by Sam Holden
'OK, love you loads.'
'Me too.'
I think we should just give up Valentine's Day from now on. It's such a bunch of crap, it really is. It's just an excuse for card companies to make a fortune selling their crappy wares, complete with naff rhymes and quilted pink covers. And it's a racket for restaurants as well. When Sally and I last went out on Valentine's night (a long time ago), we were treated like cattle, and sat mooning at each other as the wrong dishes arrived and the champagne was warm and the bill was £134.89 not including service and fuck that for a game of soldiers we said as we waited in the rain for a cab that didn't come because they were all being used by similar mugs who felt obliged to go out on Valentine's bloody night.
As an act of rebellion against all this, after supper, I got Peter and Daisy to make a couple of cards for Sally, which were actually pretty good. Peter's drawing skills are now almost as good as mine, and he drew Sally a lovely soldier killing some aliens. With a giraffe. Daisy sort of scribbled something pink, which she said was 'The Night Garden', so I believed her.
Although Sally got back late and tired, the cards certainly cheered her up. There's still a coldness in the air after our row about WonderHubby, which we have unspokenly (is there such a word?) agreed not to mention. She knows that I am too pig-headed not to give it a go, and I know that she will never agree to it. Therefore no point in arguing.
Something else which there was no point in telling Sally about was Emily's behaviour the other day. It would only have ruined the couple of hours we had together before we went to bed, and I certainly didn't want to jeopardise any Valentine's night action. (I do sort of believe in Valentine's.)
Sunday 17 February
I do hate being in limbo. It's not that I'm expecting anything from Dom immediately, but I just want to know whether I'm going to spend the rest of my life as a freelance management consultant or a TV star.
Nevertheless, a nice weekend, and both Sally and I behaved ourselves. No arguments. No mention of WonderHubby/Emily/Work/Money/Jobs, all of which are topics that bring us both out in a row. Even the children behaved, sort of, although there was one hair-raising moment, when Peter thought it would be terribly good fun if he pushed his sister in her buggy into the river. I just managed to save her before she joined the ducks, although not without stepping in an enormous dog shit.
Sally and I were livid with Peter, and I came near to smacking him. I've smacked him before, and have always regretted it, because I had done it in anger – but then he had run into the road despite me yelling at him not to. However, I vowed never to do it again, and today was emphatically not going to be the day in which he felt a sharp thwack to his derrière, but instead we withdrew his normal Sunday night 'treat' TV watching. (Sally thinks Peter and Daisy only watch TV at the weekends, a secret the children are miraculously keeping to themselves.) The removal of privilege engendered an enormous tantrum, which nearly did earn him a smack.
While he was at full pelt, Sally asked me, 'What would WonderHubby do in this situation?'
At least she was smiling about it. The truth was, I had no reply. There is nothing in the tenets of management consultancy that tells you how to deal with a client who is not allowed to watch TV. If WonderHubby ever happens, God knows how I'm going to wing it.
Tuesday 19 February
5 p.m.
Oh my God. I'm going to have to wing it. WonderHubby is happening! Well, a pilot is happening, at least. Dom has just this minute phoned me. He said that the TV station went mad for the idea, and said they loved the way it tied up all the elements of business (which is now sexy, he says) and childcare (which needs a televisual revamp apparently).
'It's incredible,' I said, 'that they've gone for it without even seeing me.'
'Well, I showed them some video of you.'
'What video?'
'Your spiel in our conference room the other day.'
'You were filming that?'
'Yes – didn't we tell you?'
'No!'
'Sorry about that,' said Dom, sounding as apologetic as Peter does when he's done something bad (i.e. utterly remorseless).
I was tempted to chew his ear off, but then thought better of it.
'What did they like about it?'
'I think they liked the way that it was so boring that it was funny.'
'Thanks.' I laughed a little, assuming this was some kind of joke. Dom's tone suggested that it might not have been.
'Don't worry,' said Dom. 'The fact is they love you and they love the programme. However, there are a couple of glitches.'
'Oh yes?'
'They want the pilot ready in a month.'
'That sounds like a long time.'
'Sam – you've much to learn. A month is fuck all. A nanosecond.'
'Oh. And what's the other glitch?'
'They've given us sod-all money, so I'm afraid we can't give you that much.'
'Oh.'
'Just a couple of grand I'm afraid.'
'Oh.'
'I know. But it doesn't matter, because when the series is commissioned, then the money will be decent, don't you worry. See it as an investment.'
'Oh.'
'Anyway, we'd better start as soon as we can. Can you come in tomorrow for a brainstorming at the channel? The commissioning editor really wants to meet you.'
'Sure!'
I'm thrilled, basically. Fucking thrilled. OK, so the money is rubbish, but I believe Dom when he says it's going to get better. Now all I have to do is to give Sally the hard sell. Oh joy.
11 p.m.
Sally is in the bath, and I'm sitting at my desk and there's a very bad odour in the air. I've told her about the pilot, and her first reaction was 'Oh God'. Her second reaction was to pour a glass of wine, and her third was to drain half of it in one gulp. (I know I joke that Sally is turning into a dipso, but I'm slightly worried about it.)
