Diary of an Unsmug Married (30 page)

Her Party barbecue’s a tradition and, anyway, I like her and most of the Party staff, so I’m not going to let any of them down. They’re the ones who rescue me and Greg whenever a constituent goes berserk, too – so Andrew’s disapproval is a small price to pay to ensure continuing protection.

By the time Max and I arrive, it’s stopped raining, which seems a good omen and compensates for the embarrassment of being late. It’s my fault we are, because I kept changing my mind about what to wear. These events are always a sartorial challenge as there’s no accepted dress code whatsoever, not least because Lichford Labour Party has a class divide wider than Mr Franklin’s arse.

On the sunny side of Joan’s garden, there’s a conclave of most of the town and county councillors, together with those middle-class activists whose names crop up on every committee, from the Lichford Preservation Society to the Mental Health Trust. They’re all school governors, too, and have fingers – or rather relatives – in every local pie. Jimmy Barton is there with his wife, Peggy, and he smiles at me as I walk past.

On the other side, in the shade, sit the Party members who live on Lichford’s Council estates, or who are union reps, and who are therefore deemed to have their finger on the pulse of the core vote. Far fewer members of this group have managed to become councillors and, although those
who
have
interact slightly more comfortably with the elite squad than do the rest, you can still sense the mutual distrust. And probably dislike.

Over the last few years, a third group’s been on the rise. These are the young, university-educated Party activists who stand by the drinks table, as their legs don’t tire as easily as everyone else’s.

They have an understanding of demographics and voting intentions that puts the rest of us to shame, and which form their only topic of conversation. I’m not sure how much real-life experience they bring to their policy analyses, but there’s no doubt their voices are becoming more influential – and their overt personal ambition scares the hell out of The Boss.

Despite knowing everyone, Greg and I usually spend these events on the periphery of any group we try to join – probably because we’re equally distrusted by all of them. Half think we’re snobs because we work for the MP, and the other half that we’re idiots who know nothing about politics at all. Poor old Max is treated as being even more irrelevant than Greg or I.

‘Molly! Max! Over here!’

It’s Greg, who is sitting in no-man’s land in the middle of the garden, with some of the regional Party staff, who I really like. Max and I join them and, after everyone’s eaten what probably represents Iceland’s entire stock of frozen beefburgers – consumed with varying degrees of enthusiasm – it’s time to play a game of cricket. Not poncy cricket, but Labour Party cricket, which normally turns into rounders pretty quickly.

‘Shame Andrew’s not here yet,’ says Jimmy Barton. ‘What with him being a cricket pro and all.’

He goes in to bat, leaving Greg and I trying to work out whether his tone was ironic or not.

‘Hmm,’ says Greg, which is a useful alternative to, ‘Ah.’ Then, ‘Holy shit!’

‘What?’ I say. ‘Have you been stung? There
are
a lot of wasps around—’

‘Ssh,’ says Greg, gesturing madly towards the hedge separating Joan’s garden from the street. ‘Look over there. Not
now,
you
idiot! In a minute, and don’t let anyone else see what you’re looking at.’

I wait a few seconds and then look again towards the hedge – but I can’t see anything. I’ve forgotten to bring my distance glasses.

‘It’s Andrew,’ says Greg. ‘Hiding behind the hedge. What the
hell’s
he up to now?’

‘Spying,’ I suppose,’ says Max, giving me a meaningful look. ‘He doesn’t trust anyone, even when they’re innocent. Must be part of the job description, when you work in politics.’

I ignore him, and swig most of my glass of wine, while Greg tries to make his way closer to the hedge, unseen by all the other guests. This seems to involve first diving into a large rhododendron bush, then crawling out on its far side on his stomach and wriggling his way across the lawn.

Everyone is watching him by the time he stands up again, and peers over the top of the hedge.

‘Ah,’ says Andrew, popping up on the other side. ‘Hello, Gregory, um, everyone. Forgot Joan lived here. I’m just doing a bit of canvassing.’

‘Come in, Andrew,’ says Joan, saving his bacon. ‘You
were
invited, you know.’

I’m not sure how many people notice that he isn’t carrying any leaflets when he comes through the gate. Or spot the woman who’s walking away, with her back to us.

