Diary of an Unsmug Married (4 page)

The phone vibrates and rattles against the desk with that last statement, delivered in Miss Chambers’ convincing version of a sonic boom. Greg looks at me, then I look back at him and nod. It’s time for the last act in this all-too-familiar performance.

‘Oh,’ I say, into the receiver. ‘This phone’s not working. We’ve been cut off.’

Then I slam the phone down, and switch it to answer-phone, quickly, before Miss C rings back. There is a loud chorus of ‘
Barking!
’ from all the surrounding offices, coupled with sustained applause. It’s satisfying, but only momentarily, and I wish, not for the first time, that I had a nice little job somewhere like Tesco.

Maybe I could
get
a job at Tesco? At least then I might meet some people during the working day who weren’t actually certifiable. I decide to take an early lunch-break, to explore my options. It is nearly 11:00am, after all.

So much for
that
idea. Apparently, Tesco don’t need any new employees, so I cheer myself up by spending far too much in Primark, as per usual. I often wonder if it might be an idea to buy fewer clothes at a higher price, but always rule this out pretty quickly. Miss Chambers equals daily stress, which equals the need for immediate retail therapy – so shopping anywhere other than Primark would bankrupt me. Maybe I could get a job
in
Primark, and cut Miss Chambers out of the equation?

I am cheered by this prospect until I return to my desk, to find twenty-eight messages on the answer-phone. I was only gone for an hour, for God’s sake! Nineteen are from Miss Chambers, becoming ever more glass-shattering with every one.

The other nine are from The Boss, who wants to know if there’s anything we need to speak to him about. There isn’t, as always – so I’d better find him something safe and uncontroversial to do for the rest of the day, before he gets bored and starts giving opinions to the press on anything they ask.

With the thought of
that
terrifying possibility, today is fast shaping up to be a double Primark day … I wonder what they pay their staff? It can’t possibly be much less than I earn now, but I suppose I really ought to check.

I phone the union, and ask how my earnings compare to shop work.

‘Well, as you’re one of the very lowest-paid employees on the House of Commons payroll, Molly, I’d get that Primark application in pronto, if I were you,’ says Martin, rather too brightly if you ask me.

I’m so stunned that I put the phone down without even remembering to say goodbye. One of the lowest paid?
Lowest
paid? In the
whole
House of Commons? A place full of cleaners and catering staff, many imported from the Philippines, and yet I have the honour of being the
lowest
paid? For putting up with the likes of Miss Chambers all day?

I am collecting a Primark application form on my way home, if they’re still open then. I have a degree and specialist training, and I am too damned good to be working for an MP.

WEDNESDAY, 26 MAY

I’m almost too depressed to write. Primark has no vacancies – and all that discount’s gone out of the window as well. It looks as if I’m stuck with The Boss for the foreseeable future, or at least until IPSA’s
^fn14
cuts cost me my job.

To make things worse, Mr Beales writes in with yet another problem – the third one in the last ten days. One of his clients won’t pay for her wedding photographs, and Mr Beales encloses copies to illustrate his point. After I’ve taken a look at them, I’m not surprised the poor woman won’t pay: a number of the guests are headless, along with the groom.

I
am
surprised by one new development, however – Greg and I have always thought that Mr Beales was a
school
photographer. He seemed well suited for this, in that he most closely resembles a paedophile or, at best, a serial killer. (Greg says that all paedophiles are easily identified by the double bar across the bridge of their metal-framed glasses.)

Anyway, whatever he is, I really can’t be bothered with Mr Beales today, so I just dump his letter and photos into the otherwise-empty filing tray marked ‘Show to The Boss’.

The rest of the day passes without incident until, in the evening, I get another email from Johnny Hunter. A long one, this time suggesting I reply to his email address at work – and the tone is very friendly, if a little boastful. He’s only an
International
Director
for a global oil company!

He’s also married, with four children much younger than mine, which is presumably why he and his wife have managed rather more impressive careers than working for a backbench MP.

