Diary of an Unsmug Married (51 page)

The Boss looks backwards and forwards between me and Vicky as if in a daze, then shakes his head and says, ‘I’m sick of not being able to trust people. If I were you, Molly, I’d go home – right now – and consider your position. Seriously.’

Greg starts to protest, but I have had enough. ‘Oh, I will,’ I say. ‘And I suggest you consider yours too. Nice earrings, by the way, Vicky. I see Andrew gave you back the one you lost down the side of the sofa – there’s probably another pair embedded in Joan’s hedge.’

I feel quite triumphant as I grab my coat and bag and head for the door but, by the time I’ve arrived home, I’m a mess and in no doubt at all about what my position is: absolutely bloody buggered. It’s karma, for planning to meet Johnny tomorrow and being horrible to Max when he was just being kind. Or ‘a star’ – as Sam would put it.

‘I’m calling to say thanks for the invite to Max’s birthday party,’ he says, when he phones early evening, while Max is still at work. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Is the man himself available for a chat?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s working late a lot at the moment, even though he’s just found out that he’s being made redundant.’

‘Good God,’ says Sam, proving yet again that he and Max hardly ever speak to each other.

You’d swear phone calls between male ‘best friends’ were limited by law to four a year. By the time I’ve finished explaining what’s happened to Max’s job, Sam is late for yet another blind date, so I don’t have time to tell him that I may have just lost mine as well.

‘See you on Saturday, then,’ I say. ‘Want me to give Max a message, when he gets home?’

‘Yes,’ says Sam. ‘Tell him I meant to thank him for that fantastic excuse he gave me to escape from Shona. Worked a treat. I even got out with my saintly reputation intact.’

When he tells me that Max suggested that he should claim that his grandmother had gone into a coma, I start considering my options, as well as my position.

‘It was a diabetic hyper, or a hypo,’ Sam continues. ‘I can’t remember which now, but I got the right one at the time. Anyway, it was a brilliant cover story – so good, Max almost had me convinced when he described it to me.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He’s good at that.’

FRIDAY, 29 OCTOBER

Well, that’s just typical, isn’t it? I get sacked, and – on the very same day – two of the most annoying birds in Lichford get killed, with one particularly well-aimed stone. Metaphorically speaking, of course – not that
that’s
much bloody comfort.

I’m just preparing to line Charlie’s litter tray with the front page of yesterday’s paper, when I spot an article on page two headed, ‘Animal lover discovers cannabis factory on her doorstep.’

One of the accompanying photographs shows Mr Meeeeurghn being led away by several police officers (all wearing high-vis jackets). The other features Miss Emms, his ‘vigilant neighbour’. She’s grinning like a maniac and holding several guinea pigs in her arms. She looks far more psychotic than they do.

I’m still banging my head on the table when Max appears and asks me what I’m doing.

‘Thinking how lucky some people are,’ I say, meaning Greg and Vicky, whose workload’s just been cut by half.

Max waits for me to explain – but, when it becomes clear that I have no intention of doing so, he changes the subject. ‘Why did you go to bed so early last night?’ he says. ‘I thought you’d still be up when I got home from the hospital. Mrs Bloom’s doing really well.’

He almost believes in that made-up woman himself, doesn’t he?

‘Oh, good. I’m
so
glad,’ I say, which earns me a sigh and a funny look from Max, who decides that now might be a very good time to take a shower.

When he comes back downstairs a little later and finds me still sitting at the table in my pyjamas, drawing a handlebar moustache on Mr Meeeeurghn, he asks why I’m not ready for work.

I say that I’m not feeling well, and leave it at that. My options will stay far more open if Max has no idea that I’m considering them – or of what they might be.

‘’Bye, then,’ he says. ‘See you later?’ He makes it sound like a question but, again, I don’t answer. Who knows where I’ll be, by the end of tonight? I certainly don’t, not that Dinah cares. She’s only bothered about Dad’s whereabouts.

‘Molly,’ she says, when she calls my mobile, towards the end of the afternoon, ‘why the hell aren’t you at work? I phoned your office because I thought that’s where you’d be.’

‘Ah, well, that’s because—’ I say, when Dinah interrupts.

‘It doesn’t matter now, you idiot,’ she says. ‘You won’t believe this!’

‘Oh, I probably will,’ I say. ‘Nothing surprises me any more.’

