Tuesday August 12th
As I pack I am shocked by the breaking news about Robin Cook’s secret life of subterfuge with black bin-bags and parking meters, and a mistress waiting in a darkened room. All that trouble just to slake their lust! I am glad, indeed proud, to be celibate.
Wisteria Walk, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Wednesday August 13th
Here I am again – in my old bedroom. Older, wiser, but with less hair, unfortunately. The atmosphere in this house is very bad. The dog looks permanently exhausted. Every time the phone rings my mother snatches it up as though a kidnapper were on the line.
Rosie is complaining bitterly because she is now sharing a room with William. I pointed out to her that I am paying for my room. Yes, my own mother is charging me £40 per week for bed and board! Once I’d moved my possessions into the bedroom I was staggered at how little I’d collected over the fourteen years of my working life. I made an inventory.
2 duvet covers and matching pillowslips, 1 black and green zigzags, 1 burgundy/cream swirls
1 high-tog-value fibre-filled duvet
4 bath towels
1 shaving mirror with magnification options
1 travelling clock
1 Anglepoise lamp + halogen bulb
1 MFI folding desk, in black ash
1 typist’s chair
500 books (approx.)
1 faux Indian rug
2 Habitat director’s chairs
1 Sony mini-stack sound system
27 compact discs (hardly used)
CD rack
TV/video (loaned by Zippo)
Dualit toaster (4-slice)
Black-ash bookcase
Willow coffee table with magazine shelf
Fruit bowl
Kettle (safety)
Ikea cutlery set
Ikea dinner service
Ikea cork noticeboard
Floor cushion (burgundy)
I thought back to the sumptuously furnished flat in Battersea which I’d shared with Jo Jo for most of our marriage. Now I’m nearly thirty and a half years of age, and I haven’t got a sofa to call my own. I’m sick of lolling on a floor cushion. I said so to my mother. She said, ‘Anybody over twenty-five looks ridiculous on a floor cushion.’
I agree.
I gave the thing to Rosie as a peace-offering, but she threw it back at me saying, ‘Burgundy sucks. It’s the colour of executives’ wallets.’
William rejected it, saying that it smelled of ‘something hobbollall.
In the end I took the cushion down to the New Dog, who appeared to appreciate the gift though it is too big for the basket, so the poor animal perches on top of the cushion somewhat precariously with a nervous look in its eyes.
I have finished arranging my things. I will have to learn to live with the Barbie doll wallpaper – but I wish Rosie hadn’t disfigured them with a black felt-tip pen and given them all moustaches and underarm hair.
Friday August 15th
Justine rang. She said Alan has got a vacancy for a barman at The 165 club. Was I interested? I said no. Serving drinks to Conservative Members of Parliament was my idea of pitchfork purgatory. I asked her how her true romance with Zippo was going. She said it was over. Zippo had asked her to wear something more conservative as they were dressing before leaving the flat to visit his parents at their family seat near Cheltenham. Justine had refused, saying she had to be true to herself. He had shouted, ‘My father’s on borrowed time as it is. If he sees you in that skirt he’ll have a heart attack and die.’
Versace has a lot to answer for.
Saturday August 16th
Support for the Royal Family has fallen below 50 per cent for the first time. Quelle surprise! I remember seeing a photograph of Prince William on his first day at Eton. The poor kid was wearing a green sports jacket! The last time I saw a green sports jacket it was hanging on a rail in a Cancer Research charity shop.
Princess Diana flew to Athens in a Harrods Gulf-stream jet, before going cruising in the Greek Islands with her friend, Rosa Monckton. I hope that in the excitement of her new romance she has not forgotten her promise to buy an artificial leg for that bloke Mohammed.
In the afternoon I took William to visit our MP’s surgery, which was being held in an office at the health centre. There was a queue of ten people, mostly men. From overhearing their conversation I could tell that nearly all of them had come with trifling complaints. The majority seemed to be requesting council-house transfers because of noisy neighbours. I made sure that I was the last to go in.