Johnny goes on to say that it is ‘the help’ that enables him and his wife to keep flying across the globe with their demanding jobs, by ensuring that their children are well-cared for at the same time. He also says that he can’t afford to downsize to spend more time with his family, as ‘you know what school fees are like’.

I am a gutless hypocrite. I do not say in my reply that of course I do
not
know, because I am politically (and financially) opposed to private schools; work for a
Labour
MP, and have put both my kids through the wringer of the state school system
because
it
teaches
them
important
life
skills
. (Well, that’s what Max and I always tell our posh friends anyway – we don’t mention Josh’s gang lord credentials.)

In response to Johnny, I just wimp out and sympathise with his difficulty, as if I understand it all too well. What on earth is
wrong
with me? I have about as much idea of what his life is like as he probably has of mine, though I bet
his
wife doesn’t shop at Primark.

I still have no idea what he looks like, either – though I’m hoping he was that nice one with the dark hair and really blue eyes who used to catch the school bus with me. I’d better check if he wears glasses now, though, and – if so – what the frames are like. You can’t be too careful, in this day and age.

THURSDAY, 27 MAY

I have cheered up slightly. One of the girls in Primark tells me that they don’t get staff discount, because the clothes are so cheap already.

However, my good mood doesn’t last past lunchtime, when Greg throws a dart at The Boss’ picture (displayed on the dartboard hidden in the archive cupboard) and it misfires, leaving me with no choice but to take him to A&E.
^fn15

Now he has an eye-patch, and sang Gabrielle songs in the car
all
the way home. My ears feel as if they’re bleeding. I wouldn’t mind, but that’s not the end of today’s medical emergencies.

‘I had to go to the doctor today,’ says Dad.

‘Good God, what’s the matter?’ I say.

You can say this to Dad. You never,
ever
, say it to Mum, unless you have nothing to do for the rest of your life – but Dad never goes to the doctor.

‘Well, I had an erection when I woke up—’ he says, before I manage to interrupt.

‘
Way
too much information,’ I say.

‘Well, your father’s all man.’ Dad pauses while I make a vomiting noise, and then continues, ‘And, anyway, when I looked down, there it was – all bent.’

‘What?’ I say. (I really should know better by now.)

‘Bent. My pe—’

‘Yeah, okay. Do we
have
to go into this?’ I say, feeling somewhat desperate.

‘Just listen now, Molly. This is interesting, especially as you work in politics.’

Dad might be right, actually. I’ll be
fascinated
to know what a bent willy has to do with politics. Not to mention how it persuaded him to visit his doctor on the day it occurred, unlike any of the genuine emergencies he’s ignored in the past.

‘Well, the angle it was at made my penis look foreshortened,’ says Dad, as if that explains everything. Which I suppose it probably does.

‘So what exactly is wrong with you?’ I say.

‘Peroni’s Disease. That’s what Bill Clinton had, so I’m not too worried now. It obviously doesn’t affect performance.’

On that pseudo-political note, Dad rings off, while I wonder why a bent willy would be named after a fizzy beer.

I look it up online and, having discovered that the correct spelling is
Peyronie’s,
I’m hoping that this will be the last that I hear of Dad’s bent appendage tonight, but Dinah makes sure there’s no chance of that.

‘Have you
spoken
to Dad?’ she screams down the phone. ‘Disgusting! He’s
disgusting
. You’ll never guess what he’s just told me—’

‘Yes, Dinah, I know. He’s already phoned me,’ I say. ‘So you really don’t have to—’

‘But don’t you think he’s
disgusting
?’ she shrieks.

Honestly, I may as well not have said anything at all. Nothing stops Dinah when she’s in full flow.

‘We should bloody well report him to someone. Imagine ringing up your daughters and telling them about your bent willy! Don’t you think we should report him for child abuse, or something like that?’

‘Dinah,’ I say, lighting yet another cigarette, ‘has it occurred to you that both you and I are technically middle-aged? I don’t think child abuse would apply.’

