by Polly James
Now she thinks her next-door neighbours are stealing her electricity. She wants them arrested, and if she doesn’t get what she wants, she’ll scream and scream until she makes herself sick – and renders me deaf. That is, if I listen to her, which I have absolutely no intention of doing. Unlike some people, I learn from experience.
So, while Miss Chambers works herself up to full volume, I put the phone down on the desk and head for the kitchen, where I make a coffee and eat one of Greg’s chocolate biscuits – but she’s still screaming when I’ve finished that, so then I go outside and have a cigarette.
I take my time but, even so, she’s still at it when I stick my head back into my office to check; so then I decide that I may as well go to the loo and experiment with my new miracle-working mascara while I’m there. (It doesn’t work miracles at all, I’m disappointed to report.)
Anyway, when I’ve finally run out of places to go and things to do, I resort to blocking her out by listening to Greg’s iPod, which I’ve just found under the sofa in the Oprah room.
I’m having quite a good time, dancing around my desk and miming into the stapler, until Greg comes in from the outer office, removes one of my headphones and says, ‘For Christ’s sake, Mol – is that Miss C? Can’t you get her off the phone? I can hear her at my bloody desk.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say. ‘Hang on. I’ll put Plan B into operation.’
I approach the handset – with extreme caution – and pick it up, while holding it well away from me. Then I start making whistling and chirping noises, which I follow by banging the phone on the desk a few times.
After that, I put the mouthpiece carefully to my lips while swivelling the earpiece away from my ear. ‘Hello? Hello? Miss Chambers? I can’t hear you, I’m afraid.’
This is a complete lie, as the whole building can hear the damned woman by now. No wonder most agencies have stopped accepting her calls. I’d ban them, too, if The Boss wasn’t so worried about losing a vote. (He never believes me when I remind him that Miss C always votes Conservative.)
I put the phone down again, just in time. It’s a fine art, but then I’ve had a lot of practice.
‘Listen to me, Molly Whatever-Your-Name-Is – you stupid woman!’
The phone vibrates and rattles against the desk with that last statement, delivered in Miss Chambers’ convincing version of a sonic boom. Greg looks at me, then I look back at him and nod. It’s time for the last act in this all-too-familiar performance.
‘Oh,’ I say, into the receiver. ‘This phone’s not working. We’ve been cut off.’
Then I slam the phone down, and switch it to answer-phone, quickly, before Miss C rings back. There is a loud chorus of ‘Barking!’ from all the surrounding offices, coupled with sustained applause. It’s satisfying, but only momentarily, and I wish, not for the first time, that I had a nice little job somewhere like Tesco.
Maybe I could get a job at Tesco? At least then I might meet some people during the working day who weren’t actually certifiable. I decide to take an early lunch-break, to explore my options. It is nearly 11:00am, after all.
So much for that idea. Apparently, Tesco don’t need any new employees, so I cheer myself up by spending far too much in Primark, as per usual. I often wonder if it might be an idea to buy fewer clothes at a higher price, but always rule this out pretty quickly. Miss Chambers equals daily stress, which equals the need for immediate retail therapy – so shopping anywhere other than Primark would bankrupt me. Maybe I could get a job in Primark, and cut Miss Chambers out of the equation?
I am cheered by this prospect until I return to my desk, to find twenty-eight messages on the answer-phone. I was only gone for an hour, for God’s sake! Nineteen are from Miss Chambers, becoming ever more glass-shattering with every one.
The other nine are from The Boss, who wants to know if there’s anything we need to speak to him about. There isn’t, as always – so I’d better find him something safe and uncontroversial to do for the rest of the day, before he gets bored and starts giving opinions to the press on anything they ask.
With the thought of that terrifying possibility, today is fast shaping up to be a double Primark day … I wonder what they pay their staff? It can’t possibly be much less than I earn now, but I suppose I really ought to check.
I phone the union, and ask how my earnings compare to shop work.
‘Well, as you’re one of the very lowest-paid employees on the House of Commons payroll, Molly, I’d get that Primark application in pronto, if I were you,’ says Martin, rather too brightly if you ask me.
