by Polly James
‘Is that a hole?’ he says. ‘In your head?’
Mr Lawson nods, which makes me flinch – Christ, bits of his brain will probably fly out and spatter me if he doesn’t stop doing that. This is horrible.
‘Have you had brain surgery, then?’ says Andrew.
Can’t he tell Mr Lawson to put his bloody hat back on, instead of encouraging him? And stop asking questions which could lead to more nodding? I am starting to feel faint – just like the time when I was forced to dissect a cow’s eyeball in class. (The damned thing definitely jumped when I cut through the optic nerve, no matter what Miss Rosen claimed at the time. It nearly gave me a heart attack.)
‘Yes, I have had surgery – in a manner of speaking,’ says Mr Lawson. ‘Ever heard of trepanning?’
‘Good God,’ says The Boss, who obviously has. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely,’ says Mr Lawson. ‘Can’t recommend it highly enough.’
So now I am supposed to write a letter to the Secretary of State for Health, asking why the NHS doesn’t offer trepanning to those suffering from mental health conditions. The world is going mad – which is not a recommendation for Mr Lawson’s idiotic solution.
Greg says he’ll save me the bother of writing to the Department of Health and will ask his doctor about trepanning this evening when he attends his ‘emergency appointment’.
‘What emergency?’ I say. He looks perfectly all right to me – and his skull is intact.
‘I think I may have an ulcer,’ he says, in a portentous tone. ‘Bound to have, doing this job. I had a terrible pain in my side when I arrived at work.’
‘That was a stitch,’ I say. This keep-fit thing is getting out of hand, or Greg’s ‘sporting injuries’ are, anyway. He only jogged from the bus stop to the office this morning.
‘Exactly,’ he says, when I point that out. ‘Which is why I need the alarming symptoms it caused investigated – as soon as possible. Most men don’t take their health seriously enough.’
Then he buggers off, leaving me to do the surgery letters and finish all the other casework as well. Sometimes I think I’m sadly lacking in the assertiveness stakes.
Max is over-compensating for my shortcomings by being far too assertive when I get home, almost two hours later. He’s done almost all the packing already, and informs me that we are not taking the laptop with us, as we are going to ‘spend quality time together, without distractions’.
He even wants me to leave my mobile behind but, although I agree, I’ve no intention of doing so – not when I am leaving an incompetent ninja at home, with a sex-pest for a neighbour.
I write Josh a very long list enumerating the dire consequences that will arise should he be unwise enough to consider anything as stupid as a house party in our absence, and ask Mum to drop in daily to check that the house is still standing, and that the cat and the rabbit have been fed. And that Josh is still in one piece. She agrees, though she says that it’s probably ‘unrealistic to expect that Josh won’t have one or two little accidents’.
I try to ignore that less-than-reassuring statement, as now it’s bedtime, and tomorrow Max and I are off for our romantic weekend. At least, I hope it’s going to be romantic. I could use some of that, to cheer me up, and it’d be a lot less painful than having a hole drilled in my head.
SATURDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER
Mum rings in the morning, to ask Max if he can come round and pad out her sofa so that the cushions won’t make her buttock hurt so much.
‘Did you ask her if she’s tried taking anti-inflammatories for that?’ I say. ‘And has she forgotten we’re supposed to be going away today?’
‘Yes, I did ask her,’ says Max. ‘And no, she hasn’t forgotten. She says she doesn’t take drugs, and that it should only take a minute.’
It doesn’t, so I have deal with everything at home while Max adds layer after layer of foam to Mum’s cushions, and then ends up taking it all out again when she declares the result ‘too padded for comfort’.
My time is mainly spent trying to make Josh pay attention while I read out the long list of safety instructions I wrote last night, while he tries to shoot everything in sight on a particularly violent video game. Of the kind that Steve Ellington probably plays every day of the week.
Dad phones to complain about Dinah, Dinah phones to complain about Dad, and Connie phones to complain about Dr Snuffleopagus. It’s almost lunchtime before Max and I manage to leave.
He gives me a quick kiss as I do up my seatbelt, then turns away to start the engine. I pull him back, and kiss him again, properly. You may as well start how you mean to go on.
