The Mafia Moll, Or My Fair Lady: As You've Never Seen Her Before.

Is paranoia catching? I'm becoming as bad as the usual suspects, and I bet it's all their fault. Oh, and Johnny's, of course.

"Where've you been for the last few days?" he says in his first email of the day. "I've missed you."

"Riddled with insomnia due to 24-hour news, and being poisoned by a homicidal faun," I say. "I nearly died from that one."

"Don't be silly," says Johnny, sounding just like Max. "If anyone's out to poison you, it'll be you-know-who, because of the company you keep. And I told you not to keep taking the name of the *M-People in vain."

Talk about a lack of sympathy. I bet Shakespeare didn't behave like that to the object of his affection. Even if she did have unavoidable links to a Russian refugee with a fondness for peculiar hats.

"Romance is dead," I say to Johnny, apropos of nothing in particular.

"I know," he says. "In marriage, anyway. Not between us, though, surely?"

"I don't know that virtual sex in between your endless conference calls really counts as romance," I say.

I add a miserable *emoticon to that sentence, for effect. The young don't have an exclusive right to EMO statements, after all. We're all entitled to the odd moment of self-pity, no matter what Mum might say.

"It's pretty romantic to be besotted with each other even when we never see each other, though, isn't it?"

I don't think Johnny's being sarcastic, but you can never be too careful, so I have no idea of the correct response to this. It's probably safer to send another emoticon, just in case - though it takes me ages to decide between a smily face or a wink. In the end, I opt for both.

The more I think about it, the less I can work out why romance would have died between Johnny and his wife - if it really has. It's not as if they have money worries, annoying teenage children, or a non-existent social life, is it? Not like me and Max. And I bet they don't have a sex-mad parent staying with them either.

Just imagine Max coming home and saying,

"Darling, shall we go to the embassy ball tonight? I have a meeting with the Minister for Mafia, but the au pair can put the children to bed while you have a leisurely bath, and then I'll send the car to pick you up."

I'd feel like Eliza Doolittle if that happened to me - but gritty realism's more my scene. This evening ends up turning into a *kitchen sink drama, though I'm not sure if Max still qualifies as an angry young man. Not at his age - which seems to be the root of the problem.

When he arrives home from work, he kicks the front door shut so hard that a lump of plaster falls from the ceiling onto my head.

"Fuck it," he says. "Fuck the fucking lot of them."

Josh and I look at each other but keep quiet, and even Dad works out that now is probably not the time to turn the volume up, though I can tell he's itching to do just that. God knows what he's watching, though at least it isn't News 24.

Max says, "Fuck it," again, and then sits down on the sofa, and buries his head in his hands.

"What on earth's the matter?" I say. "Are you okay?"

"No," he says. "I didn't get the job. My job, effectively, or the one I've been doing for the last fifteen years, anyway. They felt other people's skills were more relevant, though their experience damn well wasn't."

Bloody hell. I tell you what, if I really had Mafia connections, a certain boss of a little-known furniture retail chain would be being bundled into the boot of a car right this minute. After being force-fed twenty-seven organic Scotch eggs and watching rolling news for a week without sleep.



*M-People - Johnny's code word for the Mafia, but in reality, a band from the 1990s, whose song, Moving On Up, is pretty much the polar opposite of what I've spent my life doing.
*Emoticon. A sad one; a happy one, and a winking one. The latter reminds me of someone annoying, but I can't think who.
*Kitchen Sink Drama - my life, summed up.

Post-Breakfast Coffee at Tiffany's. Or In Northwick, To Be More Accurate.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Thank God today's the last day at work until after the New Year. I don't think I can take much more excitement.

The morning starts badly, when Max informs me that we are not buying each other Christmas presents. Given that I've already bought his, I could have done with this information earlier, and I'm not too impressed that we can apparently afford the gifts he's bought for the girls at work, either.

"Times are hard," he says. "And it's silly to buy something just for the sake of it when we're struggling to pay the bills."

I'm not sure I like his use of "for the sake of it," but I suppose there is a recession on, and we do need to tighten our belts, so I'll just have to see if I can get a refund on the iPod shuffle I bought him from the Apple shop.

