Diary of an Unsmug Married (49 page)

‘Rubbish,’ says Greg. ‘And I knew I should have pushed that horrible Franklin man off the pier when I had the chance.’

Vicky tuts, as if this is further proof of the total incompetence of Andrew’s longest-serving staff, and office morale hits an all-time low. It’s still there at lunchtime when Vicky goes to the hairdresser and Greg to the pub. Then Mr Sampson phones about his long-standing and complicated legal case. The one he told me he’d lost, when I last spoke to him, well over a year ago. Maybe he’s planning to appeal.

‘You were supposed to be sending me something in the post, urgently,’ he says, ‘but it hasn’t arrived.’

This is news to me, so I ask Mr Sampson who he last spoke to.

‘That new girl,’ he says, ‘when she visited me, last week.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what she meant, I’m afraid. I didn’t know there had been any new developments, and there are no recent updates on the computer. Just hang on a moment – I’ll get your file.’

I put Mr Sampson on hold, and head for the filing cabinet. I look through it twice, then on my desk – and in the Oprah room, but there’s no sign of the file anywhere. I promise to phone Mr S back, and search again, still without success. I’m rifling through the paperwork on Greg’s desk when he walks in and asks me what I think I’m doing.

‘Trying to find Mr Sampson’s file,’ I say. ‘Can’t see it anywhere. Have you had it?’

‘No,’ says Greg. ‘Haven’t talked to him myself for ages, but Vicky did visit him last week, now I come to think of it. I remember her moaning that his file was too big when she broke a nail trying to cram it into her briefcase. You’ll have to ask her what she’s done with it, if she ever deigns to come back to work.’

Another hour goes past before Vicky finally does return from having her hair done, and then she claims she gave the file to me. She looks me straight in the eyes while she says this, not that
that’s
ever a reliable indicator that someone’s telling the truth. Steve Ellington
always
does it.

‘It was so that you could do the photocopying,’ she says, while smirking. Fishily – if there
is
a fish that resembles a Madame de Bouffant.

‘What photocopying?’ I say.

‘Mr Sampson gave me a pile of documents to take copies of. Then
you
were supposed to return them by post.’

I look at Greg, who looks back at me. Neither one of us wants to ask the next question but, as usual, I cave in first.

‘Vicky,
please
tell me that these aren’t
original
documents we’re talking about?’ I say.

‘Oh, I should think so,’ she says. ‘Otherwise the constituent wouldn’t be so anxious to have them back, would he?’

Does she
have
to look as if she’s enjoying this quite so much? Sometimes I fully understand axe-murderers – and their motivation.

Greg makes a seemingly endless series of V-signs behind Vicky’s back while I answer the phone to The Boss, who’s now even crosser than he was earlier. Apparently Mr Sampson has given up waiting for me to call him back and has just phoned the London office.

I take a deep breath, and then explain.

‘Well, Molly,’ says Andrew, ‘this is obviously yet another example of your unbelievable incompetence. You’ll just have to explain to Mr Sampson that
you’ve
lost his file, and apologise. Profusely.’

‘Me?’ I say, abandoning my resolution to be nice to Vicky to save my job. ‘It’s not my fault! Mr Sampson gave it to—’

‘Collective responsibility’s the thing,’ interrupts Andrew, before hanging up on me. Now it’s my turn to make V-signs – and mine are even more extravagant than Greg’s.

‘Now what?’ I say, more to myself than anyone else, but Greg replies anyway.

‘Holding manoeuvre,’ he says, in a whisper. ‘Buy some time, so we can find the file.’

He’s right, so I brace myself, then phone Mr Sampson. I cross my fingers, firmly, and tell him that Andrew’s just realised that the file was in his briefcase, which he’s taken with him to London. ‘I’ll have to get the paperwork sent back from there,’ I say. ‘I’m
very
sorry for the delay, but there’s really nothing to worry about.’

I hope there isn’t bad karma for white lies or I am buggered in the next life, as well as this – apparently.

MONDAY, 25 OCTOBER (LATE EVENING)

Vicky still insists she gave me the file, so I’m clinging to the hope that Greg and I will find it and solve the problem, but it’s already almost 10:00pm and we’re still searching the office, while Fish-Face is long gone.

