The Curious Incident Of The Chocolate Brownie, And The Definition Of A Happy Marriage

Gah. I'm sure Greg's concussion isn't as bad as he claims, but he says the room keeps spinning around whenever he talks to one of the usual suspects. I thought that was normal but, anyway, he goes home again mid-morning and leaves me stuck in the office with Vicky - who seems to think I have turned into Irma Kurtz.

"Molly," she says. "How long have you and Max been married?'

"Centuries," I say. "Why?"

Vicky starts inspecting her nails. I do wish she wouldn't do that, as they put me right off my brunch. No-one's nails are supposed to be square at the ends.

"Do you think Andrew and Trish are happily married?" she says, while wielding that annoying buffer thing.

"Yes," I say. "Of course they are. Though I'm not sure how you assess what happily means, now I come to think of it. But why do you want to know about The Boss' marriage, anyway?"

"No reason," she says. "Just curious, that's all."

Huh - I think we all know what that means, so I don't enquire any further. I don't want to be burdened with anyone's guilt apart from my own. It's very bad for the psyche, let alone the blood pressure.

"I assume you wouldn't say you were happily married?" I say to Johnny, when I email him later in the day.

"Yes, I would," he says, which comes as a bit of a shock.

"So what are you doing having a virtual affair with me, then?" I ask.

"That's the bit that makes my marriage happy," he says. "Obviously. I do wish you'd keep up sometimes."

I'm not at all sure I follow his logic, but I'm reluctant to appear too stupid, so I let it go. And, anyway, I've got more important things to do - like asking the Coroner to hurry up and establish the cause of death of a woman of forty-five, who only went into hospital for a routine operation.

She had three children, and her husband tells me that he's convinced that she died from dehydration, but that the Coroner's apparently still waiting for the hospital to provide some missing notes. It's already taken months, and the poor man can't even bury his beloved wife. He starts to cry while he's on the phone and, although I rack my brains, I can't think of anything to say to make him stop.

That sort of case really puts things into perspective, though - or, at least, it does until I get home, and make the mistake of asking Max whether he thinks we are happily married. I'm hoping he'll say something to suggest he'd be bereft without me, but he doesn't.

"I'm not clear what you mean, Mol," he says. "Sometimes I'm happy, and sometimes I'm not. Isn't that how it is for everyone?"

"Don't ask me," I say. "I have trouble keeping up - apparently. Though what is the thing that makes you happy when you are? Or should I say which person?"

Max gives me a funny look, and I suddenly wish that I had nails worth contemplating.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says. "As usual. And are you still going to that poetry reading thing?"

"Yes - seeing as Greg says he's now recovered, and the girl he fancies is going to be reading her poems. It's bound to be bloody awful, but I promised I'd go with him because he says I'm better at arty-farty conversation then he is," I say. "Shit, is that the time? I've got to leave in ten minutes."

"Yes," says Max. "But the meal's not ready, so you'd better grab a snack."

I throw a slice of ham between two pieces of dry bread, and pop a gherkin left over from Christmas on top for good measure. I'm quite impressed with my creativity, but Max looks completely appalled.

"Molly, is that really the best you can do?" he says. "You didn't even put any butter in that sandwich. No wonder you're so skinny - your attitude to food sucks."

"Thanks," I say, chewing furiously. "I'd love to have a foodie conversation but, tragically, I've got to go. Where are the car keys? In your pocket?"

I rummage around in his jacket, marvelling at all the random drill bits, receipts and losing lottery tickets he carries around - until I try the breast pocket, and my hand sinks into something soft and slimy.

"Yuck," I say, pulling my hand out and peering at the revolting brown slime coating the ends of my fingers. "What the bloody hell is that?"

"Home-made chocolate brownie," says Max. "Bambi - sod it, I mean Gemma - brought it into work for me today."

And we all know what they say about the way to a man's heart being through food, don't we? Now Vicky's not the only one who's curious about the state of someone's marriage. I hope there's no love poetry this evening, or I may struggle to applaud.

A Nasty Surprise, Though Obviously Not To The Office Of National Statistics

Blimey, I can't help feeling that the *ONS know more about our lives than they're letting on. I'm pretty sure I'd score ten out of ten for anxiety today, following the news that Max eventually decides to impart over breakfast this morning.

He's scraping burnt toast while studiously avoiding eye contact, when I decide I can't take it any longer.

"When are you going to start speaking to me again?" I say. "It's bad enough at work with The Boss giving me the silent treatment half the time, without you doing it at home as well."

Max looks at me, then chucks the piece of toast into the bin.

"Mol," he says, rather wearily. "You're the one who isn't speaking to me - ever since last night when you randomly decided that I must have been shagging someone when I was actually at a work meeting. You didn't even look away from the TV when I came in, and you've been scowling like a maniac ever since."

"That's because Question Time was on," I say. "Which effectively means that I was working while I was watching. And what you don't seem to realise is that I saw who dropped you off last night - that bloody annoying Bambi girl. So no wonder I'm scowling. I've got a damned good reason to."

I don't add that I could also smell alcohol on his breath, or that he looked pretty stressed out at the time. As you would, if you'd been cheating on your wife with an airhead whose only topic of conversation seems to be chocolate brownies. And who wears exactly the shade of lipstick that was smeared across his cheek. I am either becoming an absolute model of restraint - or a total coward.

"Correct as far as it goes," says Max. "Seeing as Bambi - bloody hell, I mean Gemma - did give me a lift home. But along with two other staff, who you surely must also have seen if you were spying on me properly."

"I wasn't spying," I say. "I was closing Josh's bedroom curtains, and I didn't even have my glasses on."

"That explains that, then," says Max.

He rolls his eyes, and I'm pretty sure he's counting to ten under his breath. You can always tell when he's concentrating. His breathing goes all funny.

"So why were you all so late, then?" I say. "It must have been a pretty important meeting if you had to work later than I do. Was there a table facing deportation, or a bunk-bed that was about to be evicted or something?"

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Mum," says Josh - who has appeared from nowhere as teenagers often do. "For God's sake, give Dad a chance to tell you what's going on."

There's nothing so frightening as a big build-up, is there? Better late than never, I realise that something serious must have happened, so I abandon the attempt to eat my porridge and raise my eyebrows at Max instead.

My stomach feels a bit jittery, but I try my best to ignore it by recalling Nick Clegg's brilliant faux pas yesterday, which has served to make me laugh every time I've thought about it - until now, when it no longer seems to work at all.

I can feel the anxiety mounting while I wait for Max to tell me whatever it is that is causing his agonised expression. Is he going to tell me he's leaving me for a chocoholic faun? Surely he wouldn't do that - not in front of Josh, anyway? But it must be something bad, because he obviously doesn't know where to begin.

I gesture at him to hurry up, and finally he starts to speak.

"The shop's closing," he says, as my stomach does a rather stunning Lutz, followed by what must be at least a triple toe loop. "They may transfer some of us elsewhere, but if we even want to be considered for that, we all have to re-apply for our jobs."

"Elsewhere?" I say. "Where else?" (In normal circumstances I'd be awfully chuffed with the neatness of that reversal, but these aren't normal circumstances. Not by a very long chalk.)

"Either the store in Meadowbridge, or the one in Hansford," says Max. "Either way, they're a hell of a distance from here. And that's if I get through the interview process in the first place - which, as I'm the oldest member of staff, doesn't seem very bloody likely."

I'm so shocked that I don't know what to say, but I've got a funny feeling the ONS must have seen this coming. Why else would they only want to know how happy I was yesterday?






*ONS - Office for National Statistics, charged with trying to assess the nation's happiness levels, amongst other things.