I’m so stunned that I put the phone down without even remembering to say goodbye. One of the lowest paid? Lowest paid? In the whole House of Commons? A place full of cleaners and catering staff, many imported from the Philippines, and yet I have the honour of being the lowest paid? For putting up with the likes of Miss Chambers all day?
I am collecting a Primark application form on my way home, if they’re still open then. I have a degree and specialist training, and I am too damned good to be working for an MP.
WEDNESDAY, 26 MAY
I’m almost too depressed to write. Primark has no vacancies – and all that discount’s gone out of the window as well. It looks as if I’m stuck with The Boss for the foreseeable future, or at least until IPSA’sfn14 cuts cost me my job.
To make things worse, Mr Beales writes in with yet another problem – the third one in the last ten days. One of his clients won’t pay for her wedding photographs, and Mr Beales encloses copies to illustrate his point. After I’ve taken a look at them, I’m not surprised the poor woman won’t pay: a number of the guests are headless, along with the groom.
I am surprised by one new development, however – Greg and I have always thought that Mr Beales was a school photographer. He seemed well suited for this, in that he most closely resembles a paedophile or, at best, a serial killer. (Greg says that all paedophiles are easily identified by the double bar across the bridge of their metal-framed glasses.)
Anyway, whatever he is, I really can’t be bothered with Mr Beales today, so I just dump his letter and photos into the otherwise-empty filing tray marked ‘Show to The Boss’.
The rest of the day passes without incident until, in the evening, I get another email from Johnny Hunter. A long one, this time suggesting I reply to his email address at work – and the tone is very friendly, if a little boastful. He’s only an International Director for a global oil company!
He’s also married, with four children much younger than mine, which is presumably why he and his wife have managed rather more impressive careers than working for a backbench MP.
Johnny goes on to say that it is ‘the help’ that enables him and his wife to keep flying across the globe with their demanding jobs, by ensuring that their children are well-cared for at the same time. He also says that he can’t afford to downsize to spend more time with his family, as ‘you know what school fees are like’.
I am a gutless hypocrite. I do not say in my reply that of course I do not know, because I am politically (and financially) opposed to private schools; work for a Labour MP, and have put both my kids through the wringer of the state school system because it teaches them important life skills. (Well, that’s what Max and I always tell our posh friends anyway – we don’t mention Josh’s gang lord credentials.)
In response to Johnny, I just wimp out and sympathise with his difficulty, as if I understand it all too well. What on earth is wrong with me? I have about as much idea of what his life is like as he probably has of mine, though I bet his wife doesn’t shop at Primark.
I still have no idea what he looks like, either – though I’m hoping he was that nice one with the dark hair and really blue eyes who used to catch the school bus with me. I’d better check if he wears glasses now, though, and – if so – what the frames are like. You can’t be too careful, in this day and age.
THURSDAY, 27 MAY
I have cheered up slightly. One of t
he girls in Primark tells me that they don’t get staff discount, because the clothes are so cheap already.
However, my good mood doesn’t last past lunchtime, when Greg throws a dart at The Boss’ picture (displayed on the dartboard hidden in the archive cupboard) and it misfires, leaving me with no choice but to take him to A&E.fn15
Now he has an eye-patch, and sang Gabrielle songs in the car all the way home. My ears feel as if they’re bleeding. I wouldn’t mind, but that’s not the end of today’s medical emergencies.
‘I had to go to the doctor today,’ says Dad.
‘Good God, what’s the matter?’ I say.
You can say this to Dad. You never, ever, say it to Mum, unless you have nothing to do for the rest of your life – but Dad never goes to the doctor.
‘Well, I had an erection when I woke up—’ he says, before I manage to interrupt.
‘Way too much information,’ I say.
‘Well, your father’s all man.’ Dad pauses while I make a vomiting noise, and then continues, ‘And, anyway, when I looked down, there it was – all bent.’
‘What?’ I say. (I really should know better by now.)
