Diary of an Unsmug Married

by Polly James

  ‘I am going to have man-boobs the size of a house again,’ he says. ‘And I will never get another girlfriend.’

  I give in. There is quite obviously no point in aiming for an early night. ‘Why?’ I say. Or text, to be more accurate.

  ‘Third meal I’ve had to eat in the last four hours,’ Greg replies.

  It turns out that one of Andrew’s diary cock-ups involved accepting invitations to three separate dinners, all scheduled for this evening. One buffet and two sit-down meals.

  ‘Even The Boss is full,’ says Greg. ‘Never thought I’d see the day. He could live off all the food he’s got stuck in his beard for the next week, too. Answer the phone, I’m going to ring you.’

  God. I do as I’m told. It’s not as if there’s anything better to do, I suppose. I should have tried much harder when I was in Ann Summers.

  ‘He didn’t remember about the third meal until we were half-way through the second one,’ Greg says, as soon as I answer the phone. ‘I feel sick.’

  ‘You sound sober, though,’ I say. ‘Congratulations. I didn’t think you’d manage this teetotal thing.’

  ‘There’s no room in my stomach for anything other than all this bloody food,’ says Greg. ‘And anyway, Andrew’s drunk enough for both of us. And he’s left his mobile somewhere – so if he wanders off, I’ll never find him.’

  ‘Well, don’t feel obliged to look too hard if that happens,’ I say. ‘How’s it going apart from that?’

  ‘I haven’t got off with any women yet,’ says Greg. ‘It’s a dead loss. Andrew keeps getting in there first. Why do they like him so much?’

  ‘Raw sensuality,’ I say, to which Greg makes a retching noise that sounds alarmingly realistic. Then the line goes dead.

  Much like my sex-life, as Max is now asleep.

  MONDAY, 27 SEPTEMBER

  I miss Greg. It’s weird not having anyone with whom to share the horrors of the day, though it sounds as if he’s got his own nightmares to contend with.

  When he phones mid-morning, he says, ‘Any idea where Andrew is?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re the one minding him. In Manchester. Why don’t you know where he is?’

  ‘Well, I was supposed to meet him in the hotel lobby, and he hasn’t turned up. And he’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘Oh, so he found that then, did he?’ I say.’

  ‘I found it, not him,’ says Greg. ‘But as soon as I’d given it back to him, he said he had to go outside to make a call, and then I lost him. F*ck knows where he’s got to.’

  ‘Well, he’s bound to turn up,’ I say. ‘Like the proverbial bad penny.’

  ‘Yeah, but what on earth’s he going to get up to in the meantime?’ says Greg. ‘The man can hardly dress himself.’

  ‘What?’ I say. I know Andrew’s not renowned for his sartorial splendour, but nakedness? Who does he think he is – Annoying Ellen?

  ‘I had to do up half his shirt buttons before we left for all those dinners last night,’ says Greg. ‘And re-tie his tie. I felt like bloody Jeeves.’

  ‘Well, have you tried his room?’ I say. Sometimes people do overlook the obvious.

  ‘He’s not answering the door, even if he is in there,’ says Greg, reminding me of something I’d prefer to forget. ‘Phone me if you hear from him. I’m going to search the secure zone now.’

  I don’t hear anything further until mid-afternoon, when Greg texts: ‘Found him. Who is Vicky?’

  Bloody hell. There’s a blast from the past. Vicky was an intern once, back in the days when I was still relatively beard-free and Greg was probably still at school. She was useless at casework, but an expert in schmoozing The Boss. All that manic hair-flicking used to make me feel quite murderous.

  I text Greg back: ‘Ex-intern. Why?’

  He doesn’t reply, and now he’s stopped answering his damned phone as well. So I spend the rest of the afternoon bursting with curiosity, while trying to fend off all the constituents who are phoning up to discuss Red Ed,fn3 and whether we’re going to have another Winter of Discontent. None of it does my blood pressure any good at all.

  Things don’t improve when I get home, as now Max seems to have gone AWOL too. There’s no sign of him for hours, and he’s not answering his phone either. I’ve envisaged every possible disaster that could have befallen him by the time he finally turns up, at about 9:00pm.

