Miss Chambers, so James is exposed to the risk to hearing issue rather more quickly than I’d intended. When I glance up at him, he’s already copying Greg, who has both hands pressed against his ears. I’m impressed. This kid learns fast.
Even so, I’m not sure what to do with him for the rest of the day, as we don’t have a spare computer and now he seems oddly reluctant to answer the phones. The Boss never thinks about this sort of thing when he accepts applications – but James looks to be an intelligent person, so it should be safe to entrust him with some filing. Not that he seems any more impressed by that than he does by the office. Or by Joan, for that matter.
He seems even less keen when he sees the number of live files that we have; and the sight of the archive cupboard makes him blanch. But he gets on with it without complaint, though he does seem to go to the loo an awful lot – which may be due to the weird healthy tea he brought with him in a Tupperware box.
On that basis, I 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. Or so Greg says, anyway.
While James is filing, I check my email, only to find a message from Johnny. He’s back in Russia, but wants us to meet the next time he’s in the UK. Then he asks whether I have any more photos I can send him, preferably ones with my eyes open, to ‘keep him going’ until then. (Going where , he doesn’t say.)
My arse would take a much better photo than my face, but that’s hardly helpful, is it? Someone once told me that, after forty, 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, but non-pornographic, 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 the hell have I done?
At least someone doesn’t object to looking at me, though – unlike Max, who’s avoiding all eye contact this evening. One minute his explanations for his hotel name amnesia ring true, but then the next minute I think I must be insane to believe them. I’m just about to google ‘How to tell if your husband is being unfaithful’ when I’m distracted by yet another call from Dinah.
‘He’s f*cking incredible,’ she says, without preamble.
She can only mean Dad – so there’s probably no need to respond.
‘He was up to something, as usual! Visiting Cousin Mike, my arse.’
‘Up to what, though?’ I say. It could be almost anything .
‘He was on a date,’ says Dinah. ‘With my friend Annie’s mother ! He spent the entire weekend shagging her, the bloody hypocrite – she’s one of the ones he said was too old when I first gave him her number.’
‘So what happened?’ I say.
I may as well know the worst, I suppose. Max obviously wants to, seeing as Dinah’s yelling loudly enough for him to hear every word.
‘This morning, Dad told her he didn’t think it was meant to be, and just got into his car and left,’ says Dinah, taking the volume up a notch. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to face her, I’m so embarrassed. Apparently she thought he was the one .’
‘Good God,’ I say. ‘Poor woman’s obviously unwell. What does Dad say about it? I assume you’ve asked?’
‘He still says he was at Cousin Mike’s. Denies absolutely everything .’
‘That man wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the arse,’ I say, staring hard at Max.
He remembers that he needs to clear out the loft – urgently – and disappears. It’s a startle response worthy of James.
TUESDAY, 29 JUNE
Honestly, I can’t
Even so, I’m not sure what to do with him for the rest of the day, as we don’t have a spare computer and now he seems oddly reluctant to answer the phones. The Boss never thinks about this sort of thing when he accepts applications – but James looks to be an intelligent person, so it should be safe to entrust him with some filing. Not that he seems any more impressed by that than he does by the office. Or by Joan, for that matter.
He seems even less keen when he sees the number of live files that we have; and the sight of the archive cupboard makes him blanch. But he gets on with it without complaint, though he does seem to go to the loo an awful lot – which may be due to the weird healthy tea he brought with him in a Tupperware box.
On that basis, I 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. Or so Greg says, anyway.
While James is filing, I check my email, only to find a message from Johnny. He’s back in Russia, but wants us to meet the next time he’s in the UK. Then he asks whether I have any more photos I can send him, preferably ones with my eyes open, to ‘keep him going’ until then. (Going where , he doesn’t say.)
My arse would take a much better photo than my face, but that’s hardly helpful, is it? Someone once told me that, after forty, 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, but non-pornographic, 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 the hell have I done?
At least someone doesn’t object to looking at me, though – unlike Max, who’s avoiding all eye contact this evening. One minute his explanations for his hotel name amnesia ring true, but then the next minute I think I must be insane to believe them. I’m just about to google ‘How to tell if your husband is being unfaithful’ when I’m distracted by yet another call from Dinah.
‘He’s f*cking incredible,’ she says, without preamble.
She can only mean Dad – so there’s probably no need to respond.
‘He was up to something, as usual! Visiting Cousin Mike, my arse.’
‘Up to what, though?’ I say. It could be almost anything .
‘He was on a date,’ says Dinah. ‘With my friend Annie’s mother ! He spent the entire weekend shagging her, the bloody hypocrite – she’s one of the ones he said was too old when I first gave him her number.’
‘So what happened?’ I say.
I may as well know the worst, I suppose. Max obviously wants to, seeing as Dinah’s yelling loudly enough for him to hear every word.
‘This morning, Dad told her he didn’t think it was meant to be, and just got into his car and left,’ says Dinah, taking the volume up a notch. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to face her, I’m so embarrassed. Apparently she thought he was the one .’
‘Good God,’ I say. ‘Poor woman’s obviously unwell. What does Dad say about it? I assume you’ve asked?’
‘He still says he was at Cousin Mike’s. Denies absolutely everything .’
‘That man wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the arse,’ I say, staring hard at Max.
He remembers that he needs to clear out the loft – urgently – and disappears. It’s a startle response worthy of James.
TUESDAY, 29 JUNE
Honestly, I can’t
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