by Polly James
‘And how did you find out that it was?’ says the doctor, in a tone that suggests that he doesn’t much care.
He seems even more unimpressed when Josh explains that he brought his fist down on it, at the same time as yelling to Robbie, ‘You know the band, The Smashing Pumpkins? Well, here’s their greatest hit!’
I’ve got a horrible feeling this doctor may also cover Silverhill Surgery, judging by his humourless reaction, so I decide not to ask him about the Valium. He’d probably go back and tell his colleagues I’m a drug addict if I did. Then they’d write another letter of complaint to The Boss.
‘Josh, do you never learn?’ I say, as we walk across reception towards the exit. ‘That was really awkward.’
‘Just playing it for laughs, Mum,’ says Josh. ‘Just for laughs. That doctor should try it some time. The miserable bugger.’
I don’t react, as I have just noticed a poster, printed on bright pink paper, detailing ‘other services’ offered at the surgery – including Botox injections at £150 a throw.
‘So that’s where Ellen gets hers done,’ I say, to no one in particular, as Josh turns left to head for home, and I turn right to return to the office.
I shall have to save up for some of those myself if these late nights carry on. I look exactly like my great-grandmother, shortly before she died. Or maybe shortly afterwards.
WEDNESDAY, 27 OCTOBER (VERY LATE)
I look even more like Great-Gran when I leave the office again, at almost midnight, as I still haven’t found that bloody, bloody file of documents. I get a taxi home, as Max doesn’t answer when I call to beg him for a lift. Probably because he still hasn’t returned home himself.
When I ask, Josh says Max hasn’t phoned him either.
‘Maybe he’s popped round to Ellen’s,’ I say. ‘To re-light her fire, I mean boiler, again. I’ll just go and have a look.’
I almost break my neck in the attempt, as Ellen’s house is in complete darkness and I walk into her whirly washing line when I try to sneak up close to the windows. There’s definitely no one in though – so, if she’s with Max, it must be at a hotel somewhere. Probably the bloody Marriott, now I come to think of it. Max knew exactly where that was, didn’t he?
I’m about to phone reception and demand to speak to him when in he walks, looking even worse than I do.
‘You’re losing your job this week, so please don’t claim you’ve been working until this time of night. Where the hell have you been?’ I say, or rather, shout at him.
He makes a shushing motion with his hands and says, ‘The hospital.’
Then he takes off his jacket, and sits down heavily on the sofa, while I say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘Oh, the hospital. Did Ellen need an emergency Botox injection, by any chance?’
‘Mol, I’m tired and I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ says Max, closing his eyes. ‘I’ve been with Mrs Bloom since six o’clock.’
I am so fed up of the obviously fictitious Mrs Bloom. Time to do some calling of bluff.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘If that’s true, then give me her number, now. If you’re sure she’ll be able to confirm your story – to your wife.’
‘She can’t confirm anything at the moment, Molly,’ says Max, speaking very slowly, as if to a child. ‘She was unconscious only a few hours ago. Some sort of diabetic coma, the doctors said.’
‘Oh,’ I say, mainly because I’m not sure whether to believe him or not.
It does sound credible, though, when Max starts to explain. He says that Mrs Bloom called him just as he was leaving work and asked him to pop in on his way home to fix a curtain pole, which had fallen off the wall. When he arrived, she didn’t answer the door, and then he spotted her through a window, sitting slumped in her chair and not moving at all.
‘So I broke the window, climbed in and realised that she was unconscious,’ he continues, ‘and then I phoned an ambulance.’
Max says that he waited with Mrs Bloom until it arrived – intending to come home once it did. But Mrs Bloom had regained consciousness by then and was terrified, so she begged him to ride in the ambulance with her and then to sit with her in A&E. Not wanting to add to her distress, he did as he was asked – or so he says.
‘She’s got no family, you see,’ he says. ‘So I didn’t have the heart to abandon her.’
And I yelled at him, for that. God, I really am unreasonable.
