by Polly James
Suffice it to say that we have now been banned from The Star of India, because Greg decided it would be funny to order an ‘Osama Balti’ and a ‘Semtex Surprise’. God knows how we escaped with our lives.
Bloody Greg spent the rest of last night in a collapsed state on the couch in our living room, demanding to know how ‘any ordinary, educated, hardworking family’ like mine could manage without Imodium in the medicine cabinet.
Luckily, Max was finding Greg funny. I wasn’t, which is why I went to bed in disgust. I knew we shouldn’t have had all that gin before we got to the restaurant. Not on top of anthrax, anyway.
THURSDAY, 22 JULY
Thank God today is fairly quiet. There’s the usual stuff about dog poo, violence on television, and rejected lovers wanting their exes reported for tax or benefit fraud, but the highlight is Miss Emms, who writes in to say this:
Dear Mr Sinclair,
I am writing to you to complain about my irresponsible and inconsiderate new neighbour, who lives in the flat beneath mine. He’s always smoking cannabis, and the smoke seeps into my flat and is causing serious problems. The smell is so strong, it gets everywhere!
I have eight guinea pigs, and exposure to this drug is affecting them psychologically. I don’t know where else to turn, as my Housing Officer doesn’t seem to be taking any notice, and the RSPCA aren’t interested either.
Can you please do something to help my poor, defenceless animals?
Yours hopefully,
Janice Emms (Miss)
Greg spends an inordinate amount of time attempting to emulate a psychotic guinea pig, and then tries to persuade me to write back and ask Miss Emms for further details.
I don’t want to encourage the poor woman, but Greg says he has decided to re-train as a guinea pig whisperer if The Boss ever sacks him, or fails to get re-elected, next time round. I hand him Miss Emms’ letter and tell him to do whatever he thinks best.
At that moment, Johnny emails me and says, ‘How are things at the heart of the UK political establishment? What are you doing right now? I want to imagine it.’
‘Handling a case about a psychotic guinea pig,’ I say.
It’s a bit unnerving when Johnny replies with, ‘Ah’, though not half as unnerving as what he says next. Maybe he’s been on the ‘wacky baccy’, as Dad would say?
FRIDAY, 23 JULY
I get more confused with each day that passes, and not just by the Max and Ellen situation, either – or the one with Johnny. Everything is complicated.
I used to be so full of certainty – about pretty much everything, but especially political ideology. Now I’m like a rabbit in the headlights, and today’s surgery makes things even worse. No wonder The Boss is losing the plot.
We haven’t had much comment from constituents on one of the Tory MPs’ attempts to ban the burka and the niqab – or not until now, anyway. I haven’t even thought much about it myself, beyond a knee-jerk reaction that of course we can’t.
That’s until Mrs Jewson comes along.
‘I want to talk about this burka thing,’ she says.
‘Ah,’ says The Boss. His catchphrase. (And now Johnny’s, too, apparently.)
Mrs Jewson glares at him, but then she carries on. ‘I’m getting a bit fed up with the double standards in this country. My son wears a hoodie, like all the youngsters, and he got made to take it off in the mall yesterday. By the security guards.’
She crosses her arms, and looks at Andrew, long and hard. It’s like a ‘who’ll blink first’ schoolyard challenge.
‘I see,’ he says, for variation, blinking like a madman at the same time. Then he looks sideways at me, for back-up.
I keep my head down, and write ‘hoodie’ ten times on my notepad. I take my time while doing it.
‘Well, if he can’t wear a hoodie,’ continues Mrs Jewson, ‘then why can these women wear bloody burkas, or whatever those things are called that cover their whole faces?’
‘Well, I think that’s rather different,’ says The Boss, looking sideways again.
‘Why is it different?’ Mrs Jewson doesn’t even wait for a reply. She’s really on a roll. ‘Do you know why my son likes to keep his hood up?’ she says.
‘No-o,’ says Andrew.
He’s twitching a bit now, but I’m still leaving him to it. Serves him right for ignoring Joan yet again this morning.
