Diary of an Unsmug Married by Polly James Read Free Book Online Page A

shouldn’t have mentioned this inexplicable oversight to Greg, as he’s already furious with Carlotta, not just because she agreed to give Mr Beales another surgery appointment, but also because she apparently claimed to be in charge of all Andrew’s staff while doing so. Now Greg’s even more determined to get his own back, to teach Carlotta to know her place in what he calls ‘the complex hierarchy caused by Andrew’s anarchic staffing arrangements’.
    ‘What do you mean, “complex hierarchy”?’ I say. ‘It’s simple: Carlotta’s in charge in London – of herself and Marie-Louise. I’m in charge in Lichford. Of you and me. No one’s in overall control.’
    ‘Just like the Coalition,’ says Greg, ‘but that’s not what I mean and, anyway, you’re only nominally in charge of me. Whoever is Goldenballs is really the person in charge, and – as we both know – that title can change hands at a moment’s notice. You may be Andrew’s favourite at the moment, Mol, but you know the good times can’t last forever.’
    On that chilling note, Greg decides that now is the perfect time to phone the Westminster office – while both girls are out for their no-doubt glamorous lunch in the House. Then he leaves twenty-five ‘messages’ on their answer-phone.
    These involve little more than bouts of heavy breathing, coupled with the odd menacing grunt and barking noise. I really, really hope Greg remembered to press 141 fn2 before dialling each time.
    ‘Very satisfying,’ he says, when he’s finished. ‘That’ll teach Carlotta to think she’s in charge of me. I suppose we’d better turn our answer-phone off now.’
    Big mistake. The first call is from Miss Chambers, complaining that the police aren’t taking her latest incident report seriously and are trying to imply that she ‘should stop making enemies’.
    She goes on to say that she has never upset anyone ,which is so delusional as to be almost funny – until she asks ‘what kind of madman’ would post dog poo through her letter-box? I don’t tell her that I am sitting in the office with exactly such a man.
    I know you can lie by omission, but it doesn’t feel as bad as the proper out-and-out kind of lying, does it? And, anyway, Miss C deserves it – though I’m not quite sure that Max does too.
    I still haven’t got round to telling him about Johnny Hunter, though I don’t know why, other than I keep forgetting to. But now, I’m not at all sure that I should – not after reading the email that Johnny sends me tonight. I have a very odd feeling he may be flirting with me.
    He’s finally sent me a photograph of himself, too, but that’s a bit of a disappointment. He’s definitely not the dark-haired, blue-eyed one from the school bus but (just my luck) the mousy paper-boy. He’s sitting in a mid-life crisis-style car, looking disturbingly like President Putin; though I suppose if you live and work in Russia, it’s quite a good idea to look like someone who’s well-connected. I wonder if Johnny looks as good as Putin in a judo suit.
    Even if he doesn’t, my life still seems horribly pedestrian in comparison to his. (Johnny’s, I mean, not the President’s, though I suppose that both would apply.) He seems to be on a plane almost as often as he is on land; and says that he’s working flat-out so that he can retire at fifty-five.
    I haven’t even decided what I want to do when I grow up yet, and my pension’s going to be worth nothing, especially now that IPSA’s making The Boss pay for it.
    On top of that, I bet Max will trade me in before much longer – probably for Annoying Ellen, if the sit-ups and mooning around in the garden are anything to go by. Then I won’t even get half of his lousy pension, and will have to work until I drop (or The Boss does – whichever comes first).
    At that point, I’ll probably have to opt for some DIY euthanasia when I can’t face another day without heat or food, spent wrapped in a blanket