I was shocked at her exhausted appearance, and said so.
‘Thanks,’ she said, while lighting a cigarette. ‘I was up until four a.m. with Mandy.’ She stifled a yawn.
‘Doing the samba?’ I asked. I had heard about Mr Mandelson’s predilection for the rhythms of South America.
‘No,’ she said. ‘We were writing a spoiler for Jack’s disclosures in the News of the World next week. He’s been threatening me with this since we split up on May 1st.’
I asked her why the split had occurred.
She said, ‘Take your bloody pick. There was his one-and-a-half-bottles-of-Stolly-a-day habit. The hysterical midnight calls from his last ex-wife. His sexism: he would sulk if I asked him to pick up a loo brush.’ She said she had heard from Alastair Campbell that Cavendish had been paid in excess of £50,000 to spill the beans about her past. He’s got two of his children in the Priory and one in the Betty Ford,’ she said. ‘The poor sod needs the money.’
‘That’s no excuse to betray you, Pan,’ I said. I tried to hold her hand but she slid it out of my grasp and towards her cigarette packet.
She showed me the spoiler. It was a brave document.
‘I WAS FREE SPIRIT’ ADMITS THE PEOPLE’S PAN Pandora Braithwaite, ‘the brightest star in Blair’s firmament’, issued an extraordinary statement last night, admitting that in sexual matters: ‘I was a free spirit; I had many lovers.’ Speaking from her home in her constituency of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, she said, ‘Yes, it’s true. At one time in the eighties I was enjoying the sexual attentions of three lovers. We were all perfectly happy with the arrangement.’
‘Erotic’
Asked if she wore erotic underwear in the debating chamber of the House of Commons she said, ‘Yes, I buy my undies from Agent Provocateur in Soho. This in no way affects my ability as a politician. I work tirelessly on behalf of my constituents.’
‘Blair Sexy’
Asked if her leader was sexy, Pandora said, ‘Clearly.’
‘Chanel – Passé’
Asked about Cavendish’s allegations about financial irregularity regarding election expenses, Pandora said, ‘I borrowed a couple of couture suits from Karl – I’ve since given them back, they were terribly passé.’
We had to fight our way out through an unruly pack of press photographers who had tracked Pandora down to the health centre.
William was excited by Pandora’s Mercedes coupe and made her put the hood up and down several times as we drove to our house. My mother was excited to see her, and more excited still by the press pack, who were soon camped outside our garden gate. Even my father left his bed for a look. My mother made him change into clean pyjamas, both in honour of Pandora and in case he should be photographed accidentally.
An odd-looking boy in gangsta rap clothes stood on the opposite side of the road, staring at the house and eating crisps as though he was on a day out. I asked him to move on, but he affected not to hear me.
My mother read Jack Cavendish’s copy and then Pandora’s spoiler with barely contained glee. At 3 p.m. Ivan and Tania Braithwaite arrived, ashen-faced.
Ivan said to my mother, ‘Pauline, my darling, I’ve told Tania. I had to do it before the News of the World did it for me.’
My father, the poor dolt, said, ‘You’ve told Tania what?’
My heart stopped beating.
Ivan strode, in his smart casuals, up to my pyjama’d, unshaven father and s
aid, ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, George, but I’m in love with your wife.’
I crossed to my father and touched his shoulder. Pandora took her mother in her arms.
I watched my father’s face age as the realization dawned that his wife was in love with somebody else, and that that someone else was Ivan Braithwaite, a family friend.
The New Dog slunk out of the room and went to perch on its burgundy cushion – aware, perhaps, of its role in the affair.
Tania disentangled herself from Pandora, smoothed her long, loose-fitting, floral-print frock over her hips and said, in a quavery voice, ‘Ivan, I want you out of my house and garden by tonight.’
Pandora shouted, ‘How could you do this to Mummy, Daddy?’
