Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (40 page)

Parvez gave a quick accountant’s glance and said, ‘You’re in shit street, Moley.’

‘You earn £1,083.33 a month and you pay out £ 2,676.76! And you owe on top of that over £200,000 in loans, mortgage and credit cards, and you ain’t keeping the payments up, so you got phenomenal interest accruing.’

I said, ‘But put it in perspective, Parvez. With a telescope the human eye can see 7 zillion trillion stars.’

I wrote the number out in full for him on the paper tablecloth:

7,000,000,000,000,000,000,000

Parvez said, ‘And your point is?’

I said, ‘7 zillion trillion is four times every grain of sand in the world. Doesn’t it make you feel insignificant, put things into perspective?’

Parvez lifted the lid of the bamboo steamer basket and pronged a pancake out with a chopstick.

‘So,’ I said, ‘in the scheme of things, an earthly debt of about £200,000 is nothing,
nothing
!’

Parvez spread Hoi Sin sauce over his pancake. ‘Barclays an’ the rest of ’em ain’t gonna automatically think about the sky at night, are they, man?’ He tried to pick up strips of cucumber with his chopsticks, failed and used his fingers. ‘They’re gonna want their money!’

He added slivers of spring onion, a clump of crispy duck, rolled the pancake up and chomped on it with his big teeth. A diamond glinted on a front molar – testimony to the time Parvez was a stranger to the mosque. ‘Barclays’s computer ain’t got a heart or soul, Moley; it ain’t got no knowledge of the stars. It’s a machine, innit?’

I started, ‘In the scheme of things…’

Parvez interrupted, ‘In the bleedin’ scheme of things, you’ve gotta stop spending more than you earn, and you can’t afford to live at Rat Wharf, so the first thing you gotta do is put it on the market.’

Wayne Wong, who was attempting to balance our table by placing a squashed cigarette packet under a recalcitrant leg, said, ‘I was serving a couple last night, an’ the main topic of conversation was Adrian Mole and how he’s bought a talking fridge.’

I asked who the couple were.

‘A black woman with red hair and a white geezer with a square head and a tattoo of a rose on his neck,’ said Wayne.

Lorraine Harris and Darren Birdsall,
tête-à-tête
!

Wayne said, ‘And your last cheque bounced, Moley, so it’s cash from now on.’

*

I have to see Parvez again in his office on Wednesday evening after work.

Daisy couldn’t decide what to wear this morning and ended up with her entire wardrobe discarded on the floor.

I asked her what was wrong.

‘It’s that bitch, Pandora Braithwaite,’ she said tearfully. ‘She’s so elegant and beautiful and thin.’

I told Daisy that, to my sure knowledge, Pandora wore a padded bra and paid a personal consultant at Selfridges to choose her clothes. ‘And,’ I said, ‘she’s only thin because she’s had at least half of her body liposuctioned away.’

The last bit was not true but I needed us to get out of the apartment and down to the bookshop. There was a lot to do before Pandora’s book signing at 1 p.m.

Daisy was not entirely eclipsed by Pandora’s appearance, but it was a near thing.

After I had introduced the two most important women in my life, they looked each other up and down forensically. It was like introducing Maigret to Inspector Morse. Every detail of dress and nuance of expression was noted.

Then Daisy said, ‘Is that suit Yves St Laurent?’

Pandora said, ‘Yes, I must be bloody crazy wearing white linen in a dusty old bookshop.’

Daisy bridled a bit and said, ‘There is no dust! I’ve been cleaning since nine this morning. That’s why I’m in jeans and this old Gucci jacket.’

Pandora looked at Daisy’s black leather jacket and said,
‘Yes, I almost bought that jacket but…’ The implied insult was left hanging in the air.

Daisy showed her nervousness by taking a lipstick out of her jacket pocket and daubing her lips.

Pandora lit a cigarette and said, ‘Adrian tells me you’re in PR. Do you know Max Clifford?’

Daisy said, ‘Of course. Max is the master, he taught me everything I know. I’m afraid I haven’t believed anything a politician tells me since.’

Pandora said, ‘Quite right, we’re all liars, but most of us mean well.’

Daisy said, ‘I love your shoes. I’ve got them in pink.’

And I relaxed. I think I am beginning to understand women.

I had taken the precaution of ringing the police station earlier in the week to ask if they could provide a constable to help with crowd control. The policeman they sent was Aaron Drinkwater and he didn’t look too happy when he turned up at 12.45 to find only three people queuing at the table stacked with 750 hardback copies of
Out of the Box
. He came into the back room and said to Pandora, ‘We had to call the riot squad out last week when Nicholas Parsons opened the new Kwik Save in Peatling Parva.’

At 1 p.m. Pandora was escorted to the signing table by Mr Carlton-Hayes, who made a gracious short speech of welcome.

The three people in the queue had been joined by a fourth. But this person was under the impression that Pandora was a bookshop assistant and asked her to help him find a copy of Ann Widdecombe’s
The Clematis Tree
.

*

At 1.15 there was nobody waiting to have their book signed.

Aaron Drinkwater said sarcastically, ‘I don’t think you’re in any danger of being trampled underfoot by the mob, Ms Braithwaite. So I’ll leave you to it.’

Mr Carlton-Hayes said, ‘Perhaps the rain has kept people away.’

Pandora, seated behind a phalanx of unsold books, said, ‘It hasn’t rained for three days.’

I said, ‘Everybody in Leicester is on holiday for the first two weeks of July.’

