Diary of an Unsmug Married (39 page)

‘I am ordering you to have virtual sex with me,’ he says. ‘Right this minute.’

It’s a very different approach to his real-life one, and much more effective, surprisingly. I had no idea I was so unquestioningly obedient. It’s a rather worrying startle response.

Johnny’s not happy with things staying in the realm of fantasy, though, and so he spends the whole of the virtual post-coital period going on and on about when we’re going to meet up next.

‘You said “No commitment” at the beginning of all this,’ I say. ‘So what happened to that?’

‘Yes, well,’ he says. ‘I know I did. I wasn’t expecting you to sneak your way under my radar like you have.’

If I have, I don’t know how, as I certainly haven’t been trying to – and the comparison with a guided missile isn’t particularly flattering.

‘We could be like the couple in that old film,’ continues Johnny, unaware that he’s given offence. ‘The one where they meet up once a year for twenty-five years, always at the same hotel.
Same Time Next Year
, I think it was called.’

‘Well, then, that means we shouldn’t meet up again until
next
year,’ I say. ‘Seeing as we’ve already had this year’s rendezvous.’

‘That doesn’t count,’ says Johnny. ‘We stayed fully clothed throughout, in case you’ve forgotten.’

Imagine having to re-live
that
twenty-four more times! I don’t think I want to, so I tell Johnny that the fire alarm has just gone off and that I need to take charge of the evacuation myself.

‘I am the designated fire officer,’ I say, to which Johnny sends back one of those annoying emoticons. The one that denotes an incredulous face.

I ignore him for the rest of the afternoon, and am feeling horribly guilty about the virtual sex by the time that I get home. That is until Max says he’s not speaking to me after my reaction to the Mrs Bloom business, and claims to have no idea what Ellen was winking at. Then I don’t feel guilty at all.

‘Right,’ says Josh. ‘I’ve had enough of this parental not-speaking business. Let’s all watch
X Factor
on catch-up together. Then you two can bond over your astonishment at the sheer number of delusional people in the UK. Always works for me and Holly, whenever she’s in a mood with me.’

He presses
play
, while I give him a funny look, in case the delusional reference was directed at me. Then Dinah phones.

‘It gets worse,’ she says.

‘What does?’

I have no idea what she’s on about, although it probably doesn’t matter much. That contestant is
obviously
a usual suspect. I can always tell the nutters before they open their mouths.

‘P-ns nm,’ says Dinah, or something like that.

Max has just announced that Louis Walsh would put a potato through to the judges’ houses, if it was the only Irish thing available.

‘What did you say, Di?’ I say. ‘I couldn’t hear you. Max was talking.’

‘Well, tell him to be quiet,’ she says, slurping what could be tea, but is probably wine. ‘This is important. Porn’s name, or
names
. As in the plural.’

I forget to answer. Well, I don’t, really – but with Dinah you never know if a pause indicates your turn to speak, or whether she’s just stopping to breathe in, or light a fag.

‘Wake
up
, Molly! Didn’t you hear what I said?’

‘Um, yes,’ I say. ‘Double-barrelled. Porn.’

This creates a thoroughly unpleasant image of Mr and Mrs Beales in the act, accompanied by the paraphernalia they bought in Ann Summers.

‘Yes,
Porn
,’ says Dinah. ‘And,
yes
, double-barrelled. Guess what her
other
name is, though? I overheard Dad telling his neighbour, when I visited.’

‘I don’t know, Dinah,’ I say. ‘Why do I always have to
guess
? Can’t you just tell me, for once?’

I might as well give up watching this whole series of
X Factor
. I missed it last week too, due to David and Susie’s stupid aerial.

‘Well, you’ve spoiled it now,’ says Dinah. ‘But I might as well tell you, anyway. It’s Poon!’

‘Now you’re really making it up,’ I say. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.
Poon?
As in Poon-
Tang
?’

Josh looks up and makes a shocked face. Sometimes I’m sure he thinks I know nothing, and that he is the product of an immaculate conception.

‘
Yes
, as in Poon-Tang,’ says Dinah, accompanied by the sound of more wine being poured into a glass. ‘
Porn
-
Poon
.
That’s
our father’s girlfriend’s name. And I am not telling you anything else, as you are obviously not listening. Phone me when you can be bothered to give this the attention it deserves.’

