Diary of an Unsmug Married

by Polly James

  Ah, those things. Or, rather, argh, those things. And just when Max is being so nice to me, too. I am horribly confused.

  SATURDAY, 17 JULY

  Why do I never learn? I spend the morning going through Connie’s hair magazines in an attempt to find a photo of a haircut that will make me look less like a corpse, and eventually find a good one of Kylie, sporting a shaggy bob.

  I take it with me when I go into town, and then present it to my hairdresser who, after looking me up and down without comment, puts the picture face-down on the counter and wields her scissors. I am very excited, as this may be the moment I finally recapture my youthful good looks. The ones Johnny seems to think I still possess.

  An hour later, I am forced to accept that, while my hair does now resemble Kylie’s, my face does not. I have therefore wasted my money, and am doomed to keep on being poleaxed with horror whenever I catch sight of myself in shop windows and unexpected mirrors.

  I walk home, lacking the enthusiasm to even pick my feet up properly, and thus have three embarrassing moments of the catch toe on paving slab, stagger, pick self up and pretend nothing happened type.

  When I walk (or limp) into the house, I find a uniformed policeman sitting on the sofa in the living room.

  ‘What’s Josh done now?’ I say. It’s a reflex.

  ‘Josh?’ says the policeman. ‘Did you know the muggers?’ He’s addressing Connie. Oh, and Russ, the chilli boy.

  ‘No, of course we didn’t know them,’ says Connie, glaring at me, though I am too busy freaking out to care.

  ‘Muggers? Muggers? What’s happened?’ I say, possibly in a rather squeaky voice – but, honestly, are all my family destined to be regularly set upon by total madmen?

  ‘Tell you later, Mum,’ says Connie, pushing me back out into the hallway, and closing the door.

  After she and Russ have finished looking through mug-shot albums, in which Connie apparently spots quite a few ex-classmates but fails to identify the perpetrators, the policeman leaves, and I finally discover what has happened.

  It turns out that Connie and Russ decided to go for a romantic walk at lunchtime – down the newly created ‘Green Walkway’, which is sited on an unused section of railway track that runs from Easemount into the centre of Lichford.

  What complete idiots. (This so-called rural idyll might just as well be in Beirut.)

  They’d just passed the first bend, taking them out of sight of the road, when they were confronted by four youths, who quickly surrounded them. (Russ says they were men, but Connie says they were definitely boys. I’m sticking with ‘youths’ as a democratic compromise.)

  Anyway, these youths apparently just stood there at first, swaggering and looking like ‘prats’ (again according to Connie), or ‘thugs’ (according to Russ) – but then they demanded Russ empty his pockets. He complied, but only produced a couple of pounds.

  At this point, Connie insists that the muggers were about to give up and move away – until Russ said, ‘But she’s got money!’ and pointed at her. Russ denies this and says that Connie assaulted him with her umbrella in an unprovoked attack, which he ascribes to the stress of the moment.

  Connie responds that it was the stress of having such a chicken-shit boyfriend that made her lose her temper, and ends the discussion by pointing out that, by the time she’d finished hitting Russ, the muggers had disappeared.

  Russ leaves in a huff, but Josh nods in atypical approbation of his sister. ‘Good one, Con. That’s what I told you!’ he says, giving her the thumbs-up.

  ‘What is what you told her?’ I say. I am incredulous that Connie would listen to Josh’s advice, on any subject.

  ‘Best way to avoid being mugged in the street is to behave like a mad person, Mum,’ says Josh. ‘You should probably try it at work.’

  SUNDAY, 18 JULY

  Yesterday’s acting crazy suggestion might have sounded sensible at the time but why does Josh always have to take everything a step too far?

  Max and I decide to do a big clean-up of the house today, instead of lying around doing nothing. I am not exactly enthusiastic about the idea, but am hoping that Max’s urge to carry out a late spring-clean may eventually be extended to encompass our relationship.

  He volunteers to dust all the high surfaces, while I am in charge of hoovering. So far, so good – until I go to the cupboard to get the Hoover, and find that it has disappeared. Max says he has no idea where it is, and nor has Connie – apparently – though she does start to giggle when she’s asked.

