Diary of an Unsmug Married (33 page)

This plan is aborted before I’ve even written the note, for a number of compelling reasons.

Firstly, I’m
sure
The Boss has a duplicate key to the drawer – seeing as there were definitely more packets of Fruit Pastilles in there before the start of Recess, and
I
haven’t eaten them – and it’d be just my luck if he decided to snoop around when he gets back from London tomorrow night, before I can retrieve the note on Friday morning.
If
I’m still alive by then.

Then Andrew would be bound to tell Max that I’m having an affair – if only to prove that he
can
be right about something, occasionally. (
Occasionally
being the operative word.) So I’d have survived a potentially murderous encounter, only for my marriage to fall apart.

Secondly, if Andrew
doesn’t
have a key, then no one will find the note anyway, or not until it’s far too late to do me any good. Back to the bloody drawing board.

Another hour passes before I come up with Plan B, which is much more straightforward than its predecessor. Tell someone I can trust. This rules out ninety-nine per cent of the people I know, and the remaining one per cent all think Max is wonderful, and would be absolutely horrified by what I’m up to. I’m pretty horrified myself.

I can’t think of a Plan C, so I resort to staring hopelessly into the middle distance and eating a whole packet of sweets instead. When my eyes regain focus, there is the answer, staring me in the face. Or, rather, doing sit-ups in the doorway between our offices.

‘Greg,’ I say. ‘I need to tell you something. In confidence.’

‘Not now, you fool,’ he says. ‘Can’t you see I am
working
out
?’

Oh,
honestly
. I’ll change my mind about telling him in a minute if he doesn’t hurry up.

‘This is much more important than that,’ I say. ‘It could be a matter of life and death.’

‘If I don’t lose this bloody flab, it’ll be my love-life that’s dead. Stop distracting me.’

Greg does another few sit-ups, if raising your head, but not your body, counts, while I try to work out how to get his full attention. It’s not easy, given how focused he seems.

‘Love-life’s sort of what I want to talk about,’ I say, eventually. ‘Getting one, I mean.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ Greg says, rolling over sideways and sitting up. ‘I’m all ears, so fire away.’

Oh
God
, now I’ve gone and done it. There’s no choice but to spill the beans.

After I’ve told him (almost) the whole story, Greg’s appalled, but also fascinated. I don’t think he’s ever thought of
me
as someone with a love-life – and certainly not one involving an International Director of a Global Oil Company. Now he doesn’t know
what
to think.

‘Are you
sure
about this, Mol?’ he says. ‘Max is
so
nice – but, God, this Johnny must be rich. Has he got any daughters who are single and fancy-free?’

‘One,’ I say. ‘She’s about five years old, so you’re out of luck.’

‘True,’ says Greg. ‘Though you’d better not mention her to Mr Beales. Just in case.’

THURSDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER (DAYTIME)

Greg and I spend all morning and half of the afternoon arguing about the finer details of Plan C, in between dealing with the usual suspects. Finally, we reach agreement: I am to text Greg as soon as I meet up with Johnny,
and
if we change location, and
again
when I get home. Which has to be before 1:00am or Greg will declare a state of emergency, phone the police, and report me missing.

I don’t want to think about what will happen after
that
. There’s no turning back now, anyway – not now that Johnny’s already in the UK.

‘Arrived Heathrow, and boarding train,’ he says, in a text. ‘Can’t wait to see ALL of you.’

As I’m reading the message, my mobile rings. I’m so startled that I nearly drop it, and I’m even more flustered when I see that the caller is Max. Bloody
hell
. For one panic-stricken moment, I think that he may be able to read Johnny’s text, simply because it’s still on the screen when his call comes in. I am
really
losing the plot.

‘What time are you going to this Law Society thing tonight?’ he says. He must be driving, as I can hear the car engine in the background.

‘What?’ Oh, yes – my cover story. I am such a
useless
liar.

‘Seven-thirty. Why?’ I say, after a pause.

‘I’ll be back sooner than I thought from this customer’s house, so I’ll be home in time to give you a lift,’ says Max. ‘Which hotel is it that you’re going to?’

