Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband

by Sam Holden

  'Look,' I said. 'I really need to think about this.'

  'Think about what?'

  'What do you fucking think?' I said.

  'Oh please spare me the sanctimoniousness,' said Dom. 'Emily said you were a bit of a vicar.'

  'Oh yeah? Why? Because I'm not a wife-swapper and because I don't spike children's food? Is that all that's required to be a vicar these days?'

  'This is boring,' said Dom.

  At which point I got into my car and drove back home.

  I haven't spoken about this to Sally yet, but I will do tonight.

  Sunday 4 May

  Sally thinks I should pay the money back and get the hell out. Dom has crossed a line, she says, and there's no reason why he should drag me over with him. I'm minded to agree, but what the hell can I do? The truth is, I can't pay him back, because I've already spent most of the money paying off credit-card bills incurred from the Great Flood. (Insurance is never fully comprehensive, as I should have well known.) It would be great to take some principled stand, but I simply can't afford to. Sally sees the brutal reality of that situation.

  Meanwhile, Peter and Daisy continue to prosper. This evening I helped Peter with his homework. His teacher had given him a load of words on little pieces of paper that he had to identify. They were reasonably tricky ones as well, and he got 18 out of 20 right.

  'I'm very clever, aren't I Daddy?'

  'Yes you are,' I replied, laughing at his lack of modesty.

  That's one of the great things about being four. You can show off, but not sound arrogant. I, on the other hand, can sound arrogant even when I'm not showing off. I need to make sure that Peter is different from me in many ways.

  Nevertheless, it felt good to have a weekend with my proper, decent, functional, kind and loving family, doing the simple things like Sunday lunch and homework. It makes me realise how lucky I am to have a life like this.

  Tuesday 6 May

  I called Dom first thing after the bank holiday in order to clear the air. According to his assistant, he couldn't come to the phone right now but could he ring me back? I spent the best part of the morning fretting, and even went down to the supermarket just to take my mind off it. We were supposed to be shooting the next episode later in the week, and so far I had heard nothing about where it was, who it was, etc.

  Of course, going to the supermarket did not help, and neither did bumping into Emily by the deli counter.

  'Hello,' she said.

  'Hello,' I said.

  'How are you?' she asked.

  'Well,' I replied. 'And you?'

  'Well,' she replied.

  And so on – a meaningless vacuous exchange, in which both parties were thinking the foulest thoughts about each other. (By foul, I do not mean dirty. I mean foul.) I constantly pictured Emily and Dom lying in bed, laughing about my supposed prurience. Fuck them, I thought. She's only belittling me because I've rejected her (frequent) advances, and now she wants to cut me down so the rejection doesn't seem so bad. Well, dummkopf, I thought, the smaller you make me in your mind, the more bitter you'll feel, because isn't being rejected by someone supposedly less impressive even worse? We parted with much faux amicability, and then we walked off. I annoyed myself by turning to see if she was looking back at me, which she was, whereupon she flashed me a fake smile.

  Dom had left a message.

  'Listen Sam, we need to have a serious talk. Bye.'

  I dialled him back immediately. If I were a sensible sort of person I would have taken a deep breath and mentally laid out my stall, but instead I just charged in.

  'Hi Dom it's Sam.'

  'Hi.'

  'Listen,' we both said simultaneously.

  We both laughed a little, which helped.

  'You first,' said Dom, which was frustrating, because he had got the magnanimity in first. Wanker.

  'Look, I know that I'm new to all this, but there are some things that have really surprised me. I think I can handle the reality enhancement, but as far as I'm concerned, giving children drugs without their or their parents' knowledge is just way out of line. I hate to say that I'm speaking as a father here, but I am. If I found out that someone had given Peter or Daisy some medication without telling Sally or me, I wouldn't be responsible for my actions. This is not about being a prude or anything like that, it's simply about being a decent human being.'

  'You finished?' said Dom.

  Grrr. He was going from magnanimous to condescending.

  'Yes I have. Your turn.'

  'All right,' he said. 'I admit that dosing up those kids wasn't exactly the done thing, but it did the trick. But besides, that's not the point. The point is, every time I do something that you find objectionable in your moral universe, you bleat about it.'

  The word 'bleat' really annoyed me.

  'And can't you see,' Dom continued, 'that if you've taken the money, you've agreed to play the game? I'm sorry that TV isn't as trustworthy as people like to believe, but there we go. The fact is, people want more and more outrageous reality-based programmes, and reality is simply not exciting enough to pull in the viewers. OK, sometimes we overstep the mark, but most of the time we get it right, and give the polloi what it wants.'

  'I know all that,' I said. 'And I'm not worried about it. But I still think it is absolutely outrageous what you did. I think you should tell them. These are people's lives you are dealing with, Dom, not pixels on your latest flatscreen.'

  'Tell them? You've got to be kidding, right?'

  'Not at all. They should know. And if you don't tell them, then I will.'

  A pause.

  'Are you being quite serious about this?' he asked.

  No pause.

  'Yes,' I said.

