Diary of an Unsmug Married (31 page)

‘Good point,’ says Greg. ‘Though I’d quite enjoy seeing that, if not hearing it. But don’t worry, I’ll do the phones, even if La Chambers calls. I’ve got some earplugs in my drawer. You just concentrate on what you need to do.’

That’s the only way to cope with the stuff we sometimes hear in this job – you can’t waste your time mouthing sympathetic platitudes, or getting emotional. You just have to do whatever you can, as fast as you can, to try to make a difference, however small. If you allowed yourself to dwell on the full horror of what happens to some people, you’d go completely round the bend. Not that that’s any excuse for The Boss behaving like a lunatic.

It’s no excuse for wallowing in self-pity, either, not when your own problems only involve neighbours with a penchant for nakedness,
and
your husband. I need to get –
and keep
– a sense of proportion.

‘I’m going to suggest The Boss introduces a Private Member’s Bill,’ I say to Greg, after some serious thought about how best to achieve my aim. ‘We need a government agency to send daily texts or emails to those of us who don’t have major problems, saying, “Don’t forget – things could be a whole lot worse. Now stop moaning.”’

‘Are you mad?’ says Greg. ‘You just referred to “a government agency” and a form of technology, in the same sentence.’

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Yes. Good point.’

Some idiot would be bound to program the system to send ‘cheer-up’ messages to those suffering from terminal diseases – like those Council Tax departments that keep sending bills to people who’ve been dead for years. Only even more incompetent.

Josh seems to share Greg’s and my opinion of government agencies, if his view of the Jobcentre is anything to go by. When I ask how his visit there went, he starts ranting like Mr Meeeeurghn.

‘Why don’t they
tell
you not to join the queue in the entrance to the building the first time you sign on?’ he yells. ‘Standing there like a muppet made me late, and then I got into trouble when I finally went to the right desk, even though I’d been early when I first arrived.’

‘In trouble?’ I say. ‘What sort of trouble?’

‘The woman said she was showing me a yellow card.’

‘What?’ I find this hard to believe. ‘Did she
actually
say that, or are you exaggerating?’

‘Yes, she did,’ says Josh, becoming more irritated by the second. ‘I
never
exaggerate, unlike you. And would it really kill the staff to call people by their full names when it’s time for their appointments?’

‘What do you mean?’ I say. Now I’m completely lost.

‘When it’s your turn to sign on, they only call you by your
surname
,’ Josh says, pulling an incredulous face. ‘She was worse than Mr Thumb. She just shouted, “Bennett!” over and over again. Totally dehumanising.’

I am amazed that my son knows that word, let alone uses it in normal conversation. Maybe I am not such a bad mother after all.

‘I am never signing on again,’ says Josh. ‘My self-respect is more important than my income.’

‘Spoken like someone whose parents pay his living expenses,’ says Max, injuring Josh’s pride still further. ‘I bet it’s a deliberate policy, to deter people from making claims. And, if it works as well as it seems to have done on you, it’ll be more effective in reducing the budget deficit than selling Australia to the Chinese.’

‘Much sneakier, though,’ says Josh. ‘And how did you know about my idea to sell Australia, anyway?’

I wish I
hadn’t
told Max about it now, if all he’s going to do is make fun of it. It seemed quite a good idea to me, and Josh’s self-esteem has already taken a battering today.

‘Have one of your father’s Ferrero Rochers, Josh,’ I say, much to Max’s disgust. ‘That’ll cheer you up.’

‘I won’t need to sign on again, anyway,’ says Josh, taking three. ‘I shall have a job by the end of next week. Probably.’

He must have compensated for the yellow card somehow, as he says the Alex Ferguson woman has ‘pre-selected’ him to apply for a job at the local cinema.

‘I told you Film Studies would come in handy,’ he says. ‘
And
the job’s full-time, too, so I’ll soon be moving out, if I get it. Can you help me write a CV, please, Mum?’

‘Yes,’ I say, envisaging Max and I being able to have rampant sex all over the house – if Josh ever does leave home, and Max doesn’t run off with Ellen before that happens. ‘We’ll put one together as soon as we’ve finished eating dinner.’

Easier said than done, that’s all I can say. Honestly, what chance do school-leavers have of finding work in this economic climate, when listing their skills and experience barely fills half a side of A4? It would have been even less than that if Josh had chosen to study subjects with shorter names.