  ‘Con?’ I use my best interrogation voice, coupled with an almost Botox-worthy raised eyebrow.

  ‘What?’ She’s still laughing, while I am not.

  ‘Where is the bloody Hoover, Constance?’ I say. ‘Tell me now, before I start to count to ten.’

  This technique hasn’t worked on Josh for more than a decade, and I can’t quite believe it still works on Connie – but, for some reason, it always does.

  ‘Josh took it,’ she says, as I reach number nine, and before she bursts into another fit of hysterics. Maybe it’s delayed shock from the mugging, or PTSD.

  ‘Took it where?’ I say, trying to sound less intimidating, just in case.

  ‘I don’t know. He just said to tell you he was popping round to Silver Hill, with some of the boys.’

  I look at Max, and he looks back at me. Then we move swiftly to the door, in that wordless synchronisation that comes from years of parenting a complete lunatic.

  We jog to the end of our road, and turn the corner onto Silver Hill. Half-way down, there are Josh and Robbie, accompanied by various other members of their motley crew. Josh is standing on the bottom part of our Hoover, while Robbie is pushing him along, using the handle.

  Silver Hill is not a gentle rural slope, as its name would imply, but one of the steepest, and busiest roads in the whole of Lichford.

  ‘Josh! What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?’ Max breaks into a run, as Josh starts rolling away from him, thankfully not at any significant speed.

  ‘Extreme hoovering,’fn3 Robbie says, as Max passes him and catches up with Josh.

  ‘Extreme what?’ Max is almost incoherent with rage, and looks even crosser than he did about being dead. ‘Give me that – now!’ he says, yanking the Hoover away from Josh, who never, ever, knows when to keep quiet.

  ‘It’s rubbish anyway, Dad,’ he says. ‘The wheels are crap.’

  Max grabs him by the ear, pushes past me, and heads back up the hill, the Hoover in one hand and Josh (effectively) in the other. Robbie and the others shuffle about looking embarrassed – as well they might.

  I glare at them, then run to catch up with Max. Josh is really going to get it this time.

  When we arrive back at the house, Connie is in a crumpled heap on the sofa, still shaking with what I initially assume is laughter, but is quickly revealed to be tears.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter, Con?’ I sit down next to her and try to cuddle her, but she shakes me off.

  ‘Russ … just … dumped … me,’ she says, hiccuping between each word. ‘Because I made him look a prat in front of those boys.’

  ‘Huh,’ says Josh. ‘Made himself look a prat, if you ask me.’

  ‘You’re in no position to comment,’ says Max. ‘Con, I’m going to cook you a lovely dinner, to cheer you up.’

  Max’s food/love combination doesn’t work, even though it usually would. Connie is too heartbroken to eat. I can’t bear to see it, especially as Russ was a bit of an arsehole, anyway – but she seems to have forgotten that, and just cries all the more when I mention it.

  She doesn’t even laugh when Josh offers to go round to Russ’ house in the middle of the night, take his boy racer car to bits, and lay all the pieces out neatly on his front lawn, though I think it’s a stroke of genius.

  For the rest of the evening, Connie only wants to talk to Max, as she says that he ‘understands the best’. She sits next to him on the couch, and they cuddle up in front of
the TV, not even speaking most of the time.

  Oddly, this does seem to calm her, which reminds me that Max used to be able to calm me down, too, just by being there. Now he’s more likely to be the one causing me to cry.

  ‘It’s first love,’ he says later, when Connie’s finally gone to bed. ‘They say you never really get over it.’

  Some of us do: I can’t remember who mine was, though I’m sure it wasn’t Johnny – whatever he now claims.

  MONDAY, 19 JULY

  Today I have to strip naked in a multi-storey car park. Then I am hosed down by some guy dressed from head to toe in plastic. For God’s sake, this is getting too much.

  It all starts before Fiona, the new intern, has even arrived for her first day on the job. I am opening an envelope when white powder starts flying everywhere.