Not everyone is being mean about presents, though - as I discover when I arrive at work. As I walk into the lobby, someone grabs me from behind, and puts their hand over my mouth. I panic, and simply can not 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 loo, for God's 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 bloody well stinks in here."

"Only place Vicky wouldn't think of snooping," he says. "And the smell is not important. Look at this. I found it behind the sofa in the Oprah Room."

He puts a small box into my hand. It's satin-lined, and the outside is a very pretty shade of turquoise. Although the box is empty, it's the sort of thing that jewellery comes in.

"What is it?" I say. "I've seen something this colour recently, but I can't think where."

"Probably in the restaurant yesterday," says Greg. "It's the box from Vicky's present."

"Oh," I say. "And your point is?"

This reaction is obviously not what Greg was hoping for, as he rummages in my bag for my glasses, opens the case and then shoves them at me.

"For Christ's sake, Molly - put these on, and then look again," he says. "At the writing on the lid."

"Oh," I say again, and then: "Oh, bloody hell, Greg. Tiffany & Co? Andrew bought Vicky's present from Tiffany's?"

"Yeah," says Greg. "Exactly. And I found it behind the sofa, don't forget. So when did it get there? There's no sign of either of them this morning, so they must have come in here last night after we left. When they were so pissed."

"Shit. I think I need a cigarette," I say. "Or even two."

As I stand outside, puffing furiously in defiance of the dirty looks Joan is giving me from the Labour Party office window, a courier van pulls up at the kerb, and then its driver runs out and enters our building. By the time I've finished my second cigarette, he's on his way out again.

"Seems some deliveries are getting through," I say to Greg, when I walk back into the office. "Just seen a courier dropping something off."

"Yes," says Greg. "For you."

He hands me a parcel and then, pointing at the customs declaration, says:

"It would seem it's from Russia. Probably with love."

Oh, my God. It is from Russia. And from Johnny. As I open the padded envelope, a hand-written letter falls out.

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 anyway. It's very annoying.


Happy Christmas, and see you in 2011. Let's make that our year. 


Johnny x


Inside the box is a pendant on a heavy chain. It's deep green, figured like Malachite, and looks exactly like a miniature Faberge 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. Who's it by?"

"God knows," I say. "What does it say on the customs declaration?"

"Jean Schlumberger."

Greg looks at me as if this name should mean something to me. It doesn't.

"Who's she?" I say. "I've never heard of her. She's probably the Katie Price of Russia. And this'll be from their equivalent of QVC. Diamonique, or whatever that stuff's called."

"Don't be daft," says Greg. "Johnny's an oil baron. He's not likely to do his shopping on QVC, is he?"

I don't know about that. Johnny does spend a lot of time bored out of his brains in hotel rooms, though I suppose it's easier to imagine him watching porn, than the shopping channels. But there's no time to think about that now, as the phone starts ringing.

It's Vicky, saying she feels too fragile to come to work today - so it turns out that I have been forced into the men's toilets totally unnecessarily, as she couldn't have over-heard anything we said from her bloody house. I'm still glaring at Greg when The Boss phones and says that he thinks he will work from home today, unless we're too busy and need him for anything.

When I tell him that we aren't and don't, Andrew says that he has decided to hold a big public meeting about the cuts, and wants a venue booked and invitations sent out to other regional MPs, as well as to a long list of other dignitaries. ASAP.

"I want it to take place during the second week of January," he says. "So the invites need to go out today."

"But, Andrew," I say. "None of these people are going to be in their offices now until the fourth of January at the earliest. They probably won't even be able to RSVP in time, and I doubt any of them will be free at such short notice anyway. Even if I can find a suitable venue today."

"Stop making excuses," is The Boss' considered response, whereas a slow-motion V-sign is mine. It's a good job he was only on the phone, and not in the office, or I might have had to kill him.

The phones don't stop ringing after that and, what with the endless calls and the pointless public meeting, we have to work flat-out until it's almost time to close. I'm printing the invitations and really looking forward to leaving the office when the phone rings again. Greg is washing up in the kitchen, so I have no choice but to answer it.

"Hal-lo, Molly," says a very loud voice. "S Novym Godom!"

