by Sam Holden
'OK. And?'
'Well, because I'm lovely and helpful, I suggested that maybe we could take her on for a few months, IF your wretched programme goes ahead.'
'And?'
'Well, Sue is going to talk to her tonight. She said she'll let me know tomorrow.'
'And who is this nanny?'
'She's from Turkey, and she's called Halet apparently. The only reason why I'd consider her is because she's already been security-cleared.'
'Age?'
'I knew that would come soon. Fifty-four.'
My pathetic blokey heart sank. It was perhaps just as well.
'Waist–hip ratio?' I asked.
Sally aimed an imaginary pistol at me.
'By all accounts, it sounds as though her waist is wider than her hips.'
'Oh good.'
All this talking of measurements reminded me of our friend Clare, who worked out the Body Mass Indexes of all her potential au pairs, and ended up employing the one with the least flattering ratio. How Darwinian is that?
Thursday 28 February
Halet came to see us today, and I have to say, the children took to her immediately, and she to them. I liked her enormously as well – she's all Mumsy and cuddly and friendly and seems utterly reliable. She's been a nanny in Britain for some 16 years, and has two grown-up children of her own. I asked her whether they had gone back to Turkey, but she said that she didn't really come from Turkey, rather from somewhere utterly unpronounceable, and that it was easier just to say Turkey. Fair enough. Anyway, her two sons work over here, and she showed me some pictures of them, and a couple of bigger thugs you couldn't imagine, but I made all the right cooing noises about what strapping lads they were. Unfortunately, it transpires that Halet is a widow, and she took up nannying when her husband died. He was killed in a plane crash on the way back home, and I could see that she was still desperately sad about it.
Peter's first question to her was typically forward.
'Are you going to be our new granny?' he asked.
At first I was worried that Halet might be offended, but she ruffled his hair and said that she would love to be his new granny so long as his other grannies didn't mind, which I thought to be the perfect response.
Peter's second question was equally forward.
'Why is your skin so dark?'
Once again I closed my eyes in shame. Halet wasn't that dark, but she definitely had the appearance of a much-cherished deep tan handbag.
'That's because I come from a long way away,' she said. 'Where there is lots of sun, and you know what the sun does, don't you?'
'It makes you warm,' said Peter.
'That's right,' said Halet. 'And it also makes your skin go dark.'
Peter chewed on this.
'You must have been in the sun a long time!' he said.
Halet and I laughed, and I bribed the children with some TV so she and I could talk business. The upshot is that I can't believe how perfect she is for us – she only lives 10 miles away, she has her own car, she's not too expensive, and she comes highly recommended. I told her that we could only employ her for three months at first, but hopefully, if my series paid off, she would be employed full-time. Again, she seemed remarkably relaxed. The only thing that seemed to cause her some confusion was the fact that I was the househusband, and Sally was the one with the job.
'Back home,' she said, 'this would never happen.'
'I'm sure,' I replied. 'It doesn't happen here very often either.'
'And now you're going to make a TV programme about how to look after kids, and yet you won't be looking after your own!'
Halet laughed at her own observation, and I did my best not to be peeved at her tactless recognition of the irony of the situation.
'Well,' I said, 'there are plenty of these so-called childcare gurus who do not even have children, so I feel more qualified than they are!'
'One day, I think I should like to make a programme,' she said.
Not a chance, I thought, shuddering at the thought of potential competition. I smiled weakly and went and summoned the children from the TV, which did not go well.
'OK, show Halet how you can turn the TV off,' I said.
'Don't want to!' shouted Peter. 'I'm watching Bob the Builder!'
'No!' shrieked Daisy, as if I had suggested that I dunk them both in ice-cold water.
'Come on, TV off!'
They didn't budge, much to my embarrassment. I was determined to show Halet just how authoritative I was, especially as she seemed somewhat sceptical about my forthcoming career.
'If you don't turn off the TV by the time I count to three, then . . .'
