBD, but Fee is optimistic)
Hike up the Old Man of Storr (sounds like a euphemism, actually a mountain)
See whales and puffins (preferably alive and in their natural habitat, not stuffed in a gift shop)
Try surfing (with life insurance)
Try haggis (spiced organ meat stuffed in a stomach bag—also requires life insurance)
Sample local whisky at distillery (drams)
Have athletic sex with rugged Highland men. (Subcategories for thorough consideration):
Farmer (pros: strong hands, impressive forearms from hay-baling; cons: 4 a.m. wake-up calls for milking)
Fisherman (pros: excellent with rope work, cons: smells like haddock)
Mysterious lighthouse keeper (pros: romantic isolation and brooding potential, cons: possible serial killer)
Must own authentic kilt (tartan pattern negotiable, but no tourist shop polyester)
“It’s a work of art,” Fee says solemnly. “Your guide to Scottish liberation.”
“Hang on—” The wine hits me with a bolt of clarity. I grab the chalk and add beneath the athletic sex section:
Additional consideration: Request oral reciprocation
“Obviously,” Fee says, looking scandalized that I’d feel the need to specify something so fundamental.
Heat floods my cheeks. The truth is, I’ve never even been… attended to down there.
Steve the Shit once told me it “wasn’t his thing,” which in hindsight was code for I’m a selfish prick who thinks women’s pleasure is optional.
I spent months thinking my vagina was the problem, Googling “vaginal aromatherapy.” I briefly considered investing in a rose-petal steaming device.
The fact that I’ve just turned cunnilingus into a research project with bullet points probably explains why I’m twenty-five and my vagina’s still waiting for its first dinner guest.
“Right,” I say, trying to regain some composure. “I should probably add some actual work items too.”
I reach for the chalk again. Usually they’d be the only things on my list.
Make IRIS implementation a success (Actually important; probably should be higher on the list)
Prove to Patrick McLaren I’m a competent employee (Make him choke on that patronizing “Can you handle this?”)
I pause, then add one more thing.
Make Riri proud
“It’s silly, but…” My throat catches. It’s amazing how you can be half-drunk, halfway to horny, and still manage to trip over grief.
“It’s not silly at all,” Fee says firmly.
We step back to look at the board. There’s no KPIs or SMART targets. Not unless “number of licks” is officially a measurable outcome.
But Riri would approve. Especially item six.
Actually…
I grab the chalk one more time and move “athletic Highland sex” straight to the very top of the list.
Fee grins. “Now you’re talking.”
Who does this? Who turns “get laid” into a bullet point?
Me, apparently. The woman who can write conditional logic but can’t logically explain how I became so boring that I now require written instructions to have a fuck.
Still.
It’s a start.