Diary of an Unsmug Married (40 page)

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Did you say you would?’

‘No,’ says Greg. ‘If I’d been there, I’d have pushed him off the end, but as that’s not an option, I told him to phone the AA instead. And if I don’t get out of here for a bit, I’ll be needing the
other
AA.’ He puts his coat on, and heads for the door. ‘So much for a renewed sense of purpose,’ he says, as he stamps off down the corridor.

‘Gregory here?’ says Andrew, when he returns from wherever it is that he’s been for the two hours since his meeting ended. Food must have been involved, as there’s a large stain on his tie that definitely wasn’t there this morning.

‘No,’ I say. ‘He was called away on a rescue mission.’

‘Pah. You’ll have to do surgery with me, then,’ says Andrew, his good mood evaporating before my eyes.

He’s no happier when he realises that none of the usual suspects have made an appointment for today – though that’s a miracle in itself. Even I don’t recognise any of the people in the waiting room, for once.

Most of them want to talk about the government’s NHS and welfare reforms, which is not quite as easy for The Boss to handle as signing a shotgun licence for a madman. As a result, Andrew looks quite relieved when Miss Ventnor decides to buck the trend: she’s got a thing about light pollution.

‘City dwellers are being deprived of the pleasure to be had from seeing the stars,’ she says. To The Boss, as she doesn’t seem to have noticed me. Maybe she only sees properly in the dark.

‘I agree,’ says Andrew. ‘It’s a
terrible
shame. There’s nothing like a starry sky.’

He’s been looking a bit starry-eyed himself, since he got back. I do hope it isn’t the Vicky effect.

It may just be due to Miss Ventnor, who’s rather pretty, and also quite poetic, especially on the subject of what birds and animals suffer as a result of becoming confused between day and night. Andrew’s nodding his head so much in agreement, I’m sure I can hear vertebrae cracking.

The mutual love-in takes so long that – by the time The Boss has agreed to join the Campaign Against Light Pollution, and I have shown Miss Ventnor out and ushered in Mrs Jackson to take her place – we’re running
really
late. The Boss doesn’t seem worried, though. Mrs J’s even more attractive than her predecessor.

‘I’m sure you didn’t agree with that Tory MP’s comments about degrees of rape, did you, Mr Sinclair?’ she says.

‘No, indeed I didn’t,’ says Andrew, right on cue. ‘
Wholly
irresponsible.’

‘Well, then,’ says Mrs J. ‘What are you going to do to protect the women of Lichford – and to stop the Council’s plans to turn the streetlights off?’

‘If you’ll just excuse me,’ I say, standing up. ‘I have an urgent call to make. You’ll be able to manage this one without me, won’t you, Andrew?’

I don’t wait for an answer, as I beat my retreat.

The Boss is furious when he finds me hiding in the Labour Party office, telling Joan what’s just happened. He’s even crosser when he hands me back the surgery notes I left behind, the ones with ‘synchronicity’ written all over them.

SATURDAY, 2 OCTOBER

Bloody, bloody Christmas. Why does it have to start so early? And as for that stupid Hallowe’en …

The florist I pass on my way into town has pumpkins piled up in the window, but they’re all swathed in Christmas tree lights.

It’s obviously the same story where Dinah lives, so she makes a pre-emptive strike.

‘Now Gary Glitter’s bored with Thailand,’ she says, ‘are you going to have him over for Christmas?’

‘What?’ I say. ‘No, I’m
not
. It’s not my turn. I did it last year. Why can’t he come to you this time?’

‘He’s too annoying.’

I don’t know why Dinah thinks that means that
I
should put up with him twice in a row, but she claims she’s a special case.

‘Dad likes
your
kids,’ she says, ‘but he
hates
Jake. He even calls him
Damian
, to his face.’

‘Damian?’ I say. I’ve never heard Dad call Jake anything other than ‘that disturbing child’.

‘From
The Omen
,’ Dinah says, as I hear her lighter click. ‘Dad thinks it’s funny, but I don’t appreciate him looking through Jake’s hair every five minutes, saying that he’s trying to find the number 666.’

I laugh, and she hangs up on me.

