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.

PMT, Predictability And Some Unwanted Colour Theory.

I've got a funny feeling I may have PMT today, though I'd rather die than admit that to Max and Josh. Either that, or I'm suffering from quiet-day-at-the-office-itis.

I spend all day bursting into tears at inopportune moments, not that there ever is an opportune time to wail like a baby. Unless you're an X-Factor winner.

Greg thinks I've gone off my rocker, and starts The Campaign to Cheer Molly Up. He even donates one of his Twixes to the cause. It doesn't work, and just makes me weepier instead. Unexpected kindness always does that.

"What on earth's the matter?" he says, when I hand him the bar back. "It must be awful if even a Twix won't fix it."

"Nothing," I say. "I'm fine."

Big fat tears roll down my face at the same time, though luckily the crying isn't of the noisy hiccuping and choking kind. That would be even more embarrassing.

"Well, unless you've got some bizarre eye infection, I think there is. You look a mess. And move that invitation from the Mayor out of the way - it's getting soaked."

Greg passes me a tissue from one of those little travel packs his mum gives him. I'm sure she thinks he's still a Boy Scout.

"It's probably just because no-one's told me about anything terrible today," I say, trying to wipe off all the supposedly-waterproof mascara that seems to be everywhere except on my eyelashes.

"And that would be logical because?"

"Well, when there aren't any calls from constituents whose problems are worse than mine, having a wallow doesn't seem as self-indulgent as it usually would."

"Hmm,"  says Greg.

He doesn't sound convinced, though I'm sure I'm right. This always happens at this time of year. The phones get progressively less busy, and the volume of letters tails off to a comparative trickle.

You'd think the opposite would be the case, seeing as it's commonly thought that rates of depression and suicide rise in December, but we don't usually see much sign of that in our office. It's as if everyone - even the usual suspects - is too busy to be depressed until they've at least finished eating Christmas dinner.

If you were new to casework, you'd probably breathe a sigh of relief and enjoy the relative peace and quiet, but old hands like me know better. To us, this unusual calm speaks volumes - because we know it just presages the furious storm that always hits in January.

"Maybe I'm miserable because I know what's coming?" I say.

"Probably," says Greg. "You do keep going on about your life being predictable."

This wasn't what I meant, but I suppose he might have a point. I decide to consider what changes I could make to my life while I'm on my lunch-break - whilst simultaneously buying all the Christmas presents I was supposed to have bought during yesterday's shopping trip.

I wander around the mall, trying to ignore the bloody music. I can't believe that they still insist on playing Merry Christmas Everybody. I bet even Noddy Holder's sick of the sound of it, though thinking about glam rock does give me an idea.

Perhaps I should buy something new to wear? In a bright colour, for once. Max is always moaning about my penchant for black, and it is a bit draining on the complexion. At my age, as he'd no doubt feel compelled to add.

By the time I get back to work, I'm feeling much more cheerful, even if I have spent more than I can afford.

"That's better," says Greg. "First smile you've cracked all day."

"I bought a gorgeous new knitted dress," I say. "To wear to the Party Christmas meal. What do you think?"

I pull it out of the bag and hold it up against myself. I even do a couple of twirls. It's a real Anthea Redfern moment.

Greg opens his mouth to speak, but Vicky beats him to it:

"You do know purple is the colour of sexual frustration?" she says.

The phone rings before I can think of a cutting reply, so I answer that instead of her.

"Hello, dear,"  says Mum. "How are you? How's your Christmas shopping going?"

"Well, I got a bit distracted," I say. "And bought myself a purple dress. But I'm not at all sure about it now."

I glare at Vicky while I say this, but she's got her back to me, so the effort is wasted.

"Oh, I love purple," says Mum. "It always reminds me of that wonderful poem by Jenny Joseph. What's it called - Warning?"

Christ, I'd forgotten about that. As if wearing something that screams, "No sex life" wouldn't be quite bad enough, now it seems I'd also be signalling that I'm on the way to becoming an eccentric old woman. I might as well have gone the whole hog and bought a bloody red hat as well.

I'm going to get a refund on my way home. There's no point in advertising that you're desperate, is there?   

Creative Thinking in the Face of an Emergency.

It's that hellish time of year again - Parliamentary Recess, when MPs return to their constituencies, and wander around like lost souls, irritating the hell out of constituency staff and making work for its own sake. The Boss is worse than most. He thinks he's so indispensable that he cannot take even a single day off, and that we need him to open the mail and answer the phones, despite the fact that these things get done every day whilst he's at Westminster - as if by magic.