She’s probably refreshing her fake tan tonight, or doing something equally important, whereas Greg and I won’t be going home until we’ve found what we’re looking for.

There’s paper everywhere and the place looks as if it’s been ransacked. We haven’t even had time to discuss what on earth we’re going to do about the most serious problem: Vicky. I don’t know why, but I’m
sure
she lost this file on purpose. So is Greg.

‘Never underestimate a hair-flicker,’ he says, as we admit defeat and lock the office up for the night. ‘That’s the lesson we need to learn.’

‘Or a piranha,’ I say. ‘Did you
see
the way she smiled at me?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s the first time
I’ve
ever heard the theme from
The
Twilight Zone
. I used to think you made that up.’

MONDAY, 25 OCTOBER (MIDNIGHT)

I didn’t think white-lie karma moved so fast. I’ve just got home, to be told by Max that he was made redundant this morning.

‘I need to go back to the office now, in that case,’ I say. ‘It’s even more important that I find this file, if I’m the only one of us with a job.’

Max persuades me to get some sleep first, but he’s being a bit optimistic about my chances of achieving
that …

TUESDAY, 26 OCTOBER

I finally dozed off at about 6:00am, and now I’m awake again, less than two hours later, so I suppose I may as well go into work right now. At least then I can carry on searching for Mr Sampson’s file in peace and quiet until the office opens to the public – and without Vicky watching me while I do it.

So much for that brilliant idea. When I arrive at the office, who should I find sitting in the Oprah room? Only Madam Vick the Flicker of the Hair. Her smile still looks like a piranha’s, too.

‘Morning, Molly,’ she says. ‘See you haven’t visited a beauty salon overnight.’

I make several attempts to kill her using the power of thought, but none of them work, so then I stalk into my office and slam the door. Or I
try
to slam it anyway – but The Boss has left a pile of papers in the way, so the door just hits those and then rebounds and whacks me firmly in the face.

I’m digging around in the fridge for another ice-pop to stop the swelling, when Greg arrives.

‘Morning, all,’ he says, sorting through the mail that I abandoned half-way through dealing with it, when the egg on my forehead began to form.

He gives Vicky a particularly menacing smile, which she repays in kind, and then grabs a parcel from the top of the pile and shouts, ‘Take cover! Parcel bomb!’

It says something about my state of mind that I do as he tells me, without even panicking, but Vicky doesn’t. She stands up and then stops dead in the middle of the Oprah room as Greg throws the parcel – overarm – directly onto the sofa that she’s just vacated. It bounces off a cushion, hits Vicky’s cleavage-enhancing bra, and rebounds straight back into Greg’s outstretched hand.

‘False alarm,’ he says, tearing off the brown paper to reveal a video cassette, while Vicky’s screams slowly subside. ‘It’s not dangerous – unlike people who shaft their colleagues. Or so I hear.’

‘Oh, honestly, Greg,’ I say. ‘Don’t be so flippant. And thank God you were right about that parcel. You could have blown the whole building up if you’d been wrong.’

‘He’s an irresponsible
idiot
,’ says Vicky as she pushes past Greg and heads out of the office, probably on her way to the loo.

He sticks his tongue out at her as she storms off down the corridor, then lowers his voice and says, ‘The corner of the paper was already ripped, Mol – so I could see what it contained before I threw it.’

He winks, then volunteers to make the first round of coffee. We’re going to need plenty of
that
today, given how knackered we are. I’m about to start searching for the file again, when I realise that I haven’t checked my email at all, not once since I heard that Mr Sampson’s file had gone missing.

My inbox is full of new messages, but the first one I open is from Johnny, telling me that I can give him the necklace back when we meet on Friday.
If
he hasn’t managed to persuade me to keep it by then, which he says he’s still determined to do.

I tell Greg, who looks me up and down several times, then says, ‘That man is obviously maddened by lust, though God knows why. You look
appalling
.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But I can’t keep the necklace, can I? What sort of person would I be if I accepted a gift as expensive as that?’

Greg shakes his head in mock-despair, as I notice that the fax machine has jammed, and try to kick it back to life.

‘An intelligent one,’ he says. ‘What’s the point of having a so-called affair with an oil baron when you don’t get any money out of it?’

‘Or any sex,’ I say, kicking the fax machine again, even though it’s already begun to work.

