The List by Joanna Bolouri Read Free Book Online Page B

chest. I can’t believe I’ve sunk this low already.
    I’m trying to be discerning in my choices, but it’s tricky. The majority of profiles are from people who obviously didn’t win any grammar competitions at school, and I can’t bear the thought of having to read sentences with badly placed apostrophes all glaring at me, just waiting to be corrected. The messages come through surprisingly quickly. So far, some have tried the whole ‘getting to know you’ shit, while others just get straight to the point and begin conversations with: ‘How big are your tits?’ or the obligatory: ‘What are you wearing?’
    â€˜I AM WEARING SOME CLOTHES, YOU CUNT! MAKE THE FUCKING EFFORT!’ I didn’t say that, obviously. I don’t know if I can do this.
    Luckily a call from Mum distracted me from throwing my laptop out of the window.
    â€˜Hello, Phoebe, how are you?’
    â€˜Good, Mum. How are you and Dad?’
    My parents used to call every week when they lived in Glasgow. When my dad sold off his chain of hippy tearooms and they emigrated to Canada, the calls became less frequent and were replaced by random gifts of utter shite and postcards from their latest holiday destination.
    â€˜We’re going on safari, darling. Last-minute deal to Kenya. Heading off in about an hour so just thought I’d call before we’re in the middle of nowhere.’
    â€˜You can use your mobile in Kenya, Mum. It isn’t the moon.’
    â€˜Your father’s decided we’re not taking phones. He also decided we’re not taking gin, but I vetoed that immediately. Everything OK with you?’
    â€˜Yeah, everything’s great … nothing new here … same old. Have fun! Tell Dad I said hi, and don’t get mauled by anything!’
    â€˜Only your father, dear. Oh, don’t make that groaning sound, Phoebe – your father and I didn’t conceive you by holding hands. Lighten up. Anyway, we’re off. Take care!’
    â€˜Bye, Mum. Speak soon.’
    It doesn’t matter how old I get, knowing my parents had sex in order to conceive me will never get any less distressing. If I wasn’t an only child, I’d swear they’ve done it more than once.
    Thursday January 27th
    Frank wasn’t in the office so I got to use his parking space today. Hurrah! No public transport for me. I got stuck on the motorway for forty-five minutes on the way home, but totally worth it as I got to sing along loudly to the
Rocky Horror Picture Show
soundtrack without fear of being heard. Tim Curry dressed as Frank-N-Furter gives me the horn.
    I made pasta for dinner and opened a bottle of red wine before logging back on to Highland Flings. I tried to ignore my initial ‘What the hell am I doing?’ thoughts and repress the overwhelming urge to send back an array of jokey, sarcastic responses and instead focus on why I’m doing this. I know I’ll have to try it on Oliver at some point and it has to at least be smirk-free and somewhat believable. So far it’s only been brief email/messenger flirting, but I’m getting more confident and I’m finally managing not to turn everything into a great big joke.
    I told Oliver about my training regime and he thought it was hysterical.
    â€˜You can’t do this! You’re too nice!’
    â€˜No, I’m not. I can be filthy, GODDAMMIT!’
    â€˜Phoebe, you called me a fucker while we were shagging and then texted me on the way home to make sure I knew you didn’t really mean it. You’re the kind of girl who might be able to tell me you want to suck my cock, but not how you’d actually do it.’
    He’s right. I hate it when he’s right.
    Friday January 28th
    Work today was a complete washout. I don’t want to be there at the best of times, and I am so distracted by my project. Several times I was close to shouting: ‘FUCK YOUR TARGETS, FRANK – TELL