  ‘How was your day?’ he says, as if he hasn’t arrived home three hours later than usual.

  ‘Never mind that,’ I say. ‘Where have you been? I was really starting to worry.’

  I don’t mention that, in between imagining various hideous fatal accidents, I have also been envisaging Max having rampant and no doubt unnecessarily noisy sex with Ellen, in a secret location somewhere, probably while a fire alarm was going off. I’m not sure which scenario was the worst.

  ‘I was at a customer’s,’ he says. ‘I had no signal, sorry, Mol.’

  ‘What – at a customer’s until now?’ I say. Max usually finishes work before I do.

  ‘It was Mrs Bloom again,’ he says. ‘This time she couldn’t get her electric chair to work.’

  ‘Well, couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow?’ I say. ‘You won’t get paid for this.’

  Good grief, now I’m going all jobsworth. Before you know it, I’ll be working to rule and picketing the office, while the union stands behind me, albeit only in spirit. I can’t think what’s got into me – and obviously, nor can Max.

  TUESDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER

  Blimey. Sounds as if things aren’t going well at conference. Well, not for Greg, anyway. (David Miliband might say the same, but that’s another story.)

  I’m not used to Greg sounding insecure but, just before I leave work, he phones to say that he thinks he’s been rendered surplus to requirements by Vicky. God knows what’s going on.

  ‘I don’t mind not having to do The Boss’ buttons up any more, Mol, but she’s getting on my bloody nerves, marching about carrying all his papers, and making me walk two steps behind,’ he says.

  I don’t like the sound of this at all. ‘Well, how did he meet up with her?’ I say.

  ‘No idea. It must’ve been the night that he disappeared. When I finally found him the next day, she was already in tow. There’s something familiar about her – but I just can’t work out why. I’m sure we’ve never met before.’

  ‘You can’t have done,’ I say. ‘She’s well before your time.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what’s familiar then,’ says Greg. ‘But something is, and it’s horrible anyway. She’s horrible, to be exact. I feel like a member of the First Wives’ Club. Redundancy can only be a step away.’

  I hope he’s wrong, as that’s a very unnerving thought, but Vicky’s bound to have a hidden agenda of some sort. She always did. That’s why she got such a good job, as a lobbyist, which I thought she still had. But if she has, then why is she wasting time with Andrew? You could lobby him all day, and he’d still forget how you wanted him to vote.

  I’m so distracted by wondering why Vicky’s made a reappearance now, and what it might mean, that I almost walk straight into Ellen on my way home. She’s heading in the opposite direction, into town.

  ‘Molly,’ she says. ‘How are you? Long time no see.’

  I consider saying, ‘Not long enough’ but, before I can pluck up the courage, she continues, ‘Max was late home last night, wasn’t he? Wonder what he’d been up to?’ Then she winks, says, ‘By-ee!’ and carries on walking.

  Now Greg’s not the only one who feels as if he’s a wife who’s about to be traded in.

  WEDNESDAY, 29 SEPTEMBER

  Honestly, sex is like buses, isn’t it? You wait for months for a smidgin of it, and then – all of a sudden – it’s coming at you from every angle under the sun. (The bus analogy could have been better, but my brain is toast.)

  At lunchtime today, I’m still wondering what Ellen meant by what she said last night, when Johnny sends me an email, cat
ching me by surprise.

  ‘I am ordering you to have virtual sex with me,’ he says. ‘Right this minute.’

  It’s a very different approach to his real-life one, and much more effective, surprisingly. I had no idea I was so unquestioningly obedient. It’s a rather worrying startle response.

  Johnny’s not happy with things staying in the realm of fantasy, though, and so he spends the whole of the virtual post-coital period going on and on about when we’re going to meet up next.

  ‘You said “No commitment” at the beginning of all this,’ I say. ‘So what happened to that?’

  ‘Yes, well,’ he says. ‘I know I did. I wasn’t expecting you to sneak your way under my radar like you have.’

  If I have, I don’t know how, as I certainly haven’t been trying to – and the comparison with a guided missile isn’t particularly flattering.

