by Polly James
WEDNESDAY, 20 OCTOBER
While we’re all eating breakfast this morning, Josh orders Max to take me out for dinner tonight.
‘You two don’t spend enough time doing nice things together,’ he says. ‘And I don’t want to risk becoming a child from a broken home. Just look at the mess it’s made of Aunty Dinah—’
I’m pretty sure he’s about to mention me, as well as Dinah, but he doesn’t get a chance to complete his sentence. Max tells him that we can’t afford to go anywhere for a coffee, let alone an evening meal.
‘We’ve had barely any customers in the shop at all for weeks and weeks,’ he says. ‘So there’ll be hardly any commission to add to my salary this month. If this keeps up, I’ll be lucky to have a job at all. Your mother will be the only breadwinner in the family.’
‘I win some bread,’ says Josh. ‘Though admittedly only four hours’ worth a week, as Holly never ceases to point out. Mine really is a shitty job.’
‘Well, hang onto it,’ I say. ‘Apparently, Vicky’s trying to lose me mine, so yours may be the only thing standing between us and penury.’
‘Christ, Mol,’ says Max. ‘We can’t afford for you to lose your job, too. Can’t you just be a bit nicer to her?’
I agree to try, but he wouldn’t ask me that if he’d ever met the woman.
‘Tell her she’s welcome to your job,’ says Johnny, when I tell him about it later on.
Very easy for him to say. There’s probably much more demand for International Directors of Global Oil Companies than there is for caseworkers, these days. Especially for those used to managing Labour MPs. Half of them have lost their seats.
‘Well, work for a Tory MP, then,’ says Johnny, as if that solves all my problems. ‘They probably get a better class of complaint.’
Greg thinks he’s right, but I’m not so sure. It’d be safer to just hang onto the job I’ve got, though I’m not quite sure how. Every time I speak to a constituent today, Vicky listens in, while writing things down in that notebook of hers. Then she puts it back into her briefcase and locks it, looking smug.
It’s a relief when lunchtime arrives and I can go and eat my sandwich in the park. Greg says he’ll stay behind with Vicky and try to ‘suck up to her so nauseatingly’ that she’ll do anything to escape from him. Including refusing my job, if she’s offered it.
He’s already pulling agonised faces behind her back by the time I leave the office, so I’m not feeling very optimistic about his chances of having succeeded as I head back there, once I’ve finished eating my lunch.
As I walk into the lobby, someone grabs me from behind and puts a hand firmly over my mouth. I panic, and cannot remember the judo throw Josh taught me, so I resort to kicking backwards instead.
‘Hrmph,’ I say. ‘Grff!’
‘Ssh,’ says Greg. ‘And stop wriggling. In here.’ Then he pulls me into the loo. The men’s, for goodness’ sake.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I say, shaking myself free. ‘And why do men’s toilets always smell so bad? It absolutely stinks in here.’
‘That’s why it’s the only place where Vicky wouldn’t think to snoop,’ he says. ‘And the smell is not important, in the scheme of things. Look at this. It arrived half an hour ago by Special Delivery – for you.’ He hands me a parcel and says, ‘Open it, quick!’
‘You already have by the looks of it,’ I say, contemplating the flap that is no longer stuck down.
Greg shuffles his feet, then claims he was protecting me from anthrax attacks.
‘So what is it, then?’ I say. ‘You might as well tell me, then we can get away from this horrible smell more quickly.’
‘I don’t know,’ says Greg. ‘I thought opening the actual box might be taking things a step too far. But that’s labelled “Tiffany” – of Old Bond Street, no less.’
Oh, my God. Even I have heard of Tiffany. I open the package to find a turquoise box wrapped in ribbon, along with a card on which is typed:
Lara
For you, to remind you of me. I don’t need to be reminded of you, as you’re on my mind more than is good for me. It’s very annoying indeed.
See you at the end of next week. Wear this, and nothing else at all.
Zhivago x
Inside the box is a pendant on a heavy gold chain. It’s deep green, figured like malachite, and looks exactly like a miniature Fabergé egg. Greg stares at it, open-mouthed – which is not a good look when one is in the process of eating a Twix.
‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘That looks expensive. From Russia – with love, I presume?’
‘Um, yes,’ I say. ‘I suppose you could say that, though perhaps it’s not that expensive.’
Greg looks at me as if I have entirely lost my senses as I stash the box containing the necklace in my bag.
‘It’s probably one of those replicas,’ I say, as we take the lift upstairs, to avoid being seen. ‘Or a convincing fake, like that stuff they have on QVC. Diamonique, or whatever it’s called.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ says Greg, pausing to prop the weeping fig back up. ‘Johnny’s an oil baron. He’s not likely to do his shopping on QVC.’
I don’t know about that. Johnny’s always saying how bored he gets in his hotel rooms.
There’s no time to discuss it any further now, anyway – or Vicky will probably report me absent to The Boss. She’s lounging on the sofa in the Oprah room and completely ignoring the phone, even though the extension is ringing right next to her head.
‘Get that, Molly, will you?’ she says. ‘I’m far too busy to bother with constituents, and it’s about time you did some work.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Vicky,’ says Greg. ‘Stop picking on Molly. It wasn’t her fault about Mr Fran—’
I cut him off, just in time.
‘Hush, Greg,’ I say, sitting down at my desk. ‘It’s fine, Vicky. I’ll deal with it.’
I pick the phone up, before Greg can attempt another self-sacrifice on my behalf.
‘Hal-lo, Miss Molly,’ says a very loud voice. ‘Dobry dzen!’
‘Oh, hello, Igor,’ I say. ‘And dobry dzen to you, too. Or however you’re supposed to pronounce it. Russian isn’t one of my strengths, I’m afraid. I had to look up what it meant on Google, the first time you said it.’
Greg raises his eyebrows at this, and then slaps himself on the forehead, sits back down at his computer and types something into the search bar. Then he stares at the screen for a few moments, before gesturing at me to get rid of Igor.
This proves difficult, as Igor seems to have got it into his head that his wife has fallen in love with one of the Mafioso keeping her under surveillance and is completely distraught as a result. By the time I’ve finished reassuring him that he’s imagining it, and he’s finished thanking me, Greg is practically jumping up and down.
‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ I say, as he quietly closes the door to the Oprah room. ‘You look even more manic than Igor sounds. Which is really saying something.’
‘I’ve found out how much that necklace cost,’ says Greg, in a whisper. ‘Come over here, and look at this.’
With that, he points to exactly the same egg charm as the one attached to the necklace Johnny sent me. It’s on the Tiffany website, and its price is £815:00. Just for the charm.
‘Holy shit,’ I say. ‘How the hell am I supposed to explain that to Max? The roses were bad enough.’
‘Tell him an over-friendly expat gave it to you,’ says Greg. ‘Then you’re not really lying, and Max will think it was Igor – if he even notices it.’
I say nothing to this, and when Greg spots my expression, he tries desperately to cover his tracks.
‘Oh, God,’ he says. ‘Don’t start crying again. I didn’t mean Max wouldn’t care. I just meant that you always say that he never takes any notice of what you wear.’
He doesn’t, but I’m pretty sure he’d notice this – and he’d probably call it vulgar, too. I might
even agree with him.
THURSDAY, 21 OCTOBER
‘I’m not as much of a liability as you and Molly think I am,’ says The Boss to Greg, when he phones this morning. ‘At least I didn’t employ a Russian researcher when I was on the Select Committee for Defence. Not like that idiot LibDem MP. His assistant’s just been picked up by MI5.’
‘Don’t count your chickens,’ says Greg. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about Vicky, you know.’
The Boss tells him not to be silly, but Greg decides to investigate further anyway. He picks up a new notebook, opens it to the first page, and then walks towards the Oprah room, pen poised at the ready.
‘Got any Russian relatives, Vicky?’ he says, subtlety never having been his forte, along with tact.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Something Slavonic about your cheekbones. And you look like a woman who’d know how to make a man tell you anything.’