‘Did you leave your phone at home?’ he says, as we pull out of our street then turn left onto the main road, heading for freedom and romance.
‘Yes,’ I say. It’s what’s known as a tiny white lie in the trade.
Max believes me, and is furious that he ordered me to do such a stupid thing when we break down half an hour later.
‘I forgive you for lying to me,’ he says, as he phones the AA, after I’ve confessed and passed him my mobile. ‘Though don’t make a habit of it.’
I feel a bit nauseous after that, though I suppose it could be motion sickness. That is, once we’re finally in motion again – the repair takes ages, and it’s already late afternoon by the time we arrive at David and Susie’s holiday cottage.
‘I wonder if they’ve left us a welcome hamper,’ I say. ‘From Fortnum and Mason, or somewhere like that. You never know your luck.’
You do, really. There’s no hamper, but David has left Max a list of a few ‘odd jobs’ he can do, ‘if he has any time to spare, and in lieu of rent’. We’re only going to be here overnight!
By the time Max has worked through three-quarters of the things on the list, I’m wishing I’d ignored his ban on bringing the laptop, as well as the phone. I’ve never been so bored in my life, and I really ought to check that Josh hasn’t invited all of Lichford’s under-twenties to a house party via one of those Facebook public invitation things. I text Connie and ask her to check.
She texts back, and says that Josh’s status says, ‘If you’re reading this, Connie – you craven spy – then tell Mum I’m not an idiot, Holly’s here keeping an eye on me, and no, I’m not having a party’.
I just hope none of those are white lies, big or small.
‘I’m going to start cooking dinner,’ says Max. ‘Put your feet up and relax.’
I do try, but David’s sofa could really use some extra padding and, anyway, Max has forgotten to pack any books – typical dyslexic behaviour – so then I root around the cottage trying to find something to read. Now I’m wondering if David and Susie are dyslexic as well.
There are no books worth reading at all, only Sharon Osbourne’s autobiography and numerous books on motivational management techniques, full of idiotic homilies like ‘Always abide by the three Cs: never Criticise, never Complain, and never something-else-beginning-with-C.’ (I lapsed into a coma before I got to that bit. Maybe that’s what the third ‘C’ was for.)
When I return to consciousness it’s pouring with rain and really chilly for September. The nearest pub is a four-mile walk, so Max suggests that we stay in.
‘We’ll eat dinner, watch a bit of TV and then we can have an early night,’ he says.
There’s something about the way he says the last bit that makes me think a gold star may be on the cards.
This seems less likely when the TV doesn’t work and Max gets so annoyed that he insists on climbing onto the roof and fiddling about with the aerial for hours, while I stay down below, first running inside to check if there’s a picture, and then back outside to report that there isn’t. Repeatedly.
‘We may as well go to bed, then,’ says Max, eventually, with a somewhat less than flattering degree of enthusiasm.
He tries to make up for it once we get into bed and snuggle up for warmth. (‘Fix the central heating’ was also on David’s list, but even Max tho
ught that a bit ambitious.)
‘Put the light back on, Mol,’ he says. ‘I want to see you. You know I still think you’re gorgeous.’
Put the light on? Oh, my God. Now I need a bag to put over my head. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, being in bed with someone who can’t see me properly sounds horribly familiar.
‘Hic,’ I say. Then, ‘Hic, hic, hic, HIC.’
‘Oh, shit,’ says Max. ‘That’s you out of action for tonight.’
Why do I always get hiccups when I’m stressed, or in the wrong? And why do they take so long to stop?
SUNDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER
I was up half the night trying every technique under the sun to put an end to my bloody hiccups, but the damn things just would not stop. In the end, after nearly asphyxiating myself several times – during prolonged periods of holding my breath while swallowing like a maniac – I had to admit defeat and get out of bed.
‘Go and try your dad’s remedy,’ said Max, trying unsuccessfully to hide how fed up he obviously was. ‘That usually works when all else fails.’
