Diary of an Unsmug Married

by Polly James

  ‘Mehmet’s left me,’ she says, in between sporadic sobs – and some hiccups, too. She nearly sets mine off again.

  Even though she’s clearly beside herself with misery, both Andrew and I are completely unprepared for what she says next, once the crying finally subsides: ‘So I want you to do something about him. Urgently.’

  ‘Have you tried Relate?’ I say, as it’s not as if anyone can kidnap Mehmet and drag him back.

  ‘No, that’s no good,’ says Angie. ‘He’s been having an affair with my next-door neighbour almost since the moment he arrived in the UK. And he tried to make me think I was mad for being suspicious, when he kept on claiming he was working late. So now I want you to write to the Border Agency and get his leave to remain revoked. That’ll teach the bastard to play me for a fool.’

  So much for thinking positive – and happy endings. I must be mad.

  SATURDAY, 9 OCTOBER

  ‘You know Angie Osman?’ I say to Max, this morning, as soon as I wake up. ‘The one you met when we went to the International Club that time?’

  ‘What?’ says Max. ‘I’m trying to sleep.’

  I’m not surprised, given the time he got in last night, but this can’t wait. ‘Angie,’ I say, again. ‘Osman. You know. Well, anyway, her husband, Mehmet—’

  ‘Oh, you mean “The Visa”,’ says Max, interrupting me, while keeping his eyes firmly closed.

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘What do you mean, “The Visa”?’

  Max finally gives up trying to go back to sleep and looks at me, bleary-eyed. ‘That’s what everyone calls Mehmet,’ he says. ‘Behind Angie’s back. I thought you knew.’

  ‘I did not know,’ I say. ‘And the bastard’s been having an affair with the next-door neighbour, also behind Angie’s back. And telling her she’s mad to accuse him of doing it!’

  ‘Well, that’s sad,’ says Max, ‘but why are you so upset about it? You only know them through work, don’t you?’

  I’m just about to tell him why I’m so upset, when the landline begins to ring. Max groans, but jumps out of bed as fast as he can, to go and answer it. I mutter, ‘Saved by the bell’ under my breath, as he rushes down the stairs.

  Five minutes later, he reappears, looking very concerned.

  ‘What now?’ I say.

  ‘It’s your mum,’ he says. ‘No, don’t panic – she’s all right. She’s just had a fall. Over a table leg, I should imagine.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I say. ‘Those bloody tables. And just when Ted’s away, too, and she’s all on her own. Is she in casualty?’ I’m sick of that hospital, thanks to Josh.

  ‘At home, with the paramedic. It was him who called, so I told him you’ll get round there as soon as you can. I’ll take you in the car, then I can go and do the food shopping afterwards.’

  ‘But we were just about to have a conversation,’ I say. ‘An important one. A very important one.’

  ‘Were we?’ says Max, almost convincingly. ‘Well, if your mum’s okay later on, let’s go and have a meal somewhere nice this evening. I can afford it, as Mrs Bloom gave me a tip last night. Oh, and she said to thank you for the flowers, too.’

  I don’t have time to ask what Max did to earn a tip from ‘Mrs Bloom’; I’m too busy getting dressed and trying to find the arnica. I don’t care what the LibDems say about homeopathy, this stuff works. Josh has proved that on numerous occasions.

  But bloody hell. Talk about bad timing. I know it’s selfish but, honestly, did Mum have to fall over one of those damned tables just when I was getting ready to force Max to tell me what’s really going on with Ellen? Now I’ll have to wait until tonight.

  ‘Has anyone told Robin about Mum?’ I say, suddenly remembering my idiot brother. Max shakes his head, so I start dialling the number as we head for the car.

  ‘Ah, Mol,’ says Robin, the albino Isaac Hayes of Buddhists. ‘How’s it hangin’, dude? All cool with you?’

  ‘Yes, I mean, no. Rob – Mum’s had a fall. I’m on my way there now. Are you coming over?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ says Robin. ‘You’re the expert at family stuff. I’m sure you’ve got it covered – and I’ve got some mates coming round later on. Usual Saturday night game of poker.’

  I don’t say anything to that, as I don’t trust myself, so he continues: ‘I’ll leave it in your capable hands then, shall I?’

