Fall-Out Of The Political (And Emotional) Kind. And Burning Bridges All Over The Place.

"God, I thought you were never coming back to work," says Greg, when I walk into the office rather late this morning.

"How did you know?" I say, wondering if he can read my mind.

"Know what?" he says, proving that, thankfully, he can't. He doesn't wait for an answer, though. He's far too agitated for that.

"Where did you get to yesterday?" he says."The Boss was going completely mad. He was desperate to talk to you."

I can't imagine why. It's not as if Andrew speaks to me when I'm at work, half the time.

"I was still on holiday," I say. "I booked Monday off as well as last week, don't forget."

"Ah," says Greg, who obviously did, despite the red sticker on the holiday chart. "Well, anyway, you'd better call Andrew straight away. He's got himself in a bit of a mess."

"Haven't we all?" I say, as I pick up the phone and start to dial.

"Where the hell have you been?" says Andrew, apropos a greeting. "Don't they have phones in bloody Dorset?"

I take a deep breath, and wish I was allowed to smoke in the office.

"There's been a bit of a problem," says Andrew. "So you need to get on to it, tout de suite."

It must be bad, if he's speaking French.

Andrew's so frazzled that it takes him ages to explain what the problem actually is, at which point I light up a cigarette anyway. I may as well burn some bridges of my own, seeing as everyone else is at it.

"So," I say. "Let me get this straight: it didn't even occur to you that the local media might object to you saying that all journalists are bound to have been hacking people's phones?"

"Nrmph," says Andrew.

"Or that Northwick Police might take offence at you implying that all policemen are corrupt?"

There's no reply, so I repeat the question. Twice.

"Nrmph," says Andrew, finally.

I don't know if he's eating, or choking, but eventually he recovers enough to counter-attack:

"It's your job to stop me accidentally doing that sort of thing," he says. "And to help me clear up the mess when I do. But you were deliberately ignoring your phone."

"I was on holiday," I say. "Supposedly."

By the time Andrew's quoted the "any other duties that I may deem necessary" part of my contract, along with the section about overtime, I've lost my patience and set light to the bin with my cigarette butt. You wouldn't think campaign postcards would catch light so easily.

"So what are you going to do to minimise the fall-out from this?" he says.

"Nothing," I say, throwing my coffee into the inferno. "Maybe you should sort it out. I've got other priorities at the moment."

I think Greg assumes I'm referring to the fire that's still burning, caffeine-based extinguisher notwithstanding, because he runs to the kitchen, and then returns, carrying a washing-up bowl full of water. He pours it into the bin, then smiles as if the problem's solved.

It isn't. The Boss carries on yelling down the phone at me, adding fuel to the other (metaphorical) fires that have been lit over the last few days.

"Please stop shouting at me, Andrew," I say, in a tone that would have rendered Dubai pretty chilly in no time at all.

Greg recognises this frosty manner immediately, from listening to me dealing with the usual suspects - and he knows what it denotes about how near my temper is to being lost. He's just not used to hearing it when I'm in conversation with The Boss. Neither am I, but today I just don't seem to care.

Greg, however, does.

"No-o-o," he mouths at me, while trying to grab the phone - but I fend him off with a manoeuvre I learned from that self-defence video I bought after Mr Humphries went berserk.

It proves to be a lot more effective than one of Josh's roundhouse kicks, and Greg looks quite shocked as he makes a gesture of submission while getting to his feet.

"Sorry, Greg," I say, "But this time, I'm not backing down."

It would be nice if, for once, The Boss did - seeing as he's  the one who approved Vicky's idiotic press release. But you can't reason with a panic-stricken MP, or not one who's still in the yelling phase, anyway. (Just ask anyone who's ever worked for John Prescott or Gordon Brown.)

"Andrew," I say, interrupting yet another tirade. "Call me back when you've calmed down. I'm not talking to you while you're in this mood."

"In that case, you'd better go home," says Andrew. "Right now. And consider your position while you're there."

Which is exactly what I have been doing, ever since Johnny and I found Max with Jemima in the gazebo. And Johnny asked me to join him in Dubai.

School Reunions, Virtually Topless Bumping, And The Mosquito From Dubai.

"Why do you always wear black when we go somewhere special?" says Max, as I'm getting ready for the school reunion.

"Because it makes me invisible," I say. "You don't want to draw attention to yourself when you're going to be the least successful person in the room."

It certainly achieves that, as no-one takes any notice of me for the first hour after we arrive at the hotel. Including Max.