That’s true, but nothing Dad recommends is ever dignified. His hiccup cure involves drinking a large glass of water, upside down. Well, not exactly upside down, but it feels like it, when you get it wrong, and all the water goes up your nose or down your front. Or both.
By the time it did work and my hiccups had finally stopped, I was soaking wet and Max was fast asleep. I was wide-awake, so now I know more about Ozzy Osbourne than I ever wanted to. God knows why Sharon didn’t walk out on him if the stories she tells are true – unless he’s very, very good in bed. That’s a bit hard to imagine, but I suppose he couldn’t possibly be more of a wipe-out than me.
Max doesn’t give up easily, though. Sharon would be proud of him. When I wake up this morning, he brings me breakfast in bed, and he’s put one of David’s prize roses on the tray!
‘Eat,’ he says. ‘Slowly, so you don’t get your hiccups back.’
Then he runs me a deep bath, sloshes in a load of Susie’s bubble bath, and then sits on the loo talking to me, while I try to find a pose that will make me look as attractive as possible. I’m not sure if that’s what does it, or the food, but all of sudden I’m in agony.
‘Ow,’ I say. ‘Ow, ow, ow.’
‘What?’ says Max, as I writhe about in the bath, splashing water all over the floor. ‘What’s the matter, Mol?’
‘Stomach cramp,’ I say, before I begin to hiccup again.
‘So much for a romantic weekend,’ says Max as we drive back home, once all my symptoms have finally disappeared. ‘Maybe we’ve just lost the knack.’
There’s something terribly hopeless about the way he says it, and I have to bite my lip, hard, in order not to cry.
At least the house is still standing when we arrive home, so things could be worse. I’m apprehensive when Max opens the front door, but there doesn’t seem to be much mess when we get inside. Well, that’s not strictly true – everything looks incredibly messy – but as that’s the norm, we can’t blame Josh. For once.
He announces that he’s just finished doing all the washing up (though it seems to be Holly whose hands are still wet), and he’s even put the rubbish out already – or rather, he claims he has, until Robbie informs me that Josh bribed him to do it.
‘Bribed you, how?’ I say.
I forgot to leave Josh any money for emergencies, and I doubt the proceeds of his four hours at the cinema would constitute much of a bribe.
‘He told me I might catch a glimpse of your naked neighbour, if I did,’ says Robbie. ‘But he lied.’
‘Ellen must be saving herself for Dad,’ says Josh.
Max really doesn’t need to look so pleased about that. I’d be surprised if Ellen was immune to hiccups.
MONDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER
Now even the houseplants are mocking my sex-life. This morning, I’m making a cup of tea when I notice that all the leaves of the basil plant in the kitchen have grown faces, and all of them are laughing at me.
I think I’m going completely round the bend, until Max spots them too and starts to laugh. It turns out that a bored Josh has had an artistic moment with the leaves and a biro. Is he on drugs? I must find that ‘Talk to Frank’ leaflet and see if I can spot any more of the giveaway signs.
‘I’m really sorry about the weekend,’ I say to Max, before we both leave for work. ‘Maybe you could come to conference with me? I could smuggle you into my room, and sneak away from Andrew to meet you in our secret love-nest every few hours or so.’
‘Good idea,’ says Max. ‘As long as you don’t get any more hiccups. There’d be nothing secret about those.’
He gives me a hug, and seems to have forgiven me, so I try to ignore how pleased he seemed about Ellen’s naked floorshow being reserved for his eyes alone. A few nights in Manchester and we’ll have recaptured all the sexual chemistry that led to Connie – and to Josh.
The thought of another Josh puts me off the idea a bit, but I’m still determined to go ahead with my plan. Until I get to work, that is.
As soon as I arrive, Greg pulls me back out into the corridor and says, ‘Mol, The Boss is definitely up to something. I just don’t know what it is.’
‘Why?’ I say, checking my desk drawers to see what’s gone missing over the weekend. (The rest of the Fruit Pastilles and, weirdly, a packet of Period Pain Relief.)
‘He says he’s going to conference by himself,’ says Greg, searching for his missing Twix, and failing to find it. ‘Says he doesn’t need a minder.’
