by Polly James
She flirts outrageously with The Boss, who flirts outrageously back, and – before I can get a word in edgeways – he’s agreed to consider bringing a Private Member’s Bill to reinstate docking, and she leaves in a presumably hormonal tizz. If she had a tail, I’m sure she’d be wagging it, and Andrew’s looking pretty perky, too.
In fact, he’s still flushed with success when I show the next constituent in: Mr Beales, yet again – though Andrew greets him as if he were a long-lost friend. Why the hell does The Boss insist on doing that? The usual suspects need no encouragement.
Grinning like an idiot, Mr Beales pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, then passes it to The Boss, completely ignoring my outstretched hand. ‘If you could just sign that, Andrew, then I’ll be on my way,’ he says.
Since when does Mr Beales call The Boss Andrew? Not that it seems to bother anyone but me. Andrew just smiles, and flourishes his pen.
‘At least read it first!’ I say – sotto voce – or at least that’s my intention, but Big Ears Beales hears me anyway. He pushes his double-barred paedophile glasses to the end of his nose, and peers at me over the top. His eyes are unnervingly cold.
‘It’s just my shotgun licence application,’ he says. ‘Your Boss knows me, after all.’
‘Indeed he does,’ I say. ‘That was rather my point. Andrew, are you sure you don’t want to wait and think about this first?’
The Boss notices my expression – which Greg says is the one that makes me look like a member of the Infected in the film 28 Days Later – and finally reacts.
‘Ah, Edmund,’ he says. ‘Molly’s right, you know—’
‘Thank God for that,’ I say, under my breath, but then Andrew carries on where he left off:
‘She’s forgotten to type up that reference for the court. Tell you what, she can go and do that now, and I’ll sign this while you wait.’
Of such incidents are armed serial killers made. I give up, I really do.
SATURDAY, 5 JUNE
Sam arrives for the weekend, and brings a new girlfriend with him. He says that he met her via Guardian Soulmates and that he wants her to meet Max and me so that she can see that he does know ‘some married people’. She’s six feet tall, wears trainers and says nothing. Really. Nothing.
After dinner, Sam suggests that we all go to the pub for a drink, but I can’t face it – the idea of spending the whole evening with a woman who’s taken a vow of silence is far too much for me, so I claim that I have an urgent report to write for work and send Max off to entertain the lovers by himself.
He’s much more tolerant than me, anyway, as well as being far closer to the girlfriend’s height. I already have a crick in my neck.
As soon as they shut the front door behind them, I curl up in front of the television with the bottle of wine left over from dinner, on the basis that alcohol is a muscle-relaxant.
After one glass, I fall asleep in a neck-paralysing position on the couch, only waking when Max, Sam and the Tall Enigma come in and catch me drooling all down the front of my TV-watching fleece.
They’re all roaring drunk, and the lovers are eager to get to bed – so I wait until they’ve gone upstairs, then ask Max, ‘How did it go?’
‘Never been so bored in my life,’ he says.
‘Did she speak at all?’ I say. They’ve been gone for four hours, after all …
‘Well, she told a few rude jokes, and then they spent the rest of the night talking about rugby. It was like a night out with your dad,’ says Max.
‘Oh God, that’s it!’ I say. It’s all become crystal clear to me now, if not to Max.
‘What’s it?’ he says or, rather, ‘Whasht-it?’
‘What Sam sees in her,’ I say. ‘She shares his interests.’
‘Too true,’ Max says, then passes out attractively on the couch.
I wait until he starts drooling, then cover him with a blanket and go to bed. At least our house is going to bear witness to some sex tonight, I suppose – though I hope the Tall Enigma doesn’t bring any rugby moves into the bedroom. That spare bed has a wobbly headboard.
SUNDAY, 6 JUNE
My toes have suddenly gone all funny, like my mother’s: white, wrinkly slugs attached to my feet. Repulsive. I had no idea that was due to age but, now that I know that slug toes aren’t just a peculiarity specific to Mum, I suppose sandal-wearing’s well and truly out of the window.