‘Who’s that?’ says Greg, in a very breathy hiss. The commando-style crawling has really taken it out of him.

‘God knows,’ I say. ‘I can’t see her face. Why?’

‘She was crouching down with Andrew behind the hedge when I caught them by surprise.’

‘Ask him,’ I say – but Andrew’s already moving away, making a beeline for the county councillors and the rest of the elite squad.
Kissy, kissy, kissy
. It’s horrible to watch. He’s still oblivious to the kissing-on-the-cheek protocol, too, though no one seems to object today.

Why
do
women like The Boss so much? They all start giggling, and pay him rapt attention while he holds forth about the merits of the personal touch when canvassing. Jimmy Barton seems less than pleased to see him, though, which is rather gratifying after Friday’s events.

‘Come on, Andrew – we’re in the middle of a game of cricket,’ he says. ‘You’re just in time to show us the old semi-pro in action!’

After Andrew is out for a duck, I’m sure I spot Jimmy smiling to himself. Greg revisits the rhododendron, to hide
his
expression. And the sound of hysterical laughter.

TUESDAY, 31 AUGUST

It’s incredible what you find lurking on the peripheries of people’s gardens when you’re least expecting it. And I am not going to feel guilty about Johnny
any
more
. That should put an end to all the hiccups I’ve been having.

Tonight, Max is about to take the rubbish out, ready for tomorrow’s refuse collection, when – amazingly – Josh decides to be helpful and offers to do it instead. It
is
late and Max
does
look tired, but even so, I’m not used to Josh being considerate. Maybe he’s turned over a new leaf at last?

‘No, don’t worry, Josh, I’ll do it,’ says Max, looking a gift horse squarely in the mouth.

‘Max,’ I say. ‘Are you mad? Josh –
Josh
– is offering to do a household task –
voluntarily
– and you are turning him down?’

‘Well, he’ll probably fall over something in the dark,’ says Max. ‘And what with his arm, and everything …’

Josh is as contrary as the usual suspects. If you refuse him anything, even something he doesn’t want, it immediately becomes irresistible. He grabs the bin bag from Max’s hand and heads out of the back door. Max looks really annoyed for a minute and almost goes out after him, but then he just sits down heavily on the couch and starts doing a Sudoku puzzle instead.

Josh is gone for what seems like ages and, just as I’m about to go out looking for him, I hear the back door slam, and his footsteps along the hallway. He’s shouting, ‘Dad.
Dad
!’

‘What?’ says Max, as Josh comes into the room.

‘Now I see why you wanted to take the bins out yourself.
Bloody hell!
’

Max is suddenly very red in the face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says.

‘You bloody well do,’ says Josh.

‘Well, I
definitely
don’t,’ I say. ‘So could someone please enlighten me?’

‘Come with me,’ says Josh, and drags me outside, along the garden path and out of the back gate. It’s pretty dark, and I can’t see where I’m treading, so I get a bit unnerved.

‘What am I looking out for, Josh?’ I say. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

‘Sshh!’ says Josh. ‘Now look up.’

‘Oh, my God,’ I say. ‘Is that what I think it is? Or rather,
who
I think it is?’

‘Ellen?’ says Josh. ‘Yeah. I saw her face when she first put the light on. Before she hid it behind the curtains.’

‘But she’s naked,’ I say. ‘And why’s she pressed against the glass?’

‘Oh, I think the answer to that is obvious,’ says Josh.

If there were any eggs left after today’s Yorkshire puddings, I’d throw them at that bloody woman’s window. What the
hell
does she think she’s doing? And is this (presumably regular) floor show only for Max’s benefit, or is it aimed at
any
of the neighbours who might be putting out their rubbish?

‘Max! How often has that f*cking woman done this?’

I may be yelling a little too loudly, as Ellen jerks backwards and shuts her curtains properly. I have startled her, unless she’s just achieved what she set out to do.

‘Hush,’ says Max. ‘Come inside. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’

‘
I
am making a spectacle of myself?
I
am? What about
that
bloody lunatic?’

