Strictly My Husband: It's funny, it's romantic and it's got dancing - what's not to love!

by Tracy Bloom

  ‘It’s all going to be all right,’ he said, grinning. ‘Everything is going to be all right.’ He lunged forward and kissed her full on the mouth. She kissed him back. She couldn’t remember the last time they had kissed like this. Lips, tongues and in public. She pulled away. It was wrong, all wrong. He beamed at her and reached inside his pocket and pulled out a cigar and flicked it up to his mouth. He missed; it fell on the floor. He shrugged, his grin not fading; then he bounded off, leaving Hannah gazing at the discarded cigar lying amidst the post-show debris.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Laura

  ‘What are you doing here?’ gasped Laura, nearly spitting out a piece of homemade flapjack. She’d just settled herself into the lounge of a very nice five-bedroomed detached house on the brand-new upmarket estate on the edge of Chesterton and was quite looking forward to picking the brains of half a dozen women in the ‘Successful Suburbs’ demographic. This was supposed to be a focus group comprised of previously high-earning mums with one or more pre-school-aged children, which under no circumstances included someone like Karen.

  ‘Ooh, I remember you,’ said Karen, settling herself into the enormous corner sofa. ‘You were at the last one I did – you know, the one about . . .’

  ‘Incontinence pants,’ said Laura.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Karen leant forward and grabbed a piece of flapjack.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Laura. ‘This is a research group for young mums, not, er . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I know, don’t rub it in. But I fancied a look round one of these posh houses and my sister-in-law said that if I told you I had four grandchildren under five then that would be OK.’

  ‘Your sister-in-law?’ asked Laura.

  ‘Yeah – Liz. She recruits for these things,’ replied Karen, flapping her hand around the room.

  Laura tried to stay calm. ‘Well, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’m afraid your sister-in-law was very wrong. I can’t allow you to participate in this group. You don’t fit the criteria. For many reasons,’ she added.

  ‘I can’t go,’ countered Karen without missing a beat. ‘Neil dropped me off and he won’t be back for an hour and there are no buses. I checked.’

  Laura sat back down, speechless.

  ‘You wouldn’t chuck an old woman out in the cold, would you?’ asked Karen, taking another bite of flapjack.

  Laura seethed inwardly. She was stuck. Karen was right; she couldn’t chuck her out. She couldn’t even ask the host if they could shove her in a different room; it wouldn’t be fair on the host and goodness knows what snooping Karen would get up to if left alone.

  Luckily for Karen the rest of the participants arrived at that point, distracting Laura as she got them settled on to the various sofas and chairs scattered around the room and supplied them all with name badges. She was careful not to sit anyone too close to Karen.

  ‘So I wondered if you could all introduce yourselves and share how many children you have and what ages they are?’ Laura asked after she’d been through the usual introductions. ‘Could we start with you?’ She indicated a very smart-looking woman to her left.

  ‘Hello, everyone, I’m Charlotte and I have a two-year-old called Oliver.’

  ‘Hi, I’m Fran and I’ve got Isla who’s three and Evie who is thirteen months,’ carried on the lady sitting next to her.

  ‘Ooh, is it me?’ apologised the next woman with a white stain down her shirt in the midst of cramming flapjack in her mouth. ‘My name is Vicky and I have twin boys aged two and a half.’

  All the women assembled nodded in appreciation of her challenges.

  ‘So I’m Philippa and I’ve got Isaac who is four, Tilly at eighteen months and another on the way.’

  There were several sharp intakes of breath.

  ‘I’m Rachel. Chloe was eighteen months last week.’

  Karen looked Laura’s way as it approached her turn. Laura glared back, willing her not to take her usual disruptive stance.

  ‘Karen,’ announced Karen, nodding to the group. ‘I had Leo when I was nineteen followed by Cindy when I was twenty-one. Their dad left three years later so it was just the three of us for about five years. Then I met my Neil and we had our Sean followed by our Sammy. Of course they’ve all left home so now the house is full of bloody grandkids. You’re never shot of them, I tell you!’ She grinned, leaning forward to help herself to yet another flapjack.

