by Polly James
The most stressful moment comes when I notice a large leg of pork being covertly added to the contents of a trolley belonging to a hijab-clad middle-aged woman, at which point Max decides enough is enough and calls a halt. I think he secretly enjoys the whole experience as much as I do, though, because he’s still laughing when we reach the car park.
‘That’s what we need,’ I say. ‘More excitement in our lives.’
Max nods in agreement, rather too vigorously for my liking, but doesn’t make any suggestions as to how this laudable aim might be achieved. Then, once we’ve unpacked the shopping, he turns the television on, and is fast asleep within ten minutes.
Just the thought of excitement is probably enough to have tired him out, unlike Johnny International Director of a Global Oil Company Hunter, who tells me that he’s been away for the last few days, globetrotting across Eastern Europe again. Apparently, this wasn’t as enjoyable as it sounds, or so he claims.
He says that Johnny hates hotel rooms, and wonders whether I do too. I’ve only ever stayed in a really posh hotel once, and that was on my wedding night, when Dad accompanied Max and I upstairs to our room after the reception, and then waltzed inside when we carelessly opened the door a little too wide.
After he’d made himself comfortable on the bed, he proceeded to order blithely from room service, while asking our advice on how to ‘manage Dinah and her tantrums’. Max and I finally got rid of him at 3:00am, so we weren’t even earning gold stars on our wedding night, which probably should have been seen as a portent of things to come. Or not, if you’ll forgive the pun.
It’s not as if I even get to stay in decent hotels because of work. At conference,fn16 we’re lucky to get booked into a broom cupboard – so I have no experience of the high-life at all, which does rather lessen the sympathy I feel for Johnny.
He and I have nothing whatsoever in common, now I come to think of it; and, to make matters worse, he wants to know what I look like these days, and whether I still have ‘that amazing hair and those incredible legs’. I seriously doubt it, but I’m more worried by the fact that I still can’t remember who on earth he is.
He could turn out to be the human equivalent of a surprise leg of pork: a crazed internet stalker or – even worse – a constituent playing mind games. That would be far too much excitement, even if it would be just my luck.
MONDAY, 31 MAY
The weather’s getting warmer, so now we have to listen to Annoying Ellen’s sex-life on a regular basis. She must be pretending she’s enjoying it. I’ve never heard anyone make so much noise in my life.
I thought one of her toy-boys was killing her the first time she started yelling like that, but now I think she’s just doing it to get attention, especially as she’s pushed her bed in front of the window – which she makes a point of opening before she entertains.
Max seems to be spending a long time in the garden in the evenings, watering the plants – or so he says. He comes back indoors with a stupid, dreamy look on his face. Honestly, men are such suckers. Why can’t Ellen just die – preferably in silence?
At least she’s reminded me about the gold stars, though, so I decide to have a very early night in the hope of persuading Max that we should earn another one. My plan is going very well too until I make the fatal mistake of mentioning the stars, after we get into bed.
‘What?’ he says. ‘You’re awarding marks for performance now?’
‘No, of course I’m not,’ I say, though I’d probably have done better to omit the ‘of course’ from that sentence. Max glares at me, then waits to hear what I come up with next.
‘I’m carrying out a sociological study,’ I say. ‘Which will be of immense value to market researchers who have to assess how often the nation is having sex.’
‘For God’s sake, Mol,’ he says. ‘I bet other people’s wives don’t keep records.’
‘Probably too busy doing it,’ I say – at which Max emits an unfeasibly loud sigh, and then turns his back on me. He starts snoring almost immediately, so no stars are earned tonight for any reason.
It takes me ages to fall asleep and, even when I do, I doze fitfully for an hour before waking up in a panic. Now I know who Ellen reminds me of – a blonde James Blunt!
It’s a question that has been bugging me for weeks, but sometimes ignorance is bliss. If Max fancies Ellen, and Ellen looks exactly like a man, does this mean that Max is gay, and is that why we have no sex? Oh, my God.
CHAPTER TWO
June
(Which, appropriately enough, rhymes with ‘loon’.)
