Diary of an Unsmug Married

by Polly James

  Josh is gone for what seems like ages and, just as I’m about to go out looking for him, I hear the back door slam, and his footsteps along the hallway. He’s shouting, ‘Dad. Dad!’

  ‘What?’ says Max, as Josh comes into the room.

  ‘Now I see why you wanted to take the bins out yourself. Bloody hell!’

  Max is suddenly very red in the face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says.

  ‘You bloody well do,’ says Josh.

  ‘Well, I definitely don’t,’ I say. ‘So could someone please enlighten me?’

  ‘Come with me,’ says Josh, and drags me outside, along the garden path and out of the back gate. It’s pretty dark, and I can’t see where I’m treading, so I get a bit unnerved.

  ‘What am I looking out for, Josh?’ I say. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘Sshh!’ says Josh. ‘Now look up.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I say. ‘Is that what I think it is? Or rather, who I think it is?’

  ‘Ellen?’ says Josh. ‘Yeah. I saw her face when she first put the light on. Before she hid it behind the curtains.’

  ‘But she’s naked,’ I say. ‘And why’s she pressed against the glass?’

  ‘Oh, I think the answer to that is obvious,’ says Josh.

  If there were any eggs left after today’s Yorkshire puddings, I’d throw them at that bloody woman’s window. What the hell does she think she’s doing? And is this (presumably regular) floor show only for Max’s benefit, or is it aimed at any of the neighbours who might be putting out their rubbish?

  ‘Max! How often has that f*cking woman done this?’

  I may be yelling a little too loudly, as Ellen jerks backwards and shuts her curtains properly. I have startled her, unless she’s just achieved what she set out to do.

  ‘Hush,’ says Max. ‘Come inside. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’

  ‘I am making a spectacle of myself? I am? What about that bloody lunatic?’

  God, I’m angry. I wouldn’t mind so much if Ellen didn’t always pretend that she is my friend when I see her alone, and that she only likes Max because he’s my husband. I’m so angry that I accidentally burst into tears – until I remember my rule about not giving people who upset you the satisfaction, and get a grip instead.

  ‘Okay, tell me the whole story,’ I say to Max. ‘How long has she been doing this, and how many times?’

  ‘No more than four or five,’ he says. ‘That I’ve noticed, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I think you’d notice. How did it start?’ I am beginning to feel icily calm.

  ‘One night I was taking out the rubbish and I smacked the bin bag into the gate, so it made a noise. Then something caught my eye, and I saw Ellen naked at the window. I think she was trying to fasten it.’

  ‘Oh really? Did she dive out of the way once she spotted you?’

  ‘Well, no – now you come to mention it.’ Max sounds genuinely surprised. ‘But I looked away really fast anyway, because I was worried she’d think I’d been spying on her.’

  I take a deep breath, think again about my no-crying rule, then say, ‘Okay. So when were you going to tell me about it – if ever?’

  ‘I kept hoping it’d stop. And the longer it went on, the more impossible it got to tell you, as I thought you’d flip out and go round and smash her door down or something.’

  ‘Dad, she’s been playing you,’ says Josh. ‘You are an idiot. You should’ve said.’

  It comes to something when teenagers are smarter than their parents, doesn’t it? But playing – or playing with?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  September

  (Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, allegedly. Or of agitated fruit-loops, in Lichford’s case.)

  WEDNESDAY, 1 SEPTEMBER

  Greg answers the phone first thing, then lets out a ‘Whoop!’ when he hangs up: The Boss is taking two days off – probably to avoid having to tell us what the hell he was up to behind Joan’s hedge.

  We still have no idea of the identity of the woman who was lurking next to him, unless she was related to Ellen. They do share an ability to pop up in very unexpected places. (The one with Andrew did have clothes on, though – and, anyway, I’m trying not to think about Max and Ellen any more. Or Johnny, for that matter. My sanity’s at stake.)

  ‘Wonderful news about The Boss, isn’t it, Mol?’ says Greg, after he’s imparted it. ‘I shall do some sit-ups immediately, to celebrate.’

  I even attempt a few. Well, one – but it’s a start.