‘He’s deaf! And if he doesn’t keep his hood up, then all the young ‘uns take the piss out of his hearing aid.’
Andrew’s given up, completely. He just looks expectantly at Mrs Jewson, as do I. It’s obvious she hasn’t finished yet.
‘So what I want to know is: say he got a teacher who wanted to wear one of these things, but he couldn’t lipread her, because he couldn’t see her face – whose rights would the bloody government decide were the most important then?’
I have no idea how to answer this question, and nor does The Boss. He looks optimistically at me once more, just in case, but in the absence of any meaningful response is left with no option but to say, ‘Mrs Jewson, I’ll be happy to take this up, on your behalf. Molly will let you know when we receive a reply.’
Of course, after Mrs J’s left, Andrew’s furious with me. Yet again.
‘You are less and less help with every week that bloody passes,’ he says.
‘Well, I don’t know all the answers any more,’ I say. ‘The same as you.’
Andrew obviously doesn’t agree, as he storms off, leaving the security doors wide open.
I’m gathering up the case folders, when I’m suddenly confronted by a man wearing a full face crash helmet. He leans aggressively across the table, and nearly gives me a heart attack. A rush of something hot travels up my body, which I don’t think is a hot flush – though who can tell? I have got those to look forward to, at some point.
After what seems like an hour, the man finally begins to speak. ‘Getting sick of foreigners stealing all our jobs,’ he says – very slowly, presumably to compensate for the muffling effect of the stupid helmet. ‘There isn’t a single British dentist left in the bloody NHS.’
Oh, thank God. It’s only Mr Beales. I am torn between relief and fury, just like when Josh and Connie come home unexpectedly late.
‘Of course there is,’ I say, though I have no idea if this is true or not. (My dentist’s from Denmark, I think, or Finland. Somewhere in Scandinavia, anyway.) ‘But it doesn’t matter where they’re from, does it – as long as they’re fully qualified?’
‘Of course it does,’ says Mr Beales, who always knows best, even if he does virtually repeat what you yourself have only just said. ‘You can’t understand a word foreign ones say, especially through the face masks they insist on wearing these days. My new dentist sounds like the Swedish chef from the bloody Muppets when he’s got his on. I thought he said he was going to give me a filling, so it was a hell of a shock when he started pulling my tooth out instead.’
Probably felt like knocking it out, I should think. I know I do. I have no more patience this week – none at all. And I happen to love the Swedish chef.
‘Well, if we’re talking about people who are hard to understand,’ I say, ‘you are too, with that crash helmet obscuring your mouth.’
Then, while said mouth is still presumably hanging open in astonishment, I add: ‘And while we’re on the subject, I would appreciate it if you would never – ever – walk into this building again with your face almost totally hidden like that. It’s a serious security risk.’
It’s only when I get back to my desk that I realise the implications of what I’ve just said. And what Johnny meant last night, when he offered to take me away from ‘all this’.
SATURDAY, 24 JULY
At the risk of sounding even more like Victor Meldrew than I usually do, I don’t believe it! The perfect end to a perfect day. Why do the rich have all the luck?
What with fretting about crash helmets and burkas, and Johnny’s offer to rescue me from psychotic guinea pig
s, I left it far too late to do any chores last night, so I’m tired and grumpy when I wake after only a few hours’ sleep, and with all the packing still to do.
We’ve got absolutely miles to drive today.
‘Why do we have to go to this stupid thing?’ says Connie, when I insist that she packs a dress. ‘If David and Susie didn’t mean their vows the first time round, then they shouldn’t have got married at all – should they?’
I avoid answering, as Connie may well have a point. Also, if Max and I didn’t have to spend all our money on a hotel room for David and Susie’s renewal of their wedding vows, we could have had a mini-break or something, which might have refreshed our relationship.
As it is, we can’t even afford to get breakfast thrown in, and Connie and Josh are furious that they’ll have to share our family room. I’m not any keener on the idea than they are – seeing as bang goes any chance of marital relations. (That was a wholly accidental pun.)