  ‘Sounds like I don’t have a choice,’ I say, before I hang up on him. Practise compassion daily, my arse – Rob only lives five minutes away.

  Talking of arses, God knows what Mum’s been playing at. When I walk in, she’s sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket and looking very pale. The paramedic has a word with me and then starts bustling around, packing away his emergency kit. Then Mum starts mouthing something.

  I have no idea what she’s trying to say, so I move closer, and she whispers in my ear. ‘Pants.’

  ‘I know it is, Mum,’ I say. ‘But the paramedic says you’re fine, if a bit shaken up. You just need someone to keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours or so.’

  ‘No,’ she says, looking very agitated. ‘Not that sort of pants, I mean pants. I need you to get me some. I’m not wearing any under my skirt.’

  Good God. Now my mother’s going commando? What the hell is going on? First Mr Beales and his Ann Summers habit, and now this. It’s all too much.

  I search through Mum’s underwear drawer and bring her the largest pair of knickers I can find. I know what’s age-appropriate, even if she doesn’t.

  After she’s wriggled into the pants under cover of the blanket, and claimed to have tripped over the hem of her skirt, and not a table leg, Mum tells me that the reason she was walking around without knickers is due to her sore buttock, and the effect of seams on tender skin.

  ‘If you say so,’ I say, as the doorbell rings.

  It’s Robin, all smiles and bonhomie. Maybe he did some emergency chanting, or divination, and the Buddha revealed that it might be a good idea to turn up and earn some karma points. He sits down next to Mum and takes her hand, smiling devotedly. Then he orders a cup of lapsang souchong from the waitress, i.e. me, and suggests I make Mum some scrambled egg.

  ‘We need to look after her, Molly,’ he says. ‘She’s had a nasty shock.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Are you going to keep an eye on her for a while, then? Max and I were supposed to be going out tonight, for once. I could come back and relieve you, after we’ve had our meal.’

  ‘Sorry, Mol,’ says Robin, standing up and reaching for his coat. ‘No can do.’

  Then he kisses Mum on the cheek and says, ‘Gotta run, Ma. People to see, places to go – you know how it is. I’m sure Mol will stay overnight. She’s the expert, what with having kids and all.’

  It’s a good job he leaves immediately afterwards, or the frenzied fratricide of a Buddhist with a penchant for bling would have been all over tomorrow’s papers.

  SUNDAY, 10 OCTOBER

  I’ve never had such a terrible night’s sleep in my life. I hate staying at other people’s houses, anyway, but why are old people so attached to sheets and blankets? The damn things are accidents waiting to happen, along with table legs.

  I was wide-awake for hours after I’d put Mum to bed, wondering what Max was getting up to while I was away, and then – when I did finally fall asleep – I had a nightmare in which I was being made to wear a straitjacket by a bunch of immigration officials, who looked like much less cuddly versions of Igor. They wanted to know where Max had absconded to and who our next-door neighbour was.

  Then I thought I heard Mum calling and, when I went to climb out of bed to go to her, I got horribly tangled up in the sheet and ended up falling onto the floor.

  Mum heard the crash and came to see whether I was okay, so our roles got a bit muddled, to say the least. By the time I’d put her back to bed it was already light, so I didn’t bother trying to sleep again. I texted Max instead.

  ‘I miss you,’ I said, but he didn’t reply. Maybe he wa
s still asleep?

  Anyway, now it’s lunchtime, and I’ve just made Mum more scrambled egg, as she says it’s just what you feel like eating when you’re poorly.

  ‘Good thing Robin reminded me about it,’ she says.

  ‘Humph,’ I say, as my mobile rings. It’s Robin. Talk of the devil. Or the Mara, if we’re speaking Buddhist.

  ‘Just checking in, Mol,’ he says. ‘Before I go off to the seaside for the day. How’s Ma?’

  ‘I’ll put her on,’ I say, passing Mum the phone. I stand behind her while she chats, making frantic ‘V’ signs at Robin, until I realise she can see my reflection in the window. She’s a bit off with me after that. It’s a relief when Ted arrives back from his fishing trip in the early evening and offers to give me a lift straight home.

  When I arrive, the house is in darkness and I realise I’ve left my keys on the kitchen counter at Mum’s. I knock on the door for ages, just in case, but no one answers and so eventually I walk round to the back alleyway. Maybe Max has left the gate open, if he put the bins out earlier.