I feel quite well-disposed towards
my
kids after that, so I try to call Connie but she doesn’t answer. There’s no point even
trying
to contact Josh, as he’s at work. There’s only one way to see my offspring’s lovable faces, and that’s by looking at their photo albums on Facebook.

‘What are you doing, Mol?’ says Max, when he looks over my shoulder. ‘Stalking our kids? It’s probably not necessary.’

‘I know it isn’t,’ I say. ‘I am
not
stalking them. I am admiring them. Like some people admire mid-life crisis-style sports cars, and their drivers.’

Max looks up at the ceiling and sighs, but doesn’t say anything at all. He doesn’t need to, seeing as he’s already managed to make me anxious. What does he mean by ‘
probably
not necessary’?

I check Connie’s page first, as she’s the one who’s furthest away, but she appears to be doing nothing more sinister than playing on
Farmville
most of the time, so I don’t need to worry about her. Unless that’s not the
only
thing that she’s doing in a virtual reality environment.

She could be up to
anything
online, with strange men from Eastern bloc countries, now I come to think of it. Which I wish I hadn’t, as now I’ve started to hiccup again. I breathe in and hold my nose while Max brings me a glass of water.

‘I don’t know why the hell you keep getting hiccups so often these days,’ he says, ‘or why you’ve got such a thing about Ellen. She’s just a nice friendly neighbour of ours.’

I pretend I haven’t heard him and, once the hiccups have finally subsided, I open Josh’s Facebook page. He hardly ever updates his status, but he’s posted a few photos of Holly – looking unusually grumpy – and a video, since the last time I snooped. Its title is
24 Minutes, Episode One
, which sounds innocuous enough so I press
play
.

I don’t know who is doing the filming, but the video opens with Josh and Robbie in Robbie’s car driving towards Sainsbury’s (so at least the Asda photo booth repair man seems to be off the hook). The next shot is of the boys unloading something very large into a space in the middle of the car park, which is full of shoppers. A number of them glance over at the boys, who are struggling with metal poles and what seems to be a padded, long, black thing.

Josh is giggling like a maniac – I’d know that laugh
anywhere
even though he’s not currently in shot – but I still have no idea what he and Robbie are up to, until … Oh,
Christ
. I can’t believe my eyes. Josh’s weights bench is now fully assembled, and situated smack bang in the middle of the car park.

Josh is lying on it, lifting weights, while Robbie is his personal trainer, convincingly attired in a black and orange shell-suit and wielding a stop-watch. Both boys appear oblivious to the incredulous stares of passers-by, and the whole thing seems to go on for hours.

I can barely watch by the time a very unamused security guard approaches, and the film stops dead.

Max replays the clip several times, without comment, while I wonder what numbers I’d find on Josh’s scalp.
If
I ever dared to look.

SUNDAY, 3 OCTOBER

Josh says that he and Robbie have set up a film company, and are making a series of episodes of
24 Minutes
in order
to convince Holly that Josh won’t always have to spend his days (and nights) picking up poos in cups to earn a living. (Apparently, Robbie spilled the beans about
that
, and now Holly’s embarrassed to tell people what her boyfriend’s job involves.)

‘I am going to become the Jack Bauer of Lichford East,’ says Josh, ‘and then Holly’ll be
proud
of me, instead of ashamed. As long as I can prove I haven’t got nits.’

‘Why does she think you have?’ I say, trying to ignore the fact that my head started itching, just at the thought.

‘Last time she came to the cinema she saw a little kid scratching like mad,’ says Josh. ‘Just after I’d served him some popcorn. I’m sure I haven’t caught them, but can you double-check, please, Mum?’

I inspect his scalp three times, but there are no nits at all, nor any numbers, as far as I can see. I wonder if you can get nits in
facial
hair? Not that I’ll need to worry about that, not once I’ve had a chance to use my brilliant new eBay purchase, the one that arrived in yesterday’s post …

It’s a springy wand thing, called a
Tweeze-ease
or something, and it works on the same principle as threading, apparently. It also has lurid pink plastic handles, and therefore looks as if would be quite at home on the shelves of Ann Summers
.

I wait for Max to doze off after lunch, and then get started.

An hour later, my face is as bald as a baby’s bottom, which – surprisingly – proves not to be an entirely good thing. I don’t think your face is supposed to be
completely
hairless.

