Diary of an Unsmug Married (14 page)

‘Give me a hand, Molly, before I break my neck,’ Greg says. ‘Pass me that new box file, will you?’

I pick it up from his desk. It now bears the label ‘Staff Insurance Policy’.

What
on
earth
are we becoming?

TUESDAY, 6 JULY

Mum rings me at work. Her preamble is not promising.

‘Sorry to bother you at work, dear. I just wanted to ask you whether you’d noticed my eyelid last time you saw me?’

‘What eyelid?’

I am trying to scroll through my inbox, which already contains two hundred and twenty-seven emails received overnight.

I have no idea why the House of Commons spam filter picked up an email in which I described a local councillor as ‘disappearing up the arse’ of a certain MP, when it seems incapable of removing the forty-eight adverts for Viagra I receive daily, not to mention those for fake watches and penis enlargements.

‘My right eyelid. I’ve been looking at it in the mirror, and it looks a bit droopy,’ continues Mum.

‘Was that the twenty-five-times magnifying mirror like mine?’ I say.

‘Well,
ye-es
. But it definitely looks a bit odd to me.’

‘I think the best thing you can do is to stop looking in the mirror, Mum – especially that one. Twenty-five-times magnification is not good for the self-esteem. I’m sure it’s fine and you just need to find another interest.’

‘Oh, well – if
you
didn’t notice anything, maybe it’s okay,’ says Mum. Then she hangs up, without even remembering to say goodbye.

I’m as blind as a bat, but Mum just doesn’t get that the whole purpose of your sight deteriorating as you age is so that you have no idea how truly hideous you’re becoming. At least
she
wants to talk to me, though, unlike Josh.

As soon as I get home, he says he’s off to Robbie’s for the evening. That’s the
only
thing he does say, actually, as he’s still not speaking to Max or me since the incident in the underpass.

Connie more than makes up for her brother’s silence, now that she doesn’t have to compete for parental attention. She goes on about her new job, non-stop, for hours, while Max and I try to look as excited by the idea of flexi-time as she still seems to be, though God knows why. It’s a struggle, so we’re quite relieved when – eventually – she too goes out, to meet her boyfriend at the cinema.

Now for a cup of tea and, finally, some peace and quiet.

Famous last words. As soon as the door closes behind Connie, Max says, ‘Talking about work …’

‘Yes?’ I say, in my MP’s office voice. I don’t like the sound of this already.

‘I have to go abroad again – next week.’

Max busies himself in the depths of his briefcase, while I stare at him, open-mouthed. No business trips at all – ever – and then two. In a
month
? This is pushing credibility.

‘What?’ I say. ‘Another trip? Why?’

‘Business,’ he says.

‘But I thought the company was struggling,’ I say, trying to stop my voice squeaking like Mr Meeeeurghn’s. ‘I’m always reading that furniture sales are down. Massively.’

‘They are,’ says Max. ‘So, if the company wants me to go on a sales course, what choice have I got?’

Outmanoeuvred. Yet again. Why does my bullshit detector desert me the minute I get home? If I listen very carefully, though, I’m sure I can hear the sound of a faint, though horribly familiar tune.

WEDNESDAY, 7 JULY

The quality of the letters sent to The Boss isn’t getting any better, just like the quality of certain husbands’ excuses for taking mysterious ‘business trips’.

Today’s contender for F*ckwit of the Week reads as follows:

Dear Mister Sincler

Tony Blair kept on about wanting people to have lots of kids. I done what he wanted and me and the wife have 5, but we don’t get NO HELP AT ALL.

I work 16 hours a week and we have to live on benefits and tax credits but the goverment won’t pay for someone to take my 3 oldest kids to and from school. My wife can’t do it, not with the 2 little uns at home.

What I want to know is what you and your party are going to do to stand up for hardworking parents now that Cameron bloke’s in charge. I’m disgusted your lot told me to have all these kids. Now look at the mess I’m in.

Disgusted

Mark Betts

PS I’m so disgusted I’ve sent copys of this letter to the paper and I’m going to deliver 300 more all round the town.

