Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (13 page)

Saturday 22 March

Sally still doesn't believe that something didn't happen.
No matter how much I swear on all my relatives' graves,
she is adamant that Emily and I did something on the
wretched bouncy castle. It was at the end of the party,
and we were all clearing up, and, horror of horrors,
Emily and I found ourselves alone on the red and yellow
rubber.

I could tell from the look in her eyes that she meant
business. I could also tell that she was smashed, and
even if she weren't standing on a bouncy castle, I expect
she would have been just as unsteady on her feet. She
sort of swayed/lurched/boinged towards me, and I
swiftly fled but managed to corner myself beneath a
turret.

'Emily!' I hissed. 'What are you doing?'

She let out a pissed giggle, her head slumped against
her right shoulder in what she must have hoped was a
coquettish way. In fact, it just made her look more
drunk.

'There's no one here,' she slurred.

'They'll be back in a minute,' I replied. 'They're just
putting the children in the car.'

I tried retreating further, but it was impossible. Red
and yellow rubber walls stopped me – this really was a
well-fortified castle.

Emily kept boinging towards me.

'C'mon,' she said. 'I want to bounce with you.'

'Um, er, er, I don't um think that this is the right
time,' I stammered. 'Aren't we a little too big for
bouncing?'

'The bigger the better.'

Until that moment I had doubted Emily's claim that
it was three Greek fishermen, but now I could see it had
to be true. In fact, the only part I now questioned was
whether it was just three fishermen. Emily took my
hands and started bouncing up and down. I did my best
to stay still, but it was impossible. Her movements were
causing the castle wall to thud against the back of my
head, and I was in severe danger of losing my balance
and toppling over on top of her.

'Bounce!' she insisted.

This was very bad. Sally and her parents were just
outside. In a matter of seconds they would be witnessing
their husband/son-in-law frolicking on a bouncy castle
with a woman wearing a skirt that seemed to be working
its way upwards with every b'doing.

'Bounce!'

I sort of lifted myself up on the balls of my feet.

'You can do better than that! C'mon, bounce!'

And then I had a genius idea. I would bounce, and
bounce hard. With any luck it would cause Emily to let
go and fall over, whereupon I could make my escape
from the castle of marital death. I therefore jumped up
as high as I could (which is not very high) and bounced.

'That's better!' said Emily.

After a few more bounces I had built up a pretty good
momentum, and was causing Emily to stumble and
wobble. I bounced harder and harder, and soon my
head was clearing the top of the rubber ramparts. As I
glanced over them, I could see Sally and Jane making
their way to the front door of the hall. I had literally
seconds in which to make my escape. I gave it one more
huge bounce, and then . . .

POP!

Followed by a huge farting hiss.

Followed by rapid deflation of bouncy castle.

Followed by massive pissed giggles from Emily, who
lost her balance and pulled me down with her. I was
drowning, drowning under a tide of red and yellow
rubber that reeked of children's feet and rancid cheap
cocktail sausages. Soon we were both enveloped, and I
found myself lying on top of Emily, whose arms were
firmly clasped around me. In the dim latex gloom, our
eyes met, and she gave me a look that would have
attracted every Greek fisherman within 250 miles.

'Sam!'

I closed my eyes. It was Sally. Just behind her stood
Jane, her arms folded like a sumo wrestler at the weigh-in.
(If that's what sumo wrestlers do.)

'Sam! What are you doing?'

It seemed to take hours to extricate myself from the
collapsed castle and the sprawling Emily. It didn't
require much imagination to put myself in Sally's
sensible shoes in order to see how bad this looked. I got
to my feet and smoothed my hair in a pathetic attempt
to seem dignified.

'Sorry darling,' I began, 'we were just, you know,
bouncing.'

Sally held up a hand to stop me.

'I can see that,' she said.

A collapsed wall started to rustle behind me, and out
of it emerged a pair of long legs, some knickers, and a
skirt wrapped around a waist. A gasp from Jane.

'You're going to pay for this, Sam,' said Sally.

'What?' I asked. 'The castle? Of course I will pay for
it.'

Daggers flew out of Sally's eyes.

'Not the bloody castle, you fool.'

