Diary of an Unsmug Married (38 page)

I get up from the sofa to give him a sympathetic hug, but he shakes me off and says, ‘’Night, Mum. I’m going to bed, as soon as I’ve had a shower. Probably using bleach or something. Don’t tell Holly about this, will you? She’s bound to dump me if she finds out I’m handling faeces for a living.’

Max wakes up at that point, so I tell him instead. He is less than sympathetic. ‘Bet they didn’t warn Josh about
that
in Film Studies,’ he says.

I am going to write to the manager of the cinema and suggest that they allocate customers’ names and addresses to specific seats, like airlines do. Then, if customers leave
anything
behind when they leave, the cinema staff can post it back to them.

Greg would probably offer to hand-deliver it, now I come to think of it. He
is
an expert in the field.

SATURDAY, 25 SEPTEMBER

Sam’s here for the weekend again. Well, he’s here in person, but I’m not at all sure where his head is. Somewhere in the Isle of Skye, I think – home to his latest conquest, courtesy of the internet dating site.

Her name is Shona, and she has six children.
Six
– imagine that! Six boys who could all turn out like Josh. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

‘I didn’t know you even
liked
kids,’ I say.

‘Depends if I like their mothers or not,’ says Sam. He spends the afternoon making us look at all the photos that Shona has sent him, on his laptop. I can’t see them properly though, as I’m standing at completely the wrong angle to the screen, probably because Max has elbowed me out of the way.

He’s only supposed to be faking interest out of politeness, but then I catch a glimpse of Shona and realise why he’s paying such close attention. I wouldn’t have thought you could buy underwear like that in the wilds of Scotland. They must have a branch of Ann Summers on Skye.

‘I’ll be seeing
that
in the flesh next week,’ says Sam, with what can only be described as a leer.

‘Huh,’ I say. ‘Not if she’s got six children, you won’t.’ Does he know nothing about teenagers at all?

‘It’s the week they’re at their dad’s,’ says Sam. ‘So we all know what that means, don’t we? We can have sex all over the house, if we like.’

I scowl in envy, at the same time as Max decides to go and make a coffee. He’s got a
very
thoughtful expression on his face, though God knows what he’s thinking
about
.

While he crashes cups and spoons around – rather more noisily than is necessary – I wonder how long Sam thinks that a love affair with someone who lives on Skye is going to last. About the same time as a ‘relationship’ with someone who lives in Russia, I should imagine – despite Johnny’s claim that distance makes the heart grow fonder. (
That’s
certainly not why Igor’s so desperate to get permission for his wife to join him in the UK. He’s just worried about what she gets up to in Moscow now that he’s not there to keep an eye on her.)

Anyway, there must be a nice girl closer to home who would suit Sam just as well as Shona – and if we leave ‘nice’ out of the equation, I have the perfect solution.

‘Well, if you don’t mind kids part-time, Sam,’ I say, ‘why don’t you ask Ellen out on a date? Lichford’s a hell of a lot nearer to where you live than the Isle of Skye.’

Such a cunning plan, devised on the spur of the moment – and which would kill two birds with one perfectly rounded stone. I am
such
a creative thinker when under pressure. Some of the time.

‘I don’t
like
Ellen,’ says Sam, unhelpfully.

‘Bugger,’ I say, at the same time as Max says, ‘Why on earth not?’

The answer to that question should be obvious, as far as I’m concerned.

‘You said she makes a lot of noise during sex,’ says Sam. ‘I can’t be doing with all that. Whatever would my lodgers think?’

‘Same as me, probably,’ I say. ‘That she protests too much.’

‘Are you questioning my sexual capabilities?’ says Sam, missing the point as only someone with a penis can.

Now he sounds just like Dad, who – coincidentally – phones very shortly afterwards.

‘I’m knackered,’ he says, by way of introduction. ‘Dinah’s been here all day, getting in my way. I’m
trying
to do some DIY.’

‘What?’ I say. ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’ says Dad.

I don’t blame him. My syntax has gone to pot, following the abject failure of the Sam and Ellen project.

‘Why
both
, I suppose,’ I say. ‘Why was Dinah there, and why are you doing DIY?’

‘Dinah was snooping,’ says Dad, ‘and I’m doing DIY because the house is looking tatty. I’ve spent too much time abroad this last few months. Need to get back on top of things.’

