by Polly James
Gah. Ga-a-ah. And why do supposedly adult women feel the need to use words like ‘hot’ and ‘babe’?
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I say, immediately sounding like a repressed introvert who never has sex. And who definitely has no sense of humour. ‘I don’t know many hot babes with whom to make a useful comparison.’
‘Oh, you are funny, Molly,’ says Ellen. ‘You always make me laugh.’
I don’t ask whether she normally laughs with me, or at me. I’m too busy glaring at Max, who looks awfully red in the face and is very windswept. He really needs to wear his glasses more often, as he obviously hasn’t spotted my expression.
‘God, that was fun,’ he says, walking towards me. ‘’Bye, Ellen, and thanks for the ride. Really blew my cobwebs away.’
I rather thought I’d done that, last night.
‘Any time,’ says Ellen. ‘We can make it a regular date.’
I’ve turned my back by now, so no one can see the face I’m pulling. It’s a close approximation of Munch’s ‘The Scream’.
‘Great, isn’t she, Mol?’ says Max, oblivious to the end. ‘I’d love to get my hands on one like that.’
I have no idea if we’re talking about the car, or Ellen – and now I remember who said you can’t prove a negative. Max did – maybe because he didn’t think I could prove the opposite. I’m going to have to try, if I want to retain what little remains of my mind.
CHAPTER SIX
October
(I can’t think of a rhyme for this, or a line of poetry. I wish I’d never started the whole thing now.)
FRIDAY, 1 OCTOBER
Unlike me, The Boss and Greg are both in amazingly good moods this morning, albeit for very different reasons.
‘God, I’m glad to be back,’ says Greg. ‘I’m even pleased to see your face, Mol.’
‘Marvellous conference,’ says The Boss. ‘Marvellous company. And now we have the right man as our leader, The Fightback can begin in earnest. Red Ed, he’s our man.’
Greg pulls a Wallace face, while I ask the burning question: ‘So, Andrew,’ I say. ‘Greg tells me Vicky was with you at conference. How did that come about?’
‘Synchronicity,’ says The Boss, also pulling a face. The one he uses to suggest that he’s innocent of whatever you suspect him of.
Then he goes off to his meeting, while Greg continues to expound on the joys of being back at work.
‘I felt so useless at conference,’ he says, ‘with that awful woman taking care of everything. Must be how Andrew feels, when there’s never anything meaningful for him to do.’
An hour later, Greg demands that he be allowed to take an early lunch. He says that it is an emergency as, if he does not escape this madhouse, he will be forced to resign, with immediate effect.
‘Why?’ I say.
I’ve been at least as polite to him as usual, and I didn’t even swear when he ordered me to make him another cup of coffee, or point out that being Goldenballs was going to his head.
‘Mr Franklin’s just phoned,’ he says. ‘From the seaside. He took his fatmobile there on the train.’
‘And?’ I say.
I can’t see what’s so surprising about that. Mr F takes his fatmobile everywhere – because he’s fat. That’s the whole point, plus I am too busy to bother with this. I am trying to decipher an invitation from the Brazilian ambassador, and flowery handwriting is hard to read.
Greg sighs, as if there is no hope for dingbats like me. ‘He’s run out of petrol, for f*ck’s sake,’ he says. ‘Half-way down the bloody pier. And now he wants me to rescue him.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Did you say you would?’
‘No,’ says Greg. ‘If I’d been there, I’d have pushed him off the end, but as that’s not an option, I told him to phone the AA instead. And if I don’t get out of here for a bit, I’ll be needing the other AA.’ He puts his coat on, and heads for the door. ‘So much for a renewed sense of purpose,’ he says, as he stamps off down the corridor.
‘Gregory here?’ says Andrew, when he returns from wherever it is that he’s been for the two hours since his meeting ended. Food must have been involved, as there’s a large stain on his tie that definitely wasn’t there this morning.
‘No,’ I say. ‘He was called away on a rescue mission.’
‘Pah. You’ll have to do surgery with me, then,’ says Andrew, his good mood evaporating before my eyes.
He’s no happier when he realises that none of the usual suspects have made an appointment for today – though that’s a miracle in itself. Even I don’t recognise any of the people in the waiting room, for once.