Ivan replied simply, ‘Love captured us on May the first, and we have been its prisoners ever since.’
The saggy lovers exchanged a passionate glance.
I almost vomited. He should try writing for Mills and Boon.
My father sat down and lit a Rothman’s. The fly on his pyjamas was open. He wasn’t wearing underpants. I hastily positioned myself in front of him.
Ivan said, ‘Come along with me now, my darling,’ to my mother.
She picked up her make-up bag and they left.
I watched them pushing their way through the press at the gate. The boy was still there, eating from a bag of cheese and onion crisps.
Sunday August 17th
It takes a long time to write a short paragraph. Pandora and I sat up until 5 a.m. composing the following, which Alastair Campbell approved at 6 a.m.
Pandora Braithwaite, MP for Ashby-de-la-Zouch, and Adrian Mole, Celebrity Chef, are delighted to announce that Mrs Pauline Mole and Mr Ivan Braithwaite (BA) are to marry in the spring.
Pandora (30) said, ‘I’m thrilled for them,’ and Adrian (30) said, ‘Ivan is a lovely man, I couldn’t be more pleased.’
The wedding will take place in Ashby-de-la-Zouch Castle, which is now licensed for marriage ceremonies. Neither Mrs Tania Braithwaite nor Mr George Mole was available for comment.
Monday August 18th
Talk about the House of Sorrows! Dostoevsky, you should be here, in Wisteria Walk, on this day.
Tuesday August 19th
My mother rang from the Post House Motel, two miles away, to say that she and Ivan were returning tonight.
Wednesday August 20th
There has been an unbelievable, terrible, scandalous reversal. My mother and Ivan are living here at Wisteria Walk, and my father and Tania are living there, at The Lawns. I am absolutely furious that I was not party to these arrangements. It was done behind my back. I said to my mother, ‘How could you send Dad, a sick man, to live with that gorgon Tania Braithwaite?’
She said, ‘Keep your nose out of our business.’
William has already accepted Ivan into the family. Ivan bribed him with an educational pop-up book. My father mustn’t find out. It will kill him.
Thursday August 21st
Nigel fought his way through the press pack and visited today. It was brave of him: everybody who comes to the house ends up on regional television (Midlands Today). Tony Blair has sent a (private) letter of support to Pandora.
Dear Pandora,
Cherie and I want to tell you how much we value your contribution to New Labour’s success.
We are praying that your present personal and family difficulties will be resolved and that you will continue to serve your constituency of Ashby-de-la-Zouch for the duration of the present parliamentary term.
Yours, with love
Tony
I will never, ever get used to seeing Ivan Braithwaite’s aggressively tufted toothbrush in our bathroom. Never, not in a million years.
My father’s worn-down brush still stands next to it, in its customary place in the fish mug, together with his smoker’s toothpaste.
Rosie can’t understand why our father doesn’t beat Ivan up ‘so badly that the bastard ends up with a tube up his f------ nose’.
Friday August 22nd
A reporter, called Gracie Ball, rapped on the front door today and asked for an interview with ‘Pauline and Ivan’. I chatted at the door with her for a while about writing in general. I mentioned that I had written a novel, Birdwatching. She said she would like to see it. When I came down, she had insinuated herself into the house and was talking to my mother and Ivan at the kitchen table. The ancient lovers were holding hands and confessing their shared guilt to Gracie.
Saturday August 23rd
I steeled myself, pushed through the reporters and drove round to The Lawns. There were three people waiting at the Braithwaites’ rustic-style gates, smoking cigarettes. One of them, a girl, had a camera slung around her neck. As I got out of the car, the press shouted, ‘Adrian! Adrian!’ I ignored them and ran up the drive to the front door. I noticed that the shutters and blinds were closed. I knocked on the door, using the lion’s-head brass knocker. My father shouted, ‘Bugger off,’ from the hall.