TUESDAY, 1 JUNE
Greg tries very hard to distract me from worrying about Max and the blonde James Blunt by spending the morning holding forth about how badly MPs’ staff are paid. (Some of us rather more than others, actually.) Then, in the afternoon, he proposes his latest economic theory: that every pound he pays in tax goes direct to Liverpool to be spent on shell-suits.
‘Maybe you should check that with the Chancellor of the Exchequer before you broadcast it to anyone else,’ I say. ‘Just to make sure that you’re right about it.’
‘Don’t be silly, Molly,’ says Greg. ‘I’d be accused of being politically incorrect if I did that. Which I’m not – am I?’
‘No,’ I say, not because he isn’t, but because it’s obviously the answer that is required. Never say I don’t try my best to give people what they want – unless their name is Mr Beales.
He phones just before the office closes for the day. ‘Has your boss written my reference for the court yet?’ he says.
‘What reference?’ I say, but then wish I hadn’t. There are some things a person is far better off not knowing. Such as the fact that Andrew has – apparently – agreed to write to the judge on Mr Beales’ behalf.
‘But why?’ I say. (I can’t help myself.) ‘What on earth has he agreed to do that for?’
‘To confirm the excellence of my photographs, of course,’ says Mr Beales, who may be the world’s worst photographer, but who still knows far more about the subject than Andrew does.
WEDNESDAY, 2 JUNE
I am reading the local paper for references (favourable or otherwise) to The Boss, when I come across the wedding photographs section. There are twelve photos, mainly of plumpish, blonde-streaked women marrying shiny-faced, gel-haired men. Four couples are, however, headless.
I look at the picture credits. Sure enough, the decapitated newly-weds are attributed to one Edmund Beales, so I photocopy the page and fax it to the House of Commons – marked for the urgent attention of The Boss – together with a copy of the draft reference for Mr B. I scrawl, ‘Re-think advised’ across the top.
Then Greg takes the original page from the paper, masks out the credits with dollops of Tippex, and sticks it onto the wall. He says that, from now on, our team-building activity will no longer be darts, with a photo of The Boss denoting the bull’s-eye, as this is ‘too dangerous to hardworking people’. (Greg’s eye-patch is still in place.) From now on, the game is to be: Guess which Photos Are the Work of Mr Beales?
After the next five people to visit the office identify the correct photographs without any hesitation, Greg admits defeat, and heads for the pub for a medicinal gin. Upon his return, he decides to avoid further references to the abject failure of the Mr Beales game by decreeing that we will watch PMQsfn1 online.
The whole Commons Chamber is already full of MPs hoping to appear dynamic in front of their constituents on live television. We can’t find The Boss, though, until I finally spot him half-way along the opposition benches. He is sitting slumped in his seat.
‘Oh, Christ,’ says Greg.
We both know all too well what usually happens next, so I send Andrew a text saying, ‘Sit up straight!’
Within the next five minutes Mr Beales, Miss Chambers and Miss Harpenden all phone to complain that The Boss is not taking his duty to the taxpayer seriously, as he is ‘obviously taking a nap’. Miss Harpenden adds that, in such an old
building, there could easily be rats running around his feet while he sleeps, putting him at risk of plague.
Meanwhile, there is no reply at all from Andrew to my text, so I send another five in quick succession. They all say the same thing – ‘Wake up!’ – but have no discernible effect, as he sinks lower and lower in his seat, and the calls from disgruntled constituents continue.
After half an hour or so, I’m pretty sure I can see a trickle of drool on The Boss’ chin. That man’s becoming more of a liability by the day, though there are people far more dangerous than him on the loose. While the Prime Minister has been taking questions, a man armed with a shotgun has run amok in a small town up north, and has already killed several people, and injured considerably more.
‘Greg,’ I say, ‘we have to wake The Boss up now. It looks terrible when he sleeps through an event of national significance.’
‘Ssh, Molly!’ Greg waves at me to go away. ‘I am waiting to see if the new Minister to the Treasury is going to use the question I proposed he should ask the PM. He invited suggestions on Twitter, you see.’