Most of them want to talk about the government’s NHS and welfare reforms, which is not quite as easy for The Boss to handle as signing a shotgun licence for a madman. As a result, Andrew looks quite relieved when Miss Ventnor decides to buck the trend: she’s got a thing about light pollution.
‘City dwellers are being deprived of the pleasure to be had from seeing the stars,’ she says. To The Boss, as she doesn’t seem to have noticed me. Maybe she only sees properly in the dark.
‘I agree,’ says Andrew. ‘It’s a terrible shame. There’s nothing like a starry sky.’
He’s been looking a bit starry-eyed himself, since he got back. I do hope it isn’t the Vicky effect.
It may just be due to Miss Ventnor, who’s rather pretty, and also quite poetic, especially on the subject of what birds and animals suffer as a result of becoming confused between day and night. Andrew’s nodding his head so much in agreement, I’m sure I can hear vertebrae cracking.
The mutual love-in takes so long that – by the time The Boss has agreed to join the Campaign Against Light Pollution, and I have shown Miss Ventnor out and ushered in Mrs Jackson to take her place – we’re running really late. The Boss doesn’t seem worried, though. Mrs J’s even more attractive than her predecessor.
‘I’m sure you didn’t agree with that Tory MP’s comments about degrees of rape, did you, Mr Sinclair?’ she says.
‘No, indeed I didn’t,’ says Andrew, right on cue. ‘Wholly irresponsible.’
‘Well, then,’ says Mrs J. ‘What are you going to do to protect the women of Lichford – and to stop the Council’s plans to turn the streetlights off?’
‘If you’ll just excuse me,’ I say, standing up. ‘I have an urgent call to make. You’ll be able to manage this one without me, won’t you, Andrew?’
I don’t wait for an answer, as I beat my retreat.
The Boss is furious when he finds me hiding in the Labour Party office, telling Joan what’s just happened. He’s even crosser when he hands me back the surgery notes I left behind, the ones with ‘synchronicity’ written all over them.
SATURDAY, 2 OCTOBER
Bloody, bloody Christmas. Why does it have to start so early? And as for that stupid Hallowe’en …
The florist I pass on my way into town has pumpkins piled up in the window, but they’re all swathed in Christmas tree lights.
It’s obviously the same story where Dinah lives, so she makes a pre-emptive strike.
‘Now Gary Glitter’s bored with Thailand,’ she says, ‘are you going to have him over for Christmas?’
‘What?’ I say. ‘No, I’m not. It’s not my turn. I did it last year. Why can’t he come to you this time?’
‘He’s too annoying.’
I don’t know why Dinah thinks that means that I should put up with him twice in a row, but she claims she’s a special case.
‘Dad likes your kids,’ she says, ‘but he hates Jake. He even calls him Damian, to his face.’
‘Damian?’ I say. I’ve never heard Dad call Jake anything other than ‘that disturbing child’.
‘From The Omen,’ Dinah says, as I hear her lighter click. ‘Dad thinks it’s funny, but I don’t appreciate him looking through Jake’s hair every five minutes, saying that he’s trying to find the number 666.’
I laugh, and she hangs up on me.
I feel quite w
ell-disposed towards my kids after that, so I try to call Connie but she doesn’t answer. There’s no point even trying to contact Josh, as he’s at work. There’s only one way to see my offspring’s lovable faces, and that’s by looking at their photo albums on Facebook.
‘What are you doing, Mol?’ says Max, when he looks over my shoulder. ‘Stalking our kids? It’s probably not necessary.’
‘I know it isn’t,’ I say. ‘I am not stalking them. I am admiring them. Like some people admire mid-life crisis-style sports cars, and their drivers.’
Max looks up at the ceiling and sighs, but doesn’t say anything at all. He doesn’t need to, seeing as he’s already managed to make me anxious. What does he mean by ‘probably not necessary’?
I check Connie’s page first, as she’s the one who’s furthest away, but she appears to be doing nothing more sinister than playing on Farmville most of the time, so I don’t need to worry about her. Unless that’s not the only thing that she’s doing in a virtual reality environment.
