Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (15 page)

Friday 4 April

Dom phoned to say that Dave Waldman has the tape
and that he's going to get back to us next week. We
don't know when, so this could be an agonising wait.

Sunday 6 April

We had a really lovely weekend. Yesterday morning we
went to Drewfort Castle, which the children loved.
Afterwards we went for a pub lunch, an event which
used to put fear down my spine, but now seems to be a
pleasure, mainly because the children are well behaved
at the table. I know this is thanks to Halet, and I feel
grateful that she is working wonders, but I also feel
guilty.

Today we had Nigel and Clare and all their lot
round for lunch. That too went well, and they were
showing tons of interest in
WonderHubby
. There was
one awkward moment when Nigel asked if I had a
DVD of the show, and I had to bluff it by saying that
they hadn't delivered one yet. He didn't believe me,
and started going through all my DVDs, but luckily –
and I use the word loosely – the worst he found was a
copy of
Asian Babes
that I had forgotten I had. This of
course was passed around with much jollity (although
carefully hidden from the children) and Sally gave me
a fake bollocking, which made a pleasant change from
a real bollocking.

I'm now as nervous as hell about whether
WonderHubby
is going to be commissioned. If it doesn't
happen, well, I think it might be for the best, especially
for our marriage. And, if it does, then I shall just
have to make sure that I keep my feet firmly planted
on the ground. Or they'll be taking many more long
walks.

Monday 7 April

I'm going to be a star. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
(Very teenage-girl thing to write.) I just can't believe it.
Dave Waldman loved it, and wants a six-part series. We
have to film it over the summer and it will be broadcast
in the autumn as a 'flagship programme'. Wow!

Dom sounded as ecstatic as me – well, maybe not
quite.

'I can't tell you how happy we are,' said Dom. 'I
always knew this would be a winner as soon as I thought
of it.'

(I let that one go. I seem to remember it was my idea,
and looking back in the diary confirms this.)

'So what's the next stage?'

'Well, first of all we need to thrash out your contract
and your fees. Can you come in tomorrow and do that?'

'Of course.'

I didn't want to sound desperate, and the idea of
discussing money with Dom made me feel slightly
uneasy. Besides, I didn't want to ruin the moment.

'And then we'll draw up a schedule,' Dom continued.
'We've got a fuck of a lot to do, not least to find six
families who'll be willing to take part.'

'OK.'

'And there's one important thing that you need to
do.'

'What's that?'

Dom took a deep breath.

My mind started to race. What could it possibly be?
Have a vasectomy? Dye my hair? Change my name to
'Ted Nobstein'?

'Dave thinks that you need to lose a little weight.'

'Oh?'

'Just a stone, maybe a little more.'

My feathers felt very ruffled.

'But I'm not fat,' I protested.

'Of course you're not,' said Dom in the type of voice
that men use to tell their girlfriends that their bottoms
do not look big in whatever it is.

'So why do I need to lose weight?'

'Because the TV always adds a stone to somebody, no
matter how thin they are. So, in order to look even
normal on TV, you've got to lose that stone.'

'All right,' I said, trying not to sound offended.
'Shouldn't be a problem.' Still, it might get rid of that
extra chin or two.

After I had put the phone down, I punched the air in
joy, and then pinched my stomach. OK, I thought,
maybe losing a stone was a good thing, and a small price
to pay for getting a TV series commissioned. And
anyway, Sally was hardly likely to complain if there was
less of me.

After about two more seconds of introspection, I
called her.

'Guess what?' I said, as soon as she answered.

'Who's that?' came her reply.

'It's me! Your husband!'

'Sorry, my husband, your voice is about two octaves
higher.'

'Sorry about that,' I growled manfully.

'So I guess you're excited because of what I suspect.'

'You got it,' I said. 'They've commissioned it.'

'That's brilliant, sweetheart!'

I've put that exclamation mark to indicate that Sally
did sort of exclaim that sentence, but what that
exclamation mark does not indicate is any sense of real
delight. It was clear that there was a slight edge of
disappointment. The last time I had heard such a tone
was from myself, when I was congratulating Ed on
becoming a partner.

'You don't have to pretend,' I said. 'I know your
thoughts about it.'

