by Sam Holden
'You can do that?'
Dom smiled, perhaps a little smugly.
'We can do anything.'
'But isn't that just, well, you know, lying?' I asked.
'I guess so. But we're giving the punters what they want.'
I was shocked. And I also felt a little naïve.
'But don't the participants complain?' I asked.
'No,' said Dom, adjusting his glasses. 'We make them sign non-disclosure agreements, so if they moan, we sue the fuck off them.'
Christ, I thought, the man was amoral. He would have made a great management consultant. Before I could say anything, Dom continued.
'So that's why it doesn't matter whether your management consultancy childcare works or not.'
Dom emptied his glass and then smiled a little.
'I'm warming to the idea, you know,' he said.
'Well, I was only joking, I mean, I wasn't seriously suggesting . . .'
'No, I think it's got some mileage. "Business" is sexy at the moment, and I like the way this combines that with home life.'
'You do?'
Dom paused.
'I've got it!' he said. 'We get you to go around and management-consult problem children. You know, in you go with your "sound business practices" and pie charts and what have you, and by the end of the week the children are good as gold and eat their greens etc.'
Now I was warming to the idea.
'We could call it something like Wonderhubby,' I said.
Dom laughed and then invited me to give him five, which I did, somewhat awkwardly, as I am the least 'street' person you could meet, with the exception of Dom.
'Wonderhubby! I like it!'
'Thanks,' I said. In fact, I rather liked it as well.
The one person who didn't like it AT ALL was Sally. I told her about my conversation with Dom in the car on the way home, and she was dismissive.
'Yes darling, I can quite see you as a TV superstar.'
The sarcasm tore through my drunken gaiety.
'I know you think it's just a silly idea,' I said, 'but honestly, Dom's serious. He's asked me to give him a bell on Monday to arrange a meeting.'
'You are joking.'
'Not at all.'
Sally half-sighed, half-yawned.
'I know what you're thinking,' she said. 'You're thinking that in a year's time you'll have made zillions of pounds, and you'll be enjoying worldwide fame, and then I can give up work and then we can live happily ever after off the proceeds of your lucrative TV career.'
'Exactly,' I said, determined that being unashamedly optimistic was the best policy. 'Just you wait.'
'Oh I will.'
I wish Sally wasn't quite so negative about my ideas. I admit, not all of them come to something, but when they do, they work out really well. I can't be bothered to list them all right now, but there are plenty.
Monday 14 January
Left a message with Dom this morning. Didn't get a reply. I expect he's incredibly busy. Most people in TV are.
Tuesday 15 January
Left two messages with Dom, and then sent an email – I guessed his address from his company's website. No replies. When Sally got in (late) she asked me whether I had heard anything. I was tempted to lie, but couldn't do so because a) I'm thoroughly decent and trustworthy and don't lie to my wife (often) and b) she'd see through me if I did.
'What did I tell you?' she said. 'It was just one of those drunken dinner-party conversations.'
'But this was before we got drunk,' I pleaded. 'This was one of those rare sober dinner-party conversations. In fact, it was before we had any dinner at all. Honestly, Sally, he really liked the idea.'
'Wonderhubby? Are you sure he wasn't winding you up?'
'The name was my idea.'
An arched Sally eyebrow.
'How's work?' I asked, changing the subject. 'Is the world going to explode?'
'Who knows?' she replied, before pouring herself a large glass of wine.
Her tone sounded in no way light-hearted.
'And frankly,' she continued, 'who cares?'
This smacked slightly of self-pity and I told her so.
'I'm sorry, I'm not being much fun, I know.'
'No need to apologise,' I said. 'Everybody goes through crap stages at work.'
We hugged and then kissed and then went to bed with the rest of the bottle of wine.
Thursday 17 January
Still nothing from that ponytailed tosser. Sally was right, it was just one of those conversations. I now feel utterly let down and rather sheepish. Mooted the idea of finding another TV producer to Sally over a (late) dinner, and she looked unimpressed.