My voice trailed. The truth is, I never know what to threaten them with.
'One!' I began.
No movement.
'Two!'
My voice was louder and hopefully sterner now.
'Three!'
No movement.
Bob continued to do his thing with Wendy.
'Right!' I said. 'I'm going to turn it off myself!'
'No!' came an angry little chorus.
Suddenly, from over my shoulder, Halet spoke.
'Peter. Would you turn the television off please?'
Her voice was calm and authoritative – everything mine was not. Peter and Daisy looked at her with surprise, their cunning eyes scanning her face for signs of weakness. Evidently they could find none, because without any further argument both of them got up and made their way to the television, where they even had a brief contretemps about which one of them would turn it off. (Surprisingly, Daisy won – triumph of the will.)
I turned to Halet. I was both impressed and sheepish.
'Thanks,' I said croakily.
'Years of experience,' she replied.
'I think we could do with your years.'
Later, when I told all this to Sally, she struggled hard not to be delighted. After all, she didn't like the idea of a nanny, but she certainly liked the idea of the children receiving more discipline.
'Just think,' she said, 'you'll learn a lot, perhaps more than the children.'
'Gee. Thanks a bunch.'
Friday 29 February
Had a long chat with Dom today, and he told me that things were going really well. The format of the show has all been worked out (why wasn't I included in the discussions?) and it looks as though they've even found a family for me to do my consulting on.
'I can't tell you how dreadful these people are,' said Dom. 'We once tried using them for some partner-swap programme, but the people we were trying to swap them with refused so emphatically, they said they would take me to court for causing untold cruelty.'
'What's so bad about them?' I asked.
'Well, the dad, if he's ever around, once served two years for GBH. He's called Big Ted, by the way. Then there's the mum, Debbie, who looks like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle. Horrendous woman, all she seems to do is to smoke cheap fags and swear. Then there are the kids, Little Ted, who's fourteen, and Epernay, who's nine.'
'Epernay?'
'Yup. Epernay. They saw it on a bottle of champagne once.'
'Jesus,' I said. 'These people sound like chav central.'
'Indeed they are. And, get this.'
'What?'
'Little Ted has got his first ASBO.'
'Aaah,' we cooed together, as though we were marvelling at some charming kiddie moment.
Inwardly, I was shit-scared. These people sounded as though they might well kill me. I said as much to Dom.
'Don't worry about it,' he said. 'We'll have Eric on standby.'
'Eric?'
'Our friendly bouncer and skull-cracker. He's done time for GBH too, so he should give Big Ted a run for his money if things turn nasty. Don't worry, you'll be in good hands.'
'But aren't this family a little extreme?' I asked. 'I mean, how the hell can I help them? My techniques only really work on nice middle-class families who've got slightly unruly kids who moan when they have to brush their teeth.
'
'Extreme is what makes TV, amigo.'
I sighed.
'All right.'
'By the way,' said Dom, 'we need to film you all on Tuesday next week. Can your wife get the day off? You know the drill – we need to present you as the happy family, all perfect and cornflakes packet. Will make a nice contrast.'
I gulped.
'I'm sure that'll be fine,' I lied.
Sunday 2 March
Sally's first response was:
'I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm not going to do it.'
Polite, calm, nice.
However, every time I needled her, she became more and more definitive.
'No. I've already said no.'
'There's really no point in you asking.'
'Sam!'
'Look. It's just not do-able with work.'
'You'll just have to manage without me.'
'For Pete's sake! No!'
'How many times do I have to bloody tell you?'
'I know what you're about to say – NO!'
'Fuck off!'
Honestly, you would have thought I was asking to do the thing we never do in bed. No matter how much I pleaded, how much I told her it was important, she was adamant. When I asked her what I was going to do without her, she just said that I should use an actress. Not a bad idea.
