Diary of an Unsmug Married (24 page)

The Boss doesn’t take holidays, so I couldn’t even claim I was meeting him. And with my luck, there’d be some sort of terrorist incident, I’d be taken hostage – no doubt involving being grabbed by the neck – and then my picture would suddenly pop up on the news coverage, while Max was watching. Then he’d want to know what the hell I was up to, if I ever escaped.

I don’t think I can make it. Sorry.

Mx

I resist the temptation to add a flying rat to the list of hypothetical occurrences, in honour of Miss Harpenden.

TUESDAY, 10 AUGUST

I must be wearing another one of those signs that are visible to others but not to me – this one saying, ‘Molly is miserable now she’s not meeting Johnny’ – as everyone seems to have agreed that I need cheering up. How to achieve it is where the consensus breaks down.

While we’re getting dressed this morning, Max suggests that he meets me in town, straight after work. Seeing my expression, he says, ‘What?’ – as if he made that sort of suggestion on a regular basis.

‘I’m just surprised, that’s all,’ I say. ‘What brought
that
on?’

‘Thought it might cheer you up. Where shall we meet?’

‘Well, it’d better be somewhere where I won’t feel an idiot, sitting by myself waiting for you to turn up,’ I say.

Max looks wounded. ‘I
always
turn up,’ he says.

‘Eventually.’

Oh, honestly. I never know when to accept an olive branch when it’s offered (not that I concede Max’s point about resembling an elephant). Anyway, I apologise, and then we arrange to meet at Caffè Nero. Again. You can’t say we lack imagination.

It’s a date, though, isn’t it, wherever it is? I’m quite chuffed, not that Greg is convinced about that. He says I still look as miserable as sin when I arrive at work, which must have something to do with the effect of gravity on my mouth. I don’t know what his excuse is for
his
expression.

He looks even more like the Infected than I do today – and, after he’s attended this morning’s ‘briefing’ with Andrew (which is even briefer than usual), he comes back rolling his eyes, sits down at his desk with an exaggerated sigh and buries his head in his hands.

Then The Boss bounces in, like an ageing Tigger on speed. God knows why he’s suddenly so cheerful – unless he’s bi-polar now? (Greg says it’s Stephen Fry’s fault that
that’s
becoming such a popular diagnosis.)

‘What are you so excited about, Andrew?’ I say. ‘Have you finally worked out that no one in the Party’s out to get you?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ he says. ‘They all are. You’d realise it, too, if you weren’t so idiotically trusting of people. Never mind that, though – did Greg tell you about my idea?’

‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘What have you gone and thought of now?’

‘Something to boost office morale.’ Andrew’s self-satisfaction is almost tangible. He puts his shoulders back and struts into the kitchen, like President Putin heading back to the Kremlin. ‘Can’t say I’m not sensitive to my staff’s needs,’ he says.

Greg and I are still lost for words when Andrew asks his next question. ‘Anyone want a coffee?’ he says. ‘I’ll make them myself.’

‘Is
that
his plan?’ I ask Greg. ‘Making us coffee?’

‘No,’ says Greg. ‘Worse than that. Much, much worse.’

He’s about to explain, when there’s a crashing noise, some swearing, and then The Boss sticks his head back round the kitchen door. ‘Where the hell are all the cups and spoons?’ he says. ‘Can’t find a thing in here.’

The cups and spoons are where they always are, first thing in the morning: in the sink, waiting for me to wash them up. The drawer, however, isn’t in its usual place. It’s in the middle of the floor.

‘What happened to the drawer?’ I say, going to the rescue, as usual.

‘Must’ve pulled it out too far, trying to find a spoon.’ The Boss steps round it, looks at his watch, then says, ‘Oh, I’m late for the Silverhill Remembering Project. Better go.’

When I’ve finished washing up, rebuilding the kitchen cabinet and making the coffees, Greg has recovered enough to tell me what Andrew’s great motivational plan is. Let’s just say it’s unlikely to work.