There’s a lewd joke there, but Dad would usually be the one to make it. Oddly, he doesn’t.

‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘Enough about me. How are
you
?’

‘Fed up,’ I say, once I’ve got over the shock of being asked. ‘I don’t know why.’

‘You need a holiday,’ says Dad. ‘And some excitement in your life. I feel twenty years younger these days.’

‘Ah,’ I say, thinking of all the fun Dad would normally have had with
that
comment, too. He’s not his usual self at all.

Maybe he had a revelation while he was away, and realised he needed to give his life a bigger purpose? Perhaps he’s going to volunteer for Oxfam, or become a goodwill ambassador with the United Nations, doing his bit to increase understanding between people from different cultures?

‘So,’ I say, ‘are you planning on going back to Thailand, then, if you reckon it does you so much good? Or have you got something else in mind? You did say you were bored, last time you went.’

‘I was,’ says Dad. ‘Everyone there speaks bloody pidgin.’

SUNDAY, 26 SEPTEMBER

Honestly, I might just as well have gone to conference. Greg’s been on the phone all day about one thing or another. He’s still texting me now, completely distraught, even though I keep replying that I am asleep.

‘I am going to have man-boobs the size of a house again,’ he says. ‘And I will
never
get another girlfriend.’

I give in. There is quite obviously no point in aiming for an early night. ‘Why?’ I say. Or text, to be more accurate.

‘Third meal I’ve had to eat in the last four hours,’ Greg replies.

It turns out that one of Andrew’s diary cock-ups involved accepting invitations to three separate dinners, all scheduled for this evening. One buffet and two sit-down meals.

‘Even The Boss is full,’ says Greg. ‘Never thought I’d see the day. He could live off all the food he’s got stuck in his beard for the next week, too. Answer the phone, I’m going to ring you.’

God
. I do as I’m told. It’s not as if there’s anything better to do, I suppose. I should have tried much harder when I was in Ann Summers.

‘He didn’t remember about the third meal until we were half-way through the second one,’ Greg says, as soon as I answer the phone. ‘I feel sick.’

‘You sound sober, though,’ I say. ‘Congratulations. I didn’t think you’d manage this teetotal thing.’

‘There’s no room in my stomach for anything other than all this bloody food,’ says Greg. ‘And anyway, Andrew’s drunk enough for both of us.
And
he’s left his mobile somewhere – so if he wanders off, I’ll
never
find him.’

‘Well, don’t feel obliged to look too hard if that happens,’ I say. ‘How’s it going apart from that?’

‘I haven’t got off with
any
women yet,’ says Greg. ‘It’s a dead loss. Andrew keeps getting in there first. Why
do
they like him so much?’

‘Raw sensuality,’ I say, to which Greg makes a retching noise that sounds alarmingly realistic. Then the line goes dead.

Much like my sex-life, as Max is now asleep.

MONDAY, 27 SEPTEMBER

I miss Greg. It’s weird not having anyone with whom to share the horrors of the day, though it sounds as if he’s got his own nightmares to contend with.

When he phones mid-morning, he says, ‘Any idea where Andrew is?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re the one minding him. In Manchester. Why don’t
you
know where he is?’

‘Well, I was supposed to meet him in the hotel lobby, and he hasn’t turned up.
And
he’s not answering his phone.’

‘Oh, so he found
that
then, did he?’ I say.’

‘I found it, not him,’ says Greg. ‘But as soon as I’d given it back to him, he said he had to go outside to make a call, and then I lost him. F*ck knows where he’s got to.’

‘Well, he’s bound to turn up,’ I say. ‘Like the proverbial bad penny.’

‘Yeah, but what on earth’s he going to get up to in the meantime?’ says Greg. ‘The man can hardly dress himself.’

‘What?’ I say. I know Andrew’s not renowned for his sartorial splendour, but nakedness? Who does he think he is – Annoying Ellen?

‘I had to do up half his shirt buttons before we left for all those dinners last night,’ says Greg. ‘And re-tie his tie. I felt like bloody Jeeves.’

‘Well, have you tried his room?’ I say. Sometimes people do overlook the obvious.

‘He’s not answering the door, even if he
is
in there,’ says Greg, reminding me of something I’d prefer to forget. ‘Phone me if you hear from him. I’m going to search the secure zone now.’