  ‘We could be like the couple in that old film,’ continues Johnny, unaware that he’s given offence. ‘The one where they meet up once a year for twenty-five years, always at the same hotel. Same Time Next Year, I think it was called.’

  ‘Well, then, that means we shouldn’t meet up again until next year,’ I say. ‘Seeing as we’ve already had this year’s rendezvous.’

  ‘That doesn’t count,’ says Johnny. ‘We stayed fully clothed throughout, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  Imagine having to re-live that twenty-four more times! I don’t think I want to, so I tell Johnny that the fire alarm has just gone off and that I need to take charge of the evacuation myself.

  ‘I am the designated fire officer,’ I say, to which Johnny sends back one of those annoying emoticons. The one that denotes an incredulous face.

  I ignore him for the rest of the afternoon, and am feeling horribly guilty about the virtual sex by the time that I get home. That is until Max says he’s not speaking to me after my reaction to the Mrs Bloom business, and claims to have no idea what Ellen was winking at. Then I don’t feel guilty at all.

  ‘Right,’ says Josh. ‘I’ve had enough of this parental not-speaking business. Let’s all watch X Factor on catch-up together. Then you two can bond over your astonishment at the sheer number of delusional people in the UK. Always works for me and Holly, whenever she’s in a mood with me.’

  He presses play, while I give him a funny look, in case the delusional reference was directed at me. Then Dinah phones.

  ‘It gets worse,’ she says.

  ‘What does?’

  I have no idea what she’s on about, although it probably doesn’t matter much. That contestant is obviously a usual suspect. I can always tell the nutters before they open their mouths.

  ‘P-ns nm,’ says Dinah, or something like that.

  Max has just announced that Louis Walsh would put a potato through to the judges’ houses, if it was the only Irish thing available.

  ‘What did you say, Di?’ I say. ‘I couldn’t hear you. Max was talking.’

  ‘Well, tell him to be quiet,’ she says, slurping what could be tea, but is probably wine. ‘This is important. Porn’s name, or names. As in the plural.’

  I forget to answer. Well, I don’t, really – but with Dinah you never know if a pause indicates your turn to speak, or whether she’s just stopping to breathe in, or light a fag.

  ‘Wake up, Molly! Didn’t you hear what I said?’

  ‘Um, yes,’ I say. ‘Double-barrelled. Porn.’

  This creates a thoroughly unpleasant image of Mr and Mrs Beales in the act, accompanied by the paraphernalia they bought in Ann Summers.

  ‘Yes, Porn,’ says Dinah. ‘And, yes, double-barrelled. Guess what her other name is, though? I overheard Dad telling his neighbour, when I visited.’

  ‘I don’t know, Dinah,’ I say. ‘Why do I always have to guess? Can’t you just tell me, for once?’

  I might as well give up watching this whole series of X Factor. I missed it last week too, due to David and Susie’s stupid aerial.

  ‘Well, you’ve spoiled it now,’ says Dinah. ‘But I might as well tell you, anyway. It’s Poon!’

  ‘Now you’re really making it up,’ I say. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Poon? As in Poon-Tang?’

  Josh looks up and makes a shocked face. Sometimes I’m sure he thinks I know nothing, and that he is the product of an immaculate conception.

  ‘Yes, as in Poon-Tang,’ says Dinah, accompanied by the sound of more wine being poured into a glass. ‘Porn-Poon. That’s our father’s girlfriend’s name. And I am not telling you anything else, as you are obviously not listening. Phone me when you can be bothered to give this the attention it deserves.’

  Seems to me that I’ve already given this whole sex thing plenty of attention today, but apparently not.

  ‘I’m off to work now,’ says Josh, after X Factor has finished. ‘I’m on the stupidly late shift tonight. Expect more stories about poos in cups when I get home.’

  Max doesn’t say goodbye, as he’s already fallen asleep on the sofa. (Louis Walsh always has that effect.) I may as well catch up with some of the other programmes that I’ve missed this week: the latest episode of Wallander for a start. I know it’s subtitled, but I’m trying to learn some Swedish while I watch, though that’s impossible when Max’s snoring is so loud. I glare at him for a while, but daren’t yell at him to stop in case that ruins the effect of the X Factor bonding experience.

