Diary of an Unsmug Married (42 page)

‘Um, yes,’ I say. ‘He
did
, but then he changed his mind when I told him what it would cost.’

‘Hmm,’ says Max, ‘I shouldn’t think the cost of delivery’s much of a factor, not when you can afford to send tons of roses like those.’

Thank God the doorbell rings at exactly the right moment, for once in its life. It’s like a miracle, even if it is going to involve a request from a nymphomaniac to borrow a corkscrew. I’ve got a horrible feeling Max doesn’t believe the Joan Collins story in its entirety, though I can’t imagine why.

He goes to answer the door while I peer out of the window to check who’s outside. There are two men, both dressed in dark suits. Maybe this isn’t such good news, after all. They’re either debt collectors, or Josh has been up to something again.

I walk into the hallway and stand behind Max, for moral support. I probably owe him that.

‘Hi,’ says one of the men. ‘We’re here to share a message for all faiths—’

Ah, Mormons. That explains the suits –
and
the haircuts.

‘Not interested, thanks,’ says Max, ‘We’re in the middle of something important here.’

He’s already trying to close the door, which really isn’t like him at all. Max will always listen politely to chuggers,
^fn1
way past the point at which I’ve already lost the will to live and have started tugging at his sleeve.

‘Hang on,’ says the man. ‘Is there anyone else who
would
be interested?’

He must have spotted me. Maybe he thinks
I
need saving? Oh, God, maybe I do. I told two or three lies a few minutes ago, in quick succession. I’ve never done that before, on my own behalf.

‘Anyone who’d be
interested
?’ says Max. ‘No. Not on
this
planet, there isn’t.’

‘
I’m
on this planet,’ says the man, who obviously doesn’t know when to take a hint.

‘Are you?’ says Max, and shuts the door. I’ve never heard him be so rude to anyone in my life. I hope we’re both not damned for this!

‘Max,’ I say, in desperation, ‘why not give the roses to Mrs Bloom? I bet she doesn’t get flowers very often.’

He smiles for the first time this evening, as he agrees, so it seems a small price to pay to avoid hellfire and damnation. And Mrs Bloom probably
should
be given flowers, with a name like that. If that really
is
her name.

FRIDAY, 8 OCTOBER

Max seems a bit more cheerful this morning, and goes off carrying the bunch of roses for Mrs Bloom. I cry a little inside as I wave them goodbye.

Then it’s off to work, and this week’s surgery. This one’s all about men, and bad behaviour.

First Mr Beales turns up, bearing photos of the policeman who gave him his speeding ticket. ‘See?’ he says. ‘He’s not wearing his luminous jacket
again
.’

‘Ah,’ says Andrew. ‘Yes, I do see.’ He passes the pictures to me.

‘He’s also not wearing his uniform,’ I say. ‘And is that a
pub
garden he’s sitting in?’

‘Might’ve been. Can’t remember now.’ Mr Beales shuffles about a bit as he says this – always a dead giveaway that he knows that he’s in the wrong.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘was the policeman even
on duty
when you photographed him? I don’t think they’re required to wear high-vis clothing in their leisure time, you know.’

‘Molly does have a point there,’ says Andrew. ‘Good photos, though.’

‘Well, the policeman has most of his head,’ I say. ‘Which is always a bonus. Though I do think Mr Beales should check the anti-stalking legislation, don’t you?’

‘Hmm,’ says Andrew, while Mr Beales glares at me through his paedophile glasses. I
will
keep forgetting about his shotgun licence. And that dog.

Thank God, it’s Angie Osman next. She’s much nicer than Mr Beales, and I haven’t seen her since early May, when she brought me a box of Turkish Delight for sorting out her husband Mehmet’s indefinite leave to remain.

This case was a small triumph, as Mehmet’s application was originally refused and their wedding treated as a marriage of convenience – just because Angie’s a bit older than Mehmet. That rarely happens when male pensioners marry twenty-five-year-old bar girls from Pattaya, like Porn-Poon. Thank God Dad came to his senses, just in time.

Maybe it’s a sign – of a new beginning – and now all the men in my life are going to start behaving much better than they have been recently. The Boss will calm down, stop being so paranoid, and get rid of Vicky; Josh will become a responsible adult, stay away from supermarket car parks, and move out; and then Max will lose interest in James Blunt, fall back in love with me, and we can all live happily ever after, like Angie and Mehmet.

