by Sam Holden
Another meeting with Dom in London. I wish he'd sometimes come down here to see me, but I don't think I'm quite ready to throw my weight around. The stretch limos will come, I've no doubt. Until then, I think it's best that I go for the low-key celeb approach. Not of course that I am a celeb. Not yet. And anyway, the country is too celeb obsessed, so in fact I don't really want to be a celeb, but if I end up being a celeb because the show is a hit, then celeb I'll just have to be.
Once again the meeting was nuts and bolts, and Dom told me that they'd made great progress finding willing families, some of whom seem normal.
'Wow,' I went.
'I know,' said Dom. 'If I had my way they'd all be a bunch of chavs and weirdoes, but Dave is insistent that we have relatively sane and decent people.'
'Perhaps it's about wanting viewers to identify with the families.'
'Balls to identification,' he said. 'If I wanted people to identify with the people in my shows, then I'd be making fucking gardening programmes. No, I like the freak-show element.'
'Fair enough. Well, there's room for a bit of both, isn't there?'
Dom opened a file and passed me a photograph.
'Meet the Sincocks,' he said.
The photograph showed a picture of a happy smiling middle-class family – one boy, around eight, one girl, around six, one plain brunette mother, mid thirties, and one slightly portly father, same age. They looked like something out of a gravy advert.
'They look all right,' I said.
'They look dull as you like,' said Dom. 'But if that's what Dave wants, that's what Dave gets. However, these people have a dirty little secret.'
'Oh?'
'He's a vicar.'
'A vicar? That's the first time I've heard being a member of the clergy described as a dirty little secret.'
'It is in my book.'
I tried to take that on board, and decided that I couldn't.
'But surely a vicar shouldn't have too many problems with his family? I mean I don't know many vicars, in fact none at all, but I always thought that their families would be more functional than most.'
'You would have thought. But apparently these children are nightmares. They have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, which means that they fuck around all day.'
I'd heard of attention deficit disorder, but had never had it defined so succinctly.
'Isn't it, um, slightly bad taste to use people who've got a medical condition?'
'Come on, Sam. Can we drop all this "taste" schtick?'
He then opened a drawer and passed me a small piece of paper. It was a cheque. Made payable to yours truly. The amount: £30,000. I wanted to laugh out loud, but tried acting cool about it.
'Third now,' said Dom. 'Third on completion. Third on transmission. OK?'
'Great.'
'Now then, about taste. Can we stop worrying about that?'
I looked at the cheque and weighed up the pros and cons.
'No problem.'
'Good,' said Dom. 'Anyway, they're perfectly happy to appear, so long as we donate some moolah to the church. Keep its roof on, you know.'
'Fair enough.'
I looked again at the photograph.
'Sincock, eh?' I said. 'Great name for a vicar.'
Dom chuckled.
'We do know how to pick 'em. We'll be doing them next week.'
'Next week?'
'Yup. No time to waste.'
'Blimey. Yes. Fine. All right.'
We discussed more nuts and bolts, but what I really wanted to talk about was Emily. Dom had not said a word about her, and I was becoming increasingly anxious. Eventually, I decided just to blurt it out.
'Um, one thing – how is Emily? She took her, er, sacking pretty badly, you know.'
Dom took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
'She was pretty fucked off,' he said.
'What did she say?'
'Oh, Sam, let's not talk about it, OK?'
I wondered what he was trying to hide.
'All right,' I said. 'But I just want to make sure that you know that whatever she said about me and Sally was probably a load of bollocks.'
'Sure,' said Dom.
This was infuriating, and I said as much.
'Come on Dom, you're being unfair. I've got a right to know at least something.'
Dom put his glasses back on.
'Look, what goes on between me and Emily is private, OK? I know you're old friends with her, and are practically neighbours, but I don't see why I have to tell you everything that goes on between her and me.'
There was clearly no point in going any further, so I dropped it. But it's starting to eat me up. What the fuck is that bitch telling him?
Wednesday 23 April
Sally came back very very late last night – about 1 a.m. I had been asleep for two hours, and she woke me up as she came into the bedroom. I knew she was going to be late, but not that late.
'You OK?' I asked, my eyes squinting when she turned on the bedside lamp.
'I'll tell you in the morning,' she said. 'I'm sorry, I should have slept in the spare room.'
She looked absolutely exhausted, but I refrained from telling her so.
'No, it's OK,' I said. 'You can tell me now.'
Sally sat next to me on the bed and took her shoes off.
'There's been an almighty fuck-up at work,' she said.
'How much can you tell me?'
She sighed.
'Not much as usual, and it's not as though I know everything either. Basically, one of our most important networks has been compromised.'
'I'm assuming that euphemism means that a lot of people in your part of the world are being tortured as we speak.'
'You've got it.'
Sally lay down next to me.
'Do you know how it happened?'
'We don't. But everything seems to point to there being a leak.'
'What? You mean a mole? Like in John le Carré?'
'It's possible. It would explain a lot. It's not as though it hasn't happened before.'
'Are you sure? Isn't it a bit unlikely that someone at work is a traitor?'