Is there no end to the parts of your body you have to keep covered, once you pass a certain birthday? Whole chunks of your anatomy consigned to obscurity overnight: the tops of your arms, any leg above the knee – not to mention the baggy knees themselves. And the same goes for wrinkly necks, ageing hands and, now, for bloody toes as well.
I might as well become a Muslim and wear a burka. At least that would cover everything in one fell swoop, whereas, if you used all the cover-ups the magazines suggest, you’d look a right twit: gloves; an artfully draped scarf or a huge necklace; a long skirt (with opaque tights), and long-sleeved tops, segueing neatly into the aforementioned gloves. Soon I’ll need a hat to obscure the bald patch, or a balaclava to cover the incipient beard.
And wearing trousers will be out, too: as Mum says that, one day when you’re least expecting it, your arse suddenly slips sideways and becomes flat and wide, just like that. Talk about something to look forward to.
God knows what Johnny would think if he ever laid eyes on me – which is all the more bothersome a thought since he started emailing me so much more often. He says talking to me ‘puts a smile on his face’ and that even his staff have commented on his change of mood. I suppose anyone working for an oil company would be glad of a distraction from the horror of the Deepwater blowoutfn4 at the moment – but it’s flattering, all the same.
I do wish Johnny wouldn’t keep referring to that business behind the Science block, though. I still can’t remember what it was, but he says that he had to take his watch off because it was getting in the way. God knows what he means, but I bet it’ll turn out to be even more embarrassing than my toes, if I can ever find the diary where I wrote it down.
Bugger – I’d nearly forgotten about those bloody toes. What’s the point in flirting with someone when you’d have to keep everything covered if you ever met up and took things further? I bet that’s why people stay married – to avoid the horror of having to disrobe in front of someone who isn’t inured to disintegration via familiarity …
Now I’m even more suspicious of Max’s half-hearted attempts to get fit.
MONDAY, 7 JUNE
This morning’s postal delivery is interesting, I don’t think. Fifty-five letters and twelve campaign postcards: save trees and/or whales; bring back imperial measures; ban fireworks; introduce a bank holiday for St George’s Day; make cycle helmets compulsory; don’t make cycle helmets compulsory; and sign the declaration in support of religious broadcasting. There is also a parcel containing five one-litre bottles of urine, beautifully packaged, but with no return address.
MONDAY, 7 JUNE (EVENING)
Success! Finally found my fifth-form diary. I’m going to read it in bed as I haven’t had time until now.
Johnny Hunter’s name is scrawled on the front: ‘Johnny Luvs Molly 4 Eva’. Spelling obviously wasn’t a priority at the time.
MONDAY, 7 JUNE (LATE EVENING)
Oh God, now I definitely know who Johnny Hunter is. And what he’s talking about.
TUESDAY, 8 JUNE
This morning’s post is even less enthralling than yesterday’s – as if to rub in how boring my life is, now that I’m no longer fifteen and getting up to God knows what behind the Science block – although The Boss does have a new batch of death threats, written in bright red ink, for a change.
I’m inclined to ignore them as, apart from the distinctive colour, they’re not much different to those he gets all the time. (Greg denies any involvement on this occasion, and claims not to own a colour printer, anyway.) So I’m just about to throw the letters into th
e bin, when someone from Special Branch phones to say that they’ve infiltrated a group of animal-rights extremists and think that we should step up our precautions against attack.
The officer wants to know what our security arrangements are and, when I tell him we don’t have any, he suggests we get some, preferably yesterday. He sound even less impressed when I tell him that The Boss doesn’t agree with security arrangements as they are a ‘threat to democracy’.
‘Doesn’t Mr Sinclair realise that, while he is protected for most of the week by the security at the House of Commons, you and your colleague are totally vulnerable?’ he says, in the sort of voice that you’d get if you crossed Alan Rickman with Barry White.
He sounds so sexy that I resist the temptation to sarcasm, and somehow avoid saying, ‘Gosh, officer, we hadn’t thought of that!’ Instead I surprise myself by flirting a bit – the mutilated-dog-tails woman must have been contagious – and I end up confiding that The Boss isn’t the easiest person to manage sometimes.