I don’t hear anything further until mid-afternoon, when Greg texts: ‘Found him. Who is Vicky?’

Bloody hell. There’s a blast from the past. Vicky was an intern once, back in the days when I was still relatively beard-free and Greg was probably still at school. She was useless at casework, but an expert in schmoozing The Boss. All that manic hair-flicking used to make me feel quite murderous.

I text Greg back: ‘Ex-intern. Why?’

He doesn’t reply, and now he’s stopped answering his damned phone as well. So I spend the rest of the afternoon bursting with curiosity, while trying to fend off all the constituents who are phoning up to discuss Red Ed,
^fn3
and whether we’re going to have another Winter of Discontent. None of it does my blood pressure any good at all.

Things don’t improve when I get home, as now Max seems to have gone AWOL too. There’s no sign of him for hours, and he’s not answering his phone either. I’ve envisaged every possible disaster that could have befallen him by the time he finally turns up, at about 9:00pm.

‘How was your day?’ he says, as if he hasn’t arrived home three hours later than usual.

‘Never mind that,’ I say. ‘Where have you been? I was really starting to worry.’

I don’t mention that, in between imagining various hideous fatal accidents, I have also been envisaging Max having rampant and no doubt unnecessarily noisy sex with Ellen, in a secret location somewhere, probably while a fire alarm was going off. I’m not sure which scenario was the worst.

‘I was at a customer’s,’ he says. ‘I had no signal, sorry, Mol.’

‘What – at a customer’s until
now
?’ I say. Max usually finishes work before I do.

‘It was Mrs Bloom again,’ he says. ‘This time she couldn’t get her electric chair to work.’

‘Well, couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow?’ I say. ‘You won’t get paid for this.’

Good grief, now I’m going all jobsworth. Before you know it, I’ll be working to rule and picketing the office, while the union stands behind me, albeit only in spirit. I can’t think what’s got into me – and obviously, nor can Max.

TUESDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER

Blimey. Sounds as if things aren’t going well at conference. Well, not for Greg, anyway. (David Miliband might say the same, but that’s another story.)

I’m not used to Greg sounding insecure but, just before I leave work, he phones to say that he thinks he’s been rendered surplus to requirements by Vicky. God knows what’s going on.

‘I don’t mind not having to do The Boss’ buttons up any more, Mol, but she’s getting on my bloody nerves, marching about carrying all his papers, and making me walk two steps behind,’ he says.

I don’t like the sound of this at all. ‘Well, how did he meet up with her?’ I say.

‘No idea. It must’ve been the night that he disappeared. When I finally found him the next day, she was already in tow. There’s something familiar about her – but I just can’t work out why. I’m sure we’ve never met before.’

‘You can’t have done,’ I say. ‘She’s well before your time.’

‘Well, I don’t know what’s familiar then,’ says Greg. ‘But something is, and it’s horrible anyway.
She’s
horrible, to be exact. I feel like a member of the First Wives’ Club. Redundancy can only be a step away.’

I hope he’s wrong, as that’s a very unnerving thought, but Vicky’s bound to have a hidden agenda of some sort. She always did. That’s why she got such a good job, as a lobbyist, which I thought she still had. But if she
has
, then why is she wasting time with Andrew? You could lobby him all day, and he’d still forget how you wanted him to vote.

I’m so distracted by wondering why Vicky’s made a reappearance now, and what it might mean, that I almost walk straight into Ellen on my way home. She’s heading in the opposite direction, into town.

‘Molly,’ she says. ‘How are you? Long time no see.’

I consider saying, ‘Not long enough’ but, before I can pluck up the courage, she continues, ‘Max was late home last night, wasn’t he? Wonder what
he’d
been up to?’ Then she winks, says, ‘By-ee!’ and carries on walking.

Now Greg’s not the only one who feels as if he’s a wife who’s about to be traded in.

WEDNESDAY, 29 SEPTEMBER

Honestly, sex is like buses, isn’t it? You wait for months for a smidgin of it, and then – all of a sudden – it’s coming at you from every angle under the sun. (The bus analogy could have been better, but my brain is toast.)

At lunchtime today, I’m still wondering what Ellen meant by what she said last night, when Johnny sends me an email, catching me by surprise.