Diary of an Unsmug Married (23 page)

We can’t escape, though, as we’re made to sit at the front, and to look adoringly at the ex-Minister as he gives his speech (just in case any press photographers are here). Then we have to endure the ‘entertainment’ part, which takes the form of a completely random dance performance given by the loony’s rather unattractive teenage daughters. (It’s like watching the dance of the elephants in
Fantasia
, only far less graceful and with much more thudding.)

‘I can’t see what political or fundraising value
this
will have,’ I whisper to Max, as the thudding reaches its crescendo.

‘Perhaps we were supposed to pay to make it stop,’ he says.

Someone must have done, as the girls file off-stage shortly afterwards, and the loony comes on in their place to announce that the buffet is open. I have a very nasty moment when he says that he has employed the entire staff of a local Indian restaurant to cook and serve the food, but – thank God – they’re not from The Star of India.

There’s plenty of champagne, too – which seems to be
de rigueur
at Party social events these days, though I absolutely
hate
the stuff. It guarantees a hangover even before you’ve managed to go to sleep, as I often remind The Boss.

As usual,
he
ignores my warnings, though I notice that Max is sticking resolutely to soft drinks tonight.

It might have been better if he wasn’t.

‘
Max
,’ says Andrew, as he lurches towards us, after being cold-shouldered by Joan. ‘Good to see you. And isn’t our Molly looking
great
tonight?’

‘Um, yes,’ says Max.

Try harder, I can’t help thinking, but then The Boss continues: ‘She’s looking
so
good this last few weeks, she must be having an affair! What d’you reckon?’

Max must assume this is a politician’s rhetorical question, unless he isn’t even listening, because he doesn’t answer, just helps himself to another samosa.

I glare at Andrew, who takes a huge swig of champagne, looks me up and down – several times – and then continues, ‘I’d keep a
very
close eye on her, Max, if I were you. Know what I mean?’

Then, with a wink worthy of Mr Beales, or Ellen, he staggers off to annoy someone else.

Oh, my God. Is Andrew reading my emails during his early morning snooping sessions, or can you
really
tell by looking at me? I feel even sicker now, than I did before.

SATURDAY, 7 AUGUST

It’s at weekends that I realise that, even though I spend every working day sorting out other people’s problems, I’m completely
useless
at dealing with my own.

I still have no idea what’s going on with Max and me. If
anything’s
going on, that is.

I think he might have been up for earning a gold star last night, though God knows whether that was due to The Boss’ intervention or not. He was definitely making an effort when we got home from the fundraising thing. He put the kettle on to make a coffee, then started cuddling me, while making oddly appreciative noises.

All I really wanted to do was to go to bed and forget about Andrew’s very disconcerting comments by falling asleep, but I tried my best to go along with it, anyway. I was doing quite well, too, until Max’s hug turned into a kiss on my neck, and I had a flashback of him moving in on Annoying Ellen’s. Then
that
was totally the end of
that
.

Within minutes, we were having an all-out slanging match – the kind where Max pretends not to understand what he did to annoy me, and I get crosser and crosser as a result. Especially when he falls back on his favourite old chestnut. The one reserved for the long-term married: ‘Well, if you don’t trust me after all these years, then I – just – don’t – know.’

He did that infuriating thing of shaking his head in mock-despair at the same time. That’s always a red rag to a bull. Or to me, anyway.

After I’ve listed every time that I’ve had to give Max the benefit of the doubt during our marriage, and enumerated every single occasion on which he has humiliated me, he then says, right on cue: ‘You’re like a f*cking elephant, Molly, you really are. You never forget
a bloody thing
.’

I
hate
the weary way he says it.

‘Well, maybe if
your
recall wasn’t so buggered,’ I say, ‘you wouldn’t keep repeating the same things over and over again, then acting surprised when I object.’

I’ve climbed up onto the kitchen counter by now, and am sitting cross-legged, settling in for the long haul. Max must have noticed this familiar manoeuvre, as he just slams the kettle down, turns away and walks off down the hallway. Now it’s time for his other standard set of lines: ‘I’m going to bed. There’s no talking to you when you’re in this mood. You’re so
bloody
unreasonable
.’

