Diary of an Unsmug Married (17 page)

So far, so good, and I’m just pushing my chair back with a sigh of relief, and intending to show Mr and Mrs Stafford out – but they aren’t going anywhere. There’s more to come, as Mr Stafford launches into a diatribe about how outrageous it is that his father’s house may have to be sold – to cover the costs of his place in the care home.

There follows a long pause, during which I have either a hot flush or a panic attack, and then The Boss leans forward and says, horribly slowly and with great emphasis, ‘Ah, so
now
we get to what you really care about. Your
inheritance
.’

Oh, my God. It’s one thing to think it, but quite another to say so, especially while breathing alcohol fumes all over a constituent. There’s nothing for it but to phone Andrew’s mobile from mine, under cover of the table.

As soon as it starts ringing, I say, ‘There’s that very urgent call you need to take, Andrew. You’d better go and answer it.’

He leaves the room obediently, while I apologise on his behalf, explaining that I’m sure that
that
wasn’t what he meant, and that he does sometimes have ‘a wacky sense of humour’. The Staffords seem unconvinced, but it’s the best I can do at such short notice.

When I finally return to my desk, after a sneaky cigarette outside, The Boss yells at me that there was
nobody
on the line, that the number was
mine
, and what the
hell
did I think I was playing at?

‘Saving your bacon, as per usual,’ I say.

Talk about ingratitude. I’m just considering a trip to the archive cupboard to throw a few darts at Andrew’s head when I get an email from Johnny. He says he’s missing me, and asks again when he’s going to get to do ‘wonderful things’ to various parts of my anatomy.

Then he proceeds to describe those things, which, I must admit, sound pretty good, especially after the day I’ve had. He even sets his imaginary scenario in
my
office, rather than in his, which seems to suggest that
he
thinks I’m more than just a secretary – unlike everyone else around here.

Oh, bugger. Maybe he thinks I’m a dominatrix? That would be
typical
. I bet he’ll want me to lead him around on a leash if we ever meet up – as if I don’t already have to do that quite often enough with The Boss. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

FRIDAY, 16 JULY (LATE EVENING)

Max arrives home from France just after 10:00pm, and is
awfully
affectionate, which is very disconcerting indeed. Now I can’t decide if the whole German debacle was a genuine error, or if he’s just over-compensating, to throw me off the scent.

Mind you, he complains that the group were only given one bottle of red and one of white at each meal – between
ten
of them – so maybe this enforced sobriety is why he was so much better behaved this time? As far as I can tell.

I must still be looking unconvinced, though, because then he says he has photos – and uploads them straight away. They’re almost all of the single bed in his hotel room, except for a few showing items of furniture being made in a factory. Exciting, they’re not. In fact, they’re a lot
less
exciting than the things Johnny suggested doing to me earlier.

Ah,
those
things. Or, rather,
argh
,
those things. And just when Max is being so nice to me, too. I am
horribly
confused.

SATURDAY, 17 JULY

Why do I
never
learn? I spend the morning going through Connie’s hair magazines in an attempt to find a photo of a haircut that will make me look less like a corpse, and eventually find a good one of Kylie, sporting a shaggy bob.

I take it with me when I go into town, and then present it to my hairdresser who, after looking me up and down without comment, puts the picture face-down on the counter and wields her scissors. I am very excited, as this may be the moment I finally recapture my youthful good looks. The ones Johnny seems to think I still possess.

An hour later, I am forced to accept that, while my hair does now resemble Kylie’s, my face does not. I have therefore wasted my money, and am doomed to keep on being poleaxed with horror whenever I catch sight of myself in shop windows and unexpected mirrors.

I walk home, lacking the enthusiasm to even pick my feet up properly, and thus have three embarrassing moments of the
catch toe on paving slab, stagger, pick self up and pretend nothing happened
type.

When I walk (or limp) into the house, I find a uniformed policeman sitting on the sofa in the living room.

‘What’s Josh done now?’ I say. It’s a reflex.

‘Josh?’ says the policeman. ‘Did you
know
the muggers?’ He’s addressing Connie. Oh, and Russ, the chilli boy.