I'm not sure he wouldn't rather have stayed at Dad's, hopping channels and drinking beer.

"What's the matter with you?" I say. "You've hardly said a word so far."

"Well, I'm not as comfortably invisible as you," says Max. "Not at my height. And I didn't even go to this school, did I? I bet I'm the only person here who's both unemployed and under-educated."

I feel a bit guilty then. How did I forget that Max failed his eleven plus? Not that passing it has done me much good, unless that's the fault of this stupid outfit. Someone's already asked me to take their coat.

I'm about to suggest we do a runner, and go for a drink somewhere else, when I hear a distinctive voice.

"Well, if it isn't little Molly James, playing the wallflower - as usual. Some things never change."

"Hello, Jemima," I say, through gritted teeth. "Nice to see you too. Though, actually, it's Molly Bennett now." I gesture at Max, who's got his back to me and is staring hopefully at the fire exit. "This is my husband."

"Max?" says Jemima, as he turns to face her.

"Jemima," says Max. "Bloody hell."

He looks an awful lot more enthusiastic about reunions now.

"Do you two know each other?" I say.

"I should say so," says Jemima, saying so. "Though not from school, exactly. More like after school - eh, Max?"

I'm pretty sure Max actually laughs when she winks. I've never liked people who wink.

"Can I borrow your husband, Molly?" says Jemima, not waiting for an answer. "Come and dance with me, Max."

"Oh, Max hates danci - " I say, as Max follows her on to the dance floor.

They're still there more than an hour later - and I'm still sitting at the bar by myself, eavesdropping on Phil Mould. He's discussing accountancy with James Oakenfield, (who's a merchant banker - like bloody Jemima - but who isn't any more interesting for that). Neither Phil nor James has the faintest idea who I am.

I'm not sure that I know, either. As if it wasn't bad enough having to say that I work for an MP when anyone asks, now I don't feel like Max's wife. I feel more like mosquito bait. If I get bitten one more time, I'm leaving - with or without Max, though the latter option seems more likely.

In the meantime, I'll have another gin. If Greg were here, he'd tell me to get my own back by having it put on Jemima's bill, but I don't have the nerve - unlike her. I'm sure her bosom fell right out of that dress a minute ago.

I turn my back on the room, and concentrate on fishing the lime out of my gin. What is wrong with a slice of lemon?

"Blah, Sage, Blah, Accounts," says Phil.

"Blah, Hedge Fund, Blah, Bonus," says James.

I've finally lost the will to live, and have just laid my head down on the bar, when I feel something tickle my neck.

"Argh," I say, swatting it away. "Fuck off, you bloody thing."

"Ow," says Johnny, rubbing his cheekbone, where my ring has caught it. "Do you have to injure me whenever we meet?"

I look down at my glass, trying to work out if I have drunk so much that I'm hallucinating, but Johnny's still there when I look back up.

"Surprised?" he says.

"Yes," I say, though surprise doesn't really cover what I'm feeling. Panic might be a better word.

"Why on earth didn't you tell me you were coming?" I say. "My husband's here, you idiot."

"Very funny," says Johnny. "I've been watching you for the last twenty minutes, and you've been on your own the whole time. No sign of any husband at all."

"That's because he's over there," I say, pointing towards Max, who really doesn't need to be slow dancing with Jemima to The Bump.

Johnny looks over at Max, but doesn't say anything. I don't think he knows quite what to say.

I certainly don't, so I finish my gin and order another. God knows how much food money we'll have left for the month if I don't slow down.

"Isn't that Jemima your husband's dancing with?" says Johnny, still staring towards the dance floor.

"Yes," I say. "So he got there before you. All the way from Dubai, and then you end up being stuck with me."

Johnny gives me a funny look, pulls up a bar stool, and sits down.

"What are you talking about, Molly?" he says. "I'm here to see you, you know that."

"Huh," I say. "You told me you weren't coming, so don't think you're fooling me. I know when I'm not wanted."

"You don't bloody know when you are wanted, though," says Johnny. "You told me you were coming, didn't you? And without your husband - which is why I decided to surprise you."

"Oh," I say.

I can't think of anything to add, though Johnny can.

"I do wish you'd try a bit harder to keep up," he says. "Now let's go outside. There isn't a Science Block in the hotel garden - but there is a rather nice gazebo."

"I can't," I say. "Max is over there - somewhere. And I'm supposed to be his wife, not yours."

"Doesn't seem to be bothering him," says Johnny, as he takes my hand.