‘
Middle
-
aged?
’ she yells; and then she hangs up. Sometimes you’d swear my sister’s in as much denial about the passing of time, as she is about the absence of her husband, John. She says he’ll be back, ‘as soon as he’s accepted the need for self-improvement’, but I doubt he will. He told me he’d had more than enough of Dinah’s ‘helpful hints’.

Imagine being interrupted every five minutes while you’re having sex, by someone saying things like, ‘Top tip: get your bearings first’! Max says he’d rather not.

‘It’s no wonder Di and John only had one child, is it?’ he says, as he makes room for me on the sofa with an obvious sigh – initially of relief, and then of irritation, when the phone starts ringing yet again.

‘My buttock’s still terribly painful,’ says Mum, apropos a greeting.

Christ!
Both parents obsessed by their rear ends. It’s all too much.

FRIDAY, 28 MAY

God, I’m depressed. Not only is it Friday, which means that The Boss is here almost all day for his surgery and a seemingly endless series of largely pointless meetings, but I have just worked out that, if I am one of the lowest-paid members of staff on the whole HOC payroll, then that must mean that
Greg
is being paid more than me.

He’s half my age,
and
a f*ckwit – a lovable one, admittedly, but I still have to open all his supposedly finished letters when he’s not looking and vet them before I take them to the post.

This is a precautionary measure, brought in after last year’s debacle when Greg libelled the LibDem councillor, and then gave the poor man’s home address to our most violent constituent; and yet
he
is worth more money than me? I think I may have to go on strike.

I’m a little reluctant to risk direct action, given that there
is
a recession on, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping everyone else – so I phone Martin and ask him if the union will support me with a mass walk-out if I do strike for a decent wage.

The answer’s not exactly what I hoped. Martin will apparently be behind me ‘one hundred per cent in spirit’, but asks if I realise that the union has
no
authority over individual MPs – as they are each, effectively, separate small businesses.

When I’ve stopped hyperventilating at this unexpected news, I ask Martin a number of questions, not least of which is why I’ve been bothering to pay my union subs for all these years. He seems oddly reluctant to answer, but says that, as The Boss is a left-wing socialist, I surely don’t need the union to persuade
him
to do the right thing, anyway. How can a union rep be so bloody naive?

The only highlight of the day is another email from Johnny Hunter, even though he sounds very unimpressed with my job. So am I at the moment, but I would like him to
pretend
that my working life is slightly more significant in the scheme of things.

I suppose working for an MP isn’t ever likely to sound very impressive to an International Director of a Global Oil Company – I do like that phrase, hence the random capital letters. Johnny probably has hundreds of MPs in his pocket, metaphorically speaking, of course.

It’s just a shame that The Boss is unlikely to be powerful enough to merit being one of them, otherwise Johnny might be able to use his influence to get me a pay-rise. It doesn’t look as if the union’s going to be much help with that.

SATURDAY, 29 MAY

I do wish The Boss wouldn’t phone me on Saturdays. Or at least not ten times, and not in order to say the same thing on every occasion, even if he
is
enjoying gossiping about the latest parliamentary sex scandal more than is good for him.

If Nan was still alive, she’d tell him that pride comes before a fall, but I can’t be bothered to advise him not to tempt fate – I’m too busy worrying about the night out that Max has planned, even though it’s all my fault for complaining that we have no social life.

I’ve just found out that we’re due to meet his colleagues at a bar, which coincidentally happens to be Josh’s favourite drinking place. This is not promising, as it means that all the women there will be significantly younger than me, if not under-age; and there’ll be acres of highly toned flesh scattered with strategically placed piercings. I shall look like an ageing fish out of water, and Josh will probably mention that
no years back for your birthday
thing again.

‘What do you think I should wear?’ I say to Max – without much optimism, if I’m honest, but you never know.

‘Oh, anything, darling,’ he says. ‘You always look nice.’