Diary of an Unsmug Married (48 page)

‘I wonder what they were talking about?’ I say to Max, when Josh has disappeared upstairs to play on his Xbox.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Maybe about what’s going on with you.’

‘What do you mean with me?’ I say. ‘What about you?’

‘Well, with
us
, then,’ says Max, as the front door opens and Connie comes in.

‘I’m hypothermic,’ she says, when asked how she is. She looks perfectly all right to me, which is a bit worrying, with one case of Histrionic Personality Disorder in the family already.

‘Don’t exaggerate,’ I say. ‘You sound like Dinah.’

‘I’m not exaggerating,’ says Connie. ‘I nearly died of cold during the night.’

Given that she made Max and I buy her a million-tog duvet before she left home, I somehow doubt that – so I say as much.

‘Yeah, well, I couldn’t use it, could I?’ she says, as if I should have known.

Children may think their parents are psychic, but when I ask Connie why she couldn’t sleep under her quilt, things are still as clear as mud.

‘Because of the spider,’ she says. ‘On the bedroom ceiling.’

Connie is terrified of spiders due to some unspecified childhood trauma, which probably had something to do with Josh. Most things trace back to him, as far as she’s concerned – but, even so, I’m still confused and so is Max.

‘What’s that got to do with your duvet?’ he says. ‘You usually just trap spiders under a glass and wait for someone else to get rid of them.’

Connie explains that she couldn’t get to sleep while the spider was walking around above her head, so she decided she had to get it down somehow. This was a challenge, as Connie has the same trouble with reaching high ceilings as I do but, eventually, she managed it.

‘I flicked it off the ceiling with a pair of tights,’ she says. ‘But then it landed on my bed.’

‘Well, why didn’t you just flick it off that as well, then?’ says Max. ‘Job done.’

‘That’s what I was
going
to do,’ says Connie. ‘But you know I don’t like hurting anything – so I wrapped it up in the quilt and tried to shake it outside instead.’

‘Well, for God’s sake, Connie, there was no reason why you couldn’t use your bedding once the spider had gone. Even Dinah wouldn’t have made that much fuss.’

‘She would have done if she’d dropped the f*cking quilt out of the window as well,’ says Connie. ‘Into a puddle.’

As Max and I digest this information, Connie says that she’s going upstairs to see Josh, for ‘a brother and sister bonding session’. This lasts for an unusually quiet half an hour, and then they come back downstairs and say that they are inviting us to join in.

‘Let’s have a take-away tonight,’ says Josh. ‘And some beers. Me and Con will pay. Then we can play Monopoly, and remind ourselves how lovely it is to be part of a nuclear family.’

‘Subtle, our children aren’t,’ says Max, much later, as we cuddle up on the sofa, rather drunk. ‘But we
will
be okay – whatever happens with our jobs – as long as we stick together, you know.’

‘I know,’ I say, kissing him.

SUNDAY, 24 OCTOBER

God, I’ve got a terrible hangover. Why on earth did I decide to drink beer instead of gin last night?

Josh is in an even worse state than me, though he denies that it has anything to do with a hangover and claims that he’s just sleep-deprived. He may be, but join the club, as Max would say.

I’m having a lovely dream in which Max and I are renewing our vows, floating on a cloud above a Caribbean island to the accompaniment of a heavenly choir led by our children, when Connie comes barging into our room.

‘Mum!’ she yells as loud as she can in my ear.

Max is still asleep beside me – so why is Connie picking on me? ‘Ouch,’ I say, swatting her away and pulling the pillow over my head. ‘Shush, Connie. My head really hurts.’

‘You’ve got to do something about bloody, bloody Josh, Mum. And do it now!’

‘What?’ I take the pillow off my face, and try to open my eyes, but the light makes them hurt, so I shut them again.

‘Con,’ I say, ‘Josh is probably still out cold, like I was, so I really don’t see the urgency.’

‘My new shoes,’ she says. ‘They’re probably ruined. I come home for one night, for the first time in ages, and he does
this
.’

What is she talking about? I sit up in bed, decide fast moves are a very bad idea and lie down again. Very slowly.

‘Connie, I have a terrible hangover and I feel like death, so just tell me. What have your new shoes got to do with Josh?’

