by Polly James
It serves me right that Johnny’s obviously going to cancel our date.
‘It’s okay,’ I type, without reading any further. ‘I understand why you’re cancelling, and I think you’re right.’
I hit send, but have only just started making notes on a case file when Johnny’s reply arrives.
‘Read the whole thing, you silly woman.’
Oh.
Johnny’s decided that, when he comes to the UK next week – to see me – it would now be awkward for him not to stay with his in-laws while he’s there. But he can ‘get away with a stopover in London for one night’ before travelling onwards to Ireland, ‘subject to a few minor alterations to the schedule’.
Then he goes on to explain that he’ll be ‘pressed for time’ due to the early flight he’ll have to catch to Dublin the next morning, so he’s cancelled our booking at the Marriott County Hall and booked us into a hotel near Heathrow instead. He doesn’t even ask me if I think this is okay, or acknowledge that it’ll make the journey a damn sight longer and more inconvenient from my point of view. His resemblance to Putin’s increasing by the minute. And to The Boss.
He probably thinks I’m going to stand in the arrivals lounge, holding a placard saying, ‘Johnny Hunter’s Bit On The Side’, and then offer to carry his bags when he turns up. As far as he’s concerned, I have nothing better to do than to cater for his every whim – so now I’m very cross indeed.
I don’t think I let this show in my reply, though – I’m still exercising caution with regard to emails, since the Gary Glitter incident.
My fourth draft reads:
Johnny
Whereas I have a fairly convincing reason to be seen hanging around near the House of Commons, I have no excuse at all to be waiting for someone at bloody Heathrow.
The Boss doesn’t take holidays, so I couldn’t even claim I was meeting him. And with my luck, there’d be some sort of terrorist incident, I’d be taken hostage – no doubt involving being grabbed by the neck – and then my picture would suddenly pop up on the news coverage, while Max was watching. Then he’d want to know what the hell I was up to, if I ever escaped.
I don’t think I can make it. Sorry.
Mx
I resist the temptation to add a flying rat to the list of hypothetical occurrences, in honour of Miss Harpenden.
TUESDAY, 10 AUGUST
I must be wearing another one of those signs that are visible to others but not to me – this one saying, ‘Molly is miserable now she’s not meeting Johnny’ – as everyone seems to have agreed that I need cheering up. How to achieve it is where the consensus breaks down.
While we’re getting dressed this morning, Max suggests that he meets me in town, straight after work. Seeing my expression, he says, ‘What?’ – as if he made that sort of suggestion on a regular basis.
‘I’m just surprised, that’s all,’ I say. ‘What brought that on?’
‘Thought it might cheer you up. Where shall we meet?’
‘Well, it’d better be somewhere where I won’t feel an idiot, sitting by myself waiting for you to turn up,’ I say.
Max looks wounded. ‘I always turn up,’ he says.
‘Eventually.’
Oh, honestly. I never know when to accept an olive branch when it’s offered (not that I concede Max’s point about resembling an elephant). Anyway, I apologise, and then we arrange to meet at Caffè Nero. Again. You can’t say we lack imagination.
It’s a date, though, isn’t it, wherever it is? I’m quite chuffed, not that Greg is convinced about that. He says I still look as miserable as sin when I arrive at work, which must have something to do with the effect of gravity on my mouth. I don’t know what his excuse is for his expression.
He looks even more like the Infected than I do today – and, after he’s attended this morning’s ‘briefing’ with Andrew (which is even briefer than usual), he comes back rolling his eyes, sits down at his desk with an exaggerated sigh and buries his head in his hands.
Then The Boss bounces in, like an ageing Tigger on speed. God knows why he’s suddenly so cheerful – unless he’s bi-polar now? (Greg says it’s Stephen Fry’s fault that that’s becoming such a popular diagnosis.)
‘What are you so excited about, Andrew?’ I say. ‘Have you finally worked out that no one in the Party’s out to get you?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ he says. ‘They all are. You’d realise it, too, if you weren’t so idiotically trusting of people. Never mind that, though – did Greg tell you about my idea?’
‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘What have you gone and thought of now?’
‘Something to boost office morale.’ Andrew’s self-satisfaction is almost tangible. He puts his shoulders back and struts into the kitchen, like President Putin heading back to the Kremlin. ‘Can’t say I’m not sensitive to my staff’s needs,’ he says.
Greg and I are still lost for words when Andrew asks his next question. ‘Anyone want a coffee?’ he says. ‘I’ll make them myself.’
‘Is that his plan?’ I ask Greg. ‘Making us coffee?’
‘No,’ says Greg. ‘Worse than that. Much, much worse.’
He’s about to explain, when there’s a crashing noise, some swearing, and then The Boss sticks his head back round the kitchen door. ‘Where the hell are all the cups and spoons?’ he says. ‘Can’t find a thing in here.’
The cups and spoons are where they always are, first thing in the morning: in the sink, waiting for me to wash them up. The drawer, however, isn’t in its usual place. It’s in the middle of the floor.
‘What happened to the drawer?’ I say, going to the rescue, as usual.
‘Must’ve pulled it out too far, trying to find a spoon.’ The Boss steps round it, looks at his watch, then says, ‘Oh, I’m late for the Silverhill Remembering Project. Better go.’
When I’ve finished washing up, rebuilding the kitchen cabinet and making the coffees, Greg has recovered enough to tell me what Andrew’s great motivational plan is. Let’s just say it’s unlikely to work.
He’s decided to invite the girls from the London office to come here on Friday, so that we can all have lunch together. He says this will also give Carlotta and Marie-Louise the chance to ‘see and appreciate’ what we do here in the boring old provinces.
When I call her to make the arrangements, Carlotta doesn’t sound any more enthusiastic about it than we are. By the time she’s given me a list of her dietary requirements, together with far too much information about Marie-Louise’s allergies, I can’t think of one single restaurant that will fit the bill. Maybe Caffè Nero will be the default option, yet again.
I’m quite excited about meeting Max there, which is odd, as it’s hardly the Marriott, or even Heathrow.
Before I leave work, I freshen my make-up, and squirt Rive Gauche around with gay abandon, while Greg mutters about the office smelling like a tart’s boudoir. I’m already ten minutes late by the time I get to the cafe, but there’s no sign of Max anywhere.
By the time forty-five minutes have passed, I’m almost the only customer left – and I’ve drunk so much coffee that I’ve given myself palpitations, yet again. I keep checking my mobile, under cover of the table, in case anyone thinks I’ve been stood up, but there’s nothing from Max. No texts, no missed calls, no answer-phone messages. Nothing – or ‘ʜичero’ in Russian. (I’m learning a few phrases, just in case.)
A full hour after we arranged to meet, I give up, pay the annoyingly sympathetic waitress, and start to walk home. Then my mobile rings.
‘I’m really sorry,’ says Max. ‘I had an emergency.’ ‘Did you?’ I say. ‘What sort of emergency, exactly?’
‘The drivers missed a customer’s coffee table off this week’s delivery round. So I had to take it there myself, after work.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Well, that is an emergency. Undoubtedly. Unlike the eviction case I nearly killed myself trying to finish, so that I could meet you on time.’
Then I hang up,
turn my phone off, and walk the rest of the way home. I can’t say I feel noticeably more cheerful, but maybe Connie or Josh can think of something to improve my mood.
They can’t do any worse than the f*ckwits who’ve already tried.
WEDNESDAY, 11 AUGUST
Greg’s still on a mission today. He says things have been much too miserable around here since Recess began and that we need to try something far more effective than yesterday’s disastrous attempts at raising morale. Especially my morale, as now he says I have a face like a wet weekend, which he rates as even less attractive than my ‘Infected’ one.
He suggests a session of Writing Honest Letters at lunchtime, if we can get rid of The Boss for a while. This seems more likely to cheer me up than anything else that’s been tried, including Johnny’s series of grovelling emails apologising for being ‘crass and thoughtless’, so I agree.
‘On condition we shred the letters immediately after we’ve read them out loud,’ I say. ‘That postman has no sense of humour, and he said bribery won’t work a second time.’