Seems to me that I’ve already given this whole sex thing
plenty
of attention today, but apparently not.

‘I’m off to work now,’ says Josh, after
X Factor
has finished. ‘I’m on the stupidly late shift tonight. Expect more stories about poos in cups when I get home.’

Max doesn’t say goodbye, as he’s already fallen asleep on the sofa. (Louis Walsh always has that effect.) I may as well catch up with some of the other programmes that I’ve missed this week: the latest episode of
Wallander
for a start. I know it’s subtitled, but I’m
trying
to learn some Swedish while I watch, though that’s impossible when Max’s snoring is so loud. I glare at him for a while, but daren’t yell at him to stop in case that ruins the effect of the
X Factor
bonding experience.

Then I remember Connie’s latest scientific tip for the best way to wake someone up.

‘If you use this technique, Mum,’ she said, ‘Dad will return to consciousness so gradually that he won’t realise you did anything to him, and he’ll think he woke up naturally.’

Presumably this
would
be the case, if I removed my finger from Max’s ear quickly enough – but it gets stuck.

‘Wha’ the hell?’ he says, batting my hand away. ‘What
are
you doing?’

I don’t want to tell him, in case he gets annoyed, so I try to convert the ear-poking into an ear-tickling manoeuvre, motivated by nothing more sinister than affection. I forget that Max’s ears are erogenous zones, until my ‘caress’ is reciprocated with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, and one thing leads to another.

So now I’ve accidentally had sex with two people, in one day. And I feel riddled with guilt about both. I may as well change
my
name to Porn-Poon, if I’m going to behave like this.

THURSDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER

Endorphins are funny things. I’m in a really good mood this morning as I stick a gold star into the diary, watched by Max, who suggests we don’t leave it quite so long before we earn another.

Then he gets a text from Sam, who’s still away on his sex trip to Skye. It says, ‘Incompatible in bed and nothing to talk about. Supposed to be here another two days. Help me, for the love of God!’

Max looks vaguely disappointed. I think he quite fancied Shona, too.

‘What shall I tell him to do?’ he asks. ‘I’ve got no idea what to suggest.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘He’s your friend, and anyway, he always ignores my advice. I
told
him to start reading the women’s profiles instead of just looking at their pictures.’

‘True,’ says Max. ‘You did. But you’re the one who works for a politician. You
must
be able to think of a cunning excuse to get him out of this.’

‘No time,’ I say. ‘I’m late for work. ’Bye! Give Sam my love.’

Max looks a bit panic-stricken, but I’m sure he’ll manage to think of something, which is what I need to do, fast, to help Mr Warner. He’s waiting outside the office when I arrive at work.

‘You’ve got to get TV Licensing off my back,’ he says. ‘They’ve been persecuting me for years. Won’t accept I haven’t got a television set.’

Then he goes on to say that he can’t sleep at night because he’s so sure that they’re going to raid his flat.

‘You should see all the threatening letters I’ve had,’ he says. ‘Once, they even posted a sign on the bus shelter at the end of my road, saying that one household in the street didn’t have a TV licence. Everyone
knew
it was me.’

When I tell him not to worry, and that I’m sure I can sort the situation out quite easily, he looks at me as if I am mad.

‘How do you prove a negative?’ he says, which I have a feeling someone else has said to me fairly recently. I can’t remember who it was, though, so I stop trying after a minute or so. It’s bound to come back to me when I’m least expecting it. Most things do, whether you want them to or not, sometimes accompanied by hiccuping.

I still haven’t remembered by the time I start walking home from work – which is when my brain usually relaxes and starts to process things – so my recall’s taking rather longer than usual today. Maybe it’s because I’m concentrating on sucking my stomach in while I walk, to make up for not having done any exercises since the purple ball fiasco.

If I power walk everywhere, while breathing in, then I shall be super-fit by the time Max and I earn our next gold star – hopefully very soon, since we’ve remembered marital sex doesn’t
have
to be a chore.