Greg and I work out what Mr Betts’ total income would be – assuming minimum wage for sixteen hours a week – and it’s more than mine. Quite a lot more, if you take his Housing and Council Tax Benefits into account. Now I’m
positive
that Greg’s earning more than me, as he isn’t half as pissed off as I am, though he
does
say some awfully politically incorrect things about the people
he’s
keeping with
his
taxes.

At lunchtime, he buys a packet of five condoms and puts them into a House of Commons envelope with a compliment slip. He marks it, ‘FAO Mr Betts, Father of the Nation. Try these and do us all a favour.’

The afternoon isn’t very busy, but I’m so distracted by Max’s business trip announcement that I get half-way home before I realise Greg and I have forgotten to remove the ‘letter’ to Mr Betts from the post tray. It has therefore been posted, along with the rest of the mail. Oh, shit, shit,
shit
!

I have to run all the way back to the office and stand in wait next to the postbox outside. Then I have to humiliate myself again – as if the arse photo wasn’t bad enough – by
begging
the postman to give me the letter. (Actually, I have to slip him a fiver and, even then, he won’t give me the damned thing until I’ve shown him my business card and pointed out the House of Commons crest.)

Bloody,
bloody
Greg. In fact, bloody men, full-stop.

THURSDAY, 8 JULY

I am too depressed to even
think
about doing any work. I’ve just realised there are only twenty-one days left until Recess.
^fn2
Twenty-one!
I’m tempted to throw myself off a tall building right now. (I could even join Mr Ellis, invite The Boss and make it a media event.)

That’d probably be bad karma, though – wouldn’t it? Not that Buddhists seem to worry about that much – or idiot brother Robin doesn’t, anyway. Mum says he gave her a book on preparing for death for her birthday last week. I had
no
idea he’d done such a stupid thing!

No wonder she’s been so obsessed with her buttocks and eyelids, and everything else in between – and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she says Robin also suggested that he and she go to Paris this summer, so that he ‘will have something to remember her by’.

I
must
try to be more sympathetic towards her in future – and kill ‘caring Buddhist’ Robin, as soon as I get the chance. Why are supposedly sensitive people so unbelievably crass when it comes to other people’s feelings? Robin’s so busy ringing his bell and saying, ‘Om’, he hasn’t a clue anyone else exists half the time.

Even if I told him off, he still wouldn’t feel any guilt about it. Not like me. I’m riddled with the stuff since I sent Johnny that stupid photo of my arse, especially as his emails have become so much more frequent ever since, along with my hiccups.

He says I’m teasing him because I still won’t agree to let him see my backside in the flesh, and he’s sending me messages about it so often that he can’t possibly be concentrating on his job. If this keeps up, we’ll probably hear about another giant oil spill soon. Then I’ll feel guilty about that, too, when all those poor fish die and loads of fishermen starve.

Mind you, it
is
nice to be the centre of someone’s attention for a change, instead of just a wife, mother and – worst of all – a very poor substitute for an MP.

I rather like that last phrase. It’s open to a number of different interpretations, which suggests I’ve learned more from my years at the dull end of politics than I’d previously thought.

Robin could learn a lot, if he stopped chanting and preparing Mum for death, and started listening to me instead.

FRIDAY, 9 JULY

Oh, for goodness’ sake. I thought conspiracy theorists were supposed to be based
outside
Parliament, not be members
of
it. Now The Boss thinks the phones are bugged.

As if banning me and Greg from talking to Party staff,
and
making us attend Friday briefings separately and on alternate weeks, wasn’t barking mad enough, now he’s become obsessed with listening devices, too.

Why does he think anyone cares what he says or does? He’s still only a backbencher, and has no hope of ever getting promoted, even if he didn’t have the recently added handicap of being a member of a party that’s in opposition.

Today, whenever one of the phones rings, he makes a dive to answer it himself, then takes the caller’s number and insists on phoning them back on his mobile – from the archive cupboard. God knows how expensive his mobile bill will be, but I don’t think the office budget is going to cope.