This is obviously not the right answer, as Dinah huffs in outrage. I keep forgetting she has a legitimate medical reason for being dramatic.

‘Stop talking,’ she says. ‘And listen. It’s Dad. I’ve just been to visit him.’

She pauses, but I’m doing as I’m told, so I don’t say a thing.

‘Are you still there?’ says Dinah, so then I compromise and make a number of vague but encouraging noises. These seem to do the trick, and so she carries on: ‘He’s not there. I had a feeling he was up to something again!’

‘He’s
always
up to something,’ I say. ‘DIY, at the moment, and fishing, apparently.’

Or apparently not, when Dinah finally gets to the point. ‘There’s a “For Sale” sign outside his house!’ she says. ‘And he’s gone back to bloody Thailand again – to live, this time. His next-door neighbours knew
all
about it.’

I’m still getting over the shock of that, when Dinah makes a choking sound.

‘You okay, Di?’ I say.

‘No-o-o,’ she says, gasping and snorting. ‘We’ve lost him all over again, Mol. How many times is this going to happen? I’m
tired
of not having a normal family with only two parental figures!’

I know what she means, but I wish I didn’t. Now all I can think of are Connie and Josh, saying the same thing – when Max either runs off with Annoying Ellen, or I bugger off to Russia to be with Johnny.

‘People are supposed to
mean
their marriage vows,’ says Dinah, before sobbing gets the better of her and she hangs up.

I haven’t heard her cry like that since
her
mother and Dad divorced. It’s disconcerting, even allowing for the HPD. I consider emailing Dad to try to find out what’s going on, but then decide I can’t be bothered, when faced with the contents of my inbox: about twenty-five emails from The Boss, and the same number from Greg, all telling me to contact the office. Greg has sent a similar number of texts, as well – all during the relatively short time that I’ve spent talking to Di.

There’s no time to read any of them now, even if I wanted to, as I’ve got to get ready. Johnny’ll be arriving at his hotel in just over an hour.

‘No second thoughts?’ he says in a text, responding to mine imparting the news about Dad. ‘I hope you’re not going to change your mind.’

I’m not, though Josh is trying his best to change it for me. You’d almost think he
knew
what I’m planning to do.

‘What are you so dressed up for?’ he says, as he walks past and sees me checking my reflection in the wardrobe mirror.

‘A meeting,’ I say, poking at what appears to be a stray chin hair, but turns out, on closer inspection, to be an eyelash that’s fallen out. ‘With an energy supplier.’

‘Hmm,’ says Josh. Then, ‘Where’s Dad? Wouldn’t it be nicer to spend an evening in with him? It’d make a change, after the last week or so.’

‘I thought you didn’t like change,’ I say, neatly side-stepping both his questions. I have no idea of the answer to either.

‘I don’t,’ Josh says, then turns away, mumbling something which sounds oddly like ‘
That’s
my point.’

I’m spared the need to reply when my taxi arrives and the driver honks his horn. Josh doesn’t answer when I shout upstairs to say goodbye.

The cab hasn’t even reached the end of the road before my mobile begins to ring.

‘Mum,’ says Connie. ‘Josh says you’re going out without Dad.
And
that you look really nice.’

I wish I could see what she’s doing, right now. I
bet
she’s talking into her sleeve.

FRIDAY, 29 OCTOBER (LATER, THOUGH GOD KNOWS WHEN)

Johnny greets me in the hotel lobby as if we really
are
meeting for a discussion of the price of oil. He even shakes hands, before leading me into the lift and waiting until the doors have closed. Then he takes my face in his hands, and kisses me, very hard.

I stop the kiss before it really gets going, as I can’t breathe properly. The lift just keeps on going up and up.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I hate lifts. I’ll be all right again, once we get out.’

I’m not, though, not once I see the suite that he’s booked. I’m completely overwhelmed. Plate-glass windows overlook one bank of the River Ease, and I can see the lights of Lichford stretching away on the other side. I can even see the office, and make a good guess as to the roof of my house.

I turn my back on the view and look instead towards the table, which is laid with starched white linen and a number of plates hidden beneath shiny, domed metal covers. They glint like the polished cutlery, and the antique silver candelabra. It holds five thin, tapered beeswax candles.

As Johnny lights the first one, there’s a very loud
bong
. It’s as if he’s taking part in a religious ritual.