There you have it. I am
so
unreasonable
. And just when I was thinking that
he
was the one who’d kissed someone else in front of me.

SUNDAY, 8 AUGUST

Max stays well out of my way today, which is probably a good thing as I have quite enough to deal with, what with that idiot son of mine. Or of his.

I’m going to have to block outgoing calls on our home phone again. It’s a pain in the arse: last time I did it, Max and I both promptly forgot what the code was and ended up at least as inconvenienced as Josh. But needs must, where the devil drives. The devil Max and I so kindly produced, to stop Connie being an only child.

She doesn’t seem particularly grateful for her parents’ generosity this afternoon, when she’s trying to make arrangements to do something with her best friend tonight. She comes stomping into the living room, and says, ‘Mum, can you please get Josh off the phone?’

‘Well, I’m sure he won’t be long,’ I say.

I’m still endeavouring to be more reasonable and less prone to criticism, since the things I said to Max on Friday night.

‘He’s been on it for hours already,’ says Connie. ‘
Do
something, Mum.
Now!
’

‘Well, use your mobile, if it’s so urgent,’ I say. I really can’t be bothered to get off the sofa and trek upstairs to where Josh must be using the extension. I’m too tired after Max snored all last night.

‘I’m out of credit. Please, Mum. You’re always telling Josh to keep the bills down, anyway.’

Given my aversion to hypocrisy, I’d better be seen to make
some
effort, I suppose.

I walk into the hall and shout upstairs in the vague hope that I will be heard over the hideous sound of Screamo emanating from Josh’s room, along with shouts of laughter from him, Robbie and God knows how many of the other boys. It’s like Grand Central Station in our house these days, sometimes including the sitting-down-and-weeping part.

‘Josh? Josh!’ No answer. Bloody hell. ‘
Josh!
’ (This last attempt is worthy of Miss Chambers.)

‘What?’ says Josh, as if he’s only just heard me calling him.

‘Get off the phone,’ I say. ‘Your sister needs to use it, now.’

‘Okay, Mum. In a sec.’

Sorted, so I return to the important business of doing nothing. I’m just reaching that attractive pre-snooze drooling state, when Connie comes back into the room, picks up the phone, then slams it down and glares at me.

‘He’s
still
on the bloody thing!’

Honestly, Josh would try the patience of a saint. I am
not
going upstairs, so I just pick up the phone instead. Someone is speaking, but it isn’t Josh. It sounds more like Robbie to me. I have no idea what makes me listen in, instead of saying something straight away.

‘So, sir, as I was explaining,’ Robbie says. ‘With it being National Book Week, Bonjour Books will donate a pound to a charity of your choice for every minute that you listen to one of our authors reading from one of their best-selling works of fiction.’

‘Sounds a good idea,’ says the man at the other end of the phone, so Robbie continues: ‘Today, we have Joshua O’Nyon-Quavers reading from his book,
Strange Things On The Shore
. I will pass you over to him now. Take it away, Joshua, when you’re ready.’

I’m transfixed by curiosity – so, instead of yelling, I carry on listening. I am a very bad mother indeed.

‘Chapter One. As I walked slowly along the seashore, the shells crunching under my feet like Pringles, the air was filled with the crisp tang of salt and vinegar. I watched, as sunbathers the colour of Doritos stretched their limbs on stripy towels, and their children played with Hula Hoops—’

Josh pauses, to chomp loudly on something crunchy, and then continues – in much the same vein as before. He sounds exactly like Robert Webb.

The story continues for ages, until the branded snack metaphors become so excessive that I finally get a grip. I replace the handset, then sprint upstairs. Once there, I march into Josh’s room, clamber across various skinny-jean-clad teenage legs, and reach over to unplug the extension.

Robbie and the others start giggling, while Josh misses the point, as usual: ‘But,
Mum
!’ he says. ‘I
remembered
to put 141 in before I dialled this time! What’s your problem?’