  Greg and I just sit and look at each other for what seems like five minutes, then he yells, ‘Start panicking!’ and runs around pointlessly for a bit, while I try to work out who we should call for help. This takes a while, as it’s not exactly an everyday experience.

  Eventually, a police officer turns up and then the decontamination unit arrives, along with three fire engines – and two ambulances. The first step seems to be to evacuate everyone, including all those who work in the neighbouring offices, so now we’re going to be even more popular with them than we already were after Mr Humphries kicked off.

  All the officials are wearing full decontamination suits and breathing apparatus, and they set up a sort of bouncy castle-type decontamination thing in the car park. Then Greg and I (as well as the hapless police officer) are ordered to strip.

  I don’t even have my new underwear on, as I’ve been saving it, just in case I ever do go on a date with Johnny. I’m not half as embarrassed as Greg is, though. He keeps muttering, ‘Bit of weight left over from Christmas,’ for the benefit of any onlookers. ‘I’ve just joined a gym.’

  As if that’s not humiliating enough, then we’re scrubbed down with Fairy Liquid – which does nothing for my new haircut – before being told to put on white suits like those they wear in CSI. (Not a good look, but marginally better than the nakedness was.) After that, we’re taken to hospital to be checked over properly.

  Once we’ve seen the doctors, we’re finally discharged, having been prescribed medication to take in case the powder turns out to be anthrax.

  God knows when we’ll get our clothes back, if we ever do. I have to go home in a plastic suit and a pair of fireman’s trainers – which must be size nines at least.

  ‘Looking good, Mol,’ says Greg, now that the tension’s dissipating a bit. He hasn’t spoken at all since the stripping naked trauma.

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ I say. ‘Sarcasm’s the lowest form of wit, you know.’

  He’s about to come back with a no-doubt even less-witty rejoinder when the police call to say that the office is to stay closed until the exact nature of the powder is established, and that officers will be posted there overnight.

  ‘Bugger,’ I say, after I hang up. ‘I should have asked them if they can deal with all the abusive messages we’ll get from the usual suspects, while they’re there. The answer-phone will have a meltdown if someone doesn’t answer calls.’

  ‘That’s the least of our problems,’ says Greg. ‘Not when we still have to wait for Porton Down to tell us whether and when we’ll die horrible deaths.’

  Max takes the same view as Greg, when he hears all about it – and is furious. So furious that he phones The Boss at Westminster and shouts at him about how badly he’s failing to protect his staff.

  In response, Andrew goes on about being ‘a man of the people’ and ‘accessibility’ until, eventually, Max gets so cross that he has to do my trick of pretending that the call’s been accidentally cut off. Otherwise, he says he might have resigned on my behalf, and then where would we be? (Max is not at all himself since his company started talking about redundancies.)

  I’m too discomfited to do anything at all for the rest of the day, except sit at home and stew about whether I am going to die – and to wonder how The Boss manages to lead such a charmed life. This sort of thing never seems to occur when he’s in the office.

  If it did, maybe he’d learn his lesson and stop claiming that we exaggerate what happens, or that we do something to cause it ourselves. Until that occurs, I suppose I’d better go and check whether my life assurance covers me for acts of terrorism – especially if Max is going to lose his job.

  TUESDAY, 20 JULY

  Bloody hell, I don’t even get a lie-in this morning. I’d been hoping the office would have to stay closed all day so I could lounge around relaxing – as far as it’s possible to relax while waiting to hear if you’re going to die – but instead I get a call at about 9:30am, saying that I can re-open the office, as soon as I like.

  The results have come back from Porton Down, and have confirmed that the powder wasn’t harmful to breathe in – although it was potentially explosive. Apparently, we’re to keep what happened to ourselves, so as not to spark a general panic.

  At least we don’t have to keep taking the tablets now, so that’s good news, as is the fact that we’re not going to die.

  The bad news is that, once I get to the office, today’s mail is already sitting on my desk – and I really don’t want to open it. I’ve gone right off that part of my job. I consider sticking all the letters and parcels into one of the big grey plastic House of Commons envelopes and sending it to the girls in the Westminster office, so that, by the time they send it back to me, it’ll at least have passed through the scanners at the House of Commons.