'Sweetheart,' she said, 'don't you think this bloke Dom may have just been making conversation with you?'
I chewed it over, along with my slightly-too-tough pork chop. (Why can I never cook pork just right? I must have some porcine blind spot.)
'No, I don't think so,' I replied, genuinely worried that Sally might have been right. By now, I was imagining what I could do with a pair of scissors and Dom's ponytail.
'Anyway, I think you should concentrate on getting some more consultancy work,' Sally said.
She was right. That's the thing about Sally – she usually is. And, even when she's right, my pigheadedness won't allow me to acknowledge it.
'Just you see,' I said.
Sally rolled her eyes backward. We dropped the conversation.
Wednesday 23 January
Oh my God. I can't believe she's back – Emily the Jodhpur Mum; Emily of the voracious threesome-with-two-Greek-fishermen-in-a-beach-hut; Emily who tried to instigate some swinging with Sally and me; divorced Emily who had fled the village. This morning, when I dropped Peter and Daisy at school, I caught a glimpse of those jodhpur-clad legs and derrière from the other end of the high street. Just to confirm, I rang her at lunchtime, and she answered. I put the phone down immediately, thanking God that I had remembered to withhold my number.
I mean, it's not that I fancy Emily, it's just that life is so much less complicated without her around. Clearly, after THAT evening last summer, in which Emily tried to jump into both our pants, Sally despises her. However, that was never an issue, because when she and Jim got divorced, it was Emily and the children who moved out of the village. But now she's here, and one of these days, I'll bump into her. I can just see myself coming over all 'osh–gosh' and sweaty and nervous. Idiot.
However, even though I know she's trouble, Emily is good fun, and Peter and Thomas (her youngest) used to get on really well. Frankly, I could do with some good company, and Emily is certainly that. After all, how many other people round here open up a bottle of wine at eleven in the morning?
I don't think I'll tell Sally. At least not yet. We've sort of been here before, I know, and I should learn from my previous mistakes. But, as it is, Sally's got enough on her plate at work, and I don't want her being distracted by thoughts of her husband and the village vamp having cute 'playdates' together.
Still nothing from Dom. Have just sent one last email, risking what feeble amount of dignity I have left.
Thursday 24 January
Well, I was right. I did come over all sweaty and nervous. Was it because she was wearing her jodhpurs? Or was it because I couldn't shake out of my head the image of her being spit-roasted by Pavlos and Kyriacou? Or, yet again, was it the memory of her rubbing herself against me at that dinner? Whatever it was, I stammered and spluttered like a teenager, or rather, like I used to when I was a teenager – i.e., a LOT. In fact, I think I actually went 'osh–gosh' when she said her absurdly flirtatious 'well, hello' outside the school gate.
'Hi,' I then managed to say, my voice making me the lead chorister I never was. 'So, are you, um, you know, back here?'
Emily grinned. Not a great grin to be honest, a bit gummy, but nevertheless, still quite saucy.
'No,' she replied, 'this is just a ghost.'
I looked gormlessly at her.
; 'Ha ha,' I eventually sort-of-laughed when my dim brain eventually clicked into gear.
'He's grown,' she said, looking down at my midriff.
Jesus, I thought, right here, right now, at 9.05 outside the school gate. Now she was divorced, she was even more insatiable. I wasn't aware that 'he' had in fact grown, and I started to curse my priapism. I remained muted in shock.
'It's amazing how fast they grow,' Emily continued as she looked down. 'I bet the girls just love him!'
She then knelt down, the fabric of her jodhpurs stretching tightly over her frankly pretty damn perfect legs.
'Really Emily, I um . . .' I stammered.
'Can I give him a kiss?' she said.
Moments before winning the fool of the year award, it occurred to me that she wasn't talking about my groin. To my utter relief, she was talking about Peter, who was standing silently by my side, sucking his thumb.