'It's unlikely, but not impossible.'
'Christ. Why would anybody want to help one of those bastards?'
'Mice,' said Sally.
'Mice?'
'Money. Ideology. Compromise. Ego. The reasons why people betray.'
'Gotcha. I was thinking that some sort of rodent protection league was somehow involved.'
Sally sort of laughed and we lay there quietly.
'I can understand money and ideology,' I said. 'And ego. But what about compromise? I always thought compromise was about Russkis blackmailing people with pictures of them in bed with rent boys. But hasn't all that gone out with the Ark? I mean, everybody is allowed to be gay these days, so it's not such a big deal.'
'You're right up to a point,' Sally replied. 'But there are a lot of people around who have dirty little secrets.'
'I wonder what they are.'
'Oh, you know – mistresses, bizarre sexual peccadilloes, that sort of thing.'
'But even so.'
'I know, but a lot of the older types are vulnerable on this. They've grown up thinking all these things are shameful.'
I cast my mind back to Nick, Sally's ex, with whom I had been convinced she was having an affair the year before. I still inwardly winced at the memory of my following them up to London. Not one of my finest moments.
'I guess someone like Nick could have been a blackmail target,' I said.
'Nick?'
'Well, you know, him being secretly gay and all.'
Another sigh.
'You know what? If I were a cunning and low sort of person . . .'
'Aren't you meant to be?' I interrupted.
'True. Well, as I am a cunning and low sort of person, I'd suggest that you wanted to see Nick locked up for being a foul traitor.'
I playfully dug Sally in the ribs.
'Natur
ally,' I replied. 'And I'd want to see him hung, drawn and quartered.' I was relieved that we could make light of all this now.
'I don't see him as a traitor,' said Sally, in all seriousness.
'Really? I thought you people were supposed to be suspicious of everybody.'
'Yes, we are. And that's the worst thing about a suspected mole – it can paralyse an organisation, because everybody thinks everybody is guilty, and a lot of time is wasted on witch-hunts.'
'Well, you'd save yourselves a lot of bother if you just hauled Nick in and applied the old thumbscrews.'
Sally turned round and kissed me.
'I'm so glad you don't work where I work,' she said.
'Why? Because I'd be working with you?'
'That as well. But more because the safety of this country would be in grave peril.'
'Hmm! I think I'd make rather a good spy.'
'You'd be hopeless.'
'Why's that?'
I was slightly offended, but not much. At some point in their lives all men want to be spies, although I've now reached the stage where I've realised my talents lie elsewhere. Exactly where, I don't know.
'Because you love money and you have an enormous ego. All you'd require is a briefcase full of cash and a bit of flattery, and you'd spill the beans.'
I thought this over in my sleepyhead state.
'You make a good point,' I admitted.
Sally hugged me tight.
'It's nice being back home,' she said.
Thursday 24 April
It turns out that the Sincocks only live half an hour away, so I'll be able to come back home after each day of filming. Thank God. I hate staying in hotels on my own, no matter how nice they are. When I used to travel around a lot because of work, I stayed in some great places, but without someone to enjoy them with, they seemed pointless. Luxurious hotel rooms are for having lots of sex and room service, and whenever I'm in one on my own, I just feel a little depressed.
Saturday 26 April
Sally back v. late again last night. Says that things are a little better at work, but that's only because people have got used to the idea of the crisis and are adapting. She was shattered, and I let her sleep in until 11 o'clock, when I decided that she might actually want to get up and see the children etc. She looked a million times better, but had to spend until lunch working at her laptop.
The day was rescued by the weather, and we went for a lovely spring walk along the river. Well, it was lovely until Daisy insisted on being carried after we had gone about four hundred yards.
''ummy 'ill u carry me?'
'No,' said Sally, 'you've got legs, you can walk.'
Daisy held her arms aloft, ignoring the answer.
'Carry me!' she whinged.
'No,' said Sally.
Daisy then transferred the request to me.
'Carry me Daddy!'
'No,' I said. 'You heard what Mummy said. You can walk.'
'But I tired.'
She then made a great show of rubbing her eyes. This was complete playacting, as she had slept well.
'Come on Daisy, you can walk.'
Daisy then went into full diva mode. She repeatedly screamed out that she was to be carried, and stamped her little green frog-eyed boots.
'Let's keep walking,' I suggested.
Sally looked uneasy at leaving her, but as the river is fenced off, and we were in the middle of a cow-free field, I told her that it wasn't a problem.
Now began a game of Willpower Roulette – fun for none of the family. The rules are simple and timeworn. The players are divided into two teams – parents and children. The opening gambit is for one of the children to throw a strop. The second move is played by the parents, who then walk away. The game real now begins. Who will give way first? The child, fearing permanent abandonment by parents? Or the parents, fearing the child may come to some bad end if left unattended?
After twenty seconds, Sally came close to breaking. She was walking backwards, which is technically a breach of the rules, but I wasn't about to tell her.
'Come on Daisy!' she shouted. 'We can't leave you there!'
'Turn round,' I said. 'Otherwise she'll win.'
'What do you mean, win?'
'She's got to learn that she can't always have her own way.'