‘We could try to make your hobbies sound as if they demonstrate some transferable skills, I suppose,’ I say, in desperation – thinking mainly of Bonjour Freight Shippers and its subsidiary company, Bonjour Books.

‘Good idea,’ says Josh. ‘Don’t forget “National Skateboarding Champion”.’

THURSDAY, 2 SEPTEMBER

Oh,
God
– I’m meeting Johnny in a week’s time and I still can’t remember any important details about him, such as how tall he is, or whether he was wearing platform shoes at that bloody fifth-form disco we went to. How many Babychams
did
I drink that night?

None of this occurs to me until Johnny sends me an email to thank me for the photos he requested: the ones showing unspecified parts of my anatomy.

‘I wasn’t exactly expecting pictures of your foot, elbow and knee,’ he says. ‘Though they were all undoubtedly fascinating.’

Then he asks whether the sandal I am wearing in the foot photo is a ‘dancing shoe’ and says that he and his wife went to a ball at the British Embassy last night.

‘It wasn’t anything like dancing with you,’ he says. ‘
That’s
been a private fantasy for years, together with what happened next.’

I’m a bit embarrassed by all this flattery, and become so flustered that I end up telling him that Max and I always avoid dancing together, as other people mock us because of the difference in our heights.

Johnny’s reply comes back with indecent haste: ‘How tall
is
Max, by the way?’

He doesn’t usually ask anything at all about Max, and I don’t volunteer anything either. Call it a warped sense of propriety. I don’t suppose someone’s height really qualifies as sensitive personal information, though, so I reply: ‘Six foot two.’

‘Bloody hell, woman,’ Johnny says, then, ‘
Shit
.’

‘What’s the matter?’ I say.

‘I don’t know how I’m going to live up to that.’

I’m amazed. Is this
really
Johnny talking? Go-getting Johnny Hunter, International Director of a Global Oil Company, who spends half his life ordering me to ‘keep up’ with him? It can’t be. And how tall is he, anyway? Or – more importantly –
how
short
?

I bet he’s going to turn out to be just like The Boss, with a raging case of small man’s syndrome. Then, while Max is swanning about with Ellen, who’s all shiny and James Blunty, and tall enough to see over other people’s heads in a crowd, I’ll be blundering about in the undergrowth with a version of Napoleon.

It’s odd how I always end up comparing Johnny to dictators, too. Must be because I’m surrounded by the buggers, both the male
and
female kind. I’m on my way home from work, and am nearly there, when I get a text from Dinah, Baroness of Bossiness.

‘Molly,’ she says. ‘Prepare yourself for a shock. I’ve had bad news.’

Now
what’s Dad done? This sounds like something better discussed by phone, so I try to call her as soon as I’ve opened the front door and waved hello to Max, but she doesn’t answer. Instead, she sends another text, before I’ve even replied to the first one: ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

Now I’m really worried,
and
quite cross, so I text back: ‘What the hell has happened, Di?’

There is a lull, and then three texts arrive in quick succession. In them, Dinah spells out her distress at being ‘diagnosed with a serious illness’ when she saw her GP this morning. This all sounds horribly familiar, after yesterday, and those poor girls with cancer.

‘God, I’m sorry, sis,’ I say, which sounds pathetically inadequate. ‘What did the doctor say it was?’

Back comes Dinah’s reply: ‘HPD.’

What the hell
is
HPD? I didn’t even know Dinah was feeling ill.

‘Di,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never
heard
of HPD. What does it mean?’

‘Histrionic Personality Disorder,’ she replies.

Max thinks I’m choking, and starts trying to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on me, until I fight him off. It’s a struggle, what with him being both tall and strong – but I know his weak spot: he’s ticklish.

‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ he says, having backed off to a safe distance first. ‘Why are you laughing like that? Are you hysterical, or something?’

‘Probably,’ I say. ‘Dinah’s just been diagnosed with Histrionic Personality Disorder.’

Max stares at me, then also starts to laugh. ‘Drama Queen-itis, you mean,’ he says. ‘How did it take Di’s doctor so long to work that one out? Your whole family has far too much imagination – including
you
.’