But one glance out of the window showed this to be a wild exaggeration. There were throngs of potential book-buyers passing by – some even stopped to look at the
Out of the Box
window display before carrying on to buy other things in other shops.

At 1.30 Tania Braithwaite came in and bought five copies but this was obviously an act of parental love.

At 2 p.m. with only ten copies sold, I bought one for my mother and Mr Carlton-Hayes bought one for Leslie. Pandora swept out of the shop with her head held high.

Daisy said, ‘As soon as she turns the corner, she’ll burst into tears. Shall I go after her?’

I advised Daisy to leave well alone.

Brain-box rang tonight and asked me if I had arranged his stag night yet. I was greatly alarmed and said that I hadn’t realized that the best man’s duties extended to the stag night. Brain-box said that he would email me the
contact numbers of his friends. He said that only one date was convenient, Tuesday 15th. Daisy said that she would ring Stagrutters.co.uk and find out what was available on Tuesday night.

After she got off the phone she said I could choose between a pub crawl in Dublin, a guided tour of sex clubs in Amsterdam, paint-balling in private woodland or go-karting in Norwich.

I said, ‘Daze, isn’t there anything more cerebral?’

She said, ‘No, Kipling, it has to be a rite of passage. Men are scared of women. The stag night is a reassertion of their masculinity.’

She said she had been asked to Marigold’s hen night and had been told to dress up as a French waitress. ‘It’s so typically English,’ said half-Mexican Daisy. ‘They think that only filthy foreigners can be sexy.’

I asked Daisy if she would use her contacts and book twelve men on the Dublin pub crawl.

Daisy was up at 5 a.m., washing, ironing and packing her little trolley suitcase. I took her to catch the 7.19 train to London. On the way I asked her where she got her energy from. She said, ‘Drugs.’

I hope she was joking.

Thereafter, the usual Sunday routine: the Piggeries, the hospital, writing letters. When Daisy is away the colour drains out of my life.

I read that today is Swan Upping Day, when the swans on the Thames are counted. Perhaps it was my imagination but Gielgud looked even more arrogant than usual.

It seems that the Queen has the ownership of all unmarked mute swans and is responsible for their welfare and, I presume, their behaviour.

Ken came to Rat Wharf for the writers’ group meeting. It was a pleasant evening, and he suggested that we walk along the towpath to the Navigation Inn for a drink.

He said, ‘They’ve still got chairs and tables in there. And if you ask for a straw with your beer you get chucked in the canal.’

The trouble started as soon as we set foot on the towpath. Gielgud and his wife had been putting the cygnets to bed or something. When they heard us discussing the state of the English novel, they flew on to the towpath with beating wings, hissing beaks and maddened eyes. My glasses were knocked off my face and Ken trod on them in the confusion.

Nobody’s arm was broken, but it was a near thing.

We carried on to the Navigation Inn because, as I said to Ken, ‘I will not be kept from my cultural activities by a couple of paranoid swans.’

Ken said, ‘I don’t know how much longer we can call ourselves the Leicestershire and Rutland Creative Writing Group. Can two people be called a group? And neither of us lives in Rutland.’

I said, ‘I know I haven’t been much good as a chairman lately.’

Ken said, ‘We’ve had some successes. Gladys Fording-bridge has come second in a national poetry competition.’

He took a half page he had torn from the
Ashby Bugle
and showed it to me. Gladys was on her sofa surrounded by cats and holding a framed certificate. Her winning poem was printed alongside.

Gladys Fordingbridge: An Iraqi Child Questions

a Weapons Inspector – Hans Blix

Has Saddam got a pussy?

Has Saddam got a cat?

Why yes, he is wearing one

Under his hat.

Why is he wearing a cat on his head?

Because he is bald.

He would rather be dead

Than admit that his regime of fear and despair

Has led to the loss of his raven black hair.

Is that why Saddam’s

Got a cat on his cranium?

Hush, child!

Now tell me,

Where is the uranium?

I said, ‘It’s nonsense.’

Ken said, ‘To be fair, it won the nonsense category.’

I said, ‘But Saddam isn’t going bald, is he?’

Ken said, ‘Don’t get so agitated, Adrian. Nonsense is nonsense. The owl and the pussycat didn’t go to sea in a beautiful fucking pea-green boat, did they? Anyway, she won two hundred and fifty quid – that’s a lot of cat food.’

I said, ‘I’m very pleased for Gladys,’ and I hope I sounded sincere, but the truth is, diary, I could hardly breathe. Jealousy gripped my heart and lungs, and I felt as though I was walking through custard.

Ken seemed to be known in the Navigation. Several old raddled-looking men nodded when we went in. The landlady was behind the bar. She had a tattoo of a snake curled around a sword on one bicep and a Virgin Mary and Jesus on the other.

When she’d served our drinks and we were sitting side by side on a banquette, Ken pulled a piece of folded-up paper out of his wallet and gave it to me to read.

A bomb was dropped on a house in Iraq

A family were sleeping.

But thank God no civilians were hurt or killed, or burned alive or torn apart by the bomblets from the mother bomb.

Nobody’s legs were torn from their sockets,

Nobody was blinded,

Nobody’s child bled to death,

Nobody’s husband suffocated in the rubble.

Nobody’s baby choked on its own vomit,

Nobody’s wife died in a huddle in the corner of a room.

Nobody’s mother screamed in terror and pain.

It was not a bomb, it was ordnance,

It was not a war, it was a conflict,