'No,' said Sally. 'Seriously, I'm thrilled, I really am.'

'You sure?'

'I promise.'

After that I made a few more calls, to parents and
friends, all of whom sounded really thrilled, and all of
whom said, 'Will you remember me when you're
famous?' and to all of whom I replied, 'Certainly not,'
the irony of which was only lost on my mother. The one
person I did not phone was Emily, who for obvious
reasons I don't want to talk to at the moment.

When Sally got back, we opened a bottle of
champagne and toasted the arrival of
WonderHubby
.
She does seem to be enthusiastic, although she is
determined to make sure it doesn't go to my head,
unlike the champagne, which has made me feel quite
pissed.

Ha ha! I'm going to be famous. People will recognise
me wherever I go, and will say to each other in hushed
reverent tones – 'Gosh, isn't that . . . ?' And, 'Look, it's
him off the telly,' etc. I've always wanted to be famous –
let's face it, who doesn't – and now I'm going to be. I'm
thinking, even now, of all those paparazzi shots of Sally
and me going in and out of The Ivy.

But feet on ground, Holden, feet on ground.

Tuesday 7 April

7.30 p.m. Sitting on a delayed train back home

All that stuff about keeping feet on the ground? Forget
it. What's the point? For Sam Holden, the
WonderHubby himself, is being paid nothing less than
£15,000 per episode, making a very sweet – thank you
God, thank you – £90,000.

'Of course,' said Dom, as he was explaining the nuts
and bolts, 'if it's repeated, you can expect half that
again.'

I let out a cackle of sheer greed. I felt as if I had won
the lottery – I had no idea quite how much money was
in TV.

'And of course there's the potential book deal on
top.'

'Book deal?'

'Sure! There's no such thing as a TV programme
without a book these days. Look, you're being paid
extremely well, and it's for a reason. Dave and I want to
make
WonderHubby
the hot new child-raising brand. We
want websites, books, interviews, mugs, T-shirts, pencils,
baby bottles, romper suits, you name it, all to feature
the
WonderHubby
brand.'

I swallowed.

'We want you to become Gina Ford, Dr Spock and
Alan Sugar rolled into one.'

I swallowed again. This was heady stuff.

'Are you, um, quite sure?' I asked. 'I mean, isn't it
better to start slowly, especially with a brand that hasn't
been tried out?'

Dom batted the question aside.

'Not a chance, matey. There's no time to build
brands slowly any more, not a spare second. It's got to
be whump! Right out there, big, brash, coordinated and
aggressive. And we've got a great brand, so why do it
slowly?'

'Quite.'

I began to feel nervous about all this. What I had
originally thought was going to be a couple of TV
programmes on some obscure channel was now
becoming a business that was going to rival Mothercare.

'You look worried,' said Dom.

'Well, I couldn't be more delighted,' I said.

'You don't sound it!'

I felt like Sally to Dom's Sam.

'I am delighted, honestly. I'm just a bit worried, you
know.'

'You know what?'

'Well, you know, that it's, um, all completely made
up.'

Dom literally waved it away.

'Who cares about the truth?'

'Some people do.'

'Leave truth to historians,' he said. 'All we should be
interested in is making piles of cash and entertaining
people.'

'I know that,' I said. 'And I'm as interested in cash as
you are. But when it comes to telling people how to look
after their children, don't you think we have a, you
know, responsibility?'

'Responsibility?'

Dom started laughing.

'Responsibility?' he asked again, realising I was being
serious.

'I don't want to sound naïve,' I said.

'Not at all – I think you're right to be conscientious
about it. After all, Sam, children are very important
people.'

Dom said that last sentence with the flippancy of the
childless.

'Quite,' I said.

We paused, taking it all in.

'Still,' Dom said eventually. 'Let's not worry about
stuff like that, eh?'

I was minded to agree, but there was one more issue
I had to raise. The thorny question of Emily.

'Um, er,' I started confidently.

'Yes?'

'It's about my wife.'

Dom did the Tube-logo thing.

'Is there a problem?'