It is now 10 p.m. and I'm in the spare room. I've never
been in a bigger dog house, and no matter how much I
plead my 100 per cent genuine innocence, the kennel
just gets larger.

Bloody Emily. This is the last thing I needed. I really
felt Sally and I were turning a corner, and now this.
How the hell do I get out of this one?

Sunday 23 March

I've been debating all day whether to tell Sally that
Emily is my on-screen 'wife'.

The reasons for telling her now are:

1. She can't get any more angry;

2. It will look better if I tell her now than wait for her
to see it on-screen;

3. It will bring the whole Emily thing to a head, we
can have one final row about it, and then it will all
be over.

The reasons for not telling her:

1. I'm a coward;

2. Not much else really.

Today has been as awful as I expected it would. Hardly
any conversation, and refusals of small olive branches
such as cups of tea etc. After the children went to bed I
tried to have it out with her, but Sally said there was
nothing to discuss, and that if I wanted to fool around
with Emily, then I would have to take the consequences.

'I wasn't fooling around with her!' I said. 'And
besides, what consequences?'

'I don't know,' she said ominously.

Of course, the first thing one thinks of when one's
wife says things like that is the dreaded 'D' word, but
surely not? But then again, maybe, just maybe. I mean,
it's not as though we're much of a team at the moment,
is it?

Perhaps this is paranoia talking. I just can't see Sally
giving up on 'us' that easily. Aren't these troughs here
to make one's marriage grow stronger? They had better.

Tuesday 25 March

The voice-over day did much to chase away my blues,
and for a while I totally forgot about the disastrous bank
holiday weekend.

Until I saw the footage of Emily kissing me.

The first thing I noticed is that I have a double chin,
perhaps even a treble chin. In short, I look seriously
ungood when I kiss. Naturally, I then thought what I
might look like at more intimate moments (with Sally of
course), and I suffered an immense feeling of self-revulsion.
Some of our friends – Nigel and Clare
particularly – video themselves having sex, but I just
can't see the appeal. Unless it's well lit, you don't have
an ounce of body fat, you have a great tan, and it's shot
from side on, then home-made porn is a very bad idea.
(I would have thought.) Otherwise, it's just grainy
footage of one's hairy bum, and not even the most
ardent hairy-bum fetishist would find a video of me in
action a turn-on.

The next thing I noticed – or rather felt – was an
acute sense of horror at what I was watching. It must
have shown on my face, because Dom went, 'You've
gone as white as a ghost. Are you OK?'

'I'm fine,' I lied.

We sat in silence as we watched the many takes.

'Does she normally kiss you like this?' Dom asked.

'No,' I said, which was true. 'She was clearly playing
up to the camera.'

'You're telling me.'

'Do you think they're too, you know, passionate to
use?' I asked hopefully.

'Not at all. I think the raunchier the better.'

Fuck, I went to myself. Not the answer I wanted to
hear.

'Do you really think so?' I asked. 'I mean, viewers
might think it a bit unlikely for your average morning
kiss.'

'Let's face it, there's a lot in this programme that
viewers may find a bit unlikely.'

He had a point, and I was stymied. I didn't want to
admit that I had failed, and that I couldn't even
persuade my wife to appear on my own television
programme.

'And besides,' said Dom, 'if you don't mind me
saying, Sally is really hot. It would be nice to get her
more involved if and when we make the series.'

'Thanks,' I said. 'Yes, she, um, looks great.'

'You don't think so? Sounds like you've been married
too long!'

'Not at all. No, I think she's great. Great tits and arse
as well!'

Dom looked at me curiously. As soon as I had made
that last observation, I knew that I had over-egged the
pudding, or perhaps had even put in eggs that weren't
required.

'Interesting thing to say about your wife,' said Dom.

'Well, you know, it's like, you know,' I blustered. 'I
lust after my wife the same way as I did the day we met.'

Dom nodded slowly.

'Well, as you say, she looks great. And I think she
could become a more integral part of the show.'

This was so not what I wanted to hear.

'How? I mean isn't the show meant to focus on me?'

'We'll work something out. Anyway, we should really
get back to doing all the voice-over stuff.'