He’s decided to invite the girls from the London office to come here on Friday, so that we can all have lunch together. He says this will also give Carlotta and Marie-Louise the chance to ‘see and appreciate’ what we do here in the boring old provinces.

When I call her to make the arrangements, Carlotta doesn’t sound any more enthusiastic about it than we are. By the time she’s given me a list of her dietary requirements, together with far too much information about Marie-Louise’s allergies, I can’t think of one single restaurant that will fit the bill. Maybe Caffè Nero will be the default option, yet again.

I’m quite excited about meeting Max there, which is odd, as it’s hardly the Marriott, or even Heathrow.

Before I leave work, I freshen my make-up, and squirt Rive Gauche around with gay abandon, while Greg mutters about the office smelling like a tart’s boudoir. I’m already ten minutes late by the time I get to the cafe, but there’s no sign of Max anywhere.

By the time forty-five minutes have passed, I’m almost the
only
customer left – and I’ve drunk so much coffee that I’ve given myself palpitations, yet again. I keep checking my mobile, under cover of the table, in case anyone thinks I’ve been stood up, but there’s nothing from Max. No texts, no missed calls, no answer-phone messages. Nothing – or ‘ʜичero’ in Russian. (I’m learning a few phrases, just in case.)

A full hour after we arranged to meet, I give up, pay the annoyingly sympathetic waitress, and start to walk home. Then my mobile rings.

‘I’m
really
sorry,’ says Max. ‘I had an emergency.’ ‘Did you?’ I say. ‘What sort of emergency, exactly?’

‘The drivers missed a customer’s coffee table off this week’s delivery round. So I had to take it there myself, after work.’

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Well, that
is
an emergency. Undoubtedly. Unlike the eviction case I nearly killed myself trying to finish, so that I could meet
you
on time.’

Then I hang up, turn my phone off, and walk the rest of the way home. I can’t say I feel noticeably more cheerful, but maybe Connie or Josh can think of something to improve my mood.

They can’t do any worse than the f*ckwits who’ve already tried.

WEDNESDAY, 11 AUGUST

Greg’s still on a mission today. He says things have been much too miserable around here since Recess began and that we need to try something far more effective than yesterday’s disastrous attempts at raising morale. Especially
my
morale, as now he says I have a face like a wet weekend, which he rates as even less attractive than my ‘Infected’ one.

He suggests a session of
Writing Honest Letters
at lunchtime, if we can get rid of The Boss for a while. This seems more likely to cheer me up than anything else that’s been tried, including Johnny’s series of grovelling emails apologising for being ‘crass and thoughtless’, so I agree.

‘On condition we shred the letters immediately after we’ve read them out loud,’ I say. ‘That postman has no sense of humour, and he said bribery won’t work a second time.’

‘Fair enough,’ says Greg. ‘If he wants to lose a nice little earner. Now for Mr Beales and his sister-in-law’s “unfair treatment”.’

He starts typing without hesitation.

Dear Mr Beales,

Thank you for your letter regarding your sister-in-law being ‘forced’ to lose five stone before her gastric band can be fitted. Whilst I take your point that the only reason that she wanted the operation was to lose weight, surely she has now proved she can achieve this, without the need for surgery?

I realise this may seem a radical suggestion, but why doesn’t she just forget about the operation altogether and stick to her diet instead? It’s obviously working and, were she to continue, the funds that would otherwise be spent on surgery for her could be used to help someone else. (Preferably someone whose illness was not caused by spending too much money on Cornish pasties.)

I do hope you will take my suggestion in the spirit in which it was intended. I may even propose it to the Department of Health.

Yours sincerely,

Andrew Sinclair, MP for Lichford East

Greg hits
print
, sits back in his chair and smiles at me.

‘Ooh, contentious,’ I say. ‘Especially the bit about the pasties.’

‘That’s the
best
part,’ says Greg. ‘Now your turn. Who are you going to choose?’

So much choice, so little time. I opt for Mrs Backhouse, in a panic.