Monday 3 March
Noon
I suggested the idea to Dom, who said there was no time to get someone by tomorrow morning, and that I would just have to convince Sally, otherwise the whole shooting schedule would go out the window and there was no time for things to go out the window, because if that happened then the whole series would be in jeopardy and then where would we be?
Fuck. This is serious. There's NO WAY I'm going to be able to convince Sally. No way. Now what?
6.30 p.m.
The children are watching The Night Garden, and I'm feeling happy, because I think I have found a solution. It's not a perfect one, and it will have the most horrific consequences, I'm sure, but it's got me out of a hole. From this moment on, my TV wife will be Emily. I am going to be in so much trouble when Sally finds out, but I shall just have to say I had no choice. Which I don't, frankly. I'm also not going to tell Dom – I don't want him to think that Sally won't do as I ask. Emily's all up for playing the subterfuge, as I thought she might be.
Rest assured, she didn't need much convincing to take on this challenging new role. She's more excited than I am. 'Fame at last,' she kept saying. She's worse than me.
Tuesday 4 March
What a great big exhausting amusing educational disturbing scary fun day it's been. I can see why some of the actory-celebby types say their work is so demanding. I always thought that was complete bollocks, but now I'm a fully paid up member of the tellystocracy I can see why they always moan, despite their vast piles of cash.
The day started with me feeling a bit of a rat. As soon as Sally was out the door at 7.15, I phoned Emily to tell her to come over. (She was getting a neighbour to look after her children.) She did so promptly, and she was certainly dressed for the occasion – shortish and tight denim skirt, tastefully patterned tights, boots up to her knee, and a tight cream rollneck woollen top. There was no doubt that she was going for the yummy mummy look, and, to be fair to her, she had succeeded. Naturally, I felt absurdly guilty, almost as though I was having an affair, a feeling heightened by Emily's rather too affectionate kiss and flirtatious 'Hello new husband', which made her sound like that rabbit going 'Hello Mr Beaver' in that chocolate-bar ad from a lifetime ago.
'What's Emily doing here?' asked Peter.
Daisy kicked her little legs under the kitchen table – she loves Emily, and the feeling is mutual.
'Emily is here to help Daddy today,' I said.
'Oh,' said Peter, evidently unimpressed. He finds Emily a bit too forward, and kind of cowers when he sees her.
'I'm here to pretend to be your mummy,' said Emily.
'Why?' asked Peter.
'Well, there are some people coming to film us,' I explained. 'And because Mummy can't be here because she's at work, I've asked Emily to pretend to be our mummy for the people.'
'Oh,' said Peter. 'Is Emily going to be our mummy for ever now?'
'No!' I said, a little too emphatically. 'Just for today, that's all.'
'Good,' said Peter.
'Sorry,' I said to Emily, who was laughing.
'So all you need to do,' I said to Peter, 'is to make sure that you call Emily Mummy. OK?'
'But Emily's not my mummy.'
'I know, but we are pretending.'
'Like in the nativity play?'
'That's right.'
'Can I be Joseph?'
'What?'
'Can I be Joseph today? Joseph in the nativity play.'
'Well, we're not really doing a nativity play today. We're just having a normal day.'
'So when can I be Joseph?'
Mercifully I was saved by a knock on the door, which heralded the arrival of the 'crew', as us people in TV call them. This consisted of Dom, one of the Emmas, a cameraman, and a man with a microphone. I had expected more, but it was enough, as very quickly our small kitchen was packed with the crew and their kit, wires trailing everywhere.
I introduced Emily as 'Sally' to everybody, and I thought I detected a certain frisson between her and Dom, but that may have just been paranoia. After the pleasantries Dom invited us just to act normally, and to do our best to ignore the crew, who would just follow us around.
It was highly surreal. I made 'Sally' stay seated, as I didn't want it to be obvious that she had no idea where things like crockery and cutlery lived. She did her best to distract the children from just staring straight at the camera, but it was almost impossible.
'Don't worry too much about that,' said Dom. 'They'll get used to us.'