Sometimes, positive thinking is all you need. There are probably three Cs for that.

I’m so busy living out my Mills & Boon-style fantasy that I miss the first thing Angie says. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t hear you. What did you say?’

Angie doesn’t reply. She’s looking down at her lap, and tearing a tissue into tiny pieces in her hands.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, at which she promptly bursts into floods of tears.

Andrew looks horribly uncomfortable, but does produce some whole (cleanish) tissues from one of his pockets, while I try to calm Angie down. Finally, she’s capable of speech.

‘Mehmet’s left me,’ she says, in between sporadic sobs – and some hiccups, too. She nearly sets mine off again.

Even though she’s clearly beside herself with misery, both Andrew and I are completely unprepared for what she says next, once the crying finally subsides: ‘So I want you to do something about him. Urgently.’

‘Have you tried Relate?’ I say, as it’s not as if anyone can kidnap Mehmet and drag him back.

‘No, that’s no good,’ says Angie. ‘He’s been having an affair with my next-door neighbour almost since the moment he arrived in the UK.
And
he tried to make me think I was mad for being suspicious, when he kept on claiming he was working late. So now I want you to write to the Border Agency and get his leave to remain revoked. That’ll teach the bastard to play me for a fool.’

So much for thinking positive – and happy endings. I must be mad.

SATURDAY, 9 OCTOBER

‘You know Angie Osman?’ I say to Max, this morning, as soon as I wake up. ‘The one you met when we went to the International Club that time?’

‘What?’ says Max. ‘I’m
trying
to sleep.’

I’m not surprised, given the time he got in last night, but this can’t wait. ‘Angie,’ I say, again. ‘Osman.
You
know. Well, anyway, her husband, Mehmet—’

‘Oh, you mean “The Visa”,’ says Max, interrupting me, while keeping his eyes firmly closed.

‘What?’ I say. ‘What do you mean, “The Visa”?’

Max finally gives up trying to go back to sleep and looks at me, bleary-eyed. ‘That’s what
everyone
calls Mehmet,’ he says. ‘Behind Angie’s back. I thought you knew.’

‘I did
not
know,’ I say. ‘And the bastard’s been having an affair with the next-door neighbour, also behind Angie’s back.
And
telling her she’s mad to accuse him of doing it!’

‘Well, that’s sad,’ says Max, ‘but why are
you
so upset about it? You only know them through work, don’t you?’

I’m just about to tell him
why
I’m so upset, when the landline begins to ring. Max groans, but jumps out of bed as fast as he can, to go and answer it. I mutter, ‘Saved by the bell’ under my breath, as he rushes down the stairs.

Five minutes later, he reappears, looking very concerned.

‘What now?’ I say.

‘It’s your mum,’ he says. ‘No, don’t panic – she’s all right. She’s just had a fall. Over a table leg, I should imagine.’

‘Oh, my God,’ I say. ‘Those bloody tables. And just when Ted’s away, too, and she’s all on her own. Is she in casualty?’ I’m sick of that hospital, thanks to Josh.

‘At home, with the paramedic. It was him who called, so I told him you’ll get round there as soon as you can. I’ll take you in the car, then I can go and do the food shopping afterwards.’

‘But we were just about to have a conversation,’ I say. ‘An important one. A
very
important one.’

‘Were we?’ says Max, almost convincingly. ‘Well, if your mum’s okay later on, let’s go and have a meal somewhere nice this evening. I can afford it, as Mrs Bloom gave me a tip last night. Oh, and she said to thank you for the flowers, too.’

I don’t have time to ask what Max
did
to earn a tip from ‘Mrs Bloom’; I’m too busy getting dressed and trying to find the arnica. I don’t care what the LibDems say about homeopathy, this stuff works. Josh has proved
that
on numerous occasions.

But bloody
hell
. Talk about bad timing. I know it’s selfish but, honestly, did Mum have to fall over one of those damned tables just when I was getting ready to force Max to tell me what’s really going on with Ellen? Now I’ll have to wait until tonight.

‘Has anyone told Robin about Mum?’ I say, suddenly remembering my idiot brother. Max shakes his head, so I start dialling the number as we head for the car.

‘Ah, Mol,’ says Robin, the albino Isaac Hayes of Buddhists. ‘How’s it hangin’, dude? All cool with you?’

‘Yes, I mean, no. Rob – Mum’s had a fall. I’m on my way there now. Are you coming over?’