Teachers: A Sensitive Subject, And Not For The Reasons You Might Expect

If anyone mentions teachers to me again today, I think I may be going to scream.

I spend half the morning listening to a group of them who've come in to this week's surgery to lobby The Boss about the Government's reforms to their terms and conditions; and the other half trying to deal with constituents who want to discuss why they should pay for teachers' pensions that are better than their own.

The Boss relies heavily on his tried and tested "Ah" manoeuvre, but I'm not sure that it convinces anyone from either side that he knows what he really thinks.

They're united in looking pretty unimpressed, though - a response which Andrew always finds traumatic. He's desperate for a drink by the time it's over.

So am I, seeing as you can get PTSD just by witnessing a distressing event.

It's lunchtime by then, so I'm about to join Andrew and Greg in an emergency trip to the pub, when Johnny phones. That's the third time he's called me this week - God knows what his phone bills must be like, unless the Global Oil Company pays. I bet I'm tax-deductible.

I start telling him about my morning, but he interrupts me as soon as I mention teachers.

"Ever miss those days?" he says. "When we were at school, I mean."

"Every day," I say. "Whenever I look in a mirror, in fact."

"You're sexier now than you were then," he says. "Which is saying something."

It may be, but I'm not sure what.

Then he mentions next week's school reunion again.

"You decided if you're going to go yet?" he says. "While you're back home visiting your Dad?"

"I might, actually," I say. "Seeing as I'll probably be desperate for a break from listening to him telling me about Porn-Poon's creative sexual techniques by then."

"Shit," says Johnny.

Before I can say, "My feelings exactly", he goes on to explain that he definitely won't be able to go. He has much more important things to do in Dubai. Like lying in the sun drinking cocktails, and making multi-million dollar deals.

I'm so depressed by this thought that I can't help thinking about how miserable Max must be feeling since he lost his job. Not that that involved much luxury - or many deals since VAT went up and everyone stopped buying furniture - but he misses it, even so.

Maybe I should suggest he accompanies me to the reunion? He usually finds that sort of thing incredibly boring, but there'll be free drink, and we could always lie about our occupations, if anybody asks. That would save us both from embarrassment in the face of all my horribly-successful ex-classmates - and their equally-successful spouses.

"I'd love to," he says, when I phone him to ask if he'd like to go. "It'd be nice to do something sociable. And it would get us away from your dad for a bit."

It doesn't take much to make Max happy, does it? I should be grateful for that, especially given what my face looks like. I am going to tell Johnny it's all over - whatever it is - and concentrate on appreciating the good things about my husband. I shall start as soon as I get home.

Which seems like a very good idea, until I arrive, and find an unfamiliar cardigan lying abandoned on the stairs. It's pink, and covered in glittery stuff - so it's definitely not mine; and Connie wouldn't be seen dead in it. Neither of us go in for "girlie" clothes.

"Whose is this?" I say, walking into the sitting room, and brandishing the cardigan.

"Oh," says Max. "Ah. Um."

"None the wiser," I say. "Try again."

It must be something about my tone of voice - or Max's expression - that makes Josh suddenly recall that he has to go out. Immediately.

"Well?" I say, once he's shut the front door behind him.

"It might be Ellen's," says Max. "She popped round after school, with a bottle of wine - to say sorry for yesterday."

"Yesterday?" I say.

The plot is thickening very fast.

"Well, she came round while she was on strike," says Max. "She said she was bored, and wanted some company - and thought I'd be at home with nothing to do since I lost my job.

"Oh," I say. "Did she think you could offer that thing she's always so desperate to find? To alleviate her boredom?"

"I don't know what you mean," says Max, who can't possibly have forgotten that.

I raise my eyebrows much higher than Ellen is capable of doing, so then he makes a last-ditch attempt to throw me off course:

"She wasn't here that long, anyway," he says. "She went on about her pension so much, that we had a bit of an argument."

Which is as nothing to the argument that he and I are about to have.

If I'd known about this yesterday, I'd have held my own one-woman counter demonstration: in support of a certain teacher losing all of her bloody pension. And being made to work eighteen hour days to keep her out of my house while I'm at work - and my husband isn't.

It's not as if I don't know exactly what Ellen means by company, after all.

*Turning Japanese, Oh Yes, I'm Turning Japanese, I Really Think So.

Honestly, no wonder Max says I've got a memory like an elephant. I'm still in a foul mood about the monkey business when I wake up this morning, and things don't get any better when I arrive at work.

"Nice outfit, Molly," says Vicky, in a very sarcastic tone.

Greg looks up from his desk, winces and looks back down again.