Oh, good God. My mind goes blank for a minute. I can’t think of a single hotel apart from the real one, and I can’t tell Max the name of
that
. Then I recall the Marriott County Hall.

‘The Marriott,’ I say. ‘You know.’ (I hope he does, as I’m not entirely sure Lichford even
has
a Marriott, now I come to think of it.)

‘Oh, right,’ says Max. ‘That’s a bit of a long way out. You’d better be ready by seven, then. See you when you get home. ’Bye, darling.’

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,
shit
. Where
is
the bloody Marriott? I ask Greg, who starts to laugh. It turns out that it isn’t even in Lichford, but is miles out in the sticks somewhere. I’d need to take out a mortgage to afford a taxi back into town, and I’d be horribly late even if I did.

‘What’s it worth?’ says Greg, after I’ve explained my dilemma.

‘What?’ I say. I can’t think straight.

‘What’s it worth, to save your arse?’ he says. ‘Obviously, I’ll have to pick you up at the Marriott in the Gregmobile, as soon as Max has dropped you off there, then drive you back to the right hotel, just in time to meet the Baron of Oil.’

Sometimes that boy is a genius – even if he does take advantage of other people’s difficulties. Now I have signed my life away for the next two months. Greg says I have to deal with every campaign postcard and lobbying email, single-handedly – plus I have to make coffee whenever he likes.

‘Without swearing at me,’ he says, as we shake on the deal.

This date had better be worth all the discomfort it’s causing, that’s all I can say. I’d cancel the damn thing if Johnny wasn’t almost here. It’s not as if I can take a last-minute raincheck, though, is it? Not when he’s come all the way from Moscow, just to see me. God knows why – I look like hell.

It’s going to take a lot more than Connie’s abandoned make-up samples to hide the guilt and stress that’s written all over my face. As well as today’s crop of new wrinkles.

THURSDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER
(VERY LATE EVENING)

What a total shambles. It seems that I am
much
better at affairs of state (at an admittedly wholly unimportant level) than I am at affairs of the heart.

When Max drops me off at the Marriott – which really
is
miles out of Lichford – Greg is waiting for me in the lobby, hiding behind a parlour palm. So far, so good. He bundles me straight into the Gregmobile and heads back into town as fast as he can.

Considering what a terrible driver Greg is, this is not as frightening as it could have been, although there is one very hairy moment when we almost catch up with Max, who is waiting at a set of traffic lights. I don’t think he notices us but it’s unnerving, all the same.

To avoid any repetitions, we then have to pootle along at about 20mph for the rest of the journey, which makes me late for the meeting with Johnny.

I rush into the hotel, looking very windswept and even more harassed, and am so busy trying to smooth my hair out that I walk straight into someone waiting at the reception desk.

‘Ex
cuse
me,’ he says, in a very snooty way, then, ‘Molly?’

‘Johnny?’

God, he looks
exactly
like Putin. Same build, probably the same height – considerably shorter than Max, though thankfully not a midget like me. He even has the same air of authority, initially, but this doesn’t last, when he fails to get the hotel to sort out the error they’ve made with his booking.

He’s been given a single room instead of the luxury double he’d booked – probably because he normally has someone like me to arrange his hotel accommodation, and is incapable of doing it himself. Let’s hope the similarity with The Boss ends there.

Things improve slightly when we sit down at our table, even though we’re still being very polite and formal. It feels more like an interview than a date so far – and you’d never guess we’ve had virtual sex! I completely forget we have at first, and am quite embarrassed when I do remember.

It doesn’t help that Johnny keeps staring at me, which makes me feel really,
really
self-conscious, though I don’t
think
he can see my incipient beard. Luckily, the lights are dim.

‘Molly,’ he says, after I’ve spent ten minutes asking him about his rail journey, and apologising for the state of Network Rail, ‘you are
not
the Transport Secretary. You have much, much better legs – even better than I remembered. Now, for God’s sake, calm down, and have a drink.’

I have three G&Ts in quick succession, which seem to do the trick, as I relax a bit. Then we eat and everything gets better and better. For a while at least.