  He has locked the gate, but that doesn’t matter. Not compared to what he’s doing, right this minute: sitting at Ellen’s kitchen table. I can see him clearly, over the wall.

  I phone his mobile. Now let’s see where he says he is.

  ‘Mol,’ he says, when he answers. ‘Where are you? Are you ready for me to come and pick you up?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Where are you?’ I hold my breath. Now I wish I hadn’t asked. I’d take it back, if I could.

  ‘I’m at Ellen’s,’ he says. ‘She wanted me to re-light her boiler. So I’m just having a quick cup of coffee before going back home.’

  Argh. Can he see me? How does he do that?

  ‘I’m outside,’ I say, after a moment’s pause to collect my thoughts. ‘At the back. Can you come and let me in? I’ve left my keys at Mum’s.’

  ‘Well, why on earth didn’t you say so?’ says Max, wrong-footing me, as usual.

  MONDAY, 11 OCTOBER

  Is it possible to have PMT every day of the month? I’m starting to wonder – unless it’s Vicky’s constant hair-flicking that’s causing me to be so grumpy, as well as Max always managing to come up smelling of roses, even when I think I’ve caught him out at last.

  Today I manage to fall out with both him and Johnny. Talk about narrowing one’s options.

  Max announces that he’s going to be late home again tonight, while we’re in the middle of breakfast. Mrs Bloom has ‘asked a favour’ and he is going to fix a new bolt and security chain to her front door after work.

  ‘But what on earth has that got to do with your job?’ I say. ‘You sell sofas and stuff, not door furniture.’

  ‘I know,’ says Max. ‘But it’s not a bad idea to keep your best customers happy in a recession. And it won’t take me that long, anyway.’

  I can’t think of anything to say to this that wouldn’t involve sounding as if I’m lacking in age concern, so I don’t bother. I rely on some passive-aggressive huffing and glaring instead. It’s only 7.30 in the morning, and the best I can do.

  Not that my restraint has the desired effect. Max raises an eyebrow and says, ‘PMT?’

  Gah. Why do men always think that women’s irritation is due solely to their menstrual cycle, and not to whether it’s justifiable or not? I’m sure I read an article once – probably in one of Mum’s cuttings – that said that, although women may be slightly more irritable in the days immediately before their period, they are still less irritable at that point than men are all the time.

  I remind Max of this, and of the fact that there is no such thing as Post-Menstrual Tension, which is what my mood would be due to, if I was in a mood. Which I’m not – unlike him.

  When I say that we’d need a much more regular sex-life than the one we have to give him any chance of judging where I am in my menstrual cycle at any given point, he’s the one who gets irritable. He’s stopped talking to me entirely by the time that I leave for work.

  ‘I’m not irritable, am I?’ I say to Greg, who replies, ‘Well, maybe a bit.’

  So would he be, if he’d had to spend all morning watching Vicky rolling her eyes and tutting at everything he said, instead of going to a nice little meeting at the CAB.

  I definitely should have tried much harder to get a job in Primark. I bet they don’t allow their temps to speak to people the way Vicky does to me. But then they probably operate a normal hierarchy, too – not one based on whether their boss likes them best that day or not.

  Goldenballs Vicky is winning that particular contest hands down at the moment and, as she’s really only answerable to Andy, I’ve got no choice but to put up with her until Marie-Louise is well enough to come back to work.

  I can’t wait for that to happen – hopefully by the end of this week, or so Marie-Louise says anyway. It’s the first thing I ask her about when she phones shortly after lunch to give me an update.

  It’s also the only thing I ask, as – after I hear her answer – I accidentally disconnect the phone, by punching the air over-enthusiastically with the hand that’s holding the receiver, while saying, ‘Thank God for that!’

  I wish The Boss would invest in some better phones. The cord pulls clean out of the back of ours if you make any sudden movements while holding them. I’ve just finished plugging mine back in when it starts to ring again, but this time it’s Johnny calling – from Russia.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, calling me on the office phone?’ I say. Very quietly. There are ears under all Vicky’s hair. Waggly ones.

  ‘What?’ says Johnny. ‘Speak up, woman. There’s no point in me phoning to hear your voice if you’re going to whisper.’