'I quite agree, but abandoning her in the middle of a field is hardly going to teach her anything.'
'Trust the WonderHubby.'
'What? You are joking.'
I was, of course, but it did occur to me that 'Trust the WonderHubby' might make a great catchphrase for the show. Who knows? Perhaps it would become one of those comedy phrases that everybody repeats ad nauseam. 'You wouldn't let it lie.' 'Only me!' Etc. Yawn.
Meanwhile Daisy was still rooted to the spot, screaming loudly.
'Why are we leaving Daisy behind?' asked Peter, who looked genuinely concerned.
'Because she has to learn that she can't be carried,' I said. 'Come on, let's keep walking. She'll come along – you mark my words.'
Sally reluctantly took a few more steps.
'Sam, this is ridiculous.'
'It's not. This is the time when we need to fight these battles. The older she gets, the harder it'll be.'
'The expert speaks.'
'Trust the WonderHubby.'
'Please stop saying that.'
Daisy continued to cry out.
'Mummy! Mummy!'
'Sam, this is just cruel!'
'It's not cruel. And if it is cruel, it's because we're being cruel to be kind. Come on, let's keep walking.'
We did so, and Daisy's bellows grew more faint as we got around 50–60 yards down the field.
'Sam! This is miles away!'
'It's not! What's going to happen to her?'
'I'm just worried that she's frightened.'
'She's not frightened – she's just being wilfull.'
'Daddy?' asked Peter.
'Yes?'
'I am going to carry Daisy,' he said.
'That's very sweet of you,' I replied. 'But Daisy needs to learn that she can't be carried everywhere.'
'But she is only two.'
'Exactly. She is a big girl now.'
'Daddy?'
'Yes?'
'The other day you said I was a little boy and I am bigger than Daisy so how is Daisy a big girl now?'
It was an interesting point. Sally laughed, a little too loud.
'Touché,' she said.
I didn't know what to say, and mumbled something about size being relative.
Daisy was really roaring now, and Sally started to walk back to her.
'Don't!'
Sally ignored me and continued walking.
'Don't!'
'For heaven's sake, Sam!'
And then Daisy fell over. Not a massive tumble, but enough to cause Sally to run. (Is it just our children who fall over a lot?)
'She'll be fine!' I shouted.
Sally ran at warp speed, and within a few seconds she had picked Daisy up.
'Is Daisy OK?' asked Peter.
'Yes – she's just fallen over.'
'Maybe she would not have fallen over if she was with us.'
'Maybe not.'
Sally drew closer. I soon noticed that Daisy was covered in mud.
'I'm going back home,' Sally shouted. 'She fell in a cowpat.'
'Oh shit,' I went.
'Oh shit,' came a little echo down to my right.
'You mustn't say that,' I said.
'But you said it!'
'Daddy was naughty to say it.'
Sally didn't wait any longer, and shot off with a poo-splattered screaming Daisy. I don't know how to judge the result of that particular game of Willpower Roulette. A draw? The biggest loser will be me, because I will hear no end of this from Sally.
Sunday 27 April
I was right. No end to it at all. Comments included:
'She could have got hepatitis.'
'I should never have listen
ed to you.'
'You should never leave children on their own.'
'Or lock them in their rooms for that matter.'
'I fear for those families you're going to look after.'
In fact, so do I. The Reverend Sincock and family beckon tomorrow. I've just been looking at ADHD on the Web – apparently there is no cure. Great. So what the hell am I supposed to do?
Trust the WonderHubby. Hmmmm.
Monday 28 April
I have neither the time or energy to write up what happened today.
Tuesday 29 April
Same.
Wednesday 30 April
And again. Suffice to say, it's been exhausting and bizarre. I shall write it all up at the end of the week.
Saturday 3 May
Where to begin? All I know is that this week has been one of the most eye-opening of my life. And that includes Richie's stag in Warsaw. Although Dom, typically, was delighted, as far as I was concerned the whole thing was an unmitigated disaster.
Naturally, it all started off well. The Sincocks were the model of middle-classness, and when we arrived Mrs Sincock (Ginny, naturally) offered us some tea and biscuits, which we ate in an immaculately clean kitchen, featuring no less than seven mug trees. The vicar – Norman – was charm itself, and for the first ten minutes the children were pretty well behaved (although they did seem to fidget quite a bit). The boy was called Michael and he was nine, and his sister Mary was six, and as they munched their Rich Tea biscuits, they seemed fine.
'How much do you know about ADHD?' Mrs Sincock asked.
'I've read about it on the Web,' I said, hoping my look of sensitivity and concern appeared as sincere as I felt.
'How about you?' she asked Dom.
'Same,' he replied. 'Gather it means your children behave like sh— behave very badly.'
'Yes, well, there's a little bit more to it than that.'
'Can you tell us more?' I asked.
'Well, they're both what is called "predominantly hyperactive-impulsive".'
'Uh huh,' Dom and I went.
'Which means that they never seem to relax. They're always on the go – running around, jumping about, climbing up this and that, and they never stop talking.'
'They seem pretty mellow at the moment,' I said.