It feels very odd indeed, and I definitely shouldn’t have tried to use the wand between my eyebrows. Now I look astonished, probably at the fact that one eyebrow is only half as long as the other.
And
I seem to be developing blotches all over the place.

I slap on some aloe vera, in the hope that this will calm the eruption down.

So much for optimism. When Max wakes up, he opens his eyes and looks straight at me, then blinks several times, before opening them again, much wider this time.

‘What the hell’s the matter with your face, Mol?’ he says, eventually. ‘Have you got chicken pox or something?’

I don’t reply. Luckily for Max, the phone is ringing.

‘Some people are so bloody insensitive,’ says Dad, apropos a greeting.

‘Yes, they
are
,’ I say, looking at Max, though Dad’s usually the worst offender. ‘What makes you say that now, though?’

‘I went to see my next-door neighbours a few days ago – to get away from Dinah for a bit – and I told them all about Porn-Poon while I was there.’

‘Ah,’ I say. So Dinah
was
right about the double-barrelled bit. ‘What did they say that was so upsetting, then?’

‘Nothing, while I was there,’ says Dad. ‘But I’ve just found out that, afterwards, they told the landlord of my local that I was a dirty old man. Bloody
outrageous
thing to say.’

‘Ah,’ I say, again, after a fruitless search for a politically correct yet honest response.

‘Can’t you say anything except, “Ah”?’ says Dad. ‘Anyone would think
you
were a politician yourself.’

I count to ten, then try again. ‘Well, what were they referring to?’ I say. Disingenuousness is often grossly under-rated. It’s a key skill when you work for an MP.

‘God knows,’ says Dad. ‘I only said that everyone looks the same age in the dark.’

‘I hear you’re going to Dinah’s for Christmas,’ I say. ‘So that’ll probably cheer you up.’

Sometimes, you just have to save yourself.

MONDAY, 4 OCTOBER

The first thing Greg says to me this morning is, ‘What’s the matter with your face? Did you catch chicken pox from the Baron of Oil?’

After seeing my expression, it’s also the last thing he says to me until lunchtime, when The Boss phones with some news: Marie-Louise is off sick.

‘You’ll just have to do my London diary until I sort something out,’ he says.

‘Why can’t Carlotta do the diary?’ I ask. ‘She’s
in
London. That does help, you know – with your
London
diary.’

‘She’s too busy,’ says The Boss.

I seriously doubt
that
. Greg’s convinced that Carlotta still takes a siesta every day – probably something to do with her cultural heritage. But I let it go, as I’m more concerned with what’s wrong with Marie-Louise. I really hope it isn’t chicken pox.

‘It’s Norovirus,’ says Andrew, ‘and anyway, it shouldn’t take long to find a replacement. I have
a plan
.’

I don’t like the sound of this. Andrew’s plans always tend to involve shooting himself firmly in both feet. Or shooting me in
my
feet, actually. Also, he sounds even more smug than usual, so that’s definitely a worrying sign.

When I phone her to ask, Carlotta claims to have no idea what Andrew’s plan might be – though she does blame him for the Norovirus.

‘That man
never
washes his hands,’ she says. ‘Not even when he visits hospitals.’

Then she faxes me through the most urgent appointment letters, and forwards all the emails relating to the diary. There are
millions
of those.

‘There’s
loads
of other stuff, too,’ she says, ‘but I’ll send all that through to you in this evening’s post.’

This promise does not improve my mood. In fact, I am so cross that I spend five minutes swearing while kicking the filing cabinet. Then I have to spend another fifteen minutes trying to get the bottom drawer to open.

Greg starts laughing, so I try to wither him with a look. It doesn’t work, even though my face resembles the Infected more than usual.

‘Trying to add repairwoman to your job description, now?’ he says.

‘Shut up, Greg,’ I say. ‘It’s not funny, and I haven’t got time for this! Not with all the diary stuff to do.’

‘Cheer up, Mol,’ says Greg. ‘Think of all the fun you can have, sending The Boss to the wrong locations.’

I’d quite like to send the usual suspects to the wrong locations. In far-flung destinations, and with one-way tickets. Miss Chambers rings just before we close, to complain that the man who owns the local post office is refusing to serve her any more.