  Oh, bloody hell. How does he expect me to have a conversation with him while Vicky is listening in? I decide that, if it’s only my voice that he wants to hear, then it won’t matter what I actually say, so I can pretend I’m talking to a constituent.

  ‘Ah,’ I say. ‘So you’re not happy with what Iain Duncan Smith has said about people needing to travel further to find work, if necessary?’ (It’s the best I can do, off the top of my head.)

  ‘What? What are you talking about? Of course I’m happy with it – I travel an entire bloody continent in my job, you idiot,’ says Johnny.

  Now his tone resembles a grumpy constituent’s rather too convincingly for my liking. Not to mention that his job is hardly typical of those I was referring to. I bite my lip, then plough ahead.

  ‘Well, I see your point,’ I say. ‘Spending large amounts of money on travelling to work is all very well, if you have a full-time job. But all those poor people who are on zero- or four-hour contracts, or who are sent home early when they’re not needed, are indeed in a wholly different position to you. I commend your sensitivity to the predicaments of others.’

  ‘Molly, what the hell are you talking about?’ says Johnny. ‘How is this supposed to be seductive?’

  Honestly, sometimes even International Directors of Global Oil Companies are very slow to catch on. Vicky’s still earwigging, though – so I’ll have to adopt a two-pronged approach.

  I start typing an email to Johnny, while still talking to him on the phone. ‘I will be happy to raise this with the Minister for Work and Pensions,’ I say. ‘I’ll send you a copy of my letter, and we’ll take it from there.’ At the same time, I hit send, and my email saying: ‘Johnny, get OFF the phone!’ is on its way.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ says Johnny. ‘Oh, hold on. Ah. I see. Well, I’m sorry to interrupt your vital work.’ Then he hangs up.

  Was that tone of voice really necessary? I send another email: ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

  Johnny’s reply comes straight back: ‘PMT?’

  Is there any point in having an almost-lover who’s just as annoying as your husband? I can’t see that there is, myself.

  TUESDAY, 12 OCTOBER

  Everyone’s in such a good mood today! Well, everyone apart from the constituents. It�
�s unnerving.

  In the morning, Max gives me a cuddle and apologises for his comment about PMT. ‘I was just being immature,’ he says, as he gives me an exaggerated kiss on the cheek, which is finally blotch-free.

  ‘Humph,’ I say. (I am not being an elephant, just playing hard-to-get.)

  ‘Well, I am your toy-boy, after all,’ he says.

  A six-month age gap and you never hear the last of it. Which reminds me, I really must start planning Max’s surprise birthday party – which is bound to be better than mine, if only because I don’t intend to tell him about it in advance.

  Unlike him, I understand the concept of surprises – and one of his will be finding out that I haven’t invited Annoying Ellen. If I can get away with excluding her, though I’m not quite sure how I’m going to make that look like an oversight. She’ll be round at the first sniff of alcohol.

  Talking of alcohol, I arrive at work to find that good old Igor has dropped off a bottle of vodka to warm us all up, now that the weather’s getting much colder. Greg has already tested it for purity, or so he says.

  ‘Can’t be too careful, Mol. You are lucky I am prepared to risk my life, as your official taster. Usually only important people have those.’

  ‘I don’t need a taster,’ I say. ‘Or not where Igor’s concerned, anyway. He wouldn’t give us anything that might harm me, seeing as he says I remind him of his wife.’

  ‘How do you know that’s a good thing?’ says Greg, as he pours another shot, ‘to be on the safe side.’

  Then he tells me that Vicky has gone to London to meet up with The Boss, so I pour myself a large shot, too. That news is worth a sizeable celebration. A whole day free from eye-rolling, hair-flicking and supercilious comments about how unkindly life is treating my face! It feels as if it’s my birthday, without the disadvantage of having become another year older.

  The vodka even helps to dull the volume of Miss Chambers’ voice, when she phones to say that the police have stolen a teapot that she inherited from her mother, during a visit to investigate her latest allegation: that her neighbours have started running a brothel.

  Greg offers me a refill as soon as he hears Miss C’s distinctive shriek echoing around the office, but I refuse, just in case the alcohol affects my judgement – or my reaction time. (Crucial to picking the right moment at which to get cut off, by accident.)