The journey to the Midlands is awful, too. Gone are the days when we could distract the kids with nursery rhyme tapes, or by playing I-Spy. Now we have to listen to Josh’s horrendous Screamo music, in an attempt to drown out the constant bickering between him and Connie. By the time we approach Malksham Priory in the late afternoon, Max and I are totally frazzled.
The forecourt looks like an episode of Footballers’ Wives, and a press pack is crowded round a couple whose weekly dentistry bill is probably more than my yearly salary. Josh says that the groom plays for a Premiership team, and that his new bride is a ‘Z-list celebrity’.
I’m feeling distinctly Z-list myself – and even more so, when we have to sneak through the glitterati, while trying to hide a Tesco carrier bag containing our breakfast supplies.‘You could at least have gone to Waitrose,’ I say to Max, but he’s too busy gawking at an Aston Martin that’s just arrived to bother to reply.
Things don’t improve when we get to our room. I’ve just finished stashing the milk and orange juice in the mini-bar, and hiding the boxes of cereal at the back of the wardrobe, when David phones from his and Susie’s room.
‘Molly,’ he says. ‘You’ve arrived at last. Good. I’ve booked a table for seven-thirty in the restaurant downstairs. We’re all meeting there, so see you then.’
Oh, God. I gesture frantically at Max, who is staring lovingly out of the window at the Aston Martin and therefore doesn’t notice me.
‘Um, David – can I call you back in a minute?’ I say. ‘I just need to check on something first.’
I hang up before David can object, then drag Max away from the window and explain. To his credit, he realises the seriousness of the situation immediately, and is decisive about what we should do about it, too.
‘Phone David back and tell him Connie and Josh are fussy eaters,’ he says. ‘Then say we’ve promised them a take-away, and that we’ll join everyone for drinks after they’ve finished their meal.’
Brilliant. Or not, as the case may be. At 7.30, we’re still hunting for a take-away in an unfamiliar town, miles from the rural idyll of the priory. In fact, we’d still be searching now, if it wasn’t for one of Josh’s more useful mobile phone apps, which eventually helps us to locate a pretty grotty fish and chip shop, situated in a run-down back street.
We gobble down pale, sweaty chips – with the added luxury of fishcakes for the kids – and then race back to the hotel, where Max and I try to make Primark look convincingly like Prada. I doubt it works, plus I’m sure I still smell of vinegar when we finally make it downstairs and into the restaurant.
All the other guests are already well-oiled, have wiped out four courses and are still eating pudding. There are empty wine bottles everywhere, and I have a sudden panic that, at the end of the evening, Max and I will get caught up in that nightmare scenario where the richest person in the room – who has inevitably eaten and drunk the most – decides it would be a good idea to ‘split the bill’, and won’t remember that we haven’t eaten anything at all.
Max seems oblivious to this possibility and is enjoying himself, if attracting a little too much attention from the wife of David’s business partner. She looks like a horse, clad in Boden.
Admittedly, her husband is a chinless wonder, who I’d turn down, despite his millions, so I can’t really blame her for fancying Max – though I think she’s going too far when she tries to sit on his lap. Maybe she thinks he’s a ‘bit of rough’. (Not rough enough, in my opinion, as he doesn’t throw her off. He just puts up with it – looking bemused, but also slightly flattered.)
I get my own back by paying close attention to a gorgeous man on my left, who resembles the Milk Tray Man but with the added benefit of conversational skills. I have no idea what he does for a living beyond ‘working in the City’, but I seem to be holding my end up fairly well so far.
That’s until, during a lull in the general conversation, he says, in a rather carrying voice, ‘Gosh, Molly. You’re so articulate. What do you do for a living?’
Quick as a flash, David’s in there. You’d swear there were undervalued shares on offer. ‘She’s one of those socialists, Miles,’ he says. ‘Never grew out of it. Takes pride in abject failure, and all that nonsense.’
I will not rise to it. I will not. Who needs enemies, with friends like David? Has he forgotten we used to share a flat, back in the days when he was also broke?
‘Aren’t you going to call me a fascist, Mol, and defend what you believe in?’ he says, getting up and coming to give me a hug. ‘You disappoint me, old girl. Have you lost your faith?’