  Greg and I are so elated that we zoom through this morning’s work, and – even better – our sandwiches are still safely in the fridge when lunchtime arrives, so then we turn on the answer-phone and go and eat them in the park.

  It’s one of those gorgeous bright but chilly September days, of the kind that I always associate with new starts and the beginning of the academic year, so I’m quite sad that Josh has decided to forego the university experience. He’s due to sign on for the first time this afternoon, though, so maybe the Jobcentre can find him a job with possibilities. There must be something he can do, with all that imagination. Preferably something safe – and lucrative.

  I spend the rest of lunchtime envisaging myself as the mother of a famous inventor which, coupled with The Boss’ absence, proves so cheering that by the time that we return to work I’ve almost forgotten about naked nymphomaniacs, and whether they entitle me to have an affair. My glass seems more than half-full for once, which is more than confirmed by the first two calls that come in once I switch the answer-phone off.

  Each one is about a young woman who has recently been diagnosed with cancer. Two different young women, and two sets of terrible news.

  One of them has only just got married, and has a six-week-old baby. She’s been found to have a malignant tumour of the brain. The other – also aged twenty-five – has breast cancer, and is due to have a full mastectomy tomorrow. There’s a family history of the disease, so the hospital isn’t wasting any time.

  Both girls live in completely unsuitable accommodation and their families want to know if there is anything we can do to get them moved, as soon as possible. Imagine trying to cope with the effects of chemotherapy when you live in a bedsit and have to share a bathroom with five virtual strangers – or trying to keep your wounds clean when everything in your flat is covered in black mould.

  I don’t want to imagine it, but that’s what these girls are dealing with in real life, so Greg will have to handle all the phone calls from now on while I prioritise their cases. It’s a precaution, in case Miss Chambers calls. If I have to listen to her going on about one of her conspiracy theories today, I may snap and start screaming at her for once.

  ‘Good point,’ says Greg. ‘Though I’d quite enjoy seeing that, if not hearing it. But don’t worry, I’ll do the phones, even if La Chambers calls. I’ve got some earplugs in my drawer. You just concentrate on what you need to do.’

  That’s the only way to cope with the stuff we sometimes hear in this job – you can’t waste your time mouthing sympathetic platitudes, or getting emotional. You just have to do whatever you can, as fast as you can, to try to make a difference, however small. If you allowed yourself to dwell on the full horror of what happens to some people, you’d go completely round the bend. Not that that’s any excuse for The Boss behaving like a lunatic.

  It’s no excuse for wallowing in self-pity, either, not when your own problems only involve neighbours with a penchant for nakedness, and your husband. I need to get – and keep – a sense of proportion.

  ‘I’m going to suggest The Boss introduces a Private Member’s Bill,’ I say to Greg, after some serious thought about how best to achieve my aim. ‘We need a government agency to send daily texts or emails to those of us who don’t have major problems, saying, “Don’t forget – things could be a whole lot worse. Now stop moaning.”’

  ‘Are you mad?’ says Greg. ‘You just referred to “a government agency” and a f
orm of technology, in the same sentence.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Yes. Good point.’

  Some idiot would be bound to program the system to send ‘cheer-up’ messages to those suffering from terminal diseases – like those Council Tax departments that keep sending bills to people who’ve been dead for years. Only even more incompetent.

  Josh seems to share Greg’s and my opinion of government agencies, if his view of the Jobcentre is anything to go by. When I ask how his visit there went, he starts ranting like Mr Meeeeurghn.

  ‘Why don’t they tell you not to join the queue in the entrance to the building the first time you sign on?’ he yells. ‘Standing there like a muppet made me late, and then I got into trouble when I finally went to the right desk, even though I’d been early when I first arrived.’

  ‘In trouble?’ I say. ‘What sort of trouble?’

  ‘The woman said she was showing me a yellow card.’

  ‘What?’ I find this hard to believe. ‘Did she actually say that, or are you exaggerating?’

  ‘Yes, she did,’ says Josh, becoming more irritated by the second. ‘I never exaggerate, unlike you. And would it really kill the staff to call people by their full names when it’s time for their appointments?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say. Now I’m completely lost.