It’s a good job the officer can’t actually see what I look like, otherwise I’m sure he wouldn’t then have offered to carry out a security inspection, and to tell The Boss what needs to be put in place to protect me and Greg.
‘I’ll come and see you later this afternoon, if you like?’ he says, which would be very good news if I didn’t have to leave work early for my appointment with the gynaecologist – though I don’t tell him that, of course. A woman must protect what remains of her dignity, after all.
On that note, I have insisted that Max comes to the hospital with me, in case I am asked how often we have sex, so that he can share the embarrassment if I tell the truth. Even so, he’s really not amused when I answer the gynaecologist’s question about whether I can think of anything that might be causing the problem by suggesting: ‘Rust?’
She laughs, though, and then says there’s nothing to worry about – but Max is still not talking to me when we get home, and things are frosty until the doorbell rings. It’s Annoying Ellen, oh joy. That’s three times she’s borrowed the damned corkscrew this week.
After she left last time, Max said, ‘She’s always so cheerful.’
I said that I’d be bloody cheerful, too, if I had a huge house, all paid for, tons of alimony and the kids home for only one week in two – not to mention a succession of toy-boys. Max looked even more pained at the mention of toy-boys than he did at the rust.
WEDNESDAY, 9 JUNE
The morning’s post brings more death-threat letters, still addressed to The Boss, and still written in red ink. He’s being so annoying that I’d write some myself if I thought there was the remotest chance that he’d ever read the buggers.
He phones first thing this morning, to tell us to keep Friday lunchtime free: ‘I’ve re-booked the restaurant for our work Christmas lunch,’ he says. ‘Be there, or be square.’
For God’s sake. This is the lunch that was originally scheduled for the day before Christmas Eve – the one that The Boss cancelled at the last minute, after deciding that Greg and I had far too much work to finish to be able to spare two hours to celebrate. Which we did, but only because Andrew had just created it.
Then, to add insult to injury, he said he’d pop into the restaurant while he was passing, and cancel the reservation in person. Two hours later, he phoned me to say that he’d met ‘two lovely ladies in the street’ and had asked them to join him for lunch, seeing as Greg and I ‘couldn’t make it’. When he started to enthuse about what they were all eating, I’d had enough, so I hung up.
So now Greg and I aren’t exactly in the mood for Christmas dinner, especially not in June, but Andrew hangs up on me when I tell him so. Then Greg does a lot of creative swearing about unreasonable bosses, while I decide to re-think my position on the red-ink letters and fax them through to Westminster, implying that I think they are far more serious than usual.
I even contemplate forging one which suggests that the author knows The Boss’ home address, but chicken out at the last minute. You never know – I might have to hand them over to Special Branch at some point, and then I’d probably get the blame for sending all of them. If I’m still alive to hand anything over, that is – which Officer Sexy seems to find an unlikely proposition.
He arrives mid-afternoon, but his appearance doesn’t really live up to his voice. This is almost as disappointing as he seems to find our non-existent security arrangements, though at least he writes a report recommending lots of changes, so I suppose that’s something.
He even says that, if The Boss doesn’t comply with the recommendations, the police will have to think carefully about whether they can be held responsible for ensuring our safety in future.
‘Oh, God,’ I say. ‘There’s a bit of a problem with one of your suggestions, at least. The Boss considers CCTV an invasion of constituents’ privacy.’
Officer Sexy just stares at me for what feels like ages. Then he gives a little shake of the head, and says, ‘This is Andrew Sinclair’s office, isn’t it?’
When I confirm that it is indeed, he says that he would never have thought that The Boss was camera-shy, given that he appears on local television at every opportunity. There is no denying or explaining this, of course, not without casting further doubt on The Boss’ sanity.
‘Well, I hope Mr Sinclair is grateful for the risks you people run on his behalf,’ says Officer Sexy, as he gathers up his paperwork in readiness to leave.