Honestly, he never gives up.
‘After the week I’ve had, I have no idea what I believe in,’ I say, but he’s asking for the bill now, and isn’t listening. I breathe a sigh of relief – until he delivers the coup de grâce. As all the rich kids start scrabbling for their platinum cards, he says, ‘Don’t worry, this one’s on me, guys.’
I cannot believe it. I simply can’t. David has never picked up a tab in a restaurant in all the years I’ve known him – and my family ate chips in the car because we couldn’t afford to join him and his other friends for dinner! I didn’t even get a bloody fishcake.
David is right: my life is a disaster.
Max obviously thinks so too. He just keeps repeating, ‘This one’s on me, guys’, all the way back to our room. Connie and Josh say nothing at all.
Sometimes silence can be far, far louder than words.
SUNDAY, 25 JULY
Things don’t improve this morning. Max stubs his toe, really hard, while trying to get past Josh in the queue for the bathroom and almost faints. I think he may have broken it.
There’s no time to do anything about it, though, as we’re almost late for the ceremony as it is. (Josh is on a go-slow because he doesn’t want to wear a suit and proper shoes, and Connie’s refusing point-blank to wear the dress I made her bring.) We get there just in time and hide towards the back, where it’s dark – so hopefully no one can see what Josh and Connie have ended up looking like.
‘It’s going well, isn’t it?’ I say to Max, half-way through.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘though it’s not surprising, is it? It’s only five years since the last one. David and Susie can hardly be out of practice.’
‘Well, I think it’s surprisingly moving, actually,’ I say. ‘Maybe we should do it, too.’
Max is just about to answer, when he has to move seats to separate Connie and Josh, who’ve started one of those hissing and poking arguments – the kind that get out of control very quickly. You’d never think Josh was in his final year at school, and that Connie had a proper job, albeit only for the summer holidays.
She’s now sitting next to me, sulking, so I have to look past her to see Max, who’s looking very attractive today and does have a firmer chin than most of the other men present. I probably would marry him again. If he asked.
He probably wouldn’t, though. I don’t think I’ve lived up to anyone’s expectations so far – and the ‘wedding breakfa
st’ only confirms this impression. When we find our names on the seating plan outside the function room, we discover we might as well have been seated in Siberia.
We’re quite obviously on the payback table. On my right is the headmaster of David’s old school – the one who expelled David on the grounds that he saw every school rule ‘as a deliberate infringement of his personal liberty’. On Max’s left is the man who sacked David from his first job, for much the same reason.
The numbers are made up by various ex-wives and ex-husbands of the successful individuals who are seated next to the top table, along with their new trophy partners. Everyone on our table has disappointed David in some way or another, apart from the photographer, but he soon makes up for that.
God knows where David found him, but he must have come cheap, or should have done. He holds forth – throughout the entire meal – about his last job, which involved taking pictures of a greyhound racing stadium. This is about as interesting as you would expect.
On the odd occasion that he pauses for breath, he pokes at each course as if he has never seen food before, and doesn’t trust it. Then he pounces and suddenly hurls a vast quantity of it into his mouth, which he kindly leaves open while he chews.
He eats everything – including a whole load of mussels which have remained closed, but which he determinedly prises open. I can’t be bothered to advise him not to, as I think he’d probably stab his fork into my hand and accuse me of trying to shaft him if I did.
By the time the band arrive for the evening’s entertainment, the photographer is nowhere to be seen and, as Max and I approach to say our goodbyes, we find David shouting into his mobile phone.
‘What d’you mean you think you’ve got food poisoning? You ate the same as everyone else!’ He pauses and then says, ‘Well, if you let me down this evening, you’ll be hearing from my solicitor.’
‘Problems?’ I ask, trying to resist giving way to schadenfreude.
‘Muppet photographer says he’s got food poisoning. Reckons he can’t stop throwing up. So now I’ve got to find someone else to take decent pictures of the dancing. I’m not flying in a ten-piece band from Cuba to end up with no proper record of it.’