‘Oh, no,’ says Robin. ‘You’re the expert at family stuff. I’m sure you’ve got it covered – and I’ve got some mates coming round later on. Usual Saturday night game of poker.’

I don’t say anything to that, as I don’t trust myself, so he continues: ‘I’ll leave it in your capable hands then, shall I?’

‘Sounds like I don’t have a choice,’ I say, before I hang up on him. Practise compassion daily, my arse – Rob only lives five minutes away.

Talking of arses, God knows what Mum’s been playing at. When I walk in, she’s sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket and looking very pale. The paramedic has a word with me and then starts bustling around, packing away his emergency kit. Then Mum starts mouthing something.

I have no idea what she’s trying to say, so I move closer, and she whispers in my ear. ‘Pants.’

‘I know it is, Mum,’ I say. ‘But the paramedic says you’re fine, if a bit shaken up. You just need someone to keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours or so.’

‘No,’ she says, looking very agitated. ‘Not that sort of pants, I mean
pants
. I need you to get me some. I’m not wearing any under my skirt.’

Good God. Now my mother’s going commando? What the
hell
is going on? First Mr Beales and his Ann Summers habit, and now this. It’s all too much.

I search through Mum’s underwear drawer and bring her the largest pair of knickers I can find.
I
know what’s age-appropriate, even if she doesn’t.

After she’s wriggled into the pants under cover of the blanket, and claimed to have tripped over the hem of her skirt, and not a table leg, Mum tells me that the reason she was walking around without knickers is due to her sore buttock, and the effect of seams on tender skin.

‘If you say so,’ I say, as the doorbell rings.

It’s Robin, all smiles and bonhomie. Maybe he did some emergency chanting, or divination, and the Buddha revealed that it might be a good idea to turn up and earn some karma points. He sits down next to Mum and takes her hand, smiling devotedly. Then he orders a cup of lapsang souchong from the waitress, i.e. me, and suggests I make Mum some scrambled egg.

‘We need to look after her, Molly,’ he says. ‘She’s had a nasty shock.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Are you going to keep an eye on her for a while, then? Max and I were supposed to be going out tonight, for once. I could come back and relieve you, after we’ve had our meal.’

‘Sorry, Mol,’ says Robin, standing up and reaching for his coat. ‘No can do.’

Then he kisses Mum on the cheek and says, ‘Gotta run, Ma. People to see, places to go – you know how it is. I’m sure Mol will stay overnight. She’s the expert, what with having kids and all.’

It’s a good job he leaves immediately afterwards, or the frenzied fratricide of a Buddhist with a penchant for bling would have been
all over
tomorrow’s papers.

SUNDAY, 10 OCTOBER

I’ve never had such a terrible night’s sleep in my life. I hate staying at other people’s houses, anyway, but why are old people so attached to sheets and blankets? The damn things are accidents waiting to happen, along with table legs.

I was wide-awake for hours after I’d put Mum to bed, wondering what Max was getting up to while I was away, and then – when I did finally fall asleep – I had a nightmare in which I was being made to wear a straitjacket by a bunch of immigration officials, who looked like much less cuddly versions of Igor. They wanted to know where Max had absconded to and who our next-door neighbour was.

Then I thought I heard Mum calling and, when I went to climb out of bed to go to her, I got horribly tangled up in the sheet and ended up falling onto the floor.

Mum heard the crash and came to see whether
I
was okay, so our roles got a bit muddled, to say the least. By the time I’d put
her
back to bed it was already light, so I didn’t bother trying to sleep again. I texted Max instead.

‘I miss you,’ I said, but he didn’t reply. Maybe he was still asleep?

Anyway, now it’s lunchtime, and I’ve just made Mum more scrambled egg, as she says it’s just what you feel like eating when you’re poorly.

‘Good thing Robin reminded me about it,’ she says.

‘Humph,’ I say, as my mobile rings. It’s Robin. Talk of the devil. Or the
Mara
, if we’re speaking Buddhist.

‘Just checking in, Mol,’ he says. ‘Before I go off to the seaside for the day. How’s Ma?’

‘I’ll put her on,’ I say, passing Mum the phone. I stand behind her while she chats, making frantic ‘V’ signs at Robin, until I realise she can see my reflection in the window. She’s a bit off with me after that. It’s a relief when Ted arrives back from his fishing trip in the early evening and offers to give me a lift straight home.