Diary of an Unsmug Married

by Polly James

  I glare at Max, but he just waves at me dismissively, and continues: ‘And are you sure you want to keep going with this online dating thing? You know you’re a loony magnet. Mol and I watched that programme about it on Channel 4 last night, and those women scared the shit out of me.’

  Max is telling the truth about that, anyway. He went white when the women using the websites started talking about how they cyber-stalk their dates, and even paler when one of them – a woman who blogs about her dating experiences – said that she was ‘immediately’ suspicious of her new boyfriend because he ‘had sixteen female friends on Facebook’.

  Max kept repeating, ‘Only sixteen?’, and Josh just sat there muttering at the blogger: ‘Yes, well, you can’t get a long-term relationship out of this – can you? Seeing as it’s your job to write about internet dating. You’d make yourself unemployed.’

  Josh is such a cynic; I can’t think who he gets it from. I was quite enjoying the whole bunny-boiling thing, myself, as I figured it might make Max far more grateful for what he’s got: i.e. me. I don’t think he made the connection, though, so then I had to point it out to him – which somewhat diluted its effectiveness.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Those women were probably on a site called mentally-disturbed-dating dot com – but I’m sure they’re not typical of all single women.’

  (I didn’t like how positive Max seemed to be about that at the time, and I still don’t like it. It sounded far too much like the voice of experience.)

  I’m just about to ask him what he meant when he hangs up the phone and announces that he’s promised that I’ll write Sam’s profile for the latest dating site he’s decided to join. And that I’ll have it finished this evening, before I go to bed.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I say. ‘Why have I got to do it tonight? What’s the urgency?’

  ‘Sam says he hasn’t had sex in ages,’ says Max. ‘Not for weeks, if not for months.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s finally ready for marriage, then,’ I say.

  If Josh hadn’t got me off the exercise ball when he did, I’m pretty sure Max would have left me there all night.

  THURSDAY, 19 AUGUST

  This year’s A-level results come out today. Josh has been up all night worrying, and he looks very twitchy when I see him before I go to work.

  It seems to have just occurred to him that Robbie and the others may have been being economical with the truth when they said that they weren’t doing any work for their exams, as apparently they didn’t sound half as worried as he was when he spoke to them last night, after rescuing me from the exercise ball. (I kept telling him they were talking rubbish, and that of course they were studying at least some of the time, but no one ever listens to me.)

  Connie’s got no sympathy for Josh, as he always called her a teacher’s pet when she was at school, but he looks so anxious that he starts to make me fret, too – so I make him promise he’ll phone me at work as soon as he gets the results. He nods, but doesn’t say a word, which is even more unnerving.

  I’m still fretting about him when I get to work, and my concentration’s totally shot, so badly that The Boss notices and asks me why. When I tell him that I’m worried that Josh may not have done very well in his A-levels, he’s quite reassuring, though Greg really isn’t.

  He says that Josh is going to end up as a NEET,fn4 who will still be living off me and Max when he’s thirty. Considering that Greg’s almost thirty himself, and still lives with his mother, I’m not sure what he’s trying to prove, so I answer the phone to avoid the need to respond.

  It’s Miss Chambers, who almost breaks the sound barrier.

  ‘British Gas,’ she screams. ‘I sent you a copy of the bill – what have you done about that overcharge?’

  ‘If you stop shouting at me, I’ll be able to tell you,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not shouting,’ she says, shouting.

  I wait for the irony of that to sink in, then try again. ‘Right, then,’ I say. ‘If you’ve finished shouting now, look at your copy of the bill. That £13.48 that you said was an overcharge?’

  ‘It is an overcharge. How many times do I bloody well have to tell you people?’

  The volume’s increasing again, for God’s sake. I take a deep breath, then say, ‘It is not an overcharge. It is a credit.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she says, going up another few decibels.

  ‘They’ve given you some money back,’ I say. ‘That’s why it says “credit” on the bill. Okay?’

  ‘Well, why the hell didn’t they say so?’ she shrieks, before slamming the phone down on me.

