Diary of an Unsmug Married (43 page)

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.)

‘Commendable abstinence, Molly,’ says Greg. ‘Not that it did me any good at conference. I’d have stood a better chance of getting laid if I’d been legless the whole time, like The Boss.’

He’s almost convinced me that there’s a direct link between how much you drink and how often you have sex, when Johnny sends a series of emails, which make me very glad that I’m still sober.

He says that he’s sorry for his PMT comment, but that he’s ‘losing patience’ with me.

When I ask why, he says that I am ‘teasing’ him.

Me? A tease? I wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to start – as the Ann Summers debacle showed only too clearly – but Johnny insists that this is
exactly
what I am doing, by refusing to commit to another meeting.

‘Well, I’m not sure,’ I say, then hesitate. Maybe it’s time to bite the bullet. ‘All right, then,’ I continue. ‘The truth is that I can’t help thinking that maybe we should both make a bit more effort to salvage our marriages, before we start planning to meet again. Don’t you?’

‘No,’ says Johnny. ‘I don’t. It’s not supposed to be a
job
, being married – and is it really worth it, if you have to
work
at it?’

Of course it’s a job. And I bet his kids would think it was worth it, even if he doesn’t. Is he on another planet, hanging out with Max’s Mormon friends, or something?

I don’t put it quite as bluntly as that in my next email, but it might have been better if I had. At least then he might have understood what I meant. Instead, his reply sends me on a frantic search for the vodka bottle: ‘Molly,’ he says. ‘It’s not as if you can help who you fall in love with, is it?’

I take several large swigs of vodka before I respond. ‘That’s what Dad said about the Thai bride, too,’ I say. ‘But really, it was just sex, and now he’s tired of her.’

There’s such a long pause at Johnny’s end that I’m just considering whether to stop waiting for an answer and go home, when his reply finally pops into my inbox.

‘I was only joking around,’ he says. ‘Sex, that’s all I want from you. You obviously know me too well to be fooled.’

I’m not sure whether the last statement is a test – or a fact. And I have
no
idea which I want it to be.

WEDNESDAY, 13 OCTOBER

God, these nightmares are getting worse. I had two last night, both of them
insane
.

In the first one, Max and Johnny were playing poker against each other. Whichever one lost, won me, as the booby prize.

In the second, they were each captaining a team on
Call My Bluff
, trying to persuade the other side that they weren’t in love with me. All the other members of the teams looked like Kim Jong-il.

‘Or Kim il-Loon,’ says Greg, when I tell him about the dreams. ‘Did they both have groupies like demented baton-twirlers waiting outside the studio?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘How did you know? They all looked like mini-Ellens to me.’

‘Telepathy,’ says Greg. ‘So do you think Johnny
is
in love with you – or was he joking, like he said?’

I don’t really want to think about it, not when I still don’t know whether Max would be pleased to win me in a game, or not. Or whether
I’d
want him to win, or lose.

‘I don’t know, Greg,’ I say. ‘I’ll just have to try to work it out from what he says next, I suppose. Why’s it so cold in here? I’m freezing, even though I’m wearing a ridiculous number of layers. And where’s all Igor’s warming vodka gone?’

Greg pretends that he didn’t hear the last question, but says that he thinks the boiler’s playing up. Then he tries to push me over.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ I say.

‘I wanted to see if you wobbled, but didn’t fall down,’ says Greg, ‘given your resemblance to a Weeble.’

I mention this somewhat unflattering comparison to Johnny, who asks me to send him a photo, as evidence. Greg takes one immediately.