'Yes there is. You see the thing is, the woman who you
think is Sally is not in fact Sally. It's somebody else. A
neighbour called Emily. And the real Sally, my wife, has
refused to be in the programme because it's not her
thing, and that's why I had to get this Emily in at the last
minute. However, when Sally saw Emily on the pilot she
threw a bit of a wobbly, and says that she doesn't want
the world to think I'm married to Emily, when in fact
I'm married to Sally. Do you see?'

Dom didn't say anything.

Until: 'I see.'

He connected his fingertips together like a
headmaster.

'So, basically,' I said, 'all I'm saying is that we need to
get someone else, someone who isn't Emily.'

'But if your wife doesn't want to do it, why should she
put the kibosh on Emily doing it? What harm does it do?'

'Because she thinks Emily has the hots for me, and
thinks it's a way of Emily getting into my pants.'

'I see.'

A pause.

'The problem is that Dave Waldman likes Emily,' said
Dom. 'Thinks she's got viewability.'

'Viewability?'

'Yes.'

'OK. You mean the viewers will like her?'

'Exactly.'

A pause.

'And there's another problem,' said Dom. He shifted
in his chair. 'I'm, er, seeing her.'

'Who?'

'Emily. We're in a thing, you know.'

My flabber was gasted.

'But, but. . . .'

There were so many questions I wanted to ask. How
long? How come? How?

'The problem is that I've kind of promised Emily that
she can be part of the programme.'

Dom was wincing. He was clearly finding this as
uncomfortable as I was.

'You've what?' I exclaimed. 'How do you mean
promised her? If you thought she was my wife, why
would you need to promise her?'

And then a light bulb shone furiously over my head,
a light bulb that should have gone 'fring' ages ago.

'And if you thought she was my wife, why the hell
were you fucking her?'

Dom scratched the back of his neck – this is a sure
sign that someone is lying.

'But I know she's not your wife,' he protested.

'Oh come on! Tell me when you found out! Before
this "thing" happened? Or after?'

'After, obviously,' said Dom. 'I mean before! Before!'

'Bollocks! You were happy to basically screw someone
who you thought to be my wife behind my back, and all
the time making out how well we worked together.
You're just a fucking jackal, that's what you are!'

'You're in no position to throw your weight around!'

'Really?'

'Yes, really.'

'So where else are you going to find another
WonderHubby? Come on, the programme's a dead
duck without me.'

'I wouldn't be so sure.'

'Is that a threat?'

'Take it how you like. Listen, I don't have to defend
myself here. I'm a single man, and all I've done is have
sex with a single woman. Is that a crime?'

'Of course it's not. But you're being disingenuous.
You know perfectly well why it might be of interest to
me whether you thought she was Sally or Emily.'

Dom exhaled. He was clearly getting the message.

'Look, I'll be honest with you,' he said.

'Gee, thanks.'

'I found out before, or rather just after our first kiss.'

'Go on.'

'This is the truth, I promise you.'

'OK.'

'The day after we did the filming at your house, Emily
got in touch with me.'

'How?'

'Fucking hell. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.'

'How?'

'She phoned. She said she was coming up to town for
24 hours, and suggested that we met for an early
evening drink, as she wanted to discuss you and the
programme. At that point it just sounded like there was
something important to discuss, maybe something
important about you, and so I accepted.'

Dom stopped.

'Is that it?' I asked.

'No. Anyway, I met her at this hotel in the West End,
and you know, we got talking. At first it was just normal
chit-chat, you know. Anyway, after a few drinks, she
started getting, well, a bit fresh.'

I could imagine.

'She started touching my knee whenever she made a
point, which I always think is a sure sign that someone
likes you.'

'I agree,' I said.

And I did, too. I always think women who touch you
the whole time are real goers. Maybe that's bollocks, but
in my (limited) field surveys of yore, my hunch has
often been borne out. It was good to hear it confirmed
by Dom.

'And then what?' I asked.

'Well, then she kissed me. You must understand that
she didn't give me much option.'

'I can believe it.'

'And after she had kissed me, she said, "You don't
know who I am, do you?" At which point I said, "Of
course I do – you're Sally Holden". She then, um, told
me that she was in fact Emily, and she told me how she
was standing in for the real Sally.'