‘Let’s hope The Boss never starts doing that,’ I say, refusing to budge. ‘And, anyway, Greg – you don’t even live in the Minister’s constituency, so what did you want him to ask on your behalf?’
‘I merely required specific details as to the percentage of my tax that is spent on shell-suits,’ says Greg. ‘I changed my mind about wanting to know. It’s an important issue, after all.’
He leans forward and turns up the volume on his computer, as a subtle hint that I, less subtly, refuse to take.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Greg,’ I say, ‘Don’t you think today’s terrible events should take precedence over clothing?’
‘I bet the man with the gun is wearing a bloody shell-suit,’ says Greg, to whom the concept of political correctness is becoming ever more alien by the day.
THURSDAY, 3 JUNE
What on earth do the girls in the Westminster office do? Are they completely hopeless? Just before lunchtime, I receive an email from Carlotta saying that she’s booked Mr Beales in for tomorrow’s surgery, as Greg and I aren’t answering the phone.
Wrong, you dingbat. Greg and I are screening the calls – which is a completely different thing – with the sole aim of avoiding having to give Mr Beales yet another surgery appointment so soon after the last one.
We do try to leave the odd slot free for people with real problems, but it’s a constant battle, even without the ‘help’ of the girls in London. Not that Carlotta accepts that this is the case. She says she is going to complain about us to The Boss – for abdicating our responsibilities.
‘I should not have to speak to people who are so rude that they make me cry,’ she says.
It turns out that she doesn’t mean Greg, but Mr Beales, though I can’t believe that she thinks he’s rude. He’s a rank amateur compared to most of the usual suspects – and doesn’t she realise that she wouldn’t have a job if it weren’t for those ‘nasty constituents’ anyway?
‘Those people are for you and Greg to deal with,’ she says. ‘I have Andrew’s speeches to write, as well as important research to do.’
‘Carlotta, Andrew’s a backbencher, for God’s sake, and no one in the Commons ever listens to a word he says,’ I say. ‘He doesn’t really need a researcher, let alone one who writes speeches. Or he wouldn’t, if he’d shut up occasionally. He could easily manage with just Marie-Louise in London, doing his diary.’
This doesn’t go down very well, and Carlotta does one of those exaggerated Spanish sighs that she’s so good at.
Sighing’s one of the few things she is good at, now I come to think of it – the value of Andrew’s London-based staff being mainly decorative as far as anyone can tell. And I do wish both she and Marie-Louise would use pseudonyms when they talk to constituents. At least that would stop the usual suspects moaning that The Boss only employs ‘foreigners’ in his Westminster office. He doesn’t, though he does insist on long legs and an appearance which won’t embarrass him at the Cinnamon Club. (It may be a coincidence, but I’ve just realised that neither Greg nor I have ever been invited there.)
I probably shouldn’t have mentioned this inexplicable oversight to Greg, as he’s already furious with Carlotta, not just because she agreed to give Mr Beales another surgery appointment, but also because she apparently claimed to be in charge of all Andrew’s staff while doing so. Now Greg’s even more determined to get his own back, to teach Carlotta to know her place in what he calls ‘the complex hierarchy caused by Andrew’s anarchic staffing arrangements’.
‘What do you mean, “complex hierarchy”?’ I say. ‘It’s simple: Carlotta’s in charge in London – of herself and Marie-Louise. I’m in charge in Lichford. Of you and me. No one’s in overall control.’
‘Just like the Coalition,’ says Greg, ‘but that’s not what I mean and, anyway, you’re only nominally in charge of me. Whoever is Goldenballs is really the person in charge, and – as we both know – that title can change hands at a moment’s notice. You may be Andrew’s favourite at the moment, Mol, but you know the good times can’t last forever.’
On that chilling note, Greg decides that now is the perfect time to phone the Westminster office – while both girls are out for their no-doubt glamorous lunch in the House. Then he leaves twenty-five ‘messages’ on their answer-phone.