  ‘When it’s your turn to sign on, they only call you by your surname,’ Josh says, pulling an incredulous face. ‘She was worse than Mr Thumb. She just shouted, “Bennett!” over and over again. Totally dehumanising.’

  I am amazed that my son knows that word, let alone uses it in normal conversation. Maybe I am not such a bad mother after all.

  ‘I am never signing on again,’ says Josh. ‘My self-respect is more important than my income.’

  ‘Spoken like someone whose parents pay his living expenses,’ says Max, injuring Josh’s pride still further. ‘I bet it’s a deliberate policy, to deter people from making claims. And, if it works as well as it seems to have done on you, it’ll be more effective in reducing the budget deficit than selling Australia to the Chinese.’

  ‘Much sneakier, though,’ says Josh. ‘And how did you know about my idea to sell Australia, anyway?’

  I wish I hadn’t told Max about it now, if all he’s going to do is make fun of it. It seemed quite a good idea to me, and Josh’s self-esteem has already taken a battering today.

  ‘Have one of your father’s Ferrero Rochers, Josh,’ I say, much to Max’s disgust. ‘That’ll cheer you up.’

  ‘I won’t need to sign on again, anyway,’ says Josh, taking three. ‘I shall have a job by the end of next week. Probably.’

  He must have compensated for the yellow card somehow, as he says the Alex Ferguson woman has ‘pre-selected’ him to apply for a job at the local cinema.

  ‘I told you Film Studies would come in handy,’ he says. ‘And the job’s full-time, too, so I’ll soon be moving out, if I get it. Can you help me write a CV, please, Mum?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, envisaging Max and I being able to have rampant sex all over the house – if Josh ever does leave home, and Max doesn’t run off with Ellen before that happens. ‘We’ll put one together as soon as we’ve finished eating dinner.’

  Easier said than done, that’s all I can say. Honestly, what chance do school-leavers have of finding work in this economic climate, when listing their skills and experience barely fills half a side of A4? It would have been even less than that if Josh had chosen to study subjects with shorter names.

  ‘We could try to make your hobbies sound as if they demonstrate some transferable skills, I suppose,’ I say, in desperation – thinking mainly of Bonjour Freight Shippers and its subsidiary company, Bonjour Books.

  ‘Good idea,’ says Josh. ‘Don’t forget “National Skateboarding Champion”.’

  THURSDAY, 2 SEPTEMBER

  Oh, God – I’m meeting Johnny in a week’s time and I still can’t remember any important details about him, such as how tall he is, or whether he was wearing platform shoes at that bloody fifth-form disco we went to. How many Babychams did I drink that night?

  None of this occurs to me until Johnny sends me an email to thank me for the photos he requested: the ones showing unspecified parts of my anatomy.

  ‘I wasn’t exactly expecting pictures of your foot, elbow and knee,’ he says. ‘Though they were all undoubtedly fascinating.’

  Then he asks whether the sandal I am wearing in the foot photo is a ‘dancing shoe’ and says that he and his wife went to a ball at the British Embassy last night.

  ‘It wasn’t anything like dancing with you,’ he says. ‘That’s been a private fantasy for years, together with what happened next.’

  I’m a bit embarrassed by all this flattery, and become so flustered that I end up telling him that Max and I always avoid dancing together, as other people mock us because of the difference in our heights.

  Johnny’s reply comes back with indecent haste: ‘How tall is Max, by the way?’

  He doesn’t usually ask anything at all about Max, and I don’t volunteer anything either. Call it a warped sense of propriety. I don’t suppose someone’s height really qualifies as sensitive personal information, though, so I reply: ‘Six foot two.’

  ‘Bloody hell, woman,’ Johnny says, then, ‘Shit.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know how I’m going to live up to that.’

  I’m amazed. Is this really Johnny talking? Go-getting Johnny Hunter, International Director of a Global Oil Company, who spends half his life ordering me to ‘keep up’ with him? It can’t be. And how tall is he, anyway? Or – more importantly – how short?