  Then I remember Connie’s latest scientific tip for the best way to wake someone up.

  ‘If you use this technique, Mum,’ she said, ‘Dad will return to consciousness so gradually that he won’t realise you did anything to him, and he’ll think he woke up naturally.’

  Presumably this would be the case, if I removed my finger from Max’s ear quickly enough – but it gets stuck.

  ‘Wha’ the hell?’ he says, batting my hand away. ‘What are you doing?’

  I don’t want to tell him, in case he gets annoyed, so I try to convert the ear-poking into an ear-tickling manoeuvre, motivated by nothing more sinister than affection. I forget that Max’s ears are erogenous zones, until my ‘caress’ is reciprocated with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, and one thing leads to another.

  So now I’ve accidentally had sex with two people, in one day. And I feel riddled with guilt about both. I may as well change my name to Porn-Poon, if I’m going to behave like this.

  THURSDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER

  Endorphins are funny things. I’m in a really good mood this morning as I stick a gold star into the diary, watched by Max, who suggests we don’t leave it quite so long before we earn another.

  Then he gets a text from Sam, who’s still away on his sex trip to Skye. It says, ‘Incompatible in bed and nothing to talk about. Supposed to be here another two days. Help me, for the love of God!’

  Max looks vaguely disappointed. I think he quite fancied Shona, too.

  ‘What shall I tell him to do?’ he asks. ‘I’ve got no idea what to suggest.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘He’s your friend, and anyway, he always ignores my advice. I told him to start reading the women’s profiles instead of just looking at their pictures.’

  ‘True,’ says Max. ‘You did. But you’re the one who works for a politician. You must be able to think of a cunning excuse to get him out of this.’

  ‘No time,’ I say. ‘I’m late for work. ’Bye! Give Sam my love.’

  Max looks a bit panic-stricken, but I’m sure he’ll manage to think of something, which is what I need to do, fast, to help Mr Warner. He’s waiting outside the office when I arrive at work.

  ‘You’ve got to get TV Licensing off my back,’ he says. ‘They’ve been persecuting me for years. Won’t accept I haven’t got a television set.’

  Then he goes on to say that he can’t sleep at night because he’s so sure that they’re going to raid his flat.

  ‘You should see all the threatening letters I’ve had,’ he says. ‘Once, they even posted a sign on the bus shelter at the end of my road, saying that one household in the
street didn’t have a TV licence. Everyone knew it was me.’

  When I tell him not to worry, and that I’m sure I can sort the situation out quite easily, he looks at me as if I am mad.

  ‘How do you prove a negative?’ he says, which I have a feeling someone else has said to me fairly recently. I can’t remember who it was, though, so I stop trying after a minute or so. It’s bound to come back to me when I’m least expecting it. Most things do, whether you want them to or not, sometimes accompanied by hiccuping.

  I still haven’t remembered by the time I start walking home from work – which is when my brain usually relaxes and starts to process things – so my recall’s taking rather longer than usual today. Maybe it’s because I’m concentrating on sucking my stomach in while I walk, to make up for not having done any exercises since the purple ball fiasco.

  If I power walk everywhere, while breathing in, then I shall be super-fit by the time Max and I earn our next gold star – hopefully very soon, since we’ve remembered marital sex doesn’t have to be a chore.

  Now I have a big smile on my face, after recalling last night’s events – until I turn into our street and nearly get run over by an idiot in a little red convertible, the type that Max always calls a ‘hairdresser’s car’.

  I shout something vaguely abusive, and am in the process of holding up two fingers when the car pulls in and parks just beyond our house. Oops. And double oops – the driver’s door swings open and Ellen gets out, showing far more thigh than necessary.

  I peer towards her in an attempt to spot cellulite, and have just been rewarded by the sight of a dark dimply patch when the passenger door opens and Max almost falls out onto the pavement.

  ‘Holy shit,’ I say, as Ellen spots me and shouts, ‘Molly! Hi! Look what I picked up on my way home.’

  She does one of those infuriating giggles, then says, ‘Your husband! So I thought I’d give him a cheap thrill and take him for a spin in my hot new car. What d’you think? Isn’t she a babe?’