We’re just two people, talking: about life, our hopes, how we feel about the choices we’ve made since we were last together. No one mentions kids, or bills, what’s for dinner, or the mystery of where all their socks have gone. And
no one
needs to go to A&E. I haven’t felt this way in years: like a woman, not a function – or a paramedic.

By the time we’ve finished dessert, it’s already quite late. Johnny leans back in his chair and looks at me for a moment, half-smiling. Then he says, ‘So, now what, Molly? Do we go to my room? No pressure, if you don’t want to – but I know
I
do.’

No pressure, my arse. Half a continent travelled, the vagaries of Heathrow and British Rail negotiated, a hotel cock-up and an à la carte dinner paid for using Johnny’s platinum credit card. I could hardly say no, even if I wanted to. And I don’t
think
I want to, anyway – though I’m not sure whether my shivering is due to excitement, nerves or the omission of my thermal underwear in honour of the occasion.

‘Okay,’ I say, after what seems a very long pause.

Johnny takes my hand as we walk along the corridor. It’s the first time we’ve touched, and it feels more intimate than you’d think possible for such a small gesture. Then he opens the door to his room, flicks off the overhead light that the cleaner must have left on, and leads me inside.

Oh, God, God,
God
. Past the point of no return.

‘So here we are,’ he says. ‘At last. I’ve waited a very long time for this.’ He pulls me towards him and leans forward to kiss me.

‘Ouch,’ I say.

My hair has caught in the hinge of his glasses.

Untangling it seems to take ages and, once we’ve managed it, Johnny puts his glasses down on the chest of drawers. This is a relief, as I’m sure I look a whole lot better without them. Then he moves in for another attempt at a kiss, misjudges the distance and head butts me.

‘Ow!’ I say, or rather, yell.

He steps back, catches his foot on something, and promptly falls over the corner of the bed.

There’s a hell of a crash and I start to laugh. Uncontrollably. It’s a nervous thing: I
always
laugh when someone falls over – though I stop when I switch the light back on and see the bloody gash on Johnny’s forehead and his deeply unamused expression. He must have hit the edge of the bedside table when he fell.

So, just when I should have been turning into a femme fatale, I have to do a Florence Nightingale instead: cleaning the wound and searching in my bag for a plaster, while Johnny lies on the bed with a terrible squint.

It’s not a good look, but I try not to judge him for that. I doubt he can focus on anything without his glasses, judging by how thick the lenses are. I can’t see
a thing
when I try them on in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood. No wonder he thinks he fancies me: to him, I’m in soft-focus, all the time.

‘There’s no need for that,’ he says, as I try to shine my key-ring torch into his eyes to check for concussion. ‘Come here. We haven’t got all night, though I wish we had.’

He shuffles over on the bed so that I can lie down beside him. Then he takes me in his arms – it’s a good job I’m so small, as the bed is absolutely
tiny
. He starts stroking my shoulder and kissing my neck, and then his mobile rings.

‘I’d better get this,’ he says, after replacing his glasses to peer at the screen. ‘Sorry – I’ve got no choice.’

Half an hour later, he’s still talking, though God knows what about. His side of the conversation seems restricted to questions about degrees of fever, and the number and location of someone’s spots. It must be another Global Oil Company disaster. What have they done
now
? Poisoned a water supply, or something?

I am dying for a cigarette so I mime that I am going outside onto the balcony, but Johnny waves at me to wait. Then he says into the receiver, ‘Hang on a moment – room service is here.’ He covers the phone with his hand and says, ‘Molly, I’m
really
sorry this is taking so long. It sounds as if my youngest’s gone down with chicken pox.’

Youngest? Youngest what? Oh,
Christ
. Youngest
child
. Johnny’s on the phone to his wife. His
wife
. And what the
hell
do I think I’m doing, when
my
husband is at home managing our lunatic son and waiting for me to come back? I deserve to be hung, drawn and quartered for this – or, at the very least, shot.

I find my shoes and my bag, blow Johnny a kiss and walk out, before he can even hang up the phone.