She could be up to anything online, with strange men from Eastern bloc countries, now I come to think of it. Which I wish I hadn’t, as now I’ve started to hiccup again. I breathe in and hold my nose while Max brings me a glass of water.
‘I don’t know why the hell you keep getting hiccups so often these days,’ he says, ‘or why you’ve got such a thing about Ellen. She’s just a nice friendly neighbour of ours.’
I pretend I haven’t heard him and, once the hiccups have finally subsided, I open Josh’s Facebook page. He hardly ever updates his status, but he’s posted a few photos of Holly – looking unusually grumpy – and a video, since the last time I snooped. Its title is 24 Minutes, Episode One, which sounds innocuous enough so I press play.
I don’t know who is doing the filming, but the video opens with Josh and Robbie in Robbie’s car driving towards Sainsbury’s (so at least the Asda photo booth repair man seems to be off the hook). The next shot is of the boys unloading something very large into a space in the middle of the car park, which is full of shoppers. A number of them glance over at the boys, who are struggling with metal poles and what seems to be a padded, long, black thing.
Josh is giggling like a maniac – I’d know that laugh anywhere even though he’s not currently in shot – but I still have no idea what he and Robbie are up to, until … Oh, Christ. I can’t believe my eyes. Josh’s weights bench is now fully assembled, and situated smack bang in the middle of the car park.
Josh is lying on it, lifting weights, while Robbie is his personal trainer, convincingly attired in a black and orange shell-suit and wielding a stop-watch. Both boys appear oblivious to the incredulous stares of passers-by, and the whole thing seems to go on for hours.
I can barely watch by the time a very unamused security guard approaches, and the film stops dead.
Max replays the clip several times, without comment, while I wonder what numbers I’d find on Josh’s scalp. If I ever dared to look.
SUNDAY, 3 OCTOBER
Josh says that he and Robbie have set up a film company, and are making a series of episodes of 24 Minutes in order to convince Holly that Josh won’t always have to spend his days (and nights) picking up poos in cups to earn a living. (Apparently, Robbie spilled the beans about that, and now Holly’s embarrassed to tell people what her boyfriend’s job involves.)
‘I am going to become the Jack Bauer of Lichford East,’ says Josh, ‘and then Holly’ll be proud of me, instead of ashamed. As long as I can prove I haven’t got nits.’
‘Why does she think you have?’ I say, trying to ignore the fact that my head started itching, just at the thought.
‘Last time she came to the cinema she saw a little kid scratching like mad,’ says Josh. ‘Just after I’d served him some popcorn. I’m sure I haven’t caught them, but can you double-check, please, Mum?’
I inspect his scalp three times, but there are no nits at all, nor any numbers, as far as I can see. I wonder if you can get nits in facial hair? Not that I’ll need to worry about that, not once I’ve had a chance to use my brilliant new eBay purchase, the one that arrived in yesterday’s post …
It’s a springy wand thing, called a Tweeze-ease or something, and it works on the same principle as threading, apparently. It also has lurid pink plastic handles, and therefore looks as if would be quite at home on the shelves of Ann Summers.
I wait for Max to doze off after lunch, and then get started.
An hour later, my face is as bald as a baby’s bottom, which – surprisingly – proves not to be an entirely good thing. I don’t think your face is supposed to be completely hairless.
It feels very odd indeed, and I definitely shouldn’t have tried to use the wand between my eyebrows. Now I look astonished, probably at the fact that one eyebrow is only half as long as the other. And I seem to be developing blotches all over the place.
I slap on some aloe vera, in the hope that this will calm the eruption down.
So much for optimism. When Max wakes up, he opens his eyes and looks straight at me, then blinks several times, before opening them again, much wider this time.
‘What the hell’s the matter with your face, Mol?’ he says, eventually. ‘Have you got chicken pox or something?’
I don’t reply. Luckily for Max, the phone is ringing.
‘Some people are so bloody insensitive,’ says Dad, apropos a greeting.
‘Yes, they are,’ I say, looking at Max, though Dad’s usually the worst offender. ‘What makes you say that now, though?’
‘I went to see my next-door neighbours a few days ago – to get away from Dinah for a bit – and I told them all about Porn-Poon while I was there.’