  Then I realise that this will slow down our turnaround time, which would be noted by that bloody WriteToThem.comfn4 – so there’s no way The Boss will put up with that. There’s no option but to open the post myself.

  ‘Be careful,’ says Greg from somewhere behind me, though his voice sounds strangely muffled.

  I hold each envelope out in front of me as if it is a bomb, then poke a letter-opener into one corner, before turning my back and ripping the blade through what I think is the top of the flap. This achieves the dubious benefit of making me feel better while I’m doing it, but irritating the hell out of me immediately afterwards – when I realise my method has a serious flaw.

  I’ve cut through the top third of every single letter I’ve opened, so then I have to get Greg to stick them all back together before we can even begin to read the damned things. That’s once I’ve persuaded him to come out of the archive cupboard, where he hid while I was opening them – ‘not through cowardice, but to save the taxpayer the cost of decontaminating two of us’.

  It’s after he’s finished with the Sellotape that the problems really start. So much for making sure that the public didn’t know about the anthrax scare. (Max is far better at keeping secrets than the authorities, or The Boss.)

  First, the new intern phones to say she’s changed her mind about working here, since she heard what happened yesterday – so that’s another one we’ve lost in less than a month. Even James managed longer than no days at all, so Fiona Thompson gets nul points for effort, and Greg says he’s gone off her a bit.

  ‘I admire courage,’ he says. Presumably in other people.

  Fiona doesn’t want to say who told her about the bouncy castle incident, but I think we can probably guess. Andrew went to a Council jolly last night, at which Fiona’s father was the host.

  Anyway, after I mumble something non-specific but vaguely threatening about the Official Secrets Act, Fiona does at least promise not to tell anyone else – and then Greg phones The Boss and demands that he doesn’t, either, so hopefully that’s the end of the Andrew-related leaks – for today.

  We’re not out of the woods yet, though, as we’ve still got to find a way to explain to the usual suspects why we couldn’t answer the phones yesterday. We can’t tell them the truth, because that’d just give them ideas, and I don’t ever want to have to go through that again. (Steve E
llington would get busy with the Johnson’s Baby Powder and a stack of envelopes immediately.)

  In the end, we decide to tell callers that there was an ‘emergency in the building’ then change the subject, as fast as we can. Sometimes, the simplest solutions are the best, and this works, until late afternoon, when it’s Mr Beales’ turn to phone.

  ‘You lot can’t keep nothin’ from me,’ he says, apropos of nothing in particular.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I say. Now what?

  ‘It’s in the paper: “Terrorist fears spark full-scale evacuation of local office”.’

  Argh. Does he have to sound quite so smug about it? (I’m impressed he can read such long words, though.)

  ‘Ah,’ I say, for want of a better alternative. There follows the verbal equivalent of a particularly ungraceful fencing match, as I try to side-step Mr Beales’ attempts to extract the juicy details, while he just prods deeper and deeper. He’s better than a tabloid journalist when he gets going.

  I’m exhausted by the time I get him off the phone, at which point Greg says that he is so traumatised by having had to expose his body to a ‘bunch of gym-toned civil servants in a public place’ that we are going out tonight to get drunk, in order to obliterate the memory.

  This seems like a good idea, at the time. When will I ever learn?

  TUESDAY, 20 JULY (VERY LATE EVENING)

  Greg and I decided to go straight to the pub after work, then on to The Star of India. This proved to be an exceedingly unwise decision, but now it’s very late and I’m far too distraught to even think about what happened, let alone write about it – so it’ll have to wait until I’ve calmed down a bit.

  If I’m not arrested first. (We could have sparked an international incident, for all I know.)

  WEDNESDAY, 21 JULY

  I still seem to be at liberty, but I’m also still really pissed off with Greg, though he is looking a bit shamefaced this morning, not to mention very hungover. I feel surprisingly alert, which I can only ascribe to the adrenalin that went flooding through my body while we were being thrown out of the restaurant last night.