  What do they teach these people in school, when they can’t even tell a credit from a debit? If I ever get time, I’m going to learn voodoo, and then spend every evening sticking pins into effigies of that stupid woman.

  I tell Greg about my plan.

  ‘Good idea, but she obviously hasn’t finished yet,’ he says, as the phone starts to ring again.

  ‘Yes?’ I say, cautiously, holding the phone well away from my ear.

  ‘Hurrm.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ Is this Miss Chambers’ idea of a joke? First full volume, then garbled whispering?

  ‘Mum.’ It’s Josh. A very quiet Josh. Oh, hell.

  ‘How did you do, darling?’ My voice is so optimistically bright and brittle, it even manages to annoy me. Josh doesn’t seem to notice, though.

  ‘Crap,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean, crap?’ I say. ‘It can’t be that bad, can it?’

  ‘Well, I got a D in Film Studies,’ he says, as if that is meaningless – which it could be, for all I know. What exactly is Film Studies, when it’s at home? Now’s probably not the time to find out, judging by Josh’s tone of voice.

  ‘Oh, well,’ I say, ‘that’s not a terribly important subject, is it? How did you do in the other two?’

  ‘U’s in both,’ says Josh. ‘’Bye, Mum. I’m sorry.’

  Oh, my God. One D and two ungradeds. I may not understand the current education system very well, but I’m pretty sure that ungradeds must be fails. I try phoning Josh back, but he doesn’t answer, so I try a few more times, then give up and resort to texting Robbie: ‘Hi Robbie – is Josh with you? And how did you do in your A-levels?’ I say.

  Robbie’s reply comes straight back: ‘Hello, Mrs B. Josh went home – said he wasn’t feeling well, so I think Holly went with him. I got two As and a C :-)’

  I have no idea what I am going to say to Josh when I see him. It’s not that I think university’s a guarantee of success – I’m living proof that’s not the case – but there are no jobs for under-twenty-fives at the moment, and no one’s going to be offering them apprenticeships either. Greg suggests Josh could become a stand-up comedian, which is no help at all.

  After work, I walk very, very slowly all the way home, and when I finally get there am tempted to turn around and head straight off in the opposite direction – anything rather than go inside. But Connie’s obviously been on the look-out and opens the front door before I can make my escape. She is absolutely beaming.

  ‘Mum, Josh failed almost everything,’ she says. ‘What a muppet!’

  If there were exams in sibling rivalry, both my kids would have doctorates. Now I have to find a way to convince Josh that there’s more to life than academic success – without making Connie feel I don’t value hers. Sometimes parenting’s much closer to the practice of politics than is generally appreciated.

  FRIDAY, 20 AUGUST

  I get a brief email from Johnny first thing, via his BlackBerry. He says he’s at his in-laws’ now, so can’t message me as much as usual, but that he has a solution to Josh’s under-achievement: bring back grammar schools.

  ‘It worked for us,’ he says.

  ‘Some of us,’ I say, meaning him. He’s got a point, though. He definitely wouldn’t have got where he is today if he’d gone to Josh’s school.

  ‘You’re turning into a Tory,’ he says, when
I tell him I’m inclined to agree with him.

  I can’t be. I just need a holiday, then I’ll be fine – and better able to deal with surgeries, too. God, today’s is aggravating, though it starts out okay. First up is Paul Taylor, who I rather like. He’s been divorced for a few years now, ever since his ex-wife ran off with a fitted kitchen salesman, and he’s desperate to see his daughter Ava more regularly.

  I admire Paul’s latest photo of her, while he tells us that his latest attempt to get the courts to enforce his right to access has failed.

  ‘My ex complied for a few weeks this time,’ he says, ‘but then she started messing me about again. I haven’t seen Ava for the last three months, though obviously I’m still paying maintenance for her. I don’t want her to go without.’

  I wish I could say the same for Mike Templar, who comes into surgery next, accompanied by his second wife, Penny. Mike ran off with her, leaving his first wife and three young children without, it seems, a second thought. Maybe he liked her day-glo tan and WAG-inspired sense of style.