‘No, he isn’t,’ says Greg. ‘Molly and I have no idea what it is to be appreciated.’
Normally this would be all too true but, when Max and I get home this evening, we find that we have run out of toilet roll – thanks to a bizarre papier mâché experiment by Josh – so Max has to make an emergency trip to Sainsbury’s.
He brings a bunch of flowers home for me and, although he forgets to take the ‘reduced’ sticker off, it’s the thought that counts. Isn’t it?
A warm glow lasts for all of ten minutes, until I show Josh, who claims that husbands only buy their wives flowers when they are feeling guilty about something, in which case – if I’m about to be put out to grass in favour of Annoying Ellen – I suppose I may as well send Johnny the photo he keeps asking for. With any luck, it’ll distract him from wanting to know whether I’ve found my diary yet, seeing as I don’t even want to think about that. Talk about exhibitionism!
At least there isn’t any photographic evidence of the Science block escapade, so things could be worse. Not that there’s much photographic evidence of my existence, either. There are virtually no pictures of me in the family photo box at all, though there are hundreds of Max and the kids – all taken by me, of course. (If I died, within a week my family would be completely unable to recall what I looked like.)
So, given that I’m not exactly spoilt for choice, there’s no alternative but to select a picture in which I am gurning furiously, during a face-pulling contest I had with Josh and Connie over Christmas. I’m almost too embarrassed to send it, but then I realise that Johnny won’t have a clue whether I am genuinely hideously disfigured or not, so I’m looking forward to seeing how he’ll cope with framing his response.
I seem to be becoming far more ‘fun-loving’ (ghastly phrase) since starting to correspond with him. I wonder if that attitude will survive the rest of the week.
THURSDAY, 10 JUNE
Greg is wounded today or, rather, his ego takes a knock-out blow. I’ve just started opening the mail, when Mrs Nudd comes bursting into the office like a madwoman, presumably thanks to the so-far unidentified idiot who left the security door on the catch.
She’s already reached my desk before I’ve had a chance to react, and is waving a letter in my face while screaming at the top of her voice: ‘What the f*ck do you mean that there’s nothing more you can do for me?’
Then she starts throwing files and chairs around, and ends up holding a letter-opener to my throat. (Why do the nutters always go for my throat? Is it because I am almost a midget?)
Greg is surprisingly butch (for him). He attempts to take hold of Mrs Nudd from behind, but then she grabs me and hangs on tight, so Greg tries a little harder and manages to yank her backwards, though she still doesn’t let go of my neck. When he eventually succeeds in throwing her off-balance, she dislodges me from my chair and we end up in a heap on the floor.
‘Phone the police!’ says Greg, while manhandling (or possibly boy-handling) the still-struggling Mrs Nudd towards the door.
She calms down a bit when she hears me reporting the assault, and Greg seizes the opportunity to push her over the threshold and slam the door – but not before she’s hissed, right in his face, ‘You are the ugliest f*cker I’ve ever seen in my life.’
Then she goes off into the sunset to pick yet another fight with her daughter-in-law. How on earth does she expect us to make her son ‘see sense and get a divorce’?
About forty minutes later, a police constable saunters in; says something about being unavoidably delayed, and then goes away looking relieved when we can’t be bothered to press any charges.
In retrospect, this may have been a mistake, as Greg is too traumatised to do any work for the rest of the day. He just keeps wandering off into the men’s loo and staring hopelessly into the mirror, while mumbling that he’ll never get another girlfriend.
I try to cheer him up by pointing out that no one is as bonkers as Mrs Nudd: an over-optimistic theory which Dinah succeeds in disproving, when she phones just as Max, Josh and I finish eating dinner. She sounds as mad as a hatter.
‘Dad’s joined bloody Facebook now,’ she says.
‘And?’ I say. There’s always an ‘and’.
‘He’s got six friends already, apart from me – and they’re all women. I told you not to teach him to use that computer!’
‘Well, maybe they’re old school-friends or something,’ I say – with an optimism that I do not feel. (My Mrs Nudd theory didn’t exactly stand up well to scrutiny.)