I don’t like the look he gives me when he says this, so I ignore him and watch
Channel 4 News
instead – or pretend to, anyway. I’m a bit worried, in case he’s right.

What if I’ve imagined that Johnny’s of normal height? Or, worse, what if I’ve imagined the Max and Ellen thing, and have no reason to be involved with Johnny, whether he’s tall
or
short? Or –
even
worse
– what if I
haven’t
imagined the Max and Ellen thing, but I
have
imagined Johnny isn’t a dwarf?

I get into such a state that I decide to distract myself by stalking what the kids have been up to, via Facebook, but there’s no sign of activity by either of them in my timeline. The only person who’s done anything today is Dinah, who’s just updated her status. It now reads, ‘Dinah is finding it very hard to cope with her diagnosis of HPD.’

I resist the temptation to leave a comment. Some of us are still trying to keep a sense of proportion – no matter
what
the
provocation.

FRIDAY, 3 SEPTEMBER

The Boss is back from his two-day holiday, which is bad news, especially as he’s still not speaking to me, and refuses to tell even
Goldenballs Greg
what he was up to at Joan’s barbecue. However, it’s the last day of Recess, which is very,
very
good.

To add to my joy, Josh phones at lunchtime to tell me that he’s got an interview at the cinema on Monday – so all my worrying about his unemployability was for nothing.

I shall cook tonight, in celebration. Something special.

I’m looking forward to it but by the time I get home after spending a fortune on Taste the Difference ready meals, for safety’s sake, it’s already quite late, and Josh is running around like a lunatic getting ready to go out.

‘I thought you were staying in tonight,’ I say.

‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Don’t be daft, Mum. I’m not a tragic oldie with no social life like you and Dad. I’m taking Holly out. She’s got a 2 for 1 voucher for Pizza Express and I’ve got a discount code for the cinema, so first we’re going to recce what working there would be like, while we watch a film, and then we’re going for a meal. If you’re lucky, I’ll bring you a dough ball home.’

I don’t even have time to express my gratitude for that, as then Josh goes out, leaving his geriatric parents to their usual exciting Friday night, during which Max has several glasses of wine, and I have one – in a misguided attempt to set an example. Then I sit and contemplate the side of Max’s head while he snores on the sofa.

This goes on until just before 11:00pm, when his mobile starts to ring. He continues to sleep while I try to work out how to answer the damned thing – but, finally, I manage it.

‘Mum,’ says Josh. ‘Where’s Dad?’

‘Asleep,’ I say. ‘Why? Are you okay? You sound peculiar.’

‘No, I’m not,’ he says. ‘Okay, I mean. Can you get Dad to come and pick me up from Pizza Express? Holly’s gone off in a huff, I haven’t got any money left, and I can’t walk properly.’

‘Why? Now what’s happened?’ I say, trying to wake Max at the same time by prodding him with my foot. Unsuccessfully.

‘I think I’ve dislocated my knee again. Smacked it on the table when I got up, and it’s agony. Just like when that skateboard ramp collapsed under me last year.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Josh. Okay – but Dad won’t be able to come. He’s had too much wine to drive,’ I say. ‘Stay put until I get there.’

Honestly, we might as well get a season ticket for A&E, and it’s going to be like a war zone in there at this time on a Friday night. That’ll teach me to view a quiet night in as boring.

I fish the keys out of Max’s pocket, grab my coat and bag and power walk to the car – but it isn’t there. I run up and down our road a few times, then check the side streets in case Max has had to park further afield than usual, but there’s still no sign of it anywhere. Bloody, bloody
hell
.

There’s nothing for it but to go back home.

‘Max.
Max!
Wake up! The car’s been stolen and I need to get Josh to A&E,’ I say, dialling for a cab.

He finally starts to stir when I phone Josh to warn him that I’ll have to pick him up in a taxi because the car is missing. By the time I’ve finished explaining that, the cab’s outside.

‘Max – you’ll have to phone the police and report the theft,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Um,’ he says. ‘Yes, um.’

‘Yes, um, what? Hurry up – the meter’s running!’

‘Well, the car hasn’t exactly been stolen,’ he says. He won’t meet my eyes when I ask what he means, so I repeat the question, rather louder this time. He’s still staring very hard at the floor when he answers: ‘I may have lent it to someone for the weekend.’