'Of course you can!' I said in a falsetto.
Emily proceeded to give Peter a large hug and a smacker on the cheek, and she then did the same to Daisy, who chuckled appreciatively from her buggy.
'Say hello to Emily Peter,' I said, forcing his thumb out of his mouth.
'Hello to Emily Peter,' he said.
'Do you want to come round and play?' she asked him. 'Thomas has missed you.'
'Yes,' said Peter.
'Yes please,' I said to Peter, who had already shoved his thumb back in his mouth.
Emily stood up.
'And how about his daddy? Would he like to come round and play soon?'
Sometimes I am amazed at my self-control. Today, however, was not one of those times.
'Well, um, yes. When?'
'Tomorrow morning?'
'Er, OK!'
I feel such a rat. And I'm certainly not going to tell Sally. I feel like an adulterer, but so long as I don't do anything (which I won't), then my conscience should be clear. There's no point in telling her, because it will only upset her. So, in a way, it's a kindness.
I still feel like a rat, though.
Friday 25 January
This time, much to my disappointment (and slight relief) Emily did not offer me a glass of wine when I turned up with Daisy at 11 o'clock (no playgroup on Fridays, which is probably just as well – Daisy makes a great 'shield'). Instead, it was instant coffee and a packet of bourbons. ('Sorry, since the divorce I can't afford real coffee, and I'm not the type of hausfrau who bakes her own biscuits.') Leaving Daisy to play with some of Thomas's Transformers and Power Rangers, Emily and I sat down and we caught up with each other's news. She told me that the divorce had been hideous, but quick, and Jim had done the decent thing and let her keep the house, although she had to pay him rent for his 50 per cent. Jim was now living up in London, and already had a new girlfriend, called Emily coincidentally. ('At least when he moans out my name in a moment of passion, he won't be caught out.') I then told Emily about the Great Flood, and how work for me had dried up.
'That's awful,' she said, leaning forward, one hand stretched out as if to touch my knee. Thankfully, I was too far away for any such flirtatious contact, and I kept it that way.
'I know,' I replied. 'Bit of a bummer.'
'That's an understatement! So what are you going to do?'
I shrugged my shoulders in a slightly dejected fashion.
'Dunno,' I said, sounding like a teenage loser.
'Can you do some freelancing?'
'I could, but there's not a lot of work about.'
I was desperate to tell her about Wonderhubby, but I suspected she would just laugh at me. For a while, we kind of marked time with talk about children and news about the locals – all pretty anodyne stuff, which we were clearly both finding a little dull. It felt like – and I really hope it wasn't – the sort of vapid meaningless conversation you have with someone before you kiss them for the first time. You both know what's in the air, and you both know that you should be doing something else with your mouths rather than talking, but neither of you have yet found the guts to just get on with it. Of course, vapid meaningless conversation can occur without any sexual chemistry, and it would be an error to stick your tongue down the throat of every woman who was a crap conversationalist. I have made this error on several occasions.
So, out of desperation, I decided to bring up Wonderhubby, largely because I had run out of things to say. I told Emily all about how the programme would work, etc. She just smirked the whole way through my 'pitch'.
'So what do you think?' I asked. 'Your face tells me that you think it's a load of crap.'
'Quite the opposite,' she replied.
'Really? I suspect you're only saying that to humour me.'
Emily shook her head, and the gesture looked sincere. Her eyes opened wide, strengthening the impression of truthfulness. (I get the feeling that Emily in fact does a lot of lying.)
'Not at all!' she said. 'I really like the idea, I really do. It's so much better than half the crap that gets on the TV these days.'
'You really think so? Honestly?'
'Absolutely. After all, you've got nothing to lose, have you?'
I didn't know whether I should be insulted by this, so I decided not to be.
'Quite,' I replied.
'One thing,' said Emily.
'Yes?'