THURSDAY, 28 OCTOBER
I go into work early again this morning, in a last-ditch attempt to find Mr Sampson’s file, so I don’t get to apologise properly to Max, who’s fast asleep when I leave the house. I might as well have stayed in bed with him a bit longer – seeing as I still haven’t found the damn thing by the time the mail arrives, along with Greg and Vicky.
I do wish mad constituents hadn’t given up using lurid green ink. Now everyone’s got a computer, it’s much harder to work out which letters to be careful about when you’re opening them, although funny-coloured envelopes are usually a reasonable indicator.
I’m sorting through this morning’s delivery when I spot a lavender one, so I decide I’ll leave that until last, on the grounds that it may ensure that I remain alive for as long as possible. Then I use my non-patented letter-opener-stabbing procedure, the one that involves half-turning my back.
The tension is contagious, and Vicky chooses that moment to vacate the office – on what she calls an urgent mission.
I keep jabbing and tearing for another few minutes, until finally – success! I’m still in one piece, and my technique’s obviously improving, as so are the contents of the envelope.
‘What is it?’ says Greg, from underneath his desk.
‘Oh,’ I say, then, ‘Aw.’
‘What? What? Can I come out, or not?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You’ll never guess what it is, anyway.’
‘As long as it isn’t any more bloody white powder and my man-boobs are safe from being put on public display again, I don’t care what it is,’ says Greg, sitting back down in his chair and wiping his forehead on his sleeve.
‘It’s a thank you card,’ I say. ‘Believe it or not.’
Greg chooses the latter option. ‘Piss off, Molly!’ he says. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘See for yourself,’ I say as I pass the card to him, which then renders him speechless for at least a minute.
He can’t remember the last time a constituent said thank you after we’d got them a result, and neither can I – not that I think you should get bonuses for doing your job, but a word of appreciation never goes amiss. (Igor’s not a constituent, so he doesn’t count.)
It’s not as if this thank-you was even deserved, seeing as all I did was to sort out ambulance transport for that lovely man, Mr Bradley – which the hospital should never have forgotten to arrange in the first place. Not when they were the ones who’d chopped his leg off.
Anyway, Mr B writes that, since he finally managed to attend his out-patient appointment, he’s now had his prosthetic leg fitted, is ‘managing very well’, and that he and his wife will be ‘eternally grateful’ for what I did for them.
‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ says Greg, dabbing at his eyes, while claiming to be suffering from a bout of winter hayfever.
‘What does?’ I say, pretending I believe him.
‘How some people are so reluctant to ask anyone for help, no matter how much they deserve it, and then this lot of bloody whingers—’ Greg gestures at the files and letters strewn across his desk.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But at least there’s some hope, while there are people like Mr B around.’
After Mr Meeeeurghn phones to complain that his neighbour is still sniffing him at every opportunity, and Miss Emms calls to say that her guinea pigs are now suffering from cannabis anti-motivational syndrome, I’m starting to change my mind about that.
‘Big Ears Beales is still stalking that poor policeman, too,’ says Greg, slamming his phone down at exac
tly the same moment as mine begins to ring again. ‘Taking photos of the poor man everywhere he goes.’
‘Ssh,’ I say.
I am on the phone to Carlotta, who sounds as if she’s about to have a heart attack. Apparently she’s been trying to get through to us for well over an hour.
She’s only just managed to say, ‘Andrew – on his way back – early – furious’ when the man himself walks in, accompanied by Vicky, who’s been absent from the office ever since I opened Mr Bradley’s card.
Andrew’s clearly in a towering rage, while Vicky’s smiling like a well-fed piranha yet again.
‘Explain this, Molly,’ he says, slamming the lunchtime edition of the local paper down on my desk.
The front-page headline reads, ‘Local MP to be sued by constituent’.
The article itself begins with my name, and is followed by phrases like ‘loss of vital documents’, ‘incompetent’ and ‘negligent’. The ‘negligent’ bit is directed at The Boss for employing me, the incompetent who lost the documents – according to the ‘whistleblower’ who advised Mr Sampson that this had happened, earlier on today.
‘You’ve done it on purpose, Molly, haven’t you?’ he says. ‘First you set all the doctors in Lichford against me, and now you do this! It’s bloody sabotage, that’s what it is.’