‘No, of course we didn’t
know
them,’ says Connie, glaring at me, though I am too busy freaking out to care.

‘Muggers?
Muggers?
What’s happened?’ I say, possibly in a rather squeaky voice – but, honestly, are
all
my family destined to be regularly set upon by total madmen?

‘Tell you later, Mum,’ says Connie, pushing me back out into the hallway, and closing the door.

After she and Russ have finished looking through mug-shot albums, in which Connie apparently spots quite a few ex-classmates but fails to identify the perpetrators, the policeman leaves, and I finally discover what has happened.

It turns out that Connie and Russ decided to go for a romantic walk at lunchtime – down the newly created ‘Green Walkway’, which is sited on an unused section of railway track that runs from Easemount into the centre of Lichford.

What complete idiots. (This so-called
rural idyll
might just as well be in Beirut.)

They’d just passed the first bend, taking them out of sight of the road, when they were confronted by four youths, who quickly surrounded them. (Russ says they were
men
, but Connie says they were definitely
boys
. I’m sticking with ‘youths’ as a democratic compromise.)

Anyway, these youths apparently just stood there at first, swaggering and looking like ‘prats’ (again according to Connie), or ‘thugs’ (according to Russ) – but then they demanded Russ empty his pockets. He complied, but only produced a couple of pounds.

At this point, Connie insists that the muggers were about to give up and move away – until Russ said, ‘But
she’s
got money!’ and pointed at her. Russ denies this and says that Connie assaulted him with her umbrella in an unprovoked attack, which he ascribes to the stress of the moment.

Connie responds that it was the stress of having such a chicken-shit boyfriend that made her lose her temper, and ends the discussion by pointing out that, by the time she’d finished hitting Russ, the muggers had disappeared.

Russ leaves in a huff, but Josh nods in atypical approbation of his sister. ‘Good one, Con.
That’s
what I told you!’ he says, giving her the thumbs-up.

‘
What
is what you told her?’ I say. I am incredulous that Connie would listen to Josh’s advice, on any subject.

‘Best way to avoid being mugged in the street is to behave like a mad person, Mum,’ says Josh. ‘You should probably try it at work.’

SUNDAY, 18 JULY

Yesterday’s acting crazy suggestion might have sounded sensible at the time but why does Josh always have to take
everything
a step too far?

Max and I decide to do a big clean-up of the house today, instead of lying around doing nothing. I am not exactly enthusiastic about the idea, but am hoping that Max’s urge to carry out a late spring-clean may eventually be extended to encompass our relationship.

He volunteers to dust all the high surfaces, while I am in charge of hoovering. So far, so good – until I go to the cupboard to get the Hoover, and find that it has disappeared. Max says he has no idea where it is, and nor has Connie – apparently – though she does start to giggle when she’s asked.

‘
Con?
’ I use my best interrogation voice, coupled with an almost Botox-worthy raised eyebrow.

‘What?’ She’s still laughing, while I am not.

‘Where is the bloody Hoover, Constance?’ I say. ‘Tell me now, before I start to count to ten.’

This technique hasn’t worked on Josh for more than a decade, and I can’t quite believe it still works on Connie – but, for some reason, it always does.

‘Josh took it,’ she says, as I reach number nine, and before she bursts into another fit of hysterics. Maybe it’s delayed shock from the mugging, or PTSD.

‘Took it where?’ I say, trying to sound less intimidating, just in case.

‘
I
don’t know. He just said to tell you he was popping round to Silver Hill, with some of the boys.’

I look at Max, and he looks back at me. Then we move swiftly to the door, in that wordless synchronisation that comes from years of parenting a complete lunatic.

We jog to the end of our road, and turn the corner onto Silver Hill. Half-way down, there are Josh and Robbie, accompanied by various other members of their motley crew. Josh is standing on the bottom part of our Hoover, while Robbie is pushing him along, using the handle.

Silver Hill is not a gentle rural slope, as its name would imply, but one of the steepest, and busiest roads in the whole of Lichford.