It stops again, presumably in protest, and then remains on strike for the rest of the day; as does Vicky, as far as we can tell. She never returns from her trip to the loo, much to Greg’s irritation.

‘I need to search her briefcase,’ he says, when it gets to closing time, and we still haven’t found Mr Sampson’s file. ‘I’m sure she’s hiding it in there, just to spite us.’

Joan agrees with him. ‘She’s capable of anything, that woman,’ she says, when she comes in to ask why Greg and I are working late again. ‘Pete Carew told me he overheard her telling Andrew he couldn’t trust anyone
months
ago, after GC one night. So it’s probably her who’s been making him paranoid, all along.’

‘She’s having that effect on me,’ I say. ‘Though it’s probably not paranoia if something bad is
guaranteed
to happen to you, is it? Such as me losing my job, if I don’t find this bloody file.’

Joan tries to reassure me that
that
won’t happen, but I’m pretty sure it will. ‘Andrew’ll be even crosser, if he finds out that Greg and I have been so busy searching that we haven’t done any actual work today,’ I say.

I still haven’t responded to a single email, including Johnny’s, or any messages on the answer-phone, and nor has Greg. I haven’t even phoned Dad back after he left a voicemail on my mobile, saying he needed to ‘discuss something important, urgently’. I don’t have time, so I text Dinah, and ask her to ring him instead.

She texts back to say that he didn’t answer, but that she’s emailed him the details of the kitchen worktops she thinks he should choose, anyway, as ‘that’s bound to be what he needed to know’. She adds that she told him to choose ones containing glittery bits, to satisfy any future cravings to become the leader of the Glitter Band. This makes me laugh, then makes me cry. HPD may run in families.

‘Don’t worry, Molly,’ says Joan, giving me a hug. ‘I know you’re stressed, but you can rely on your friends at times like this.’

Now she’s helping in the search, but it’s already really late and we
still
haven’t found the file. We’ve checked every cupboard, every drawer, and emptied all the filing cabinets. And the archive boxes – twice.

Greg’s almost torn the Oprah room apart, and the kitchen cupboards too. We can’t think of anywhere left to look, so finally both he and Joan admit defeat and say goodnight. I am doomed, but too knackered to care, so I’ll think I’ll sit down, just for a minute …

WEDNESDAY, 27 OCTOBER

Bloody hell, the sofa in the Oprah room’s uncomfortable to sleep on. I’ve got a terrible crick in my neck, and God knows what time I finally got home last night, once I woke up from my accidental nap. I probably shouldn’t have bothered leaving the office at all, as now I’m going to be late for work.

‘They’re using printer cartridges to try to blow up planes,’ says Greg, who’s reading the breaking news online when I finally arrive at 9.15. ‘So I think I’ll leave the job of changing the next one to our mutual friend, Victoria.’

That’s not a bad idea, but I am a bit worried about the risks to other less-annoying people, such as Johnny, for example.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t fly to the UK on Friday,’ I say to him, in an email marked ‘high priority’. ‘It sounds as if it could be dangerous.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ he says when he phones me, to avoid the need to type a reply. ‘I’m not going to have our meeting messed up by anything, this time – certainly not by a terrorist threat. Don’t forget I’ve worked in all the major trouble spots of the world.
They’re
usually where oil is found.’

‘Well, don’t mention that to Scotland,’ I say. ‘Or you’ll have Alex Salmond
^fn4
after you.’

Johnny laughs at that, for far longer than I think necessary. Then he says, ‘Why
are
Scottish politicians all named after fish? Isn’t there another one called Sturgeon, or something like that?’

Then he asks me if I like caviar. I do wish he’d take politics a bit more seriously sometimes.

‘Anyway,’ he continues, once I’ve confirmed that it tasted nice, on the one occasion that I’ve eaten it, ‘you should be flattered that I’m willing to risk my life to see you again.
And
suitably grateful, once we finally get into bed.’

On that note of shameless emotional blackmail, he rings off, leaving me in the middle of what I’m sure would qualify as a
very
hot flush. I open the window, stand in front of it and flap my jumper up and down in an attempt to maximise the breeze.

Greg asks what the hell I think I’m doing, so I tell him that I feel very odd indeed.