In the end we worked late, and I'm staying at Dom's
house. Funny being in a bachelor pad, reminds me of
all those years ago. Some of the similarities are eerie –
the same heap of clothes next to the bed, the unwashed
mugs, the high-tide mark around the bath, the scores of
empty wine bottles waiting to be magically transported
downstairs etc. etc. None of it is particularly scuzzy in
that
Young Ones
kind of way, although the sheets on my
bed don't look hotel smooth.

Called Sally, and she was brusque.

'Enjoying yourself up in London?' she asked.

The question was loaded with jealousy and
accusation.

'I'm staying at Dom's – we worked late.'

'All right,' she said. 'I'll see you tomorrow I expect.'

She made my return sound as if I were an annoyance.

Wednesday 26 March

Finished off all the voice-over. It's amazing how quickly
you get accustomed to hearing your own voice.
Normally, whenever I hear it on home videos, I think I
sound awful, but in fact it's not too bad. Dom thinks it
works well because it's 'well spoken but classless'. I said
that made it sound as though it were boring, which he
denied rather too vigorously. Certainly some of the
longer passages, especially the one about 'Harmonising
the Context', sound a little dull, but Dom for some
reason thinks they're great, as do the Emmas. One of
them – I forget which – then said that I had the type of
looks that would appeal to a 'certain type of housewife'.
When I asked her to be more specific, she merely gave
the other Emma a knowing stare.

When I got back home at 6ish, Halet was giving the
children their supper.

'Daddy Daddy!' they both went, and then they asked
Halet if they could get down so they could hug me.

Halet assented, and while I was being covered in
kisses I couldn't help but think that I didn't want Peter
and Daisy to be the type of children who needed to ask
permission before hugging their mum or dad. That's
the real price of having someone looking after them, I
thought. It wasn't so much the not being with them, but
the fact that they were being exposed to values that were
not your own.

Halet said that they had been very good, and showed
me what they had been up to since school/playgroup.
Peter had been practising his letters, and very good
they looked as well (so long as you looked at them in a
mirror), and Daisy had been drawing what she insisted
were flowers. Once again, more wistfulness. I never felt
like this when I was at work and Sally was at home, but
now I do. I think it's because now I know what I am
missing. It's what Sally feels, and she feels it very
acutely.

Talking of Sally, when she got back she seemed to be
in a better mood. As a result, we managed to discuss the
Bouncy Castle Incident (hardly the stuff of a Robert
Ludlum novel) in a sane manner over supper. She
agreed that it was highly unlikely that I was trying
anything on, and she took my word for it.

'But,' she said, 'that doesn't mean that
she
wasn't
trying it on, and that you weren't deliberately exposing
yourself to her.'

'Exposing myself? What, you mean flashing my willy?'

Sally laughed.

'No! I mean putting yourself in a vulnerable position.
You know perfectly well what I mean.'

I did.

'Yes, but isn't this all rather similar to the Nick
situation?' I asked. 'I seem to recall that you said you
were entitled to see who you liked, and if Nick fancied
you, then that was his problem, not yours.'

'True,' said Sally. 'But the difference between that
and this is that I know Emily fancies you, whereas I knew
that Nick was gay, and didn't fancy me.'

'But who else am I supposed to see?'

'There are plenty of people around – Lorna, Louisa,
Lily.'

'Any who don't begin with an "L"?'

'Yes – Kate.'

'OK – Kate. OK, Kate. You're right, I should see more
of Kate. But she probably thinks I'm a little too foulmouthed.'

'Well, she'd be right,' said Sally. 'So don't be.'

'OK, OK – sorry! So there's Kate. Anyone else?'

'What do you think I am? A playdate agency for
househusbands?'

'Now there's an idea!'

Sally playfully flicked a pea at me.

'And don't you go flirting with Kate,' she said. 'She's
my best friend round here.'

'Honestly, who do you think I am?'

'A rogue who is making a ridiculous TV programme
who I miraculously still love.'

'I love you too. And my TV programme is not
ridiculous.'

'I bet it is,' said Sally. 'I can't wait to see it.'

Tick tick tick went the time bomb.