‘What’s that?’ I say, as there is another
bong
.

‘I don’t know,’ says Johnny, his words followed by
bong, bong, bong, bo-o-ong
. ‘I think it might be church bells ringing.’

Bong, bong, bong, bong
.
Bong, bong, bong, bong. Bong, bong, bong, bong.

Oh,
God
. They must be practising for a wedding tomorrow.

‘Did
you
have a church wedding?’ I say to Johnny, who looks at me as if I am insane.

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but I don’t want to talk about the past tonight. I want to talk about the future.
Our
future, specifically.’

‘Ah,’ I say. I didn’t have a church wedding, but I assume the vows are the same, wherever you make them. Johnny waits for me to elaborate, but when I don’t, he raises his eyebrows, then pours me a glass of champagne.

‘I thought we’d stay in the suite this evening,’ he says. ‘So that’s why I ordered a buffet. That way we can decide whether to eat first … or afterwards. Listen to this. I brought it with me specially.’

He walks over to a very sophisticated wall-mounted stereo system, and presses a button. Music begins to play, almost drowning out the sound of bells.

‘Recognise the song?’ he says, putting his arms around my waist, and pulling me close. I nod, and then he says, ‘Dance with me.’

I put my head on his shoulder, and we start to sway. It’s like the end of the fifth-form disco again, but without the Babycham-fuelled nausea.

‘You’re even more beautiful than you were then,’ says Johnny, into my ear. ‘And
I
am even more turned on.’

‘What’s different about you?’ I say, standing back to look at him. ‘Oh, it’s your glasses. Where’ve they gone?’

‘Contacts,’ he says. ‘Seemed the safest bet. I get to see your face clearly when I kiss you, but without any more accidents. Let’s put the theory to the test.’

He starts to kiss me but, when I open my eyes to look at him, it’s not his face that I see. It’s Max’s, though
his
eyes are firmly closed – thank God. I blink several times, to make him go away.

I keep my eyes shut when Johnny begins to kiss me again. ‘Turn round,’ he says. ‘I want to undress you, bit by bit.’

He pulls down the zip of my dress, and then everything starts slowing down, except for my thoughts.
They
are racing everywhere.

By the time I’m down to my underwear, my tights left in a ball somewhere behind the sofa, and my dress abandoned God knows where, we’ve made it across the suite and into the bedroom.

The lights are lower in here, which is obviously a good thing due to Johnny’s bloody contact lenses. I bet he can spot even
microscopic
hairs with those.

‘How good are they close up?’ I say. ‘What exactly can you see?’

‘This,’ he says, turning me around so that we are both facing the mirror above the dressing table. ‘The stuff of fantasy.’

He can’t be seeing what I’m seeing, then. Connie and Josh’s faces have just popped up, behind our heads. Their mouths are open, in big round ‘O’s, like cartoon characters, and they look
appalled
. So am I.

‘Bugger off,’ I say. Aloud, by accident.

‘What?’ says Johnny.

‘Not you,’ I say, turning my back on the mirror, and doing some more furious blinking. ‘Sorry. I was just worrying about something.’

Johnny pulls me down to sit next to him, on the bed. ‘Well, stop it,’ he says. ‘I’m serious about you, you know that. This is not just a fling for me.’

‘Hm,’ I say, covering myself with the sheet, though I have no idea why. Then I add, ‘Sorry, Johnny. I’m just not used to having sex, that’s all. Well, not outside my marriage, you know.’

Nor in it recently, but it wouldn’t be fair to tell him that.

He hugs me, as if he understands what I mean anyway. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘But, if it’s any comfort, I just got my AIDS test results back last week.’

Now it’s my mouth that’s forming a giant ‘O’, while I look at Johnny, look away, and then look back again. Several times.

‘What?’ I say, once I get a grip. ‘
What
sort of test? What are you talking about?’

‘An AIDS test,’ says Johnny. ‘Like I said. I have them every year. What are you doing?’

He tries to stop me as I bounce off the bed, but I wriggle out of his grasp and race out of the bedroom.

‘What the hell does it look as if I’m doing?’ I say, as he follows me, and then stands still, watching while I try to untangle my tights. ‘I am
out
of here.’

‘Why?’ says Johnny, to the accompaniment of those bloody bells. ‘What have I done?’