‘Bent. My pe—’
‘Yeah, okay. Do we have to go into this?’ I say, feeling somewhat desperate.
‘Just listen now, Molly. This is interesting, especially as you work in politics.’
Dad might be right, actually. I’ll be fascinated to know what a bent willy has to do with politics. Not to mention how it persuaded him to visit his doctor on the day it occurred, unlike any of the genuine emergencies he’s ignored in the past.
‘Well, the angle it was at made my penis look foreshortened,’ says Dad, as if that explains everything. Which I suppose it probably does.
‘So what exactly is wrong with you?’ I say.
‘Peroni’s Disease. That’s what Bill Clinton had, so I’m not too worried now. It obviously doesn’t affect performance.’
On that pseudo-political note, Dad rings off, while I wonder why a bent willy would be named after a fizzy beer.
I look it up online and, having discovered that the correct spelling is Peyronie’s, I’m hoping that this will be the last that I hear of Dad’s bent appendage tonight, but Dinah makes sure there’s no chance of that.
‘Have you spoken to Dad?’ she screams down the phone. ‘Disgusting! He’s disgusting. You’ll never guess what he’s just told me—’
‘Yes, Dinah, I know. He’s already phoned me,’ I say. ‘So you really don’t have to—’
‘But don’t you think he’s disgusting?’ she shrieks.
Honestly, I may as well not have said anything at all. Nothing stops Dinah when she’s in full flow.
‘We should bloody well report him to someone. Imagine ringing up your daughters and telling them about your bent willy! Don’t you think we should report him for child abuse, or something like that?’
‘Dinah,’ I say, lighting yet another cigarette, ‘has it occurred to you that both you and I are technically middle-aged? I don’t think child abuse would apply.’
‘Middle-aged?’ she yells; and then she hangs up. Sometimes you’d swear my sister’s in as much denial about the passing of time, as she is about the absence of her husband, John. She says he’ll be back, ‘as soon as he’s accepted the need for self-improvement’, but I doubt he will. He told me he’d had more than enough of Dinah’s ‘helpful hints’.
Imagine being interrupted every five minutes while you’re having sex, by someone saying things like, ‘Top tip: get your bearings first’! Max says he’d rather not.
‘It’s no wonder Di and John only had one child, is it?’ he says, as he makes room for me on the sofa with an obvious sigh – initially of relief, and then of irritation, when the phone starts ringing yet again.
‘My buttock’s still terribly painful,’ says Mum, apropos a greeting.
Christ! Both parents obsessed by their rear ends. It’s all too much.
FRIDAY, 28 MAY
God, I’m depressed. Not only is it Friday, which means that The Boss is here almost all day for his surgery and a seemingly endless series of largely pointless meetings, but I have just worked out that, if I am one of the lowest-paid members of staff on the whole HOC payroll, then that must mean that Greg is being paid more than me.
He’s half my age, and a f*ckwit – a lovable one, admittedly, but I still have to open all his supposedly finished letters when he’s not looking and vet them before I take them to the post.
This is a precautionary measure, brought in after last year’s debacle when Greg libelled the LibDem councillor, and then gave the poor man’s home address to our most violent constituent; and yet he is worth more money than me? I think I may have to go on strike.
I’m a little reluctant to risk direct action, given that there is a recession on, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping everyone else – so I phone Martin and ask him if the union will support me with a mass walk-out if I do strike for a decent wage.
The answer’s not exactly what I hoped. Martin will apparently be behind me ‘one hundred per cent in spirit’, but asks if I realise that the union has no authority over individual MPs – as they are each, effectively, separate small businesses.
When I’ve stopped hyperventilating at this unexpected news, I ask Martin a number of questions, not least of which is why I’ve been bothering to pay my union subs for all these years. He seems oddly reluctant to answer, but says that, as The Boss is a left-wing socialist, I surely don’t need the union to persuade him to do the right thing, anyway. How can a union rep be so bloody naive?
The only highlight of the day is another email from Johnny Hunter, even though he sounds very unimpressed with my job. So am I at the moment, but I would like him to pretend that my working life is slightly more significant in the scheme of things.