  I don’t know why they’ve bothered to come to see The Boss, though, seeing as Penny already phones me every week without fail – always to complain about the amount of money Mike’s supposed to pay to support his children.

  She’s looking oddly smug today, and the reason for that soon becomes clear: she is pregnant.

  ‘So now the CSAfn5 will have to agree to reduce the amount Mike has to pay that grasping bitch,’ she says. ‘Won’t they?’

  I count to ten in my head, then say, ‘Well, they do have a formula they work to, which takes account of the number of children a parent’s responsible for.’

  ‘Damn the formula, that’ll hardly reduce it at all,’ says Penny. ‘We need a much bigger slice taken off. We’ll have to move, fit out a nursery, and we need a holiday, too.’

  I count to ten again, while trying to send Andrew a thought-message that he should join in any time he likes, preferably right this minute. He’s never been any good at telepathy, though.

  ‘Well,’ I say, after the silence goes on for just a little too long, ‘I’m sure your husband wants to be sure that all his children are well cared for, doesn’t he?’

  I look at Mike Templar, urging him to say the right thing, but he wimps out and starts fiddling with his shirt cuffs, as if his life depended on them.

  ‘You lot need to explain to the CSA that his new family is the most important thing,’ Penny says, slapping her hand on the table for emphasis. ‘That bloody woman needs to get a job. I mean, I won’t be able to work once my little ‘un is born.’

  I am counting to ten for the third time, this time very slowly. It doesn’t work – I still want to punch her. God knows how I manage not to. It hasn’t even occurred to her how she’ll feel if Mike trades her in next, and she becomes the one relying on his payments to feed and clothe her child. Affairs are so messy, aren’t they? Oh. Oh, God. I may be having one.

  SATURDAY, 21 AUGUST

  Holly’s been here for the last two nights, in an apparently fruitless effort to cheer Josh up – so, as soon as she finally goes home today, Max and I decide it’s time for the ‘what next’ conversation: the one you have with sons who’ve just failed almost all their A-levels. It takes far less time than we anticipate.

  Josh says he is not going back to school to do re-sits, and nor is he going to do them at the local further education college.

  ‘It’s not as if I even want to go to university,’ he says. ‘I’m not cut out for academic crap, I have no patience with stupid teachers and, anyway, you and Dad can’t afford it. Plus I don’t want all that debt.’

  Connie is infuriated, and keeps saying, ‘Crap? Crap?’ while I try to reassure Josh that, however broke Max and I might be, we’d still find a way to help him out somehow, just as we do for Connie.

  Max keeps completely quiet throughout the whole discussion and, all of a sudden, it feels like the girls against the boys, or the university-educated against those of the University-of-Life school of thought.

  It’s not as if I’m in favour of everyone going to university anyway, despite what Max and Josh may think, so I suggest to Josh that he could learn a trade skill instead.

  ‘Greg says you might enjoy it, and it’d probably be more lucrative than getting a poor degree in a made-up subject,’ I say. ‘And he says you wouldn’t have to spend years trying to pay off your loans while delivering pizzas for a living either.’

  ‘Great,’ says Josh. ‘So that’s all Greg thinks I’m capable of, academically, is it? A degree in a made-up subject?’

  I’ve just managed to negotiate my way out of that one (by telling Josh that academic study is not the be-all and end-all, and that we’ll support him in whatever he decides to do), when Connie goes ballistic and reminds me that she still has another two years at university to go. It’s like walking on eggshells around here – or across the San Andreas fault.

  In the end, the whole conversation becomes impossible to continue while both kids are in the same room. I’m wriggling like a fish on a line, so it’s a relief when Josh goes upstairs to indulge in some Xbox violence – probably involving the virtual murders of a posse of sisters or university students – while Connie stays downstairs with Max and me, looking through details of houses to rent.

  She starts her Year in Industry internship soon, so time’s getting short for her to sign the contract on somewhere to live.

  ‘Mum,’ she says. ‘Do you think I’m wasting my time with all this study, then?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t, Con,’ I say. ‘I’m very proud of you.’