‘They’re in the tree outside his bedroom,’ she says. ‘Come and look, if you don’t believe me.’

She keeps on until she’s woken Max up, too, and then she insists that we follow her downstairs and out into the garden. Once there, we stand and stare upwards in disbelief – at Connie’s new shoes, which really
are
in the tree. Still in their box, though this doesn’t seem to make Connie feel better.

I leave Max trying to shake them down, and head back inside and straight up the stairs to Josh’s room – which smells of teenage boy and far too much beer the night before. Now I feel sick, as well as having the headache from hell.

‘Josh,’ I say, shaking him. ‘Josh! Wake up! Why are Connie’s new shoes in the tree?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ says Josh. ‘I threw the box out there about four o’clock this morning. Now go away and let me go back to sleep. I’m
very
tired.’

‘Why?’ I say, at the same time as Connie and Max, who have now arrived in Josh’s room.

Josh opens one eye, glares at all of us, then sighs as if the answer should be obvious. ‘Because the bloody birds were singing too loud, and the shoebox was the first thing that came to hand,’ he says. ‘Connie shouldn’t have left it in my room.’

‘I’ll get dressed and go and get the ladder,’ says Max. ‘Good morning, one and all.’ There’s a definite
tone
to the way he says it, which sounds like the giving-up of hope.

Josh is still asleep when Connie leaves to catch her train, weighed down by a
heavy-duty sleeping bag as a temporary replacement for her quilt, and still furious about her shoes.

‘They looked all right to me,’ says Max, carrying the ladder back to the shed. ‘Though it’s a good job it didn’t rain. Don’t pull that up, Mol – it’s not a weed.’

I’ve just remembered that it’s Sunday, when the bins are due to be put out, so I’m trying to find an excuse to remain in the garden as long as Max does. I’m not having a naked Ellen ruin the
rapprochement
our children seem to have worked so hard to help us achieve.

I look up at Ellen’s bedroom window, just to check, but there’s no sign of her, naked or otherwise – though she could have dived behind the curtains if she’d spotted me. Probably best not to take any risks.

‘How’s the garden doing, Max?’ I say, wandering casually around, and then trying to hide myself in a rather attractive purple shrub, out of Ellen’s line of vision, just in case.

‘Be careful,’ he says, at the same time as I say, ‘Ow.’

That’s just typical, isn’t it? The only plant big enough to provide cover for a very small person, and it has to be a berberis. Prickles everywhere, unlike Ellen’s bloody cactus.

‘What are you doing, Mol?’ says Max. ‘You know that plant’s spiky. It’s why we planted it – to deter Steve Ellington from burgling us again.’

‘Allegedly,’ I say – referring to Steve’s part in the burglary, and not the planting of the berberis.

I wish we hadn’t planted it now, seeing as it’s just ripped my skirt and a pair of my new lacy pants – not that Max seems to notice
them
. He’s too busy looking at me as if I am mad, so I dab the blood off my leg with the hem of my skirt and look around for inspiration. There must be another plant big enough to lurk behind.

‘What the hell is this?’ I say, picking up a tangled brownish mass of foliage that appears to be comprehensively dead, albeit one that’s still encased in a rather nice pot.

‘Oh,’ says Max. ‘Ah. Um – that’s the plant you bought me for our anniversary. I think I may have forgotten to plant it. Or to water it, actually.’

I look at him, then down at the dead plant, then back at him. I’m trying to avoid recognising this latest metaphor for my life, but the bloody things just will not stop making their presence felt.

‘So,’ I say, very slowly. ‘I buy you a passionflower for our anniversary. And then you kill it – by neglect?’

Max winces, as he nods his head, and all Josh and Connie’s efforts go to waste.

MONDAY, 25 OCTOBER

Well, if today is anything to go by, there’s no
way
these NHS reforms are going to work. Not that I should care, given that I probably won’t have a job in politics for much longer, thanks to those bloody GPs at Silverhill Surgery. Talk about people not wanting to take responsibility!

The Boss phones from Westminster, just after 11:00am. ‘Molly,’ he says. ‘I’m faxing you a copy of a letter I’ve just opened. Phone me back as soon as you’ve got it – and be ready to explain yourself.’

He sounds so angry that I head for the fax machine straight away and then stand there fretting while it prints out a five-page letter. The damn thing seems to take forever.