Dear Mrs Backhouse,

Thank you for your letter regarding your housing situation. It was kind of you to write, but you really didn’t need to bother as, to all intents and purposes, your letter was identical to the last ten that you have sent me, not to mention that it merely reiterated what you have said during the half-dozen constituency surgery appointments that you have already attended since the most recent general election.

As I have repeatedly explained to you – and indeed to Mr Backhouse, though I am never quite sure if he is listening – I am unable to force Lichford Council to re-house you and your family, whilst Mr Backhouse refuses to agree to the move.

Furthermore, as Mr Backhouse is the only tenant named on the tenancy agreement, not to mention your husband, and your children’s father, the Council cannot approve your
exchanging
the property either, without his permission.

I am enclosing a leaflet which gives information about the services offered by our local branch of Relate, and I also enclose a list of solicitors who specialise in divorce, should you decide to take more drastic measures. Might I also request that, should you attend any more surgery appointments, you consider bringing your own box of tissues with you.

Yours sincerely,

Andrew Sinclair, MP for Lichford East

Working hard for hardworking families, as well as those who appear wholly unable to communicate with each other

Talk about therapeutic.

‘I feel like a new man,’ says Greg. ‘Energised, and ready to carry on this futile struggle. I might even be able to conjure up some enthusiasm if I try.’

I raise my eyebrows at him.

‘Well, all right,’ he says. ‘Until Andrew gets back from his meeting at the Agoraphobics Group, anyway.’

I’m expecting trouble on
that
front. Imagine if you’d been locked in your home for ten years and had only just found the courage to venture out – then the first person you ran into was The Boss!

THURSDAY, 12 AUGUST

This evening, there’s a minor miracle, when I actually manage to leave the office on time – which is a good job, as I’m supposed to be cooking dinner when I get home. Max must have lost the will to live since the Caffè Nero debacle if he’s considering eating something I’ve prepared, but he’s got an important meeting after work. Or so he claims.

I’m standing in the kitchen stirring a rather lumpy-looking sauce, intended for macaroni cheese, when I realise I haven’t spoken to Mum for days.

Never try to do two things at once when one of them involves cooking, that’s all I can say. By the time I’ve spent half an hour listening to Mum telling me about an article she read about the negative health effects of dairy foods, the sauce is looking even more dubious than it did before.

‘What’s up, Mum?’ says Josh. ‘You look even more of a stress-head than usual.’

When I’ve explained that I have been listening to Nanny’s latest health scare warning – and that my concentration is therefore shot – Josh takes one look at the macaroni cheese, declares it ‘catastrophic, as predicted’ and suggests we watch
Channel 4 News
instead.

‘We can have a mother and son bonding session while discussing world events,’ he says. ‘That’ll make you feel better, won’t it? You’re always saying me and Con should spend more time with you, and take more interest in your job.’

I am, but I’m not sure it’s my job to find a solution to the budget deficit, which is all that seems to be making the news tonight. I don’t need to, though. Josh has got
that
sorted.

‘Mum,’ he says, ‘are we still an empire, or something?’

Sometimes I despair of comprehensive education. What sort of question is that for someone who’s got GCSEs, and is expecting three A-levels in less than a week?

‘Well, not exactly, Josh,’ I say. ‘Though there
is
the Commonwealth.
And
the Crown Territories. And—’

‘Never mind the detail, Mum. All I want to know is: do we
own
any other countries?’

Never mind the detail? Who does Josh think he is – an MP, for God’s sake? I make allowances, though, on the grounds that A-levels in Photography, Resistant Materials and Film Studies probably don’t help much with situations such as this.

‘Um, yes, I suppose we do,’ I say. ‘In a manner of speaking. Why?’

‘Problem solved, then,’ says Josh. ‘We should just phone China and say, “Hey, China – do you want to buy Australia?” I bet they’d
jump
at the chance.’

FRIDAY, 13 AUGUST

Carlotta and Marie-Louise arrive mid-morning, to see Greg and me ‘in action’ – while they take it easy, according to The Boss.