  ‘So why is it right for me, but a waste of time for Josh?’ she says. ‘It’s not as if he’s stupid – even though he is a tosser. He scored two points higher than me on the Big Intelligence Test, on TV.’

  ‘Well, Con – I don’t know,’ I say. I’ve had enough. ‘Max, you explain it.’

  There’s no reply. Max has dozed off. Sleeping while family fault lines open up in every direction is obviously a skill they need to teach at university.

  SUNDAY, 22 AUGUST

  Max and I go into town, more for a wander than to shop, as we are broke until payday. We leave Connie and Josh at home, arguing desultorily about whether university is a waste of time.

  Max says maybe we should try to arrange something for next weekend, and suggests we ask David and Susie if we can borrow their holiday cottage. Just the two of us.

  I’ve no idea what brought this on, but I’m thrilled – especially as it’s entirely Max’s idea, and not the result of furious hinting. And, if anything is likely to result in sex, this is it. Being fifty miles away from the kids would mean there’d be no chance of being interrupted by one of them wanting us to referee a stupid argument.

  ‘Phone David now,’ I say. ‘Quick, before you change your mind!’

  ‘Why would I change my mind?’ says Max.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But something always crops up, and then we end up doing nothing.’

  Max gives me a hug and picks up his phone.

  David and Susie must be otherwise engaged, as Max’s call goes straight to answer-phone. He’s about to hang up but, after some nudging from me, he leaves a message first, asking if we can borrow the house. Hooray! I’m so happy that I’m almost bouncing along as we start to make our way back home.

  When we come out on the other side of the underpass, thankfully uninterrupted by bad skateboarding, Max’s phone starts to ring. Surely it can’t be David calling back already?

  ‘You what?’ says Max. There is a barely discernible note of panic in his voice. ‘He’s done what?’

  I stick my head up close to his, and can just make out Connie’s voice – which is pitched rather higher than usual.

  ‘Well, don’t move him,’ says Max. ‘We’re almost home.’ He breaks into a run, and I follow suit – but he’s too fast for me. By the time I walk into the house, he’s examining Josh, who is lying on the floor, half inside the living roo
m and half in the hallway. He looks distinctly green and is unusually quiet. So is a rather twitchy Connie.

  ‘What happened, Con?’ says Max.

  ‘He was getting really stroppy about students, so I told him to piss off and leave me alone,’ says Connie.

  ‘And?’ Max raises his eyebrows and looks hard at her.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t,’ she says. ‘He just kept bugging me.’

  ‘You thumped me,’ says Josh. (Thank God for that – at least he’s capable of speech.)

  ‘Not hard! And, anyway, it was your bloody fault what happened.’

  Connie’s chin is sticking out – as it always does when she feels under attack. She’s about to continue when Max interrupts. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘never mind that. Josh’s arm is blue – so we need to take him to A&E. I’ll go and get the car.’

  As he heads for the door, I say, ‘What d’you think is wrong with him?’

  ‘I think he could have broken his arm,’ says Max, ‘and the bone might be cutting into his blood supply.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ I say, sitting down on the stairs, without having intended to.

  ‘Get his coat and a blanket, and I’ll bring the car round,’ says Max. ‘And you can stay here while I take him to the hospital. You’ll just wind him up if you come, you look so worried.’

  Gah. I deal with stressful situations every day of the week – so why does my husband think I’m useless in a family emergency?

  ‘I’m coming,’ I say. ‘Connie, you can prepare dinner while we’re gone. I’ll phone you when we know what’s going on.’

  I’m not sure, but I could swear Connie says, ‘Serves him right’, as Max and I help Josh to the car.

  We wait for hours in A&E, as usual. Josh perks up a bit while he’s waiting, as all the nurses seem to recognise him, but he won’t tell us any more about what happened to his arm. He just sits there muttering, ‘Connie’s so f*cking unbelievably annoying.’

  When a doctor finally arrives, he orders an x-ray, but not before he has asked Josh to explain exactly how ‘this latest accident’ came to happen.