‘Thanks,’ says Vicky, as if Greg had meant it as a compliment. She obviously hasn’t a clue what he’s really talking about, probably because she thinks keeping abreast of current affairs means revealing as much cleavage as possible. I keep hoping that she’ll catch pneumonia like Mum always warned me would happen if you walked around with your bosoms hanging out all over the place. (In those days she used to wear knickers, so was still in a position to comment.)
‘What about Russian friends?’ continues Greg. ‘Close friends? Take your time before you answer.’
‘I don’t need to. I don’t know any Russians, apart from Igor.’ Vicky rolls her eyes. ‘Now do you mind letting me get on with what I’m doing – finally? I’ve got to finish this, then go and see a constituent, on Andy’s behalf, so I’m in too much of a hurry to waste time answering any more of your stupid questions.’
Greg makes a great show of writing that down in his notebook, but Vicky doesn’t seem to notice, as she’s busy concentrating on trying to mend another of her horrible nails. When she decides that the task is beyond her, she phones for an ‘emergency appointment’ at the nail bar and buggers off.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but then Greg sits down opposite my desk, and starts staring at me. ‘Of course, we already know we have someone with Russian connections in this office, don’t we, Molly?’ he says. ‘And I don’t just mean Igor, even though he does think the sun shines out of your arse.’
Greg follows this statement with one of those meaningful looks he usually reserves for when The Boss makes one of his wilder claims to the media. It’s easy to see why being jailers went to people’s heads in that 1970s prison experiment.fn2
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Greg,’ I say, leaving him at my desk and heading for the relative safety of the kitchen. ‘I hardly think one disastrous date with a UK citizen who just happens to work in Russia counts as exposing myself to bribery and corruption. And, anyway, Johnny takes absolutely no interest in my job whatsoever. He’s as unimpressed with it as I am. More, probably.’
‘Ah, yes – but you have always wondered what a man as rich and successful as he is could possibly see in you, haven’t you?’ says Greg. Somewhat insensitively, if you ask me.
‘Thanks,’ I say, though not in the same tone of voice as Vicky used earlier.
‘Just some food for thought,’ Greg says. ‘And that Fabergé thing could easily be construed as a bribe.’
I add salt to his coffee, which I then spill on his trousers when I pass it to him. He accuses me of doing it accidentally on purpose, but it does shut him up for the rest of the afternoon, until it gets dark.
Vicky’s only just come back, so God knows how long fixing her nail has taken. Now she’s moaning about how she’s going to cope if any more of them break over the next few days.
‘My nail technician has decided to take a few days’ holiday, with no notice at all!’ she says to Greg, who’s pretending to take an interest in order to save my job. ‘She’s going away until the end of next week, so I don’t know what she thinks I’m going to do while she’s gone. I can’t walk around with my nails in a state like Molly’s.’
Greg says, ‘Oh, my God – no, you can’t. That would be terrible. Insupportable.’
When Vicky does a double-take to check if he’s being serious, he panics and suggests she go home early, as she’s ‘had such a busy day’. She seems impervious to that particular piece of sarcasm.
When she’s gone, Greg comes back into my office and walks to the window. He peers out for a while, then dives to the floor. ‘Get down!’ he says, in a very loud whisper. ‘They’re out there, Mol – waiting for you.’
‘Who?’ I say. He could mean any one of a horde of demented constituents as far as I’m concerned.
Fear is contagious, though – and Greg’s is palpable – so I slide under my desk, knocking the printer onto my head in the process. I stay on the floor for a few minutes, saying, ‘Ouch’ and looking for blood, until I realise that Greg has stood up, and is looking through the window again.
‘MI5,’ he says. ‘Look – dark car, and a man in a dark suit, speaking into his sleeve.’
When I’ve managed to disentangle myself from the printer lead that caused all the trouble, I stand up and approach the window myself. Very carefully, in case I’m seen.
‘For Christ’s sake, Greg,’ I say, after a cursory glance outside. ‘That’s Phil Ashbury, the guy from Joan’s union. He had a meeting with her at 5:00pm, probably to discuss the way The Boss keeps treating her. And he’s putting his gloves on, not speaking into his sleeve.’
‘So he’d like you to think,’ says Greg. ‘But some of us are not so easily fooled.’