I lifted the letterbox and shouted, ‘It’s me – Adrian!’ I heard bolts being drawn and locks turning. The door opened only wide enough to let me in, then slammed shut. My father and Tania Braithwaite stood in the spacious hallway, white-faced and haggard. Tania said, ‘Do, please, come into the kitchen. Γ11 make coffee.’ She was behaving as though the cataclysmic events of the last few days had never happened.
For once I was lost for words. What could I possibly say to them both? Less than a week ago they had thought themselves safely married; now their cuckold status was being broadcast to the nation. We sat down at the huge pine table in the kitchen. My father pulled a saucer full of fag ends and ash towards him. He lit a cigarette. Tania flapped her hand in front of her face.
‘I thought this was a strictly non-smoking household,’ I said.
Tania sighed. ‘Yes, normally it is… but in the circumstances…’ Her voice trailed away.
My father said, ‘What does your mother see in him, Adrian?’
Tania’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Ivan is, was, a wonderful man,’ she said.
‘He betrayed you, Tania,’ said my father. He sounded like somebody out of a Frederick Forsyth Cold War novel. It was obvious to me that they were both in shock. Tania got up to pour boiling water into the cafetière. I saw my father watching in admiration as she pushed down the plunger. He has always wanted to join the middle classes.
The phone on the wall, near the Aga, rang. Tania answered it. It became obvious that Pandora was on the line. Tania said, ‘I’m taking it one day at a time. George is being a tremendous help.’ There was a pause, then Tania said, ‘No, darling, there’s nothing you can do. Adrian’s here. I’m sure he’ll go to Sainsbury’s for us.’ Tania looked at me pleadingly. What could I say but ‘Yes’?
I asked my father how long he intended staying at Tania’s house.
He said, ‘I dunno, I’ve got nowhere else to go, have I?’
Tania said, ‘I’ve got four empty bedrooms, Adrian. George is welcome to stay for as long as he likes. He understands better than anybody what I’m going through.’
‘Because I’m going through the same torment,’ he said.
They exchanged a glance, and I knew, I just knew, that despite their previous mutual antipathy it wouldn’t be long before they discovered that they had other things in common.
Tania wrote a shopping list, which I transferred into my electronic organizer.
2 baguettes
Tin anchovies
Tin artichoke hearts
Jar saffron strands (must be from S. America)
Coriander (fresh)
Sun-dried tomatoes
Pesto
Goat’s cheese & feta
Taramasalata
Pitta bread
Fromage frais
Natural yoghurt (Greek)
Pkt Always panty-liners
Extra virgin olive oil (Italy)
2 60w lightbulbs
XL gardening gloves
&nb
sp; 2 ripe avocados
Filo pastry (frozen)
Spinach
Mange-touts
When Tania went out of the room my father glanced at the list and grumbled, ‘I’ll bleeding starve to death.’ He hates foreign food, apart from chicken korma.
He gave me a £10 note and asked me to get him forty Rothman’s, a white sliced loaf and a pack of pork dripping.
However, when I got to Sainsbury’s I couldn’t retrieve the list from my personal organizer and had to guess instead. I didn’t hang around at Copse Close to watch the groceries being unpacked. I’d forgotten my father’s Rothman’s and I knew there’d be trouble.
Sunday August 24th
I heard the bed creaking in my mother’s room in the early hours of the morning. I banged on the party wall and the creaking stopped. I heard Rosie shout, ‘Thank you, Aidy.’
Monday August 25th
William kept asking for his grandad, so I took him round to The Lawns this morning. My father and Tania were in the garden, in deck-chairs. Apparently he’d just mown the lawn. He was wearing one of his short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts. There was a nicotine patch on his pasty left arm. He got up and played football with William, using Pandora’s old netball. A passing stranger might have observed the scene and felt a pang of jealousy that they were not part of this ideal family.
When I got home the second post had arrived. There was a letter from an Arthur Stoat, editor and managing director of Stoat Books Ltd, asking if I would be interested in writing a cookery book to be called Offally Good! – The Book!.