Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (6 page)

Wednesday 6 February

I think the children must have picked up on my good
mood engendered by imminent fame and fortune.
After school today, Peter asked why I kept dancing
around the kitchen when I was cooking their supper.

'It's because I'm very happy,' I said.

'Yes, but why are you dancing?'

'Because when you're happy, you sometimes feel like
dancing.'

A quick frown, and then: 'Do people feel like dancing
when they are sad?'

Now it was my turn for a quick frown.

'Probably not.'

'Do you get sad daddy?'

'Sometimes, but at the moment, I'm very happy.'

'Why?'

'Because Daddy may be making a TV programme.'

'A TV programme! What about? Soldiers?'

'No, about being a Daddy.'

Peter's crest fell.

'Oh.'

'But you and Daisy can be in it as well.'

'On TV? Can we be on TV?'

'Yes!'

'TV! TV!' Peter chanted.

'TV! TV!' Daisy chorused.

'Can we watch TV?' asked Peter.

''An 'e 'otch TV?' echoed Daisy.

'No,' I said.

A collective whine until I bought them off with the
promise of TV after supper. It occurs to me that
Sally may not want the children on the TV programme.
And now I'm worrying about whether Sally
might want to be on it. Chances of that: 0.05 percent.
I shall need to tread carefully, and certainly won't
mention it until the programme is in the bag. If it is in
the bag.

Sunday 10 February

Last night, after a perfectly lovely day
en famille
, Sally
and I had the most enormous row about
WonderHubby
.
(Notice how I now give it a capital H midword – looks
more trendy, I think.) So much for reaching that
stage of marriage in which we know what not to
discuss.

It came about because at bathtime Peter kept
banging on about how Daddy was going to be on TV,
and although I tried to calm him down, it was obvious
to Sally that it had been a topic of conversation between
the children and me. By the time we had finished
processing Peter and Daisy, and had tucked them up
etc., I could see Sally was looking thoroughly hacked
off, and when we got down to the kitchen I decided to
have it out with her.

'You really don't want me to do it, do you?'

'What?'

'The
WonderHubby
programme.'

'I didn't think it was necessarily happening,' she said.
'I thought it was going to be pitched to the TV channels
first.'

'Yes, but Dom thinks there's a good chance of a pilot
being commissioned.'

'Does he now?'

'Yes.'

'And will you be paid for this pilot?'

'I don't know,' I replied, expressing genuine
ignorance. 'I assume they'll bung me something,
because the TV company needs a budget to actually
make the thing.'

'How much money do you think they will "bung"
you?'

'I have no idea.'

A Sally sigh.

'I don't want to rain on your parade . . .' she began.

'Yes you do,' I interrupted. 'You always do whenever
I have these ideas.'

'But Sam, your ideas are often a little, you know, off
the wall. Remember how you wanted to be a fireman?'

Flashback to my Near Death Experience on the
ladder, when I had flirted with the idea of becoming a
volunteer fireman the year before last, despite my fear
of heights. A shudder.

'Yes I do. But I gave it a go, and it didn't work. All I'm
saying is that I want to give this a go. And, if it doesn't
work, I've tried it, and it's out of my system. But, if it
does work, then great, it means some money, perhaps a
lot of money.'

'But Sam, I don't see you as a TV personality. I'm
sorry, I just can't see it working at all. And if you want
my honest opinion, then I'd say the whole thing is a
waste of time, and it's stopping you getting on and
trying to find some proper part-time work that you can
fit in around the children. Come on Sam, that's not so
unreasonable.'

I rubbed my eyes, trying to wish away the whole
conversation.

'There is barely any work out there,' I said.

'You haven't looked!'

'I have.'

'When?'

'When?' I replied. 'When you've been at work! When
do you think? But there's nothing there – eff all. So
what am I supposed to do? What do you want me to do?
Sell jam? Join the W fucking I?'

'Of course not! I just want you to try to do something
that is realistic and, more importantly, will bring us in
some regular money. This
WonderHubby
thing is such a
long shot and so unstable, I don't think we've got the
luxury of you taking a punt like that.'

'It's not taking a punt. All I'm doing is giving it a go.
Taking a punt suggests that we're losing something if it
doesn't work. We won't be. We've got everything to gain.'

Sally sat at the kitchen table and flicked through an
old colour supplement. But I could tell she wasn't really
concentrating on it, she was merely collecting her
thoughts. In the meantime, I helped myself to a beer,
offered her something to drink, got the 'glass of white
wine' I was expecting, and gave it to her. All very civil.

'My other worry is that it does work,' said Sally.

'Oh great,' I went. 'Fucked if it fails, buggered if it
works.'

'Think about it, Sam, how will you be able to look
after Peter and Daisy if you're off filming your exciting
TV show? Have you thought about that?'

I hadn't.