‘Ridiculous waste of taxpayers’ money,’ says Greg, who doesn’t seem to be having any trouble with
his
personal budget. I’m sure that’s an Armani tie he’s wearing, but what the
hell
is that about? I thought we were supposed to look accessible, not overdressed, for work – not that there’s much choice on my budget, anyway.

Compared to Greg’s sartorial splendour, I feel like a hobo – to borrow one of Josh’s many offensive expressions. And I’m pretty sure that this feeling will be a hundred times worse when – I mean,
if
– I ever meet up with Johnny
International Director
Hunter.

It’d probably be better
never
to meet him. Then his memories of me could stay intact, unspoiled by any present-day reality checks. Those are thoroughly overrated, as today’s surgery only serves to prove.

First, there are several very-disabled people worrying about what’s going to happen to their benefits when the rules are changed.

The Boss provides no real reassurance, as he can’t resist the temptation to cast the Coalition in the most terrifying light possible – so the constituents aren’t any happier by the time their appointment’s over.

‘Molly will accompany you down to the ground floor in the lift,’ says Andrew, much to my horror. ‘In case it breaks down again.’

It doesn’t, thank God, but I don’t know what help Andrew thinks I’d have been, if it had, seeing as I’d have been the first to lose the plot. I
hate
lifts. They make me feel trapped and panicky – just like when Max and I sometimes seem to have so little to talk about.

Anyway, by the time I’ve made my way back up the stairs, Andrew’s already putting the fear of God into a group of public sector workers who are fretting about possible redundancies. They’re accompanied by someone from their union, who talks tough and meets with The Boss’ wholehearted approval. The word ‘strike’ crops up any number of times.

I hope my union will be just as aggressive in
my
defence if I lose my job to ensure the survival of Carlotta’s. We’re really pissed off with her today, since she phoned Greg to say that The Boss has asked her to write an article in his name for some publication or other, and that
she
can keep the five-hundred-pound fee!

‘English isn’t even her first language,’ says Greg, sounding oddly like Mr Beales.

‘That’s not the point,’ I say, because it isn’t. The
real
issue is that it’s me who spends my whole life writing creatively and affixing Andrew’s signature to the fruits of my labours – but I am doomed to be forever in the shadows, my light firmly embedded in a bag-carrying bushel. (I can do metaphors as well as the next Spanish person, though if I’m to seriously compete with Carlotta, I probably need to grow longer legs.)

I walk home rather slowly on my short ones, to find Max proudly brandishing an airline ticket and travel itinerary.

I don’t know why he’s so taken with the latter, seeing as it looks just like any other itinerary – i.e. one that a reasonably competent person could have knocked up on a home computer in five minutes flat. (Ellen, for example.
She
can type.)

I make a non-committal grunt, learned from The Boss, and then Max makes a great show of writing the name of his hotel in the diary. I’m not sure what reaction this is designed to provoke, but it irritates the hell out of me – as well as making me even more suspicious. Not
all
conspiracy theories are imaginary, after all, though I’m damned if I’m going to tell Andrew that.

SATURDAY, 10 JULY

Greg’s finally taking his turn at doing supermarket surgery today, and I’m looking forward to a very long lie-in – so, of course, he makes sure that
that
doesn’t happen.

I awake to a barrage of texts in which he uses every bit of punctuation available on his mobile to denote various agonised faces. He doesn’t add any actual words.

At 09:45am I give up the attempt to sleep and get out of bed.

In retrospect, this is probably a good thing as – about an hour later – Sam turns up. To stay the night, much to my surprise, though apparently not to Max’s.

‘Thanks for the phone call last night, mate,’ Sam says, slapping Max on the back, as usual. ‘Always good to get an invitation.’

Max looks puzzled, as if he has no idea what Sam’s talking about, but I’m positive he
did
suggest Sam visited – probably to avoid any arguments this weekend. I stare at Max quizzically, which he pretends to be too busy cooking brunch to notice.