  Laura was very aware that the inhabitants of the room were staring at Karen in silence. She needed to fill the gap but she didn’t quite get there in time.

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Karen. ‘They do a better class of biscuit here than they do at your office.’ She held up a half-eaten piece of flapjack and scrutinised it.

  ‘Karen happens to have been to a research group before,’ Laura informed the rest of the group. ‘Something we don’t encourage. However, there appears to have been a mix-up in the recruiting.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ said Karen. ‘I’m quite happy sitting here. Please continue.’

  ‘Right, OK,’ said Laura, taking a deep breath. She should just plough on, she decided, get it all over with as quickly as possible and then she could get home and call Hannah to see what was going on down at Wonderland.

  ‘So I’m hoping that you’re going to really enjoy this group as I’m here to give you a sneak preview of some possible TV and cinema advertising campaigns that my client is considering running. They are really keen to get your reaction, and your thoughts and opinions could help shape the campaign that finally makes it to the screen.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Charlotte. ‘That actually sounds quite interesting. I was worried we were going to sit around for ages talking about baby products.’

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Vicky. ‘I’m only here to escape the potty training; last thing I need is a discussion about nappies.’

  ‘Nappies, nappies, I’m sure I dream about nappies,’ muttered Philippa, shifting her pregnant belly in her chair and looking as though she might doze off at any minute.

  ‘Then it’s fortunate that it’s not a baby product we’re discussing tonight,’ said Laura, reaching over the back of her armchair and pulling out several large pieces of card. ‘I’m going to show you what’s known as a storyboard, which is just a series of pictures that illustrate the story of the advertisement.’

  ‘I know what a storyboard is,’ said Charlotte, leaning forward eagerly. ‘In my previous life I was a sales director in London. I used to get shown these things all the time.’

  ‘Great,’ said Laura. ‘I’ll talk you through the first concept and would welcome all your thoughts at the end, whatever they are. Please be as honest as you can even if it’s a different opinion to others in the group. There are of course no right or wrong answers.’

  ‘Gosh, this is quite exciting,’ said Philippa, suddenly perking up. ‘Better than being stuck at home doing bedtime.’

  Everyone nodded silently in agreement.

  ‘I’ve never been involved in a TV campaign before,’ added Karen. ‘Wait until I tell Diane next door. I keep telling her to get in on these research thingies. She’s a bit lonely and could do with getting out and about and meeting people. And, as I told her, the coffee and biscuits are free. Who needs Costa, eh?’

  ‘So if we are all ready and everyone can see, I’ll take you through the first concept,’ said Laura, deciding her best policy was to ignore Karen throughout the session. She twisted the first board around to face them and began her spiel.

  When Laura looked around the room less than two minutes later she knew instantly that she’d lost them. She was greeted with at best blank looks and at worst cold stares. This was quite common when testing advertising. Creative agencies often tried to be too clever in their desire to create a masterpiece, which resulted in a failure to communicate anything whatsoever about the product. Laura didn’t think this was the case here, however, as the storyboar
d had seemed very straightforward to her. Charlotte was the first to enlighten her on the hostile reaction.

  ‘Washing powder?’ she asked. ‘You brought us here to talk about washing powder?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ replied Laura. ‘What do you think of the concept? What do you like or not like about it?’

  ‘Quite frankly I couldn’t give a monkey’s,’ replied Charlotte, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. ‘I couldn’t give a toss about washing powder. I ran a team of forty-seven sales reps two years ago and now the only thing that my opinion is valued for is washing powder? No. Not interested.’

  ‘I quite liked the pink kittens in the pink jungle,’ muttered Philippa, looking around nervously. ‘Didn’t anyone else like the pink kittens in the pink jungle?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Rachel, screwing her nose up. ‘It was a bit . . . well, actually extremely patronising.’

