Diary of an Unsmug Married (20 page)

I’d have approved his application, if I were the Jobcentre – if only to fund forged documents to get him back to his own country – especially now I know that not even the combined might of their security staff can handle him. They all look like proper gym bunnies to me.

‘You’d better start bulking up,’ I say to Greg. ‘As soon as possible, before Mr Meeeeurghn arrives. He’s bound to come here to complain.’

Greg does a couple of half-hearted push-ups, then says, ‘The trouble with exercise is that it’s profoundly boring. That’s why I never actually
go
to the gym.’

In that case, I should probably borrow his membership – urgently. Johnny’s pushing for a meeting in London during his next trip back to the UK, and I’m not at all sure my arse is as fit for inspection as he seems to think it is.

To make things worse, he suggests we meet at the London Marriott. ‘Sipping cocktails there will serve as a form of therapy for you,’ he says.

‘How?’ I say. I have no idea what he’s talking about. It’s Ellen who’s the alcoholic.

Johnny replies that it will enable me to contemplate the House of Commons at close quarters, while pretending that I’m not just a poor relation from the constituencies, but instead someone at the heart of where the action is. (He was obviously even less impressed by the guinea pig thing than I realised.)

In case
that
isn’t enough to convince me, he adds that the experience will also illustrate that capitalism is better than socialism, by reminding me of the building’s previous and less glamorous incarnation as County Hall.
^fn5
It’s starting to feel like talking to David but, even so, I’m secretly thrilled by the idea – until I recall that Johnny has a wife, and kids.

Honestly, I’m turning into such a hypocrite, ranting about Annoying Ellen’s crazed, sexual-attention-seeking, and her penchant for inappropriate flirting with married men – or with Max, anyway – when, all the time, here I am, doing the same thing with someone else’s husband! I’m so ashamed of myself I can’t look in the mirror when I next go to the loo.

It’s mostly Johnny’s fault, though, as he hasn’t mentioned his wife for
weeks
. I’d forgotten all about her.

I re-read his latest email and discover that he’s somehow managed to describe a night at the opera, the trip there and back in his chauffeur-driven car,
and
a meal afterwards – all without ever saying, ‘we’. His wife has ceased to exist – written out of his life, without a trace – which starts me fretting about whether he really
could
be a serial killer. His glasses don’t have the double bar, but they
definitely
have metal frames …

I sit and stare at his photo while I eat my lunch. The resemblance to Vladimir Putin is unnerving (apart from the fact that Vlad doesn’t wear glasses, and is older than Johnny), so am I being
doubly
hypocritical? If it’s not already bad enough to be considering having an affair with a married man, am I also turned on by power, like the mutilated-dog-tails woman? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

Oh, God, and
I’m
married, too. I forgot that, for a moment, somehow or other. I wonder if it’s hereditary, forgetting that you’re married? Dad always seemed to have trouble remembering, now I come to think of it.

Talk of the devil.
Ping
goes my computer, and there’s an email from him in my inbox – from a brand-new account, and sent from Thailand. The message simply says, ‘Hot’. I really hope this is referring to the weather, and not to any of his so-called ‘neighbours’.

TUESDAY, 27 JULY

Blimey, people really aren’t careful enough about protecting their identities. Today, I get a call from Miss Harpenden, who tells me that hers has been stolen, and that a (metaphorical) rat is running up bills in her name, all over the place. Even worse, the police aren’t doing anything about it, though Miss H doesn’t manage to explain why, before she bursts into tears and hangs up on me.

I write to the chief constable, asking if he can shed some light on the situation, and then send emergency texts to Mum, Connie and Josh instructing them to shred all their old letters and bank statements, immediately. I don’t think any of them will take a blind bit of notice, but
I’m
going to get rid of everything in sight.

I start by deleting all Johnny’s emails, except for today’s. He’s still going on about meeting at the Marriott, but now he wants us to stay overnight! Even if I thought that was a good idea – which I don’t – I can’t afford to stay in a Premier Inn, let alone a five-star hotel at over £300 a night, especially not after what it cost to attend David and Susie’s vow renewal. And, even if I
could
afford it, how would I explain the entry on the bank statement to Max, for God’s sake?