"Oversleep, did you?" he says.

"No," I say, although I did. "I am trying to look more Danish. Sarah Lund takes no shit."

I glare at both of them in what I hope is a suitably-intimidating fashion, storm into my office and slam the door behind me. I don't get any further forward, though, as I seem to have trapped the belt of my coat in the process.

I've got a feeling Greg notices my attempt to open the door again as quietly as I can, but I fall back on my political skills and act as if nothing at all has happened. Which I suppose it hasn't - if you don't count Connie getting sick, my being officially a monkey, and Max losing his job.

I can't even bear to think about that - not since Max added up all our bills last night while I was dozing on the sofa, just before I made an idiot of myself in front of the boys. I finally lost the will to live when he showed me how he'd set the bills against my salary, and had factored in the Budget changes, too. He's turning into a one-man IFS.

"We'll have to turn the heating off altogether," he said. "These fuel bills are way too high."

"We can't, " I said. "Not with Connie here all day, and sick in bed."

"Well, then," he said. "In that case, you'd better write to Ofgem, and persuade them to kick the power companies' arses a little bit harder."

I don't think they're likely to take any notice of me, but I didn't get the chance to say so. Max was on a roll. His next step was to inform me that we won't starve - until four weeks after his final pay cheque arrives at the end of this month.

"But there'll be nothing left in our budget for food every single month after that," he said. "Not once all the bills have been paid."

"Oh, well," I said. "I'm sure you'll find a new job before then, and everything will be all right again."

I don't believe this for a second, considering the state of the furniture retail sector - but I'm also trying to improve my acting skills. And anyway, I've still got a few job applications I'm waiting to hear about myself. In exotic places like Easemount and Silverhill. I can hardly wait.

Nor can Johnny, who emails me this lunchtime to say that he's just heard where his next posting is to be. He's off to Dubai in May, and sends photos of the houses that he and his wife are intending to view. I don't know what to say to those - apart from "Bloody, bloody, bloody hell!"

"Never mind about me - how are things with you?" he says.

No-one ever asks me that, so he catches me by surprise. Before I know it, I've told him everything that is happening in my life; and then immediately wish I hadn't. Talk about sounding like a usual suspect: I'm feeling far more sorry for myself than should be allowed.

"Christ," he says, in his reply. "You can't live hand to mouth like that, Molly. It's ridiculous, especially when I could take you away from it all."

"I think your wife might have something to say about that," I say. "And my husband certainly would. Anyway, you don't marry someone on the basis of what they can provide you with. Not materially, anyway."

Johnny sends a very brief reply:

"LOL."

I wish he'd never learned that bloody awful acronym, and anyway, I am being serious. In sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer - I'm pretty sure that those are still the rules. And, if they're not, then they bloody well should be.

"I don't think my wife would agree with you," he says, when I point this out. "She'd be off like a shot if I were to become poor overnight."

"Well, I'm not her," I say.

Profound, I know, but nonetheless undeniably true.

I bet she is being massaged in a luxury spa right this minute, before going to Chanel to pick out a new dress for tonight's Charity Fundraising event. (I live a far more interesting fantasy life as her, than I do as myself. Though do they actually have a Chanel shop in Moscow? And do you call it a shop - or an atelier?)

I'm still mulling over this important question when Johnny signs off for the day:

"Think what our lives could be like together," he says. "Neither of us is getting any younger, and that husband of yours is never going to amount to anything, after all."

What a horrible thing to say! And it's all my fault. I've been such a pathetic whinger that now Johnny's feeling sorry for me. And criticising Max, when no-one but me is allowed to do that.

I need to get a grip, somehow. And start making up for being so bloody self-indulgent.

"Do you guys want a coffee?" I say, to Vicky and Greg.

I might as well start as I mean to go on, even if I still don't feel very charitable towards a certain intern.

"Ja, Kaffe," says Greg, staring hard at Google Translate. "Tak."

"I'm not being Danish any more," I say. "I think being Japanese is the thing to aim for, don't you? They could teach us all a thing or two about being uncomplaining. In the face of such adversity that we can't even begin to imagine it."

That's better - isn't it? I'm getting my sense of proportion back.

"But you speak even less Japanese than you do Danish," says Greg.

That may be true, but it's hardly an obstacle that can't be overcome with a bit of effort. Honour and dignity, that's what counts - and I'll aim to chuck in some stoicism too.

"I'm going to pop home during my lunch-break," I say. "I'll have a Pot Noodle and see how Connie is. Oh, and I think I might change out of this jumper, too."