  ‘Of course it damned well is,’ exclaimed Charlotte. ‘Everything aimed at mothers is. Don’t you think? Clearly advertisers believe that having children extracts all intelligence therefore they must speak very slowly and use pretty colours and cute animals in order for us to understand their message.’

  ‘Is that how you feel?’ asked Laura.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlotte, looking exasperated. ‘I had a child not a lobotomy.’

  ‘Do any of the rest of you feel like that?’ asked Laura. ‘Do you feel patronised by advertisers now you have become a mother?’

  Many heads nodded.

  ‘Not really thought about it,’ announced Philippa. ‘Too tired.’

  ‘Do you want to know what is really patronising about it?’ added Charlotte. ‘I don’t see any dads being asked their opinion on the pink kittens in the pink jungle.’ She looked round the room.

  ‘You’re right,’ Laura had to agree.

  ‘Do you want to know what my husband did today?’ said Charlotte, leaning forward and throwing her hands out in exasperation. ‘He got on a plane to Istanbul to speak at a conference. And here I am being asked what I feel about washing powder.’

  ‘I’m really sorry you feel like that,’ said Laura sympathetically.

  ‘Oh no, no, don’t be. It’s not your fault.’ Charlotte shook her head and sighed. ‘It’s the first time he’s been away since Ollie was born and . . . well, to be perfectly honest I’m as jealous as hell. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be without our son for anything, but I used to do stuff like that and somehow it doesn’t seem fair that my husband still can, just like that, without a backwards glance.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ chipped in Rachel. ‘My other half got offered last-minute football tickets tonight. I told him I was already going out, but who had to organise a babysitter? Me. Never even crossed his mind.’

  ‘My husband moaned because I was going out,’ muttered Philippa. ‘Said he wanted to watch the match on telly and it clashed with bathtime.’

  Karen cackled with laughter in the corner.

  Laura’s heart sank. This was clearly not a laughing matter.

  ‘Let me share something with you, girls,’ Karen said, leaning forward. ‘You’re a mum now and that is how the world sees you. You may as well have your kids’ faces tattooed on your forehead. Same isn’t true for dads, of course. But the worst thing you can do is try to hold them back. You very quickly become the bore at home and it won’t be long before they find something new and shiny and sparkly. Believe me, it happened to me with my ex. Set them free if you want to keep them, that’s my advice.’

  Laura forgot where she was for a moment as she took in what Karen was saying. All she could think about was Tom, performing on stage right now – something he’d given up to provide them both with more stability. Had she become the bore at home who’d stopped him doing the very thing he loved? Worse than that, had she got in the way of him following his dream? If Karen was right then the only way of holding on to her marriage was to set him free; but she wasn’t sure how to do that or, indeed, whether she could.

  ‘Hi,’ said Hannah when she finally picked up the phone.

  Laura had arrived home, flung her handbag on the kitchen table and immediately called Hannah. She’d wrapped up the session early, knowing from years of experience that she was unlikely to get much sense out of the group in relation to washing powder. Instead she allowed the assembled mothers to let off steam regarding their demotion in society since giving birth whilst she simmered over Karen’s depressing speech.

  ‘So,’ said Laura, ‘how was it?’

  ‘The show?’ asked Hannah. ‘To be honest it was excellent. I was very pleasantly surprised. I really enjoyed it.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ sighed Laura. That was good news. ‘And how was Tom?’

  ‘Oh, he’s still got it, Laura. Really he has. I’d forgotten how good he is. The crowd went mad for him.’

  ‘Great, that’s good, that’s good . . . I think; and what about, you know, him and Carly?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Hannah hesitated. ‘From what I could tell they were, you know, doing what they were supposed to do.’

  ‘What do you mean, what they’re supposed to do?’

  ‘They were performing. They were dancing, they were holding each other, they were touching, but I can’t say I saw or felt this mythical moment you keep going on about. Nothing about it struck me as different to any other time I’ve seen dancers and actors on stage. They’re always lovey-dovey and all over each other, aren’t they? That’s just what they are like.’