‘He’s delusional,’ I say. ‘He’s never been known to get himself to a meeting on time yet. Or not one he was supposed to be at anyway.’
‘Well, you tell him,’ says Greg. ‘I’ve already tried. He says he’s meeting someone there who can help him out if necessary.’
I have no idea who that could be, and Andrew refuses to tell me, when I phone him to discuss it. He also refuses to budge.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he says, ‘and I don’t want you there, anyway, Molly. I’m not convinced you’re on my side, seeing as you will keep disobeying my clear instructions not to talk to Party staff.’
There follows a protracted argument, during which I win points by reminding Andrew of the various near-disasters that I managed to avert when I accompanied him to conference last year; then lose them all again when he accuses me of implying that he’s an idiot, and says that Greg can go with him this year instead of me.
Now I just have to find a way to tell Max that I’ve botched our secret love-nest plan. Hic. Hic. Oh, bloody hell.
TUESDAY, 21 SEPTEMBER
I know Greg admits that tact isn’t his forte but honestly – talk about rubbing salt into my (self-inflicted) wound.
He appears insanely cheerful when I arrive at the office, and is wearing the ridiculous hat Andrew got from Igor, to which he has attached a piece of A5 paper bearing the House of Commons Crest. On it he’s written – in huge black letters – ‘Guess who’s off to conference!’
That reaction’s such a mark of inexperience. If Greg had ever been to conference before, he’d know it’s nothing to get excited about – not unless you have a plan to turn it into a secret love-nest, which I don’t think he does. The jogging hasn’t succeeded in attracting any girlfriends yet, and his stupid hat’s not going to help.
‘You do realise your room will be shitty, even though you’re the new Goldenballs, don’t you?’ I say to him. ‘And that Andrew will describe it as “perfectly functional”, however bad it is – which is probably very bad? Marie-Louise said it was the only one she could get in the same hotel as his, and that it isn’t used at all outside conference season.’
‘I don’t care,’ says Greg. ‘I won’t be there much. I’ll be in a lady’s room. There’s sex on tap at conference. That’s what Tony from Regional says.’
‘Well, I’ve never had any of it, if it is,’ I say.
I’m not likely to get any now, either, am I? Not now that Max an
d I can’t go. Life’s a bitch and then you die, as Dinah always says, when drunk. Sometimes when she’s sober, too.
Greg remains so over-excited that he can’t concentrate on anything all day. He just keeps skipping around the office, singing, ‘I’m off to conference and gonna get laid, hurrah, hurrah!’ to the tune of ‘The Animals Went in Two by Two’. It’s like being incarcerated with someone with a very bad case of ADHD.
‘Don’t be offensive,’ he says, when I mention the similarity. ‘My mother is a fabulous woman.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ I say.
‘The alternative name for ADHD is “Bad Parenting Syndrome”,’ says Greg, in a manner that leaves no room for doubt.
As a result, I decide I’d better be the one to phone Mrs Engleby back. She wants the authorities to do more to sort out her son, who’s already on Ritalin even though he’s only six.
During our conversation, she swears compulsively, and with perfect enunciation, but the rest of her conversation is virtually unintelligible, partly because she pauses every few seconds to shout highly inventive threats at someone, in a very loud voice. Presumably her son, though I suppose she could be aiming them at me.
By the time she’s finished, I feel like running around and kicking things, too, and I can’t concentrate at all, unlike Johnny, who’s becoming hyper-focused. He spends the afternoon trying to persuade me to meet him again next month, and says he’s willing to repeat the journey to Lichford, too – as long as I take charge of his hotel booking this time.
‘So I don’t end up with another crummy single room,’ he says. ‘There’ll be fewer hazards in a less confined space.’
True, but when is he going to realise that I am not his PA? Maybe he’d like me to remember his wedding anniversary, and send flowers to his wife, while I’m arranging a location in which to have sex with him. Or not to have sex, if the shambles last time is anything to go by.
Anyway, I’m not at all sure that I want to carry on with this affair, if an affair is what it is. I shall take a trip to Ann Summers instead and buy something that Max will find impossible to resist. Along with some gripe water, for hiccup prevention.