God, I’m angry. I wouldn’t mind so much if Ellen didn’t always pretend that she is
my
friend when I see her alone, and that she only likes Max because he’s my husband. I’m so angry that I accidentally burst into tears – until I remember my rule about not giving people who upset you the satisfaction, and get a grip instead.

‘Okay, tell me the whole story,’ I say to Max. ‘How long has she been doing this, and how many times?’

‘No more than four or five,’ he says. ‘That I’ve noticed, anyway.’

‘Oh, I think you’d notice. How did it start?’ I am beginning to feel icily calm.

‘One night I was taking out the rubbish and I smacked the bin bag into the gate, so it made a noise. Then something caught my eye, and I saw Ellen naked at the window. I think she was trying to fasten it.’

‘Oh really? Did she dive out of the way once she spotted you?’

‘Well, no – now you come to mention it.’ Max sounds genuinely surprised. ‘But I looked away really fast anyway, because I was worried she’d think
I’d
been spying on
her
.’

I take a deep breath, think again about my no-crying rule, then say, ‘Okay. So when were you going to tell me about it – if ever?’

‘I kept hoping it’d stop. And the longer it went on, the more impossible it got to tell you, as I thought you’d flip out and go round and smash her door down or something.’

‘Dad, she’s been playing you,’ says Josh. ‘You are an idiot. You should’ve said.’

It comes to something when teenagers are smarter than their parents, doesn’t it? But
playing
– or playing
with
?

CHAPTER FIVE

September

(Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, allegedly. Or of agitated fruit-loops, in Lichford’s case.)

WEDNESDAY, 1 SEPTEMBER

Greg answers the phone first thing, then lets out a ‘
Whoop!
’ when he hangs up: The Boss is taking two days off – probably to avoid having to tell us what the hell he was up to behind Joan’s hedge.

We still have no idea of the identity of the woman who was lurking next to him, unless she was related to Ellen. They do share an ability to pop up in very unexpected places. (The one with Andrew did have clothes on, though – and, anyway, I’m trying not to think about Max and Ellen any more. Or Johnny, for that matter. My sanity’s at stake.)

‘Wonderful news about The Boss, isn’t it, Mol?’ says Greg, after he’s imparted it. ‘I shall do some sit-ups immediately, to celebrate.’

I even attempt a few. Well, one – but it’s a start.

Greg and I are so elated that we zoom through this morning’s work, and – even better – our sandwiches are still safely in the fridge when lunchtime arrives, so then we turn on the answer-phone and go and eat them in the park.

It’s one of those gorgeous bright but chilly September days, of the kind that I always associate with new starts and the beginning of the academic year, so I’m quite sad that Josh has decided to forego the university
experience. He’s due to sign on for the first time this afternoon, though, so maybe the Jobcentre can find him a job with possibilities. There must be
something
he can do, with all that imagination. Preferably something safe – and lucrative.

I spend the rest of lunchtime envisaging myself as the mother of a famous inventor which, coupled with The Boss’ absence, proves so cheering that by the time that we return to work I’ve almost forgotten about naked nymphomaniacs, and whether they entitle me to have an affair. My glass seems more than half-full for once, which is more than confirmed by the first two calls that come in once I switch the answer-phone off.

Each one is about a young woman who has recently been diagnosed with cancer. Two
different
young women, and
two
sets of terrible news.

One of them has only just got married, and has a six-week-old baby. She’s been found to have a malignant tumour of the brain. The other – also aged twenty-five – has breast cancer, and is due to have a full mastectomy tomorrow. There’s a family history of the disease, so the hospital isn’t wasting any time.

Both girls live in completely unsuitable accommodation and their families want to know if there is anything we can do to get them moved, as soon as possible. Imagine trying to cope with the effects of chemotherapy when you live in a bedsit and have to share a bathroom with five virtual strangers – or trying to keep your wounds clean when everything in your flat is covered in black mould.

I don’t
want
to imagine it, but that’s what these girls are dealing with in real life, so Greg will have to handle all the phone calls from now on while I prioritise their cases. It’s a precaution, in case Miss Chambers calls. If I have to listen to her going on about one of her conspiracy theories today, I may snap and start screaming at
her
for once.