Dom then talked us through the shots we needed – me cleaning their teeth, me getting their coats on to go to school, me making Peter's packed lunch etc. Emily asked if Dom wanted her to do anything, but he told her that the whole point was that I was the one doing all the work, and shouldn't she be at work? Emily explained that she had taken the day off (as Dom requested), and Dom then suggested that we should do some shots of Emily kissing us all goodbye.
This wasn't great news, to put it mildly. The last thing I wanted enshrined on tape, for all the world to see – including my wife – was Emily giving me a kiss. But I could think of no way in which I could wriggle out of it.
'Why don't you get into your work clothes?' asked Dom. 'And then we'll do some shots of you going.'
'These are my work clothes,' said Emily quick-wittedly. I thanked God that we were spared the further hell of Sally seeing Emily kiss me while wearing one of her work suits. I think that would have meant instant divorce.
Emily grabbed a coat from the utility room, and then she bustled into the kitchen as if she had always lived here. I had to hand it to her, she put on a brilliant performance. The children, on the other hand, didn't, and Peter scowled when she kissed him, and Daisy said 'bye bye Emily', which luckily came out as 'aye aye ilee', and seemed to fool the assembled throng.
Then came the kiss goodbye.
'See you later, darling,' she said, her eyes locking on to mine, accompanied by her trademark smirk.
She then held my face in both her hands, and proceeded to give me a rather too passionate kiss for a wife who has said goodbye to her husband nearly every morning for seven years. It felt like utter treachery, but also thrilling treachery. Apart from the obvious reason of desiring sexual variety, I can see why people have affairs – it clearly feels SO naughty, and with that, an immense thrill that must only heighten the sex.
'Wow,' said Dom.
Emma gasped.
'I wish I got a kiss like that every morning,' said Dom.
(To be honest, so do I.)
Emily smiled contentedly, clearly revelling in exhibiting her oscular prowess.
'However,' said Dom, 'I think i
t was a little too passionate. Can we try it again, and make it more husband and wifey?'
'Sure,' said Emily. 'No problem.'
Fuck, I said inwardly.
Emily came into the room again, said goodbye to the children, and then proceeded to give me yet another over-the-top smoocher.
'Again,' said Dom, giggling slightly.
Third take, and Emily once again over-egged it. I knew her game now – she was going to give me as many kisses as possible, wear me down with repetition. Well, I was determined not to let it work, and decided to make it feel as though she were kissing Hitler.
'Um,' said Dom, 'could you try and look slightly less revolted when your wife gives you a kiss please?'
By the eighth take we got it right, and I felt nauseous when I realised that it would be impossible to make the children keep it quiet. They both looked a little confused, especially Peter, who kept trying to ask what I was doing, and I kept pre-empting by telling him to eat his breakfast.
'Is there anything else you need me for?' Emily asked, clearly desperate to ensure a run on videotape.
'Um, I don't think so,' Dom replied.
'OK,' said Emily, her crest somewhat fallen.
'I suppose we could shoot you coming back home at the end of the day, but we need it to get darker for that. How about you come back at 4ish and we take some shots then?'
'Fine,' said Emily.
'You can have a day all to yourself, darling,' I said. 'You could go shopping or something. Have lunch with Kate maybe.'
Emily gave me a strange look. It was hardly surprising – Kate is a friend of Sally, and clearly not of Emily. Still, I had rather hoped that Emily wasn't going to be so dim.
'Kate?' she went.
'Yes, your friend Kate who lives in the next village. You know, Kate?'
'Aaah,' said Emily. 'Kate. Of course.'
She still looked blank, and I could tell that Dom and Emma were looking at us not so much with suspicion, but more out of confusion.
'Good idea,' Emily continued. 'I think I'll go and see Kate.'
'Send her my love,' I said.
'Will do.'
Phew. I really didn't want Dom to rumble that I was using an impostor. Even though I knew that making up 'reality' was his stock-in-trade, there was no way I wanted him to think I was like him.