I’ve only just begun to read it, when Andrew calls me back. ‘Stop the delaying tactics,’ he says, ‘and tell me what the hell you thought you were playing at? You’ve only gone and upset an entire medical practice, you bloody idiot.’

‘What?’ I say, still trying to make sense of the letter. I can’t believe what I’m reading – which is saying something, given the total lunacy of fifty per cent of the mail we receive on a daily basis.

The Practice Manager accuses me of irresponsibility, and tells Andrew that the Practice does not appreciate its doctors being made ‘apologists for systems created by politicians’. For God’s sake.

Apparently, it was completely unacceptable for me to have suggested to Mr Franklin that his wife should go back to see her GP if she thought her condition was worsening – so that the GP could then advise the hospital, if
he
felt she needed to see a consultant more quickly.

‘But, Andrew,’ I say, ‘I don’t understand what’s so bad about what I did.
I’m
not a doctor – and nor are you. Mr Franklin wanted us to
order
the hospital to see her more quickly. How was I supposed to know if that was justifiable or not?’

‘That’s not the point,’ says The Boss. ‘You’ve pissed off every doctor in the whole practice. They’ve all signed the letter of complaint, individually!’

They
have
, which makes me almost as cross as Andrew, though for different reasons.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I say, ‘I didn’t put it in the way that they’re saying I did, anyway – and, seeing as they’re doctors, they must
surely
be able to tell that Mr F is a total nutter, who’d tell anybody anything to get what he wants.’

Andrew doesn’t say anything, but I can feel that he doesn’t give a damn whether I’m being unjustly accused or not. He just wants the problem solved – as usual.

I’m so furious that I can’t let it go though, so I carry on regardless: ‘I would have thought that someone from the Practice would have phoned to ask me what I’d
actually
told Mr F before they kicked off like this, if only out of professional courtesy,’ I say. ‘That’s what I would have done in their place. I
always
try to check the facts before I accuse anybody of anything.’

Even Josh and Connie would agree with that last statement, but it cuts no ice at all with Andrew.

‘I don’t care what your excuse is, Molly,’ he says. ‘I can’t afford to have a vocal bunch of bloody doctors against me, so you will write to them today and apologise. Grovel, in fact. And I want you to fax me a copy of the letter before you post it, so I can see whether this was only a one-off cock-up, or if you’re as crap at your job as I’ve been hearing you are.’

‘From Vicky, I suppose,’ I say, as I notice that she’s standing in the doorway, listening in and smiling.

I glare at her, which sends her scuttling back into the Oprah room, and then I type the most over-the-top apology anyone has
ever
written, while swearing under my breath and willing all her stupid nails to fall off.

Greg gives me a questioning look, but I’m not saying anything else that Vicky might overhear – so I just hand him the letter from the surgery, together with a copy of my reply. He winces as he reads them both, then sucks air in through his teeth.

He’s obviously about to say something he shouldn’t, so I put my finger to my lips and shake my head, at which point he starts scribbling on a piece of paper. Then he holds up the result for me to read.

‘Total f*ckers,’ it says.

That analysis makes me feel a lot better, so I’m much calmer by the time The Boss phones back again, after I’ve faxed him a copy of my apology.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Get it in the next post – I don’t want this hanging around until the end of the day. Let’s just hope it does the trick. I can’t be doing with a posse of bloody GPs fomenting trouble in Lichford at the moment. They’re far too damned articulate at the best of times.’

‘Oh, I should think they’ll be too busy to worry about you soon,’ I say. ‘Seeing as they’re going to be running the entire NHS, if the Coalition gets its way.’

‘They’re going to find
that
a bit of a challenge, aren’t they?’ says Greg, as I put the phone down. ‘If they can’t even handle justifying their own diagnoses to their patients.’

I don’t reply, as that seems the safest bet with Vicky still in earwig mode. Instead, I run downstairs to post the letter – and to smoke a cigarette.

You’d think I’d want to avoid doing
anything
that might make me need a doctor after what’s just happened – but every unhealthy drag feels like sweet revenge. Smokers’ logic is seriously warped. A bit like that of some GPs.

When I return to the office, Vicky’s still gloating. ‘That’s why Andy needs
me
, Molly,’ she says. ‘Because I am so much more trustworthy than you.’