‘Fair enough,’ says Greg. ‘If he wants to lose a nice little earner. Now for Mr Beales and his sister-in-law’s “unfair treatment”.’
He starts typing without hesitation.
Dear Mr Beales,
Thank you for your letter regarding your sister-in-law being ‘forced’ to lose five stone before her gastric band can be fitted. Whilst I take your point that the only reason that she wanted the operation was to lose weight, surely she has now proved she can achieve this, without the need for surgery?
I realise this may seem a radical suggestion, but why doesn’t she just forget about the operation altogether and stick to her diet instead? It’s obviously working and, were she to continue, the funds that would otherwise be spent on surgery for her could be used to help someone else. (Preferably someone whose illness was not caused by spending too much money on Cornish pasties.)
I do hope you will take my suggestion in the spirit in which it was intended. I may even propose it to the Department of Health.
Yours sincerely,
Andrew Sinclair, MP for Lichford East
Greg hits print, sits back in his chair and smiles at me.
‘Ooh, contentious,’ I say. ‘Especially the bit about the pasties.’
‘That’s the best part,’ says Greg. ‘Now your turn. Who are you going to choose?’
So much choice, so little time. I opt for Mrs Backhouse, in a panic.
Dear Mrs Backhouse,
Thank you for your letter regarding your housing situation. It was kind of you to write, but you really didn’t need to bother as, to all intents and purposes, your letter was identical to the last ten that you have sent me, not to mention that it merely reiterated what you have said during the half-dozen constituency surgery appointments that you have already attended since the most recent general election.
As I have repeatedly explained to you – and indeed to Mr Backhouse, though I am never quite sure if he is listening – I am unable to force Lichford Council to re-house you and your family, whilst Mr Backhouse refuses to agree to the move.
Furthermore, as Mr Backhouse is the only tenant named on the tenancy agreement, not to mention your husband, and your children’s father, the Council cannot approve your exchanging the property either, without his permission.
I am enclosing a leaflet which gives information about the services offered by our local branch of Relate, and I also enclose a list of solicitors who specialise in divorce, should you decide to take more drastic measures. Might I also request that, should you attend any more surgery appointments, you consider bringing your own box of tissues with you.
Yours sincerely,
Andrew Sinclair, MP for Lichford East
Working hard for hardworking families, as well as those who appear wholly unable to communicate with each other
Talk about therapeutic.
‘I feel like a new man,’ says Greg. ‘Energised, and ready to carry on this futile struggle. I might even be able to conjure up some enthusiasm if I try.’
I raise my eyebrows at him.
‘Well, all right,’ he says. ‘Until Andrew gets back from his meeting at the Agoraphobics Group, anyway.’
I’m expecting trouble on that front. Imagine if you’d been locked in your home for ten years and had only just found the courage to venture out – then the first person you ran into was The Boss!
THURSDAY, 12 AUGUST
This evening, there’s a minor miracle, when I actually manage to leave the office on time – which is a good job, as I’m supposed to be cooking dinner when I get home. Max must have lost the will to live since the Caffè Nero debacle if he’s considering eating something I’ve prepared, but he’s got an important meeting after work. Or so he claims.
I’m standing in the kitchen stirring a rather lumpy-looking sauce, intended for macaroni cheese, when I realise I haven’t spoken to Mum for days.
Never try to do two things at once when one of them involves cooking, that’s all I can say. By the time I’ve spent half an hour listening to Mum telling me about an article she read about the negative health effects of dairy foods, the sauce is looking even more dubious than it did before.
‘What’s up, Mum?’ says Josh. ‘You look even more of a stress-head than usual.’
When I’ve explained that I have been listening to Nanny’s latest health scare warning – and that my concentration is therefore shot – Josh takes one look at the macaroni cheese, declares it ‘catastrophic, as predicted’ and suggests we watch Channel 4 News instead.
‘We can have a mother and son bonding session while discussing world events,’ he says. ‘That’ll make you feel better, won’t it? You’re always saying me and Con should spend more time with you, and take more interest in your job.’