I’ll tell you what my problem is: this is what my inadequate parenting skills have achieved – a son whose notion of an excuse for his behaviour is that he did everything he could to avoid being caught. I wonder who he gets
that
from?

MONDAY, 9 AUGUST

The Boss has opened all the mail by the time I get into work this morning, so trying to work out what he’s done with it proves a bit challenging, to say the least. The office looks as if it has been rented out to a playgroup over the weekend, and envelopes are strewn everywhere – though there’s no sign of the letters they originally contained.

Greg finally finds most of them shoved behind the cushions of the couch in the Oprah room, along with a gold earring of questionable origin. Andrew claims not to have seen
that
before, but he does pocket it after giving it a cursory look, much to Greg’s disgust.

‘Molly, why the bloody hell did you give him the earring?’ he says. ‘Are you a total idiot?’

‘He took it from me, when I asked if he knew whose it was,’ I say.

‘You should have held onto it, and just let him look at it from a distance!’

I am already confused and it’s only 9.30 in the morning. I wonder if it’s my age?

‘Why?’ I say.

‘It belongs in the staff insurance folder,’ says Greg. ‘As should have been blindingly obvious, even to you.’

‘Why?’ I say. Again. ‘We don’t even know
whose
it is, or do we?’

‘Well, no, we don’t – but if Andrew doesn’t
want
us to know, then that earring could come in very useful indeed. Maybe he’s got a secret lover!’ Greg laughs as if that idea’s ridiculous, but not quickly enough to stop me having a couple of very nasty palpitations. God knows what he’ll say next. I could still be wearing that ‘Molly’s having an affair’ sign by accident for all I know.

I decide to borrow some Rescue Remedy from Joan and, by the time I return, there’s an email from Johnny in my inbox. The subject line says, ‘State of emergency’.

I assume that’s ironic, until I open the message and begin to read. It’s deadly serious – Moscow’s on fire! Well, not Moscow itself, but it’s surrounded by wildfires and blanketed in a thick, choking smog. The conditions are so bad that Johnny says it’s unsafe for his family to remain there any longer, so
they’re
flying back to the UK tomorrow. They’ll stay at his wife’s parents’ house in Dublin, until the fires have been brought under control. He intends to stay put, though – just like Putin.

I’m quite impressed by this courage in the face of danger, as well as relieved. Johnny
can’t
be a murderer, if his wife still exists. Although, now I know that she does, I feel worse than I did when I thought she was dead. Here I am, planning to do to her what Annoying Ellen would do to me, given half a chance.
If
Ellen hasn’t done it already.

It serves me right that Johnny’s obviously going to cancel our date.

‘It’s okay,’ I type, without reading any further. ‘I understand why you’re cancelling, and I think you’re right.’

I hit
send
, but have only just started making notes on a case file when Johnny’s reply arrives.

‘Read the whole thing, you silly woman.’

Oh.

Johnny’s decided that, when he comes to the UK next week – to see me – it would now be awkward for him not to stay with his in-laws while he’s there. But he can ‘get away with a stopover in London for one night’ before travelling onwards to Ireland, ‘subject to a few minor alterations to the schedule’.

Then he goes on to explain that he’ll be ‘pressed for time’ due to the early flight he’ll have to catch to Dublin the next morning, so he’s cancelled our booking at the Marriott County Hall and booked us into a hotel near Heathrow instead. He doesn’t even ask me if
I
think this is okay, or acknowledge that it’ll make the journey a damn sight longer and more inconvenient from my point of view. His resemblance to Putin’s increasing by the minute.
And
to The Boss.

He probably thinks I’m going to stand in the arrivals lounge, holding a placard saying, ‘Johnny Hunter’s Bit On The Side’, and then offer to carry his bags when he turns up. As far as he’s concerned, I have nothing better to do than to cater for his every whim – so now I’m
very
cross indeed.

I don’t
think
I let this show in my reply, though – I’m still exercising caution with regard to emails, since the Gary Glitter incident.

My fourth draft reads:

Johnny

Whereas I have a fairly convincing reason to be seen hanging around near the House of Commons, I have no excuse at all to be waiting for someone at bloody Heathrow.