He’d be a lot more convincing if he wasn’t also laughing, but I’m a bit unnerved, anyway. What if MI5 are suspicious of anyone with a connection to an MP, and to a Russian? And what if they’re reading my emails, and followed me and Johnny to our hotel? They’re bound to have nominated us for one of those Bad Sex Awards if they did.
They might even suspect that my necklace was Johnny’s way of softening me up. If it was, it’s already worked a treat. I told him all about Andrew’s views on LibDem sex scandals earlier today.
FRIDAY, 22 OCTOBER
‘You might have to help me with a CV,’ says Max, over breakfast. ‘As well as Josh. There are rumours there’s going to be a big announcement at work on Monday, and I doubt the news is going to be good.’
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘though you’ll need to get home a bit earlier in the evenings than you have been doing, if you want to get it done before next weekend. I can’t understand how this Mrs Bloom can need so many late calls, all of a sudden.’
I still haven’t seen any evidence of Mrs Bloom’s existence, and nor have I seen Ellen much this week. Or not when Max is ‘working late’, anyway.
He gives me one of those ‘don’t start’ looks, just as I realise that the top of the Tiffany box is protruding from my handbag and make a lunge for it.
God, that was close. My blood pressure won’t take much more of this, so I shall post the necklace back to Johnny at lunchtime today – before it gives me a heart attack.
‘I’ll need to write a CV for myself, as well as for you,’ I say, ‘if Vicky carries on the way she’s going. Even though I’m really trying to be nice.’
‘Try harder, then,’ says Josh, who’s sounding more and more like the parent in this relationship of late.
When I arrive at the office I do intend to follow his advice, but then Vicky joins Andrew in the Oprah room, and Greg and I don’t see either of them for the next couple of hours. They must be whispering, as we can’t hear them either when we wander casually past the door for no reason every few minutes or so.
When they finally come out, The Boss announces that Vicky’s going to accompany him into surgery today.
‘Why?’ says Greg, before I can ask the same question myself.
‘It’ll be useful experience for her,’ says Andrew, though he doesn’t say for what.
Greg doesn’t ma
ke any further comment, but scribbles something on a piece of paper, which he shoves into my hand as I pass his desk on my way to the kitchen. I need another, stronger, cup of coffee.
‘Here’s that number you wanted, Mol,’ he says, pulling his meaningful face. ‘Put it somewhere safe, so you don’t risk losing it again.’
I read Greg’s note as I wait for the kettle to boil. ‘That proves it, Molly,’ it says. ‘Vicky’s after your job. Surgery’s usually your responsibility, except for when Andrew plays silly buggers and makes me Goldenballs. So we need a survival plan for you – and fast.’
When she comes back into the office after surgery has finished, Vicky looks as if she needs one more than I do. Her face is unusually pale, even through all the foundation she wears, and she’s chewing the side of one of her precious nails.
‘You all right, Vicky?’ I say. Now I can tell Josh I really am trying to be nice, though the effort’s killing me.
‘Of course she’s all right,’ says Andrew, helping Vicky put on her coat with a rather excessive flourish. ‘Cope with anything, can’t you, Vicks?’
‘Well, I can’t,’ says Greg. ‘I need to go the chemist and get something for this persistent nausea.’
Andrew offers to do it for him, as he says he’s taking Vicky for lunch ‘very close to Superdrug’, but Greg says he needs some fresh air and stomps off ahead of them. I stay at my desk, trying to think of the best way to word a ‘Thanks for the egg, but no thanks’ email to Johnny. It sounds much simpler than it is.
I’m still on draft one when Greg returns. ‘Christ,’ he says, before throwing himself onto the sofa in the Oprah room and closing his eyes as if he’s in pain.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ I say. ‘And get off there before The Boss and Vicky come back and decide that you’ve been sleeping on the job.’
‘I shall just tell them that I have had a relapse of PTSD,’ says Greg. ‘Caused by the trauma of encountering Steve Ellington at the pharmacy counter in Boots. Is it too much to expect constituents to keep their bloody distance when you’re on your lunch-break and engaged in a sensitive transaction?’