I wouldn't mind so much if he'd just go and sit in a coffee bar somewhere and take his laptop with him, but he says he likes to be "in the thick of it", and takes over my desk and my computer instead. Then he decides that I need him to dictate incoherent replies to all the letters he has already opened, or at least, those that he hasn't already misplaced.

This means that I am forced to waste time writing down notes that I have absolutely no intention of making any reference to in the replies that I will eventually write, once he's not looking. To make matters even worse, he seems compulsively driven to start swearing whenever I am on the phone to a constituent - which is really embarrassing. I have to keep explaining it away by pretending that he's the boiler repair man, and has no sense of decorum.

The Boss has also adopted his usual Recess practice of sneaking into the office early so that, by the time Greg and I arrive, he's already rifled through our desk drawers, and the fridge. The most outrageous aspect of this - at least as far as Greg's concerned - is that Andrew has helped himself to Greg's entire secret stash of Twixes, and has used up all the milk.

Greg gestures for me to join him in the corridor for an emergency meeting.

"God almighty, haven't you arranged anything for him to do?" he says.

"I tried," I say, "But bloody Carlotta wouldn't play ball. She even cleared space in his diary so he could spend more time in the office with us."

"Bloody woman. Wasn't winning the sodding World Cup enough for her?"

Greg is pacing up and down the corridor like a caged animal, and I am desperate for a cigarette. Already.

"Well, you've got to do something. I can't stand this. I may have to kill him if you don't get rid of him soon." Greg almost looks capable of murder. He has an unhealthy dependency on chocolate.

Far be it from me to boast, but I do have an extraordinary ability to think creatively in an emergency.

"Go and find yesterday's local paper, then search through it for mentions of local organisations that are complaining about something, like lack of funding," I say.

"And?" Greg looks unimpressed.

"Then phone them up, and say The Boss has read about their plight, and is very interested in the valuable work they are doing in his constituency.

"And?"

"Say that he would very much like to come and see it for himself, and could he pop over today?"

"Brilliant!" says Greg, and sneaks off into the Party office to use their phone for his vital secret mission.

Half an hour later, he comes back, gives me the thumbs up, and says,

"Andrew, aren't you supposed to be at your meeting now?"

"What meeting?" Andrew finishes my sandwich in one very over-ambitious mouthful.

"The Phoenix Project in Easemount," says Greg. "Molly, didn't you tell him?"

"God, no. I forgot. Greg has the details, Andrew. Shall I call you a taxi?"

"No, I can drive," he says. "Just put their number into my mobile in case I get lost."

Whether The Boss can drive is a moot point, but the fact that he has the option must mean that he has finally talked Trish into letting him have the car keys back. (She is a very creative individual herself. You probably have to be to survive being married to Andrew.) A few weeks ago, she developed a well-founded fear that Andrew was going to get caught drink-driving and, mindful of the negative Press coverage that would ensue, she decided to take direct action.

While he was engaged in a medicinal drinking session after a particularly hostile GC*, she sneaked into the car park, and drove his car away. She texted me to tell me what she'd done, but I didn't tell him as I wanted to see what would happen when he went to drive home after the meeting. I expected him to come roaring back into the bar, shouting that his car had been stolen. But he didn't.

It turned out that he just looked around the car park for a bit, then gave up and took a taxi home. He obviously assumed that he was just too drunk to recall where he'd left the car, and that he'd remember once he sobered up. The whole story came out the next morning when, staggering downstairs on a quest for coffee and ibuprofen, he spotted the car parked in the driveway of his house. At that moment, he really didn't have a leg to stand on when Trish refused to give him the keys back. God knows how he's persuaded her to reinstate his driving privileges now.

So, due to my low cunning, we are blissfully Andrew-free for the next few hours, which means that I can finally get round to writing proper replies to today's letters, and Greg can spend his time arranging visits to other local organisations. By the end of the afternoon,The Boss is booked up for a good chunk of the rest of this week, and half of the next one too - thank God.

Just before I leave the office, Mrs Cowan phones to apologise that her husband hasn't yet got round to signing his Data Protection form. She says she'll make sure he does it tonight, and that she'll drop it off to me tomorrow morning. Then she bursts into tears, and says that they are now being chased for mortgage arrears, as it appears that their bank hasn't even been honouring those payments.

Honestly, those bankers are such shits.  Not that I'm in any position to criticise - spending all my time fretting about not being able to afford a hotel room for a dirty weekend. I need a slap.

*GC - General Committee meeting, as usual.