'Of course I have,' I said.

'And?'

'And what?'

'And what will you do with them while you're
management-consulting all those oh-so-grateful
families? Leave them with a nanny?'

'No,' I said. 'I thought I'd leave them with the
Gruffalo.'

'Don't be flippant.'

'I'm not. Of course I'd leave them with a nanny! Who
else did you expect I'd leave them with?'

Sally held up her hands to stop me.

'I always thought,' she said, in a tone of great forced
calm, 'that the whole point of the way we were doing
things was that we didn't have to have a nanny, and that
we believed the only people who should be bringing up
the children were us, and not some stranger from God
Knows Where.'

'I know that – but this would only be temporary when
I'm on location.'

' "When I'm on location",' Sally scoffed. 'Aren't we
Mr TV all of a sudden?'

'What else am I supposed to say?'

Sally shrugged. She took a large slug of her wine.

'Anyway,' she said, 'can't you see the irony of it all?
You'll be telling the world what a great dad you are, and
while you do so, you'll be leaving the children with a
complete stranger.'

'Not necessarily,' I said.

'What do you mean?'

'You could look after them.'

'Me? How?'

'If the programme got commissioned, we'd have
enough money for you to be able to give up work.'

Sally looked at me, just looked at me so witheringly,
so contemptuously.

'Give up work? You really think I'd chuck in my
career – and my responsibility to the people I work for
– just because you're on some TV show?'

'I thought you'd be dying to give it up,' I said. 'It's not
as though you're having a ball, is it?'

'That's not the point, Sam!'

'What is the point then?'

'My job is important!'

'And so would be my TV programme!'

'Really? As important as saving lives?'

'Sally Holden – she saves the world.'

'Fuck off,' said Sally, 'you're being juvenile.'

'And you're being self-important.'

'No I am not.'

And with that, she left the room and went upstairs,
where she watched TV in the spare bedroom, refusing
offers of supper, drinks or rapprochement.

Today has been frosty, to say the least. Our Sunday-night
shag is not looking that likely.

Tuesday 12 February

At least SOMEONE likes my putative TV programme,
but it's not someone I can really hold up as a cold and
neutral observer. Yup, it's Emily. Despite my attempts to
avoid her, she spotted me at the school gate after I had
dropped off Peter and Daisy, and instantly detected I
was looking somewhat down.

'Hello? What's this?'

'What's what?'

'You've got a face longer than the horse I'm about to
ride.'

I couldn't help but smirk at Emily's risqué simile.
And, true to cheap-porn-mag form, she was wearing
jodhpurs, which meant that I went into the normal
gauche unsuave form that I adopt when presented with
a woman thus dressed.

'Um . . . have I? Er . . . no, quite fine thanks. You
know, weather's a bit shit. Think I must have SAD or
something.'

'SAD?'

'Seasonal affective disorder.'

'Right,' said Emily, utterly unconvinced.

'Just need a holiday or something,' I said.

'Right,' she said again. 'Or a drink. Why not come
round for an early lunch after you've picked Daisy up?'

Was it arrogant and presumptuous of Emily to turn
round almost before she had finished the question, so
sure was she of my acceptance? I thought it was, but it
didn't stop me saying:

'Yespleasethankyouverymuch,' like an eleven-year-old
who is on best behaviour in front of his friend's mum.

And so, at 12.15, armed with a bottle of wine hidden
in Daisy's buggy (I didn't want the neighbours to think
it was an 'assignation') I knocked on Emily's door, and
she greeted me still wearing her jodhpurs and looking
as though she had just spent the last two hours
fornicating with half a dozen stable boys. Perhaps she
had.

'Sorry! I hope I don't smell! I've only just got
back!'

'That's all right.'

'Do you mind if I have a quick shower?'

'You don't have to on my account.'

Emily raised a reasonably well-plucked eyebrow.

'Interesting,' she said, and then disappeared upstairs
with a 'you know where everything is', which again was
presumptuous, as by the time I found the corkscrew
(under a pile of magazines next to the microwave), she
had reappeared looking freshly showered and spruced,
hair slicked back, and wearing not much more than a
pair of skinny jeans and a V-neck. I passed her a glass of
wine, and then we spoke about what we would feed
Daisy, who was ensconced in the living room doing
some puzzles. (She is obsessed with puzzles – I harbour
optimistic suspicions that she is going to be a
mathematician.)

'So then,' began Emily eventually, 'why are you
looking so down?'

'I didn't realise I was.'

'C'mon, you've got one of those very expressive
faces.'

'Have I?'

'YES! And now you're looking very quizzical!'

'I am?'

Emily snorted into her wine, and I could only join in
the laughter. As I did so, instant guilt, because it
occurred to me that Sally and I hadn't laughed like this
in ages. In fact, I'm finding it hard to remember when
we last had a good belly laugh, as good as the one I had
with Emily. I know it's unrealistic to think that one
should spend one's entire life cackling away, but even
so.