'I can't believe this is actually happening,' she said.
I tried to play everything down.
'It's just a pilot, sweetheart, and it probably won't come to anything.'
Raised eyebrow.
'You're really going to do it?'
'I'd really like to, yes.'
'And who's going to look after the children?'
'We'll have to get a nanny.'
Sally took a deep breath.
'This wasn't the idea.'
'I know, but we've been over this. It's not as though we're filming all the time.'
Sally drained the glass and then poured herself another.
'OK,' she said. 'You do it. But don't expect me to get involved.'
'Um . . .'
'What?'
'Well, I'm sure they'll want some shots of us as a family.'
'No way.'
'Please Sally, come on.'
'No way. Anyway I don't think work would be exactly thrilled about it.'
'It would only be for a few seconds.'
'In that case, they can manage without me.'
'It's not the same.'
'I'm sorry Sam, but I really don't think I have an option.'
I left it, and we prepared and ate supper almost in silence, both of us flicking through magazines.
I hate all this. I hate the rowing, the bickering, the constant feeling that we're on edge. Perhaps I should chuck in the whole WonderHubby thing. Perhaps Sally is right – it is just a waste of time, and could be seen as simply something to massage my ego. And if I chucked it in, would that put a smile on Sally's face? I doubt it. The damage has already been done, and besides, she's still having a rotten time at work.
And then again, why should I give it up? It IS a good idea, good enough for one TV station and one production company to spend time and money making it. How wrong can they be?
Wednesday 20 February
This time, I decided to leave the children at home, or rather with Emily. Despite her pass – and I'm sure there will be more – we're still on good terms. I think Emily probably makes passes
at so many men that she's pretty unabashed about the whole thing. Mind you, I would have left the children with just about anybody, as, predictably enough, the train was delayed and overcrowded, and I couldn't face a repeat of our last little outing.
The channel was a pretty impressive place – huge marble atrium, trees, waterfalls etc., and the normal plethora of flatscreens and incredibly attractive women walking around. Why does the media attract such good-looking females? In all my years as a management consultant I came across about three women whom I found remotely appealing, and yet today I must have seen at least twenty in the space of three hours. Maybe my taste has declined as I have aged, but I'm not THAT old, and I like to think my standards are pretty high. After all, my wife has never had even the slightest tickle with the ugly stick.
The commissioning editor was called Dave Waldman, and he was one of these immensely enthusiastic people who must be infuriating to work with. His catchphrase was 'dig', which he said often, and was emphasised by clicking his fingers with a supple throw of the wrist. Also, he was bloody young – late twenties perhaps – and had I not known him to be in a position of authority, I would have taken him to be some sort of junior in the graphic design department.
He didn't really ask me many specific questions, but one thing he was concerned about was the families we were going to use.
'How are you going to get hold of them?' he asked.
I didn't have an answer to that, and I looked at Dom, who didn't seem particularly flustered.
'Shouldn't be a problem,' he said. 'We've already started looking for them. There are thousands of these oiks— I mean people, who are desperate to appear on shows like this.'
'Dig,' went Dave. 'And do you have a plan B, if the people aren't coming good?'
'Sure,' said Dom. 'The normal plan in these circumstances.'
'Dig,' said Dave, this time a little more conspiratorially.
'What's the normal plan?' I asked, doing my best not to sound like a naïve schoolboy.
Dom and Dave looked at each other with a little smirk.
'We like to call it "blending the truth",' said Dom.
'Dig,' said Dave.
'Blending the truth?' I queried.
Dom took a 'why do I have to explain this to you again?' breath.
'You know when you take notes of a conversation?' he began. 'Well, you don't write down all the ums and ahs and whatnot. You clean it up, in many ways, make the speaker appear more eloquent. You're doing them a favour. And that's all we do, except in a televisual way. Sometimes we'll ask people to say things again because we didn't capture it first time round, or they said it with too much swearing . . .'
'Or not enough!' interjected Dave.
'Dig,' said Dom somewhat greasily in imitation, although when he tried to click his fingers in the same way he merely succeeded in hurting his wrist, because he let out a slight wince.
'Anyway,' he continued. 'Sometimes we find people who are good for the programme, but we just find that they lack a certain something. So we get in others to recreate real events and conversations.'
'You mean you get in actors?' I asked. 'I know you said you made things up, but I didn't think things had got this bad.'
'It's accepted practice,' said Dom, looking at Dave.
'Dig,' he went. 'And we don't call it "making things up". We call it "reality enhancement". Anyway, we only use it as a plan B, and I'm sure we won't have any need for it. We're spending a lot of money making these reality programmes, and it'd be idiotic to rely on reality when we can manufacture reality so much better ourselves. Dig?'
'Dig,' I said, somewhat flabbergasted.
On the way back home, I wondered what I was getting myself into. Despite my moaning about how long it was taking, it occurred to me that less than two months ago the whole thing had been a dinner-party joke, and already it was becoming a reality, or at least a reality of sorts. And, although I wasn't expecting to be in control of the whole thing, it was clear that Dom and Dave saw me as just another stooge. I'm curiously down about the whole thing. The truth about TV is that there is no truth. These are thoughts I won't be sharing with Sally.