Maybe having a joint account wasn’t such a good idea – though I’ve always thought that degree of mutual trust a necessary commitment. All our friends who kept separate accounts throughout their marriages, supposedly as an insurance policy, are now divorced.

They thought I was being old-fashioned when I said a
joint
bank account was the most effective form of marital insurance. Now I suppose I’m proving my point, which is much more annoying than you’d expect.

I bet Johnny’s wife won’t query
his
expenditure, though – even if he hasn’t killed her off. If they share a bank account, he’ll just put his expenses on his business credit card instead, which probably covers the cost of hotels in every country in the world. Probably with a different woman in each of them – although Johnny insists he’s never cheated on his wife before, with anybody.

It doesn’t matter if I believe him, as I can’t take the risk, anyway – so I email him to say that I’d
love
to meet up but can’t, as there’s no way to hide the hotel bill from Max.

He emails me straight back and says, ‘For God’s sake, woman – it’s
my
treat! Yes or no?’

Christ!
This is even worse. Does he intend to book
one
room, or two? And even if he books two, what if he’s repulsive in the flesh? (There must have been something about him that persuaded me to get up to what we did behind the Science block, but I’d probably had one too many Babychams at the time.) And, if he’s paying so much money for my room just because he wants to get me into bed, how easy is it going to be to say, ‘Thanks, but no thanks’, if I can’t go through with it?

The answer’s obvious. It’s going to be
impossible
, and I shall end up effectively acting like a prostitute. Only worse, because I will be cheating on my husband, and encouraging Johnny to cheat on his wife. God knows what Dinah would say about it if she knew. She’s rude enough on the subject of Thai brides, even those not described as hot.

I need to go home and have a lie-down. Feel free to steal my identity while I’m gone.

WEDNESDAY, 28 JULY

It’s that hellish time of year again – Parliamentary Recess, when MPs return to their constituencies and wander around like lost souls, irritating the hell out of constituency staff and making work for no reason at all.

Also, a bored MP is even more of a pain in the arse than usual. Take this morning – The Boss has already adopted his usual Recess practice of sneaking into the office early so that, by the time Greg and I arrive, he’s finished rifling through our desk drawers,
and
the fridge.

The most outrageous aspect of this – at least as far as Greg’s concerned – is that Andrew has helped himself to Greg’s entire secret stash of Twixes,
and
has used up all the milk.

After a very confused briefing, without the benefit of coffee, and during which Greg stares pointedly at the smear of chocolate on Andrew’s chin, Andrew decides he needs to print out some emails and takes over my computer again.

Greg spots his chance and gestures for me to join him in the corridor for an emergency meeting. ‘God almighty, Mol – haven’t you arranged
anything
for him to do during Recess?’ he says.

‘I tried,’ I say. ‘But Carlotta wouldn’t play ball. She even made Marie-Louise
clear
space in his diary so he could spend more time in the office with us.’

‘Bloody woman. Wasn’t Spain winning the World Cup enough for her?’ Greg is pacing up and down the corridor like a caged animal, and I am desperate for a cigarette. It’s only been half an hour since my last.

‘I don’t know anything about the World Cup,’ I say. ‘I hate football.’

‘What a stupid statement,’ says Greg, ‘but, anyway, you’ve got to do
something
. I can’t stand this. I may have to kill him if you don’t get rid of him soon.’

Greg has an unhealthy dependency on chocolate – and no imagination. Far be it from me to boast, but I do have an extraordinary ability to think creatively in an emergency.

‘Go and find yesterday’s local paper,’ I say. ‘Then search through it for mentions of organisations that are complaining about something, like lack of funding.’

‘And?’

‘Then phone them up, say The Boss has read about their plight, and is very interested in the valuable work they’re doing in his constituency.’

‘
And?
’ Greg still looks unimpressed. Sometimes
he
has trouble keeping up.

‘Then,’ I say, ‘you tell them that Andrew would very much like to come and see for himself, and could he pop over some time today?’

‘Brilliant!’ says Greg, and sneaks off into the Party office to use their phone.