I studied Dom's face. I wanted to believe him, and I
decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I'm
sure he would have slept with Emily even if he had
thought she was Sally, but the fact is, he hasn't. I
couldn't really blame him for that first kiss, and
besides, if you're a bachelor and you've got a mildly
pissed and flirtatious Emily perched precariously on a
bar stool and laying it on thick, you're not really going
to say no, are you?

'Emily is a force of nature,' I said.

'You're telling me,' said Dom, a slightly seedy grin on
his face.

And then I felt a little jealous, and proprietorial of
Emily. Which was wrong, but natural. I'd taken it for
granted that she only flirted with me, whereas if I were
being honest, I knew she was like that with everybody.
My next comment was therefore a result of my jealousy,
and I regretted saying it, because it sounded a little
petty.

'You know she's got children, don't you?'

'Oh yeah,' said Dom. 'But I don't think I'm ever
going to meet them. Emily sees me as a sort of London
lover.'

I coughed. As opposed to her lovers in all the other
cities in the land.

'Well, good luck with her,' I said.

I was extremely curious to know what Emily was like
in bed, but I decided that it was none of my business,
and that I didn't know Dom well enough.

'She's a great fucking shag, I can tell you,' said Dom.

I nodded disinterestedly, reflecting that I needn't
have bothered with adhering to niceties.

'Does everything, if you know what I mean.'

I did. Everybody knows what 'everything' means. It
means brown wings. Chocolate starfish. The brown teatowel
holder. It really came as no surprise that Emily
put out in that way. Personally, I have no interest in
using the sewer of the body as a playground, although
most of my friends seem to hanker after it. Why,
exactly? Are their wives' more conventional passages
unsatisfying? And how many women genuinely like it?
(Apart from Emily.) I think the whole anal thing is a way
of establishing some sort of sexual superiority, something
to suggest that you are so non-vanilla and
adventurous. But the fact is that anal is now so
commonplace that it's hardly the big deal it once was. I
wonder what will be next? Will golden showers become
the norm?

But I digress.

'Yes, her, uh, reputation precedes her.'

'I can imagine,' said Dom. 'She's absolute filth.'

We sat there in silence for a while.

'Anyway,' I said. 'It doesn't alter the fact that Sally will
kill me if Emily is in the show.'

Dom sighed.

'There's no way you can talk her round?'

'Absolutely none. She'll walk out if Emily's in it.'

'Really?'

A rare expression of genuine surprise swept across
Dom's face.

'Really.'

'Why, have you and Emily had a, um, you know, a
thing?'

I shook my head.

'No. But Emily has made her intentions perfectly
clear on numerous occasions.'

Dom nodded. No doubt he was dispelling any cute
notions that Emily might be faithful.

'And so clear has she made her intentions,' I
continued, 'that Sally's more than a little jealous. When
she saw Emily was in the pilot, she went ape.'

'You didn't tell her before?'

'No.'

Dom let out a small laugh, which was fair enough.

'I see your problem,' he said.

Another silence.

'The thing is, I really do want to continue fucking
her, and if I sack her from the show, then I suspect
that'll be it.'

Charmingly put, I thought. Dom was really pretty
mercenary. It was to be respected, in a way. He and
Emily suited each other.

'And I really want to carry on with her,' he said. 'I
haven't had such a cracking shag in ages, and . . .'

'All right,' I interrupted. I didn't want to hear much
more. 'I've got a plan. Why don't I tell her the bad
news? Why don't I say that I insisted on it, which
is basically the truth, and that you were left with
little choice? And when you're with her you can tell
her whatever crap you like, but all I care about is
making my wife happy, and that means getting rid of
Emily.'

Dom thought about it.

'OK,' he said. 'You break her the bad news. Good
idea. You can be the shit, and I can be the shoulder to
cry on. That should work.'

I could see the cogs turning in his head, just as I can
with Peter. It seemed incredible that his decision-making
process was entirely governed by his groin, but
there it was. We then spent another couple of hours
thrashing things out, and afterwards we went for a few
drinks. By the time I got on the train I felt a bit
smashed, and it felt wonderful.

All in all, a good day. A fat pile of moolah on its way,
and I'll definitely be in Sally's good books when she
hears that I've got rid of Emily.

Hooray! This train has finally started to move.