  ‘Well, yes, but you can tell if there’s more going on behind all the air-kissing and back-slapping.’

  Hannah sighed. ‘I’ll say it again, Laura. I think you are looking for something that isn’t there. I really do.’

  Laura allowed herself to breathe out. Perhaps she just had to let it go. She was imagining things purely because they danced together. Maybe she was being unfair.

  ‘Well, thanks for going anyway, Hannah,’ she said.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ replied Hannah. ‘Like I said, it’s a great show. You should be very proud of your husband. Perhaps that’s what you need to focus on.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll try,’ she answered. But she was not entirely sure Tom’s triumphant return to performing made her feel any better.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Tom

  Tom and Carly struggled to get Jerry’s sozzled bulk through the front door. It was past ten and Tom had no idea where the time had gone. Jerry had come backstage immediately after the show, jumping up and down as though the production had just won an Oscar. He went round the entire cast slapping them on the back, handing out cigars like candy canes and somehow miraculously produced bottles of champagne until the dressing room resembled some dodgy drinking den in the back streets of Soho.

  ‘Don’t you think this is a tad premature?’ Tom had said to him. ‘We haven’t had the scores in yet.’

  ‘Fuck the scores,’ cried Jerry, handing Tom a bottle to swig from. ‘It was a triumph – anyone could see that.’

  ‘I think I’ll wait, if you don’t mind.’ Tom pushed the bottle away. ‘Until we know for sure.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Jerry, helping himself to another mouthful.

  Tom looked at his watch. Archie had promised he’d come backstage as soon as he had the results of the research. Although Tom knew that the show had been much better, he also knew that he was in no position to judge. It was the audience that mattered and what they thought.

  Carly came up behind him. ‘It’ll be OK,’ she said. ‘We rocked it out there. We were on fire!’

  ‘You never know,’ said Tom, shaking his head. ‘It felt good but it might not have felt good out there in the crowd.’

  ‘If it felt half as good as it did on stage, we have nothing to worry about.’ Carly grabbed his hand and squeezed it. He smiled back gratefully.

  The truth was he was frightened how good it felt. It was like a drug that he was both euphoric and regretful to have been reunited with. What if he nev
er felt that way again? He dropped Carly’s hands and ran his fingers through his hair. Where was Archie? He couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.

  As if on cue a small tornado burst through the door, black hair flapping and sweat pouring down his sideburns.

  ‘Archie,’ shouted Tom. ‘Over here.’

  Archie looked up and wove his way quickly across the dressing room. Carly clutched Tom’s left bicep hard with both hands as Archie approached.

  ‘Seven point six,’ he breathed, clutching his sides.

  ‘Right,’ said Tom, nodding whilst trying to work out how he felt about that.

  ‘You wanted it to one decimal place, right?’ asked Archie, when Tom failed to give any further response.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Tom. He’d thought one more decimal place might just help somehow.

  ‘So it’s definitely seven point six,’ repeated Archie. ‘I checked it three times like Laura showed me. I’m sure it’s seven point six.’

  ‘Which when you round it up is actually a score of eight out of ten,’ interrupted Jerry, appearing out of nowhere. ‘Bloody eight out ten! You cracked it, right? That’s the score Phillip was after.’

  ‘But . . . but . . . what about the decimal point?’ said Tom, struggling to take it in. When Archie had started his declaration of the result with a seven it had thrown him. His heart had sunk immediately. They weren’t quite there yet.

  ‘Fuck the decimal point,’ cried Jerry. ‘Who needs decimal points anyway? Stupid invention, if you ask me. You scored eight out of ten. It’s a fact. Either way it’s a miraculous turnaround from two days ago. Come on, mate, cheer up. This is good news. Here, have a cigar.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Tom replied. ‘It was a lot better than Saturday’s show, wasn’t it?’

  ‘A lot better!’ exclaimed Jerry. ‘It was different show, mate. You and Carly? Enough to make a grown man cry, you two were.’