Half an hour later, he comes back, gives me the thumbs-up, and says, ‘Andrew, aren’t you supposed to be at your meeting now?’

‘What meeting?’ Andrew finishes my sandwich in one very ambitious mouthful.

‘The Phoenix Over-Eating Project, in Easemount,’ says Greg. ‘Molly, didn’t you
tell
him about it?’

‘God, no. I forgot,’ I say. ‘Greg has the details, Andrew. Shall I call you a taxi?’

‘No, I can drive,’ he says. ‘Just put their number into my mobile, in case I get lost.’

Whether The Boss really can drive is a moot point, but who cares? Thanks to my low cunning, we’re blissfully Andrew-free for the next few hours, which means I can finally get round to writing proper replies to today’s letters, and Greg can spend his time arranging visits to any other local organisations that he can find.

By the end of the afternoon, Andrew is booked up for a good chunk of the rest of this week, and half of the next one too, thank God. If only I was half as good at
my
life as I am at his.

THURSDAY, 29 JULY

Connie’s done it again. I’ve been wondering what she was up to – she seems to have been going into work later and later each day, as well as coming home much earlier.

This evening, I ask her what she’s playing at.

‘What d’you mean, what am I playing at?’ she says.

‘Going into work so late, and coming home so early,’ I say. ‘Doesn’t your boss mind that you’re working so few hours?’

‘
No
,’ says Connie, looking at me as if I am mad. ‘Why should he?’

‘Well,’ I say. ‘You
are
contracted for thirty-seven hours a week, and you can’t be working more than twenty-eight—’

‘Yeah, I know, stupid!’ says Connie. ‘But I’m on
flexi-time
, aren’t I?’

It turns out that Connie hasn’t quite grasped the concept of flexible hours, which probably accounts for her earlier enthusiasm. She thinks it means you work as many hours as you like and that’s okay – as long as you’re honest about filling in your timesheet, so you’re not being overpaid. The fact that her contract is for a
specified
number of hours per week seems to have bypassed her synapses.

I explain. Very slowly.

‘Con, flexi-time doesn’t mean you work
as many hours as you like
. It means you work thirty-seven hours, but at
times
to suit you!’

‘Oh,’ says Connie.

Max nearly wets himself when I tell him about it. Connie has a brain the size of a planet, but she must be the most literal person in the world.

I wish
I
was on flexi-time. In fact, I wish it was so flexible that it didn’t involve any hours at all – until I recall that there’s a recession on, and feel guilty about wishing for unemployment. I really
could
use a holiday, though.

I say so to Max as we’re getting ready for bed.

‘Well, book some time off, then,’ he says. ‘I will, too, then we can spend it together, hanging out at home, seeing as we can’t afford to go anywhere.’

‘I can’t,’ I say, though that sounds a really attractive idea now I come to think of it. ‘I’ve nearly used up all my annual leave, don’t forget.’

‘Yeah – volunteering for Andrew’s election campaign,’ says Max, which is true. ‘Though volunteering’s
supposed
to be voluntary.’

FRIDAY, 30 JULY

‘Just
look
at the state of that cat,’ says Josh this morning, as Charlie drags himself in through the cat flap and collapses on the kitchen floor, with all his legs sticking out at different angles.

‘Even his fur looks limp,’ continues Josh, prodding the unresponsive cat with his toe. ‘And no bloody wonder. He spent the whole night shagging, right outside my bedroom window. You should have
heard
the noise he was making, Mum.’

‘Oh, I
did
,’ I say. ‘I didn’t sleep a wink, unlike your father.
He
slept like a log, as usual.’

I glare at Max, who laughs, then comes over and whispers in my ear. ‘You should have woken me up, Mol,’ he says, ‘then we could have followed Charlie’s lead.’

He kisses the back of my neck, then slaps my arse and walks off, leaving me standing at the sink, open-mouthed. It’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Using your cat’s sex-life to remind you that you’re supposed to be having one of your own …

And Max is making an effort, too, which is even weirder, what with the Charlie thing,
and
suggesting that we take some time off to spend together. Maybe he’s not as bored with me as I thought – which probably removes any justification that I might have for meeting with an International Director of a Global Oil Company in a London hotel.