'Will Sally be up for appearing in it?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, obviously, if you're going to present yourself as the perfect househusband, you're going to need to show how blissfully happy you are as a family, you know, show the viewers the benchmark which they should be aiming towards.'
There was a trace of bitterness in the way Emily said 'blissfully'. But she had a point – Sally would have to be involved. And, if I know my wife well enough, it's the last thing she'd want to do.
'I'm sure she'd be absolutely fine with it,' I said.
'Really?'
'Of course. Anyway, we're getting ahead of ourselves here! After all, I'm just a bloke sitting in a village in the middle of England with a crackpot idea for a TV programme and a TV producer who won't return his emails. There must be hundreds of people like me.'
I couldn't believe how sensible I was sounding. It was as if Emily's enthusiasm had forced me to become more realistic. Now I know how Sally feels when she talks to me. No wonder she sometimes calls me Tigger.
I'd prefer 'tiger', frankly.
Sunday 27 January
Went to Sally's parents for lunch today. I had caved in to Sally's insistence that it was unrealistic that I would never see them again, and that soon the children would ask questions, and there would never be a good time to see them so why not now, etc. etc. Jane was on her typically acidulous form, and carried on dropping hints about my lack of employment. Despite Sally's protestations that looking after the children and running the house was a form of employment, Jane persisted in her usual tirade. Still, she can be witty, much to my annoyance. While we were getting to the end of the roast chicken, Jane and Peter pulled the wishbone. Jane won, and judging by her technique, she certainly cheated.
She then made a great palaver of waving the bone over her head and mumbling silently.
'What are you wishing for?' I asked.
'I can't tell you that, Sam,' she replied. 'Don't you know how it works?'
'How what works?'
Jane tutted.
'If you tell someone what you're wishing for, then it will never come true.'
'Oh.'
(How come I have never heard this before? Is it just me?)
Jane put the bone down on her plate.
'So then,' I continued, 'do you think it will come true?'
She fixed me with her Margaret-Thatcher-like stare.
'Well, you're still here, aren't you?'
I smirked sarcastically back at her, frustrated at my inability to think of a witty response quickly enough. Jane smirked too, in a repellently smug sort of way, like a poisonous nine-year-old girl who has eaten the last sweet in the packet and is
crowing about it. I wanted to ram the wishbone down her throat, shouting, 'Wish on that, bitchface!' but instead I just asked if I might have another roast potato.
'Certainly not,' Jane replied. 'Those are for the dog.'
I know my place.
Tuesday 29 January
I don't believe it. At 15.56 I received an email from Dom. When it arrived, my heart fluttered, and when I read it, it fluttered even more.
Sam
Sorry not to have replied to your (many!) calls and emails. Been megafrantic editing a doc on fat people. Still crazee about Wonderhubby. When can you come in and discuss? How about Thursday? And can you bring the kids? Would be good to show my colleagues how effective you are as a dad!
Cheers
Dom
The first thing I did was to email Dom right back, to say that Thursday at 12 would be perfect. The second thing I did was to forward the email to Sally, with a mildly triumphant, 'See? Not just a drunken dinner-party conversation.'
After a few minutes the following pinged back:
Darling
He sounds like a complete berk. Not entirely keen on children missing school/playgroup to go to some TV studio, but you must do what you must do. How are P & D? Hope you managed to get them some air this afternoon – weather's been glorious, at least it has in London. I won't need a big supper as ate well at lunch.
Love you
Sxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
There was something maddeningly dismissive about Sally's tone, but what really stuck in my craw was the reminder of my domestic responsibilities. I knew the subtext perfectly well – 'don't you go getting any ideas, young man' – and so that evening, over our light supper, I had it out with her.
'You really don't like this Wonderhubby thing, do you?'
Sally put down her fork and studied the particularly fine mushroom omelette I had made.
'To be honest, I was rather hoping it would go away.'
'Why?'
'Because I think it will come to nothing, and you will have wasted a load of time and effort.'