"Oh, hello, Igor," I say. "Ah, S Novym Godom to you, too. Or however you're supposed to pronounce it. Russian isn't one of my strengths, sorry."

Greg raises his eyebrows at this, and then slaps himself on the forehead, sits back down at his desk and types something into Google. Then he stares at the screen for a few moments, before gesturing at me to get rid of Igor.

This proves as difficult as usual, and Greg is practically jumping up and down by the time I finally put the receiver down.

"What on earth's the matter with you?" I say. "You look even more manic than Igor usually does. And that's saying something."

"I've found out who Jean Schlumberger is," says Greg. "Come and look at this website."

Aargh. I've been so harassed that I've completely forgotten about my egg necklace until now, even though I've been talking to a mad Russian. I'll have to thank Johnny once I've looked at whatever the hell it is that Greg is so desperate for me to see.

"So who is she?" I say, as I sit down on the edge of Greg's desk.

"Not she," says Greg. "He. Jean as in the French man's name."

And with that, he points to this.

Can you believe it - two of Andrew's staff being given Tiffany-related presents in the last twenty-four hours? And I'm not at all sure I like sharing any similarities with Vicky - not to mention how the hell I'm supposed to explain my necklace to Max.

"Tell him Igor gave it to you," says Greg. "Max won't know it probably cost a fortune. If he's even interested."

That's the point, isn't it? I know there's no pleasing me, but I can't help feeling I'd rather have had an inexpensive gift from my husband, if only for the sake of it.

Happy Christmas to one and all. And S Novym Godom, whatever that means. No doubt I'll be back in the New Year, unless I've been sacked or have gone to Russia.

Oops. The Dangers of Frustration.

Today is a nightmare. As part of his mission to collect every disaffected non-constituent in a 300-mile radius, and to add them to our workload, The Boss has brought Igor back into the fold. Igor is a madman, who looks exactly like Alexei Sayle in The Young Ones. He is convinced that he is being persecuted by the Russian mafia, despite the fact that he claims to have been no more than a postman when he lived in his home country. I don't think that postman has ever been code for spy, even in Igor's case, and he would make a terrible spy anyway - he's far too big and flamboyant.

This development is too depressing for words, as Igor is at least as demanding as Mr Beales, and a whole lot more unstable. The Boss can't resist him, as Igor is the most shameless flatterer I have ever met. Today, Igor breezes in to the office, and promptly falls to his knees in front of The Boss - who he clasps around the thighs, while muttering various overblown expressions of gratitude. Then he sings us a Russian song about brotherly love and comradeship. Or that's what he says it's about. He could be singing a shopping list for all any of us know. The Boss sits there, feet up on my desk, lapping up the adoration. The sight is so nauseating that Greg has to take an early lunch, just to avoid being overcome by the urge to beat both Andrew and Igor to death.

The day doesn't improve when Mrs Cowan rings again to ask whether I've managed to get anywhere with her case yet. I feel terrible for having to stonewall her. She can't possibly know what her husband might be up to, or she wouldn't have brought their case to our attention. Would she? And how on earth is she going to feel if it turns out that it's her beloved husband who has brought them to the brink of financial ruin, and not some unknown fraudster?

I'm so stressed by the whole thing, that I decide to email Johnny before I go home. I need someone to make me feel good. However, things don't look promising when I upset him by the content of my first email, in which I ask his opinion of whether the Russian Mafia are really all that Igor is claiming they are. Johnny's reply snaps back:

"Those of us who live and work in Russia do not discuss the M-Word, here or anywhere."

Ouf. That's put me firmly in my place, an experience that is not quite as enjoyable as when Johnny is just being mildly assertive. As payback, I am rather tempted to mention Monty Python and the Spanish Inquisition. Then I decide that I can't afford to fall out with Johnny, as the whole situation with Max is quite bad enough. So I swallow my pride, and make nice - as the Ya Yas would say. (Being a Southern Belle is one of my oldest fantasies, which I blame on having seen Gone With The Wind three times.) My acquiescence has an unexpected effect, and I think I may just have had virtual sex. Accidentally. It was quite pleasant, actually. At least I didn't feel that I needed to put a bag over my head, despite the absence of Botox.