Andrew’s face is the colour of a prune. God knows what his blood pressure’s doing.
‘But—’ I say, when Andrew interrupts.
‘Give all your work to Vicky – now,’ he says. ‘She’s the only one here who knows what she’s doing.’
‘Thanks so much,’ says Greg, glaring at The Boss, who glares right back at him.
‘You should watch your bloody step as well,’ he says. ‘You’re all dispensable.’ With that, Andrew walks into the Oprah room and beckons for Vicky to go and join him.
‘Don’t stand for this, Mol,’ says Greg. ‘If you won’t tell him who had that bloody file last, then I damn well will.’
I’m too stunned to do anything at all, so Greg throws his hands up in frustration, then asks to speak to Andrew in private, i.e. without Vicky being present. Andrew says he’s not putting up with any more sneaky behaviour, so Greg’s forced to tell him that Vicky was the last person to have the file – while he’s standing in front of her.
‘And she hasn’t spent one single minute helping me and Mol to look for it,’ he adds. ‘When we’ve been here until God knows when for the last few nights, the two of us. Even Joan tried to help, but Vicky didn’t.’
At this, Vicky bursts into tears, very decoratively – no hiccups or runny noses for her. Then she says that Greg and I have been bullying her ever since she started work, because we resent her for watching Andrew’s back.
‘Andy, you know I’m the only one you can trust,’ she says, dabbing at her eyes.
Her mascara isn’t even smudged, which – for some reason – finally gives me a kick in the butt. ‘Ah,’ I say. ‘So you’re the one who’s been telling Andrew that everyone here is against him, are you?’
‘They are,’ says Vicky. ‘Especially you. I’m the only person who appreciates him. Aren’t I, Andy?’
The Boss looks backwards and forwards between me and Vicky as if in a daze, then shakes his head and says, ‘I’m sick of not being able to trust people. If I were you, Molly, I’d go home – right now – and consider your position. Seriously.’
Greg starts to protest, but I have had enough. ‘Oh, I will,’ I say. ‘And I suggest you consider yours too. Nice earrings, by the way, Vicky. I see Andrew gave you back the one you lost down the side of the sofa – there’s probably another pair embedded in Joan’s hedge.’
I feel quite triumphant as I grab my coat and bag and head for the door but, by the time I’ve arrived home, I’m a mess and in no doubt at all about what my position is: absolutely bloody buggered. It’s karma, for planning to meet Johnny tomorrow and being horrible to Max when he was just being kind. Or ‘a star’ – as Sam would put it.
‘I’m calling to say thanks for the invite to Max’s birthday party,’ he says, when he phones early evening, while Max is still at work. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Is the man himself available for a chat?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s working late a lot at the moment, even though he’s just found out that he’s being made redundant.’
‘Good God,’ says Sam, proving yet again that he and Max hardly ever speak to each other.
You’d swear phone calls between male ‘best friends’ were limited by law to four a year. By the time I’ve finished explaining what’s happened to Max’s job, Sam is late for yet another blind date, so I don’t have time to tell him that I may have just lost mine as well.
‘See you on Saturday, then,’ I say. ‘Want me to give Max a message, when he gets home?’
‘Yes,’ says Sam. ‘Tell him I meant to thank him for that fantastic excuse he gave me to escape from Shona. Worked a treat. I even got out with my saintly reputation intact.’
When he tells me that Max suggested that he should claim that his grandmother had gone into a coma, I start considering my options, as well as my position.
‘It was a diabetic hyper, or a hypo,’ Sam continues. ‘I can’t remember which now, but I got the right one at the time. Anyway, it was a brilliant cover story – so good, Max almost had me convinced when he described it to me.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He’s good at that.’
FRIDAY, 29 OCTOBER
Well, that’s just typical, isn’t it? I get sacked, and – on the very same day – two of the most annoying birds in Lichford get killed, with one particularly well-aimed stone. Metaphorically speaking, of course – not that that’s much bloody comfort.