"Tak and double tak for that," says Greg. "You were beginning to hurt my eyes."

I bet Johnny would think that too - though Max just says I look nice and snuggly.



*Turning Japanese - which would be no bad thing, if it taught me (and some others I could mention) to behave like the people of Japan.

Brothers In Arms, Or Comrades In Dodgy Hats, And An Inability To Think Creatively During Virtual Sex.

Oh, for God's sake. All these revolutions are even more contagious than I thought. Now Igor has decided it's time to stand up to Putin and Dmitry Medvedev. He comes marching into the office, pauses for dramatic effect, and then waves his fist in a solidarity salute.

"Good morning, dear ones," he says. "I come to tell you that freedom starts here. In this small room."

It doesn't feel that way to me, but I just smile politely and get on with typing a reply to yet another letter about cuts to library services.

"Nice hat, Igor," says Greg. "Looks exactly like the one Colonel Gaddafi was wearing last night. Bit of an odd choice for a leader of a revolution, though, isn't it?"

"A lot of body heat goes out through your head - whizz - just like that," says Igor. "And Russia is a very cold country."

The Boss nods sagely at this piece of useless information, then starts eating one of Greg's Twixes.

"Help yourself, Andrew," says Greg. "Don't mind me. What's mine is yours in the socialist state that is Northwick Constituency Office. And, Igor - seeing as Andrew doesn't like to be left out of anything, are you going to get him a hat like that, too? As an alternative to your matching fedoras?"

"Oh, yes, I do that - of course - if Comrade Andrew wishes me to," says Igor. "Then we wear them into battle when the fight begins."

Greg starts laughing, but The Boss doesn't join in. In fact, he's gone decidedly pale.

"What's the matter, Andrew?" says Greg. "Sugar rush, or have you lost your revolutionary zeal, all of a sudden?"

"No," says The Boss. "I've just got a lot on today, what with protesting against the cuts at the County Council and that visit to the Laryngectomy Club, so I'm not sure I've got time -"

"Pfft," says Igor. "There is nothing more important than freedom of people. Now we go to pub to make plans and to drink a little vodka, yes?"

Andrew looks as if he'd prefer to do anything rather than spend the afternoon with a mad Russian with a taste for extravagant millinery, but he doesn't say so. Instead, he just picks up his coat and follows Igor out of the door - making his role in the forthcoming conflict seem likely to be no more than that of camp follower.

"Fan-bloody-tastic," says Greg. "That's what I call leadership.  Igor's obviously a natural, unlike some people. And now they'll both get so pissed that we'll be free of The Boss for the rest of the day. God bless Igor, that's what I say."

"Hmm, yes," I say. "Though I can't help wondering when he's going to remember that it's the Russian Mafia that he's actually terrified of. He seems to have forgotten about them in all the excitement about Putin and Medvedev."

"Vodka-related Mafia amnesia," says Greg, which Igor might quite possibly have developed, but which Johnny certainly hasn't. He nearly bites my head off when I accidentally say the M-word while telling him about Igor's plans.

"How many times to I have to tell you not to mention those people?" he says. "If you're not careful, you'll get me thrown out of Russia."

"Well, would that be so bad?" I say. "At least it'd be easier for us to meet up if you were based in the UK instead of in bloody Moscow."

"Be careful what you wish for," he says. "I'm due to hear about my next posting fairly soon. Though if one thing's certain, it's that it definitely won't be in the UK."

Then he goes on to tell me that he's hoping for Dubai. Dubai, for God's sake. As if Russia wasn't far enough away.

"It was supposed to be Bahrain next," he says. "But that probably isn't going to come off now, with everything that's happened. I just hope I don't get Nigeria again."

I don't know what to say as I'm too busy trying to work out how I have managed not only to have a marriage which provides virtually no sex, but a virtual affair which offers even less. And with a man who lives in another country - and soon to be another continent. I am completely bloody hopeless.

"So what will happen to us if you go to Dubai, then?" I say.

"Nothing," says Johnny. "Seeing as we've botched up every attempt we've made to meet so far, I can't see it's going to make any difference. I'll still be flying back to Britain fairly regularly - just not as often as before, so we'll just have to get our act together, and not let anything bugger up our next meeting."

"Oh," I say. "I see. So what do we do in the meantime?"

"We just carry on using our imaginations. Now tell me what you're wearing, and hurry up because I've got a planning meeting in ten minutes."

"A furry hat with earflaps," I say - which is all I can think of for some strange reason.