I am, but I’m not sure it’s my job to find a solution to the budget deficit, which is all that seems to be making the news tonight. I don’t need to, though. Josh has got that sorted.
‘Mum,’ he says, ‘are we still an empire, or something?’
Sometimes I despair of comprehensive education. What sort of question is that for someone who’s got GCSEs, and is expecting three A-levels in less than a week?
‘Well, not exactly, Josh,’ I say. ‘Though there is the Commonwealth. And the Crown Territories. And—’
‘Never mind the detail, Mum. All I want to know is: do we own any other countries?’
Never mind the detail? Who does Josh think he is – an MP, for God’s sake? I make allowances, though, on the grounds that A-levels in Photography, Resistant Materials and Film Studies probably don’t help much with situations such as this.
‘Um, yes, I suppose we do,’ I say. ‘In a manner of speaking. Why?’
‘Problem solved, then,’ says Josh. ‘We should just phone China and say, “Hey, China – do you want to buy Australia?” I bet they’d jump at the chance.’
FRIDAY, 13 AUGUST
Carlotta and Marie-Louise arrive mid-morning, to see Greg and me ‘in action’ – while they take it easy, according to The Boss.
‘Go and get them from the station in your car,’ he says to Greg, who scowls and says, ‘It’s only a five-minute walk.’
‘I don’t care,’ says Andrew. ‘Give your colleagues a proper welcome.’
Greg had been hoping the girls would get lost and we could lose an hour or so of their company while we ‘tried’ to find them. He’d even sent them a slightly inaccurate, hand-drawn map.
‘I’d have bought one of those traffic-light air-fresheners if I’d known I was going to have to give them a lift,’ he says, as he crawls under his desk in an attempt to find his car keys. ‘Bet they’ll be expecting one, here in the smelly old provinces.’
I say that I doubt they will, but am proved wrong, for once. When Greg gets back, he tells me that, when he showed the girls into the building, they passed Joan in the corridor. Greg says Carlotta looked Joan up and down, then sniffed, as if
at a very bad smell.
Poor old Joan. She’s one of us, not that The Boss agrees with that assessment. When Carlotta says, ‘We just met Jean or whatever her name was’, he grunts and looks disgusted. That man couldn’t tell who was on his side if his life depended on it.
‘Joan,’ I say. ‘Not Jean. A valued member of the Labour Party team.’
Then I get my own back by suggesting it might be ‘a useful learning experience’ for the girls to sit in on today’s surgery.
‘Damn good idea, Molly,’ says The Boss, much to my satisfaction, if not to theirs.
They look a bit shell-shocked afterwards, and so does The Boss. Maybe that’s why they all drink so much over lunch, and are legless by the time they stagger back to the office for a quick coffee.
I like them a whole lot better that way – especially when it makes them lower their guards. Marie-Louise admits that they’d been counting the days until this Recess, because Andrew ‘has been so paranoid recently’.
‘Why is he paranoid, though?’ I say. ‘Greg and I can’t work it out.’
‘He said something about an old friend he could trust telling him some – how’d you call it? – home truths,’ says Carlotta, while Marie-Louise gives an expressive Gallic shrug.
‘Cherchez la femme,’fn2 she says. ‘That’s what we say in France, when a man is acting out of character.’
Greg asks for a translation, then nods and mentions the earring we found the other day – but neither Carlotta nor Marie-Louise has any idea who its owner might be. Greg describes it to them in minute detail, anyway, and they agree to keep an eye out for any women visiting The Boss at the House of Commons wearing only one earring that matches its description.
‘She’ll probably have a white stick, too, if she’s having a thing with Andrew,’ says Greg. ‘Just look at the state of his hair.’
When Carlotta makes a Berlusconifn3 joke in response, our bonding is complete – and, appropriately enough, it’s kisses all round when the taxi arrives to take the girls back to the station. I think The Boss misunderstands the protocol, though, as he goes for everyone’s lips, except for Greg’s. We all wipe our mouths ostentatiously, while going ‘Psshaw’.