After the giggles, I soon admitted that the reason I
was down was because Sally was so against
WonderHubby
.

'But why?' asked Emily, sounding genuinely
mystified.

I told her.

'That's not very entrepreneurial of her,' said Emily.

I didn't know how to take this comment – it felt
uncomfortable having Emily (of all people) criticise
Sally, but it was nevertheless true.

'Well,' I said, 'she's just not a risk taker, and I am. She
doesn't get it at all. Thinks I should just be doing more
consultancy work, and she doesn't see that if this works,
then we're in clover.'

'Perhaps she doesn't want it to work.'

'Oh, she certainly doesn't.'

'How do you know?'

'She told me.'

Emily took a long draught of wine.

'Well,' she said, 'I think she's being terribly unfair.'

'So do I,' I replied, without thinking.

I felt even more guilty now. Not only was I having a
laugh with Emily, I was now also being disloyal to Sally.
I thought of her stuck in the office in London, the
problems of the world on her shoulders, her job a
matter of life and death, and here I was, slagging her off
in front of the village bicycle, who I still suspected was
saying all the right words to get into my pants.

Emily interrupted my guilt.

'Can't you just say that you're going to do it anyway,
and that if it all goes tits up, then you can go back to
consultancy?'

'Well, that's pretty much how I'm playing it. It just
doesn't make for an easy time, that's all.'

'I can see that,' said Emily.

'You can?'

'That face again.'

I looked at her steadily, trying to seem impassive.

'Now that,' she said coquettishly, 'is a different sort of
face.'

'What sort of face is it?'

'I'm not sure,' she smirked. 'But I don't mind it at
all.'

Holy cow. I was quickly feeling out of my depth again,
very reminiscent of THAT dinner. I tried moving the
subject back to
WonderHubby
.

'Do you really think it's a good idea?' I asked.

Emily held my gaze.

'I think it's an excellent idea.'

She moved a little closer.

'Not too risky?'

'Life's no fun without risk.'

I nodded, telling myself that I could handle the
situation.

'But what if doesn't work out?' I asked.

'I'm sure it will, and besides, if it doesn't, then I know
you'll have had a lot of fun.'

Emily was really standing very close, and she looked
up at me.

'So,' she said, 'why don't you just go for it?'

'You know,' I said, 'I think I will.'

Emily then reached up her left hand and started
stroking the back of my head. Nearly every chemical
that my brain was capable of producing surged through
my system, chemicals that contradicted and fought
against each other, some willing me to give in, some
urging me to get the hell out of there as soon as
possible, and some simply insisting that I was extremely
dim-witted for not realising that she wasn't talking
about
WonderHubby
. As the hormones waged their war, I
stood paralysed, my body waiting for my decision.
Meanwhile, Emily was pulling my head towards her, and
standing on tiptoe as she strained to connect our
mouths.

'Um.'

At first, that was pretty much all I managed to say. My
head strained against Emily's grip, but still she pulled
me towards her.

'Emily!'

'Come on Sam,' she whispered. 'Let's just go for it.'

'It's very nice that you want . . .'

'Sshhh!'

By now I could feel her breath on my lips.

'Emily! Stop it!'

I pushed away, this time rather too violently, causing
Emily to spill her glass of wine down my front.

'Oops,' she went matter-of-factly.

'Sorry,' I said.

'It's all right, it didn't go over me.'

Emily edged back. I could feel my heart thumping,
and I was glad that Daisy hadn't walked in when things
were looking decidedly dodgy.

'Emily,' I said. 'I wish you wouldn't . . . you know . . .'

'Try to kiss you? Why not?'

She was so unabashed, it was extraordinary.

'Because I'm married and I love my wife, that's why.'

I tried not to sound pious, but I'm sure I did.

'Very moral of you.'

'Yes, well, I am very moral.'

'Really?'

'Yes. I don't like cheating – I don't think it's right.'

'But what if nobody knew?'

'That's not the point. And besides, they usually do.'

'Do they?'

'Yes. Come on Emily, how do you think we all know
about what you got up to?'

'Got up to when?'

'Well – you know – on holiday in Greece.'

'What do you know about Greece?'

I could feel myself uncharacteristically blushing.
Nevertheless, there was no going back.

'About you and those two fishermen in the beach
hut.'

'Two fishermen in a beach hut?'

'That's what I heard.'

Emily scoffed at that.

'What a load of rubbish,' she said.

'Really?'

Silence.

'Yes. Really. It wasn't a beach hut, it was a hotel room
thank you very much. And it wasn't two fishermen. It
was three. Now then, what would you like for lunch? Do
you like kebabs?'

Unsurprisingly, I didn't have much of an appetite.