These involve little more than bouts of heavy breathing, coupled with the odd menacing grunt and barking noise. I really, really hope Greg remembered to press 141fn2 before dialling each time.
‘Very satisfying,’ he says, when he’s finished. ‘That’ll teach Carlotta to think she’s in charge of me. I suppose we’d better turn our answer-phone off now.’
Big mistake. The first call is from Miss Chambers, complaining that the police aren’t taking her latest incident report seriously and are trying to imply that she ‘should stop making enemies’.
She goes on to say that she has never upset anyone, which is so delusional as to be almost funny – until she asks ‘what kind of madman’ would post dog poo through her letter-box? I don’t tell her that I am sitting in the office with exactly such a man.
I know you can lie by omission, but it doesn’t feel as bad as the proper out-and-out kind of lying, does it? And, anyway, Miss C deserves it – though I’m not quite sure that Max does too.
I still haven’t got round to telling him about Johnny Hunter, though I don’t know why, other than I keep forgetting to. But now, I’m not at all sure that I should – not after reading the email that Johnny sends me tonight. I have a very odd feeling he may be flirting with me.
He’s finally sent me a photograph of himself, too, but that’s a bit of a disappointment. He’s definitely not the dark-haired, blue-eyed one from the school bus but (just my luck) the mousy paper-boy. He’s sitting in a mid-life crisis-style car, looking disturbingly like President Putin; though I suppose if you live and work in Russia, it’s quite a good idea to look like someone who’s well-connected. I wonder if Johnny looks as good as Putin in a judo suit.
Even if he doesn’t, my life still seems horribly pedestrian in comparison to his. (Johnny’s, I mean, not the President’s, though I suppose that both would apply.) He seems to be on a plane almost as often as he is on land; and says that he’s working flat-out so that he can retire at fifty-five.
I haven’t even decided what I want to do when I grow up yet, and my pension’s going to be worth nothing, especially now that IPSA’s making The Boss pay for it.
On top of that, I bet Max will trade me in before much longer – probably for Annoying Ellen, if the sit-ups and mooning around in the garden are anything to go by. Then I won’t even get half of his lousy pension, and will have to work until I drop (or The Boss does – whichever comes first).
At that point, I’ll probably have to opt for some DIY euthanasia when I can’t face another day without heat or food, spent wrapped in a blanket and wearing an incontinence pad.
It’s quite nice to have an International Director of a Global Oil Company flirting with me in the meantime, though. It makes a change – though I do wish I could recall what the hell we did behind the Science block.
FRIDAY, 4 JUNE
Oh God, I hate Fridays. I bet other people love them, but then they don’t work for an MP, do they? Whoever thought it would be a good idea to designate Friday as ‘spending time in your constituency day’ ought to be shot. Several times, if possible.
I’m on the phone to DEFRAfn3 this morning when The Boss arrives, dumps his briefcase on my desk and opens it. A crumpled shirt and five pairs of obviously dirty Y-fronts fall out. He fishes around for a folder, and then buggers off to do an interview, leaving me staring at skid marks. I have a degree, for God’s sake!
It takes me the rest of the morning to get over the shock, and I still can’t face eating my lunch, though Andrew kindly saves me the bother upon his return. He finishes my sandwich just in time for today’s surgery – which is attended by the usual collection of total nutters, interspersed with the odd sane person with a really serious problem.
I’m disturbed by yet another case where a middle-aged woman has apparently died unnecessarily while a patient at the local hospital. From dehydration. That’s the fifth or sixth case in the last three months, so I’m getting a bit worried about what’s going on now. I know that nurses have degrees these days (like me, not that mine does me any good), but lots of people don’t, and most of them can manage to remember to give their children (or pets) enough to drink. It’s not exactly rocket science, after all.
Anyway, talking of pets, The Boss doesn’t seem half as exercised by people dying of thirst as he does about the ban on docking the tails of some pedigree dogs. This probably has less to do with a fondness for canine mutilation than with the fact that the constituent in favour of it turns out to be a reasonably attractive woman in her late forties.