Emily said the children had been very well behaved (wow) and that they had all got along together. Her twins had entertained Daisy, and had organised some teddy bears' picnic for her, which Daisy loved. While she was telling me all this, Emily detected that I looked a little pensive, and it annoyed me when I reflected that she seemed far more sensitive than my wife to my moods.
Thursday 21 February
Spent the whole of today trying to find a nanny. Sally said last night that finding a nanny would have to be my department as she a) didn't have the time and b) wasn't in agreement with it anyway. So much for marriage being about compromise.
Ideally, I'd just like to get an au pair, but according to the schedule that Dom has already sent me, my timetable is going to be packed. We have to have the pilot ready at the end of next month, and Dom tells me that I shall be needed full-time from 1st March onwards. As au pairs aren't really allowed to work full-time, we have to have a nanny, which is a pain, and an expensive one at that. Any money I make will go straight into the nanny's pockets. I hate the poor woman already.
Friday 22 February
This nanny business is getting me down. Today I was told I could have an 'au pair plus', which at first I thought simply meant a fat au pair, but apparently they are au pairs who do more than 5 hours per day – around 7 hours. But I need an au pair who does at least 10 hours, and those sorts of au pairs are called nannies. There's no way round it.
11 p.m.
Oh yes there is. Just had a brainwave while Sally is in the bath. I shall hire TWO au pairs. It's a genius idea. The first one can do the morning shift, and the second one can do the afternoon. I've worked it all out, and between them, they'll have enough hours to cover the whole day. They'll have to share a bedroom, but I'm sure that will be fine.
I am almost rubbing my hands with glee. I'm sure Sally will see the logic in it.
Saturday 23rd February
Turns out she didn't.
'We are NOT having two au pairs,' she said to me over breakfast this morning.
'Why not?'
'Because there's not enough room in the house, and secondly, I know your real reason for wanting two au pairs.'
'What?'
Sally looked at me suspiciously and smiled a little.
'Oh come on, don't play the naïf with me.'
'Nice to hear correct use of naïf.'
'Don't change the subject.'
'What?' I went.
'You know,' she said.
Her coyness was a product of the fact that the children were tucking into their Rice Krispies.
'I have no idea what you are talking about.'
Lesbianism was of course the last thing on my mind. The very last thing indeed.
Sunday 24 February
At lunchtime, Peter asked why the parents of his friend Tom have two houses. (They have a holiday cottage down in Devon, the bastards. Still waiting for the invitation.)
'It's because they have lots of money,' said Sally.
My jealous side wouldn't allow this.
'I suspect it's because Tom's granny and grandpa gave it to them,' I said.
I looked at Sally.
'I can't believe that Tim earns enough to have bought it,' I said. 'And didn't Louise's parents snuff it last year? They're bound to have left them a load of dosh.'
'Charmingly put,' she replied. 'But it doesn't alter the fact that they still managed to buy it.'
'Ah, but it doesn't really count if they were left the money.'
Sally looked puzzled.
'What do you mean?'
'Well, I don't begrudge anybody inherited wealth,' I said. 'That's just luck of the draw, and good for them. But what I do resent is those who have earned it.'
'Surely it should be the other way round?'
'No. Those who earn pots of cash are invariably less
talented and brilliant than I am, and therefore I resent the fact that they are richer than me.'
'But that's a bizarre way to think,' said Sally. 'So do you really think you should be the richest person in the world? Is there nobody more talented than you who deserves to be earning more money than you?'
'Um . . .'
Sally laughed. (Nice to see – we don't seem to laugh enough these days.)
'You're terrible,' she said. 'I just hope WonderHubby makes you millions of pounds, otherwise you'll spend the rest of your life as a bitter old man.'
'Mummy!' Peter piped up.
'Yes?'
'If Daddy doesn't have enough money, shall we get a new daddy?'
Much laughter from both Sally and me, although mine was rather hollow, and Sally's seemed rather fiendish.
'Not a bad idea,' she said, which made me smart, although after we had cleared away the plates she gave me a reassuring kiss and a hug. Peter and Daisy joined in at this point, hugging our legs, which was a Cute Moment.
'So do you support WonderHubby?' I asked.
Sally laughed.
'Not one little bit,' she said.
'Really?'
'Really.'
'Well, the whole thing will probably go tits up anyway if I can't find a nanny.'
'That would be most unfortunate,' said Sally.
'Hmmm. I can see that you really care about it.'
'What's that expression that you always use?'
'What? It'll be fine?'
'That's the one,' said Sally. 'I'm sure it'll be fine. Pudding?'
Tuesday 26 February
Nanny salvation has come, amazingly, from Sally. She brought home the good news this evening.
'There's a woman called Sue at work going on six months' maternity leave,' she told me, 'and she's decided that she doesn't need their nanny.'
'Why not? I'd have thought maternity leave would be the perfect time to have one.'
'Well, she's a little like me, and she doesn't particularly like having strangers around.'
Ouch.