I’m just preparing to line Charlie’s litter tray with the front page of yesterday’s paper, when I spot an article on page two headed, ‘Animal lover discovers cannabis factory on her doorstep.’
One of the accompanying photographs shows Mr Meeeeurghn being led away by several police officers (all wearing high-vis jackets). The other features Miss Emms, his ‘vigilant neighbour’. She’s grinning like a maniac and holding several guinea pigs in her arms. She looks far more psychotic than they do.
I’m still banging my head on the table when Max appears and asks me what I’m doing.
‘Thinking how lucky some people are,’ I say, meaning Greg and Vicky, whose workload’s just been cut by half.
Max waits for me to explain – but, when it becomes clear that I have no intention of doing so, he changes the subject. ‘Why did you go to bed so early last night?’ he says. ‘I thought you’d still be up when I got home from the hospital. Mrs Bloom’s doing really well.’
He almost believes in that made-up woman himself, doesn’t he?
‘Oh, good. I’m so glad,’ I say, which earns me a sigh and a funny look from Max, who decides that now might be a very good time to take a shower.
When he comes back downstairs a little later and finds me still sitting at the table in my pyjamas, drawing a handlebar moustache on Mr Meeeeurghn, he asks why I’m not ready for work.
I say that I’m not feeling well, and leave it at that. My options will stay far more open if Max has no idea that I’m considering them – or of what they might be.
‘’Bye, then,’ he says. ‘See you later?’ He makes it sound like a question but, again, I don’t answer. Who knows where I’ll be, by the end of tonight? I certainly don’t, not that Dinah cares. She’s only bothered about Dad’s whereabouts.
‘Molly,’ she says, when she calls my mobile, towards the end of the afternoon, ‘why the hell aren’t you at work? I phoned your office because I thought that’s where you’d be.’
‘Ah, well, that’s because—’ I say, when Dinah interrupts.
‘It doesn’t matter now, you idiot,’ she says. ‘You won’t believe this!’
‘Oh, I probably will,’ I say. ‘Nothing surprises me any more.’
This is obviously not the right answer, as Dinah hu
ffs in outrage. I keep forgetting she has a legitimate medical reason for being dramatic.
‘Stop talking,’ she says. ‘And listen. It’s Dad. I’ve just been to visit him.’
She pauses, but I’m doing as I’m told, so I don’t say a thing.
‘Are you still there?’ says Dinah, so then I compromise and make a number of vague but encouraging noises. These seem to do the trick, and so she carries on: ‘He’s not there. I had a feeling he was up to something again!’
‘He’s always up to something,’ I say. ‘DIY, at the moment, and fishing, apparently.’
Or apparently not, when Dinah finally gets to the point. ‘There’s a “For Sale” sign outside his house!’ she says. ‘And he’s gone back to bloody Thailand again – to live, this time. His next-door neighbours knew all about it.’
I’m still getting over the shock of that, when Dinah makes a choking sound.
‘You okay, Di?’ I say.
‘No-o-o,’ she says, gasping and snorting. ‘We’ve lost him all over again, Mol. How many times is this going to happen? I’m tired of not having a normal family with only two parental figures!’
I know what she means, but I wish I didn’t. Now all I can think of are Connie and Josh, saying the same thing – when Max either runs off with Annoying Ellen, or I bugger off to Russia to be with Johnny.
‘People are supposed to mean their marriage vows,’ says Dinah, before sobbing gets the better of her and she hangs up.
I haven’t heard her cry like that since her mother and Dad divorced. It’s disconcerting, even allowing for the HPD. I consider emailing Dad to try to find out what’s going on, but then decide I can’t be bothered, when faced with the contents of my inbox: about twenty-five emails from The Boss, and the same number from Greg, all telling me to contact the office. Greg has sent a similar number of texts, as well – all during the relatively short time that I’ve spent talking to Di.
There’s no time to read any of them now, even if I wanted to, as I’ve got to get ready. Johnny’ll be arriving at his hotel in just over an hour.
‘No second thoughts?’ he says in a text, responding to mine imparting the news about Dad. ‘I hope you’re not going to change your mind.’