  I bet he’s going to turn out to be just like The Boss, with a raging case of small man’s syndrome. Then, while Max is swanning about with Ellen, who’s all shiny and James Blunty, and tall enough to see over other people’s heads in a crowd, I’ll be blundering about in the undergrowth with a version of Napoleon.

  It’s odd how I always end up comparing Johnny to dictators, too. Must be because I’m surrounded by the buggers, both the male and female kind. I’m on my way home from work, and am nearly there, when I get a text from Dinah, Baroness of Bossiness.

  ‘Molly,’ she says. ‘Prepare yourself for a shock. I’ve had bad news.’

  Now what’s Dad done? This sounds like something better discussed by phone, so I try to call her as soon as I’ve opened the front door and waved hello to Max, but she doesn’t answer. Instead, she sends another text, before I’ve even replied to the first one: ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Now I’m really worried, and quite cross, so I text back: ‘What the hell has happened, Di?’

  There is a lull, and then three texts arrive in quick succession. In them, Dinah spells out her distress at being ‘diagnosed with a serious illness’ when she saw her GP this morning. This all sounds horribly familiar, after yesterday, and those poor girls with cancer.

  ‘God, I’m sorry, sis,’ I say, which sounds pathetically inadequate. ‘What did the doctor say it was?’

  Back comes Dinah’s reply: ‘HPD.’

  What the hell is HPD? I didn’t even know Dinah was feeling ill.

  ‘Di,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of HPD. What does it mean?’

  ‘Histrionic Personality Disorder,’ she replies.

  Max thinks I’m choking, and starts trying to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on me, until I fight him off. It’s a struggle, what with him being both tall and strong – but I know his weak spot: he’s ticklish.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ he says, having backed off to a safe distance first. ‘Why are you laughing like that? Are you hysterical, or something?’

  ‘Probably,’ I say. ‘Dinah’s just been diagnosed with Histrionic Personality Disorder.’

  Max stares at me, then also starts to laugh. ‘Drama Queen-itis, you mean,’ he says. ‘How did it take Di’s doctor so long to work that one out? Your whole family has far t
oo much imagination – including you.’

  I don’t like the look he gives me when he says this, so I ignore him and watch Channel 4 News instead – or pretend to, anyway. I’m a bit worried, in case he’s right.

  What if I’ve imagined that Johnny’s of normal height? Or, worse, what if I’ve imagined the Max and Ellen thing, and have no reason to be involved with Johnny, whether he’s tall or short? Or – even worse – what if I haven’t imagined the Max and Ellen thing, but I have imagined Johnny isn’t a dwarf?

  I get into such a state that I decide to distract myself by stalking what the kids have been up to, via Facebook, but there’s no sign of activity by either of them in my timeline. The only person who’s done anything today is Dinah, who’s just updated her status. It now reads, ‘Dinah is finding it very hard to cope with her diagnosis of HPD.’

  I resist the temptation to leave a comment. Some of us are still trying to keep a sense of proportion – no matter what the provocation.

  FRIDAY, 3 SEPTEMBER

  The Boss is back from his two-day holiday, which is bad news, especially as he’s still not speaking to me, and refuses to tell even Goldenballs Greg what he was up to at Joan’s barbecue. However, it’s the last day of Recess, which is very, very good.

  To add to my joy, Josh phones at lunchtime to tell me that he’s got an interview at the cinema on Monday – so all my worrying about his unemployability was for nothing.

  I shall cook tonight, in celebration. Something special.

  I’m looking forward to it but by the time I get home after spending a fortune on Taste the Difference ready meals, for safety’s sake, it’s already quite late, and Josh is running around like a lunatic getting ready to go out.

  ‘I thought you were staying in tonight,’ I say.

  ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Don’t be daft, Mum. I’m not a tragic oldie with no social life like you and Dad. I’m taking Holly out. She’s got a 2 for 1 voucher for Pizza Express and I’ve got a discount code for the cinema, so first we’re going to recce what working there would be like, while we watch a film, and then we’re going for a meal. If you’re lucky, I’ll bring you a dough ball home.’