I suppose working for an MP isn’t ever likely to sound very impressive to an International Director of a Global Oil Company – I do like that phrase, hence the random capital letters. Johnny probably has hundreds of MPs in his pocket, metaphorically speaking, of course.
It’s just a shame that The Boss is unlikely to be powerful enough to merit being one of them, otherwise Johnny might be able to use his influence to get me a pay-rise. It doesn’t look as if the union’s going to be much help with that.
SATURDAY, 29 MAY
I do wish The Boss wouldn’t phone me on Saturdays. Or at least not ten times, and not in order to say the same thing on every occasion, even if he is enjoying gossiping about the latest parliamentary sex scandal more than is good for him.
If Nan was still alive, she’d tell him that pride comes before a fall, but I can’t be bothered to advise him not to tempt fate – I’m too busy worrying about the night out that Max has planned, even though it’s all my fault for complaining that we have no social life.
I’ve just found out that we’re due to meet his colleagues at a bar, which coincidentally happens to be Josh’s favourite drinking place. This is not promising, as it means that all the women there will be significantly younger than me, if not under-age; and there’ll be acres of highly toned flesh scattered with strategically placed piercings. I shall look like an ageing fish out of water, and Josh will probably mention that no years back for your birthday thing again.
‘What do you think I should wear?’ I say to Max – without much optimism, if I’m honest, but you never know.
‘Oh, anything, darling,’ he says. ‘You always look nice.’
This feels like shorthand for I can’t be bothered to think about it, and is no help whatsoever, so there’s nothing for it but a trying-on session. Also known as a triumph of hope over experience, like all Dad’s marriages so far.
The first outfit I try is too dated, even for me; and the next causes mutton and lamb to spring to mind – simultaneously, which takes some doing – and that’s just the start of the horror. My knees seem to have become baggy overnight, so that rules out most of my dresses; half of w
hich are also too low-cut. When did my chest develop wrinkles?
I keep going in the face of adversity, until I have ruled out almost everything I own, by which time all my clothes are in a heap on the bed, and we are already late. So I cobble together an outfit designed primarily for invisibility, and then slap some make-up on my face. Never experiment when you’re under pressure. A sample sachet of foundation that I found in one of Connie’s magazines causes hundreds of new wrinkles to erupt, so then I wash it off again.
Connie phones, Dad phones, and Mum phones. One eye is still without make-up, and now it’s almost 9:30pm.
‘How does this look?’ I ask Max.
He doesn’t move his eyes from the television. ‘Fine, darling.’
Oh, honestly! I have a large gin, and then Max looks at his watch, says, ‘Christ!’ and rushes upstairs, shouting, ‘What do you think I should wear?’
‘Anything will do,’ I say, as innocently as I can. ‘You always look fine to me.’
This is rapidly revealed to be untrue. Max puts on everything that happens to be clean, which results in a strange, multi-seasonal mix of linen, denim and wool – all in completely different shades of washed-out black and navy. He looks almost as bad as me.
It takes him a further ten minutes to find his shoes under a pile of smelly laundry. By now, it’s 10:30pm, and I decide to lie on the couch and watch television instead. I suspect my partying days are over.
SUNDAY, 30 MAY
I want to be a teenager again, especially since last night’s disaster. They have so much more fun than adults, despite their superficial angst. And it’s not just the constant sex and the taut bodies that I envy, but also the things that they think of to do – and have the nerve to carry out. Josh can create anarchy from the most mundane of tasks.
He decides to join me and Max when we go food shopping today and asks if his best friend Robbie can come along, too – presumably because they’re both intent upon what they apparently call ‘Shopping for Others’.
Max and I watch in disbelief as the boys spend the next hour or so happily putting things into the shopping trolleys of complete strangers when the latter aren’t looking. We don’t know what to do with ourselves when an elderly spinster heads for the checkouts with twenty packets of condoms and some Durex Play gel in hers; and a butch body-builder type looks puzzled at finding lipstick, eye shadow and tampons amidst his other purchases.