‘Josh! What the
f*ck
do you think you’re doing?’ Max breaks into a run, as Josh starts rolling away from him, thankfully not at any significant speed.

‘Extreme hoovering,’
^fn3
Robbie says, as Max passes him and catches up with Josh.

‘Extreme
what
?’ Max is almost incoherent with rage, and looks even crosser than he did about being dead. ‘Give me that –
now
!’ he says, yanking the Hoover away from Josh, who never, ever, knows when to keep quiet.

‘It’s rubbish anyway, Dad,’ he says. ‘The wheels are
crap
.’

Max grabs him by the ear, pushes past me, and heads back up the hill, the Hoover in one hand and Josh (effectively) in the other. Robbie and the others shuffle about looking embarrassed – as well they might.

I glare at them, then run to catch up with Max. Josh is
really
going to get it this time.

When we arrive back at the house, Connie is in a crumpled heap on the sofa, still shaking with what I initially assume is laughter, but is quickly revealed to be tears.

‘What on
earth’s
the matter, Con?’ I sit down next to her and try to cuddle her, but she shakes me off.

‘Russ … just … dumped … me,’ she says, hiccuping between each word. ‘Because I made him look a prat in front of those boys.’

‘Huh,’ says Josh. ‘Made
himself
look a prat, if you ask me.’

‘You’re in no position to comment,’ says Max. ‘Con, I’m going to cook you a lovely dinner, to cheer you up.’

Max’s food/love combination doesn’t work, even though it usually would. Connie is too heartbroken to eat. I can’t bear to see it, especially as Russ
was
a bit of an arsehole, anyway – but she seems to have forgotten that, and just cries all the more when I mention it.

She doesn’t even laugh when Josh offers to go round to Russ’ house in the middle of the night, take his boy racer car to bits, and lay all the pieces out neatly on his front lawn, though I think it’s a stroke of genius.

For the rest of the evening, Connie only wants to talk to Max, as she says that he ‘understands the best’. She sits next to him on the couch, and they cuddle up in front of the TV, not even speaking most of the time.

Oddly, this
does
seem to calm her, which reminds me that Max used to be able to calm me down, too, just by being there. Now he’s more likely to be the one
causing
me to cry.

‘It’s first love,’ he says later, when Connie’s finally gone to bed. ‘They say you never really get over it.’

Some of us do: I can’t remember who mine was, though I’m sure it wasn’t Johnny – whatever
he
now claims.

MONDAY, 19 JULY

Today I have to strip naked in a multi-storey car park. Then I am hosed down by some guy dressed from head to toe in plastic. For God’s sake, this is getting too much.

It all starts before Fiona, the new intern, has even arrived for her first day on the job. I am opening an envelope when white powder starts flying everywhere.

Greg and I just sit and look at each other for what seems like five minutes, then he yells, ‘Start panicking!’ and runs around pointlessly for a bit, while I try to work out who we should call for help. This takes a while, as it’s not exactly an everyday experience.

Eventually, a police officer turns up and then the decontamination unit arrives, along with three fire engines – and two ambulances. The first step seems to be to evacuate everyone, including all those who work in the neighbouring offices, so now we’re going to be even more popular with
them
than we already were after Mr Humphries kicked off.

All the officials are wearing full decontamination suits and breathing apparatus, and they set up a sort of bouncy castle-type decontamination thing in the car park. Then Greg and I (as well as the hapless police officer) are ordered to strip.

I don’t even have my new underwear on, as I’ve been saving it, just in case I ever do go on a date with Johnny. I’m not half as embarrassed as Greg is, though. He keeps muttering, ‘Bit of weight left over from Christmas,’ for the benefit of any onlookers. ‘I’ve just joined a gym.’

As if that’s not humiliating enough, then we’re scrubbed down with Fairy Liquid – which does nothing for my new haircut – before being told to put on white suits like those they wear in
CSI
. (Not a good look, but marginally better than the nakedness was.) After that, we’re taken to hospital to be checked over properly.

Once we’ve seen the doctors, we’re finally discharged, having been prescribed medication to take in case the powder turns out to be anthrax.