Now I have a big smile on my face, after recalling last night’s events – until I turn into our street and nearly get run over by an idiot in a little red convertible, the type that Max always calls a ‘hairdresser’s car’.

I shout something vaguely abusive, and am in the process of holding up two fingers when the car pulls in and parks just beyond our house. Oops. And
double
oops – the driver’s door swings open and Ellen gets out, showing far more thigh than necessary.

I peer towards her in an attempt to spot cellulite, and have just been rewarded by the sight of a dark dimply patch when the passenger door opens and Max almost falls out onto the pavement.

‘Holy shit,’ I say, as Ellen spots me and shouts, ‘Molly! Hi! Look what I picked up on my way home.’

She does one of those infuriating giggles, then says, ‘Your husband! So I thought I’d give him a cheap thrill and take him for a spin in my hot new car. What d’you think? Isn’t she a babe?’

Gah.
Ga-a-ah
. And why do supposedly adult women feel the need to use words like ‘hot’ and ‘babe’?

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I say, immediately sounding like a repressed introvert who never has sex. And who definitely has no sense of humour. ‘I don’t know many hot babes with whom to make a useful comparison.’

‘Oh, you
are
funny, Molly,’ says Ellen. ‘You always make me laugh.’

I don’t ask whether she normally laughs with me, or
at
me. I’m too busy glaring at Max, who looks awfully red in the face and is very windswept. He really needs to wear his glasses more often, as he obviously hasn’t spotted
my
expression.

‘God, that was fun,’ he says, walking towards me. ‘’Bye, Ellen, and thanks for the ride. Really blew my cobwebs away.’

I rather thought
I’d
done that, last night.

‘Any time,’ says Ellen. ‘We can make it a regular date.’

I’ve turned my back by now, so no one can see the face I’m pulling. It’s a close approximation of Munch’s ‘The Scream’.

‘Great, isn’t she, Mol?’ says Max, oblivious to the end. ‘I’d love to get my hands on one like that.’

I have no idea if we’re talking about the car, or Ellen – and
now
I remember who said you can’t prove a negative. Max did – maybe because he didn’t think I could prove the opposite. I’m going to have to try, if I want to retain what little remains of my mind.

CHAPTER SIX

October

(I can’t think of a rhyme for this, or a line of poetry. I wish I’d never started the whole thing now.)

FRIDAY, 1 OCTOBER

Unlike me, The Boss and Greg are both in amazingly good moods this morning, albeit for very different reasons.

‘God, I’m glad to be back,’ says Greg. ‘I’m even pleased to see
your
face, Mol.’

‘
Marvellous
conference,’ says The Boss. ‘
Marvellous
company. And now we have the right man as our leader,
The Fightback
can begin in earnest. Red Ed,
he’s
our man.’

Greg pulls a Wallace face, while I ask the burning question: ‘So, Andrew,’ I say. ‘Greg tells me Vicky was with you at conference. How did
that
come about?’

‘Synchronicity,’ says The Boss, also pulling a face. The one he uses to suggest that he’s innocent of whatever you suspect him of.

Then he goes off to his meeting, while Greg continues to expound on the joys of being back at work.

‘I felt so useless at conference,’ he says, ‘with that awful woman taking care of everything. Must be how Andrew feels, when there’s never anything meaningful for him to do.’

An hour later, Greg demands that he be allowed to take an early lunch. He says that it is an emergency as, if he does not escape this madhouse, he will be forced to resign, with immediate effect.

‘Why?’ I say.

I’ve been at least as polite to him as usual, and I didn’t even swear when he ordered me to make him another cup of coffee, or point out that being
Goldenballs
was going to his head.

‘Mr Franklin’s just phoned,’ he says. ‘From the seaside. He took his fatmobile there on the train.’

‘And?’ I say.

I can’t see what’s so surprising about that. Mr F takes his fatmobile everywhere –
because
he’s fat.
That’s the whole point, plus I am too busy to bother with this. I am trying to decipher an invitation from the Brazilian ambassador, and flowery handwriting is hard to read.

Greg sighs, as if there is no hope for dingbats like me. ‘He’s run out of petrol, for f*ck’s sake,’ he says. ‘Half-way down the bloody pier. And now he wants
me
to rescue him.’