As I walk home, I wonder where in the scale of marital infidelities my misdemeanour would rank? Higher or lower than kissing a real - albeit cosmetically-enhanced - person in front of your wife and daughter? More or less forgiveable? God knows. I shall have to give this some thought, once I've stopped thinking about the event itself, of course.

Fruit Teas, Dodgy Photos and Naive Interns

Today sees the arrival of the first contender in The Boss' long list of summer interns, who usually fall into one of three distinct categories: purely decorative additions to the scenery; sixth-form leavers with their sights set on PPE at Oxford and then government, and/or those representing favours to Andrew's mates who want us to babysit their recalcitrant teenagers. Today's is one of the PPE batch, James. He's expected to get five A*s at A-level, and appears to be quite without a sense of humour. This may be because he expected the constituency office to be a little more impressive than it is. I think he expected better than a view of the YMCA, not to mention his encounter with the Bus Driver from South Park, also known as Joan who works in the Labour Party office.

I always get saddled with inducting interns. I'm not sure why. Greg's far closer to them in age, if not earnestness. I obtain the usual Confidentiality Agreement signature, then begin explaining the security measures. This wouldn't take long, if I only mentioned those that The Boss has actually put in place, but I don't. I am far more responsible than that. I explain that you never exit the security door without first checking that there isn't anyone lurking to either side of it, then move on to Special Branch's advice that we always look under our cars before getting into them, and check for people following us either to or from our homes. James starts looking a little concerned. Then I begin to explain the various personalised arrangements for handling the usual suspects, but  am interrupted by the phone ringing. It's Miss Chambers, so James is exposed to the risk to hearing issue rather more quickly than I'd intended. Eventually, he mirrors Greg, who has both hands pressed against his ears. I'm impressed. This kid learns fast.

I'm not sure what to do with him for the rest of the day, as we don't have a spare computer and he seems oddly reluctant to answer the phones. The Boss never thinks about this sort of thing when he accepts applications. I decide James looks to be an intelligent person, and entrust him with some filing. He can't believe the number of live files we have, and the sight of the archive cupboard makes him blanch. Still, he gets on with it without complaint, though he does seem to go to the loo an awful lot, which may be due to that weird healthy tea he brought with him in a Tupperware box. Can't help feeling he'd be better off at the Council. The staff there all drink fruit tea which, along with the wearing of Ecco sandals and long swishy skirts, is an accurate predictor of woolly-headed liberalness and Council employment, at least in the case of women.

In the afternoon, Johnny emails me to say he's back in Russia and to suggest we meet next time he's in the UK. To "keep him going 'til then" he asks whether I have any more photos I can send him, preferably ones with my eyes open? Keep him going where? My arse would take a much better photo than my face, but this is hardly helpful. Someone once told me that, after 40, you can either have a great face or a great arse, and I fall into the latter category, which does make sending anyone a flattering photo rather challenging. Like a fool, I mention this in my reply. Johnny's response arrives with indecent haste - he would be "very happy to receive a photo taken from whatever I deem the most flattering angle, and of any body part I think he'd appreciate." Now what have I done?

Things still weird with Max in the evening. One minute his explanations for his hotel name amnesia ring true, the next I think I must be insane to believe them. Am distracted from contemplating the state of my marriage by yet another phone call from Dinah.

"He's fucking incredible," she says without preamble. She can only mean Dad - so no need to respond. "He was on a date! Visiting Cousin Mike, my arse."

"Not the Thai bride?" I say.

"No," she says. "My friend Annie's mother! He spent the entire weekend shagging her, the bloody hypocrite! He said she was too old when I first gave him her number."

"So what happened?" Do I really want to know the answer to this? As usual, it's too late.

"This morning he told her he didn't think it was meant to be, got in his car and left without arranging another date. I'm so embarrassed."

"So what does he say about it?" I ask.

"He still says he was at Cousin Mike's, for fucksake. Denies everything."

"Why change the habit of a lifetime?" I say, and look hard at Max as I hang up. He remembers he needs to clear out the loft urgently and disappears. Is it any wonder youthful idealism is so hard to cling on to?