‘Ah,’ I say. So Dinah was right about the double-barrelled bit. ‘What did they say that was so upsetting, then?’
‘Nothing, while I was there,’ says Dad. ‘But I’ve just found out that, afterwards, they told the landlord of my local that I was a dirty old man. Bloody outrageous thing to say.’
‘Ah,’ I say, again, after a fruitless search for a politically correct yet honest response.
‘Can’t you say anything except, “Ah”?’ says Dad. ‘Anyone would think you were a politician yourself.’
I count to ten, then try again. ‘Well, what were they referring to?’ I say. Disingenuousness is often grossly under-rated. It’s a key skill when you work for an MP.
‘God knows,’ says Dad. ‘I only said that everyone looks the same age in the dark.’
‘I hear you’re going to Dinah’s for Christmas,’ I say. ‘So that’ll probably cheer you up.’
Sometimes, you just have to save yourself.
MONDAY, 4 OCTOBER
The first thing Greg says to me this morning is, ‘What’s the matter with your face? Did you catch chicken pox from the Baron of Oil?’
After seeing my expression, it’s also the last thing he says to me until lunchtime, when The Boss phones with some news: Marie-Louise is off sick.
‘You’ll just have to do my London diary until I sort something out,’ he says.
‘Why can’t Carlotta do the diary?’ I ask. ‘She’s in London. That does help, you know – with your London diary.’
‘She’s too busy,’ says The Boss.
I seriously doubt that. Greg’s convinced that Carlotta still takes a siesta every day – probably something to do with her cultural heritage. But I let it go, as I’m more concerned with what’s wrong with Marie-Louise. I really hope it isn’t chicken pox.
‘It’s Norovirus,’ says Andrew, ‘and anyway, it shouldn’t take long to find a replacement. I have a plan.’
I don’t like the sound of this. Andrew’s plans always tend to involve shooting himself firmly in both feet. Or shooting me in my feet, actually. Also, he sounds even more smug than usual, so that’s definitely a worrying sign.
When I phone her to ask, Carlotta claims to have no idea what Andrew’s plan might be – though she does blame him for the Norovirus.
‘That man never washes his hands,’ she says. ‘Not even when he visits hospitals.’
Then she faxes me through the most urgent appointment letters, and forwards all the emails relating to the diary. There are millions of those.
‘There’s loads of other stuff, too,’ she says, ‘but I’ll send all that through to you in this evening’s post.’
This promise does not improve my mood. In fact, I am so cross that I spend five minutes swearing while kicking the filing cabinet. Then I have to spend another fifteen minutes trying to get the bottom drawer to open.
Greg starts laughing, so I try to wither him with a look. It doesn’t work, even though my face resembles the Infected more than usual.
‘Trying to add repairwoman to your job description, now?’ he says.
‘Shut up, Greg,’ I say. ‘It’s not funny, and I haven’t got time for this! Not with all the diary stuff to do.’
‘Cheer up, Mol,’ says Greg. ‘Think of all the fun you can have, sending The Boss to the wrong locations.’
I’d quite like to send the usual suspects to the wrong locations. In far-flung destinations, and with one-way tickets. Miss Chambers rings just before we close, to complain that the man who owns the local post office is refusing to serve her any more.
‘Why?’ I say.
‘Because he didn’t like me calling him a Paki,’ she says. ‘Do something about it. I don’t know what this country’s coming to.’
‘Nor do I,’ I say.
I envy that man his self-respect.
TUESDAY, 5 OCTOBER
I knew I was right to be worried about The Boss’ plan to deal with the absence of Marie-Louise.
When I arrive at work this morning – ten minutes late, due to phoning NHS Direct to check whether you can catch chicken pox twice – Greg is looking very stressed.
‘What’s up?’ I say. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
He puts a finger to his lips and mouths, ‘Sssh!’
‘Huh?’ It’s Tuesday, so The Boss can’t be here. Carlotta will be suffering that joy today.
‘In your office,’ Greg says, or rather, whispers. Then he pulls an extraordinary face that is no help at all and makes some very peculiar gestures with his hands. He’d be absolutely useless at charades.