  'Great. So now we'll have one fucked series, one court case and the end of both our careers, simply because you're prattling on about some wayward kids.'

  'It'll be better than when they suss something is up, then run a toxicology test.'

  'Christ, you make it sound like CSI.'

  I said nothing.

  'All right,' said Dom. 'Here's what I'm going to do – nothing. And that's what you're going to do as well. Because if you do something, then I will simply . . .'

  (I was expecting him to say 'sack you', but this was far far worse.)

  '. . . tell Sally about your little fling with Emily a while back.'

  'WHAT?'

  'You heard.'

  'I've never had a fling with Emily! In her fucking dreams. For fuck's sake, is that what she told you?'

  'Yup.'

  'And you believe it?'

  'Yup.'

  'Well it is 100 per cent complete and utter bollocks. I have never done anything with her.'

  'Is that so?'

  'Yes it bloody well is! How dare she go around spreading those sorts of lies, and how dare you blackmail me!'

  'How can I be blackmailing you if it's not true?'

  'Because you know perfectly well that Sally would be more than likely to believe the accusation because of her feelings about Emily. For fuck's sake, Dom! Why do we have to go down this nasty little path? All I was saying is that it was wrong of you to have spiked those children's food, and now you come out with this threat.'

  'Calm down,' he said.

  'No,' I replied.

  'Look, just think it over.'

  I put the phone down and screamed.

  'Is everything all right, Mr Holden?'

  The voice gave me a shock at first. It was Halet, who was calling up the stairs.

  'Fine thanks,' I shouted back down. 'Just a little work problem!'

  'You are sure?'

  'Of course.'

  Or rather, of course not. The worst thing about this is that I can't really confide in Sally, as she'll think it's some weaselly way of pre-empting some 'revelation'. I'm minded to have it out with Emily, but I don't think that's going to achieve anything, apart from making her more bitter.

  On reflection, I am just going to have to swallow
my pride and my decency (whatever I have left of both) and carry on with the programme. £90,000 is a lot of money, and will make an enormous amount of difference to us. And who knows what other money might come in?

  Wednesday 7 May

  Well, I've spoken to Dom, and we've agreed to a kind of stalemate. I won't say anything about the medication, and he won't bring up the so-called 'Emily situation'. I also told him, half jokingly, that he was never to be trusted, and he told me that he would make sure he was on his best behaviour from now on.

  Sally has noticed that I've been a bit quiet over the past few days. I told her that I was fine, just a little tired etc. I asked her how it was going at work. She said it had 'stabilised', although everybody was still deeply worried, and that there almost certainly was some kind of leak. I asked if they had arrested Nick yet, and put him in an iron maiden, but that earned me a playful punch to the stomach, which Sally mistimed and ended up slightly winding me.

  Friday 9 May

  I've spent much of this week refining some of the Holden Childcare Programme. I'm aware that I've been winging it somewhat with the first two families. Us management consultants actually call this 'situational adaptability', and even though I've been doing all right, I want the next 'consultancy sessions' to have more structure. Up to this point, I realise that I've been far too nervous and self-conscious of the camera, but now I need to act like the Master of the Universe us management consultants really are.

  I have now distilled my methodology down to a few easy-to-remember phrases. Enter Confidently. Seize The Initiative. Dominate the Proceedings. Rebuff all Countermeasures. Roll out the Victory. Retire with Reward. I had rather hoped that this might make a good acronym: ECSIDPRCRVRR. However as this is largely unpronounceable, it may just have to be an abbreviation.

  On second thoughts, it does sound like 'exit prick rover', but then that sounds like you're trying to stop your dog shagging a hole in the beanbag. My talents lie elsewhere.

  Monday 12 May

  11 p.m. Somewhere in the south-west in the inevitable

  Travellers' Rest

  This time Dom has chosen a single mother with four children from four different fathers. She's called Suzie, and her children have remarkably normal names – no Kylies and Chantals, but Jamie, Mark, Jonathan and David. They range in age from eight to two, and although the children are no worse behaved than ours (or rather no worse than before Halet), it's clear from Suzie's face that they're a handful. She's thirty-four apparently, but she looks about fifty-four. The bags under her eyes are so large they could line wheelie bins, and her hair is prematurely grey. I told Dom that she should be on a makeover programme, as underneath she looked quite attractive. He told me that he was working on it. Obviously.

  It was clear that Suzie was rather overawed by being on TV, and was convinced that I was famous.

  'I'm so pleased to meet you,' she said.

  'Thanks so much for having us here.'

  I felt a little like a politician as I looked around her house, as if I were evaluating the state of one of my constituents. It was small, but she managed to keep it tidy, and what furniture she had was in reasonable condition. The children were in reasonable condition as well, and when we were introduced to them they all seemed very polite.

  'I can't quite work out why we're here,' I told Suzie. 'You seem to have everything under control.'

  'Thank you,' she said. 'I do my best, but one can always do better! I think your management idea sounds excellent. If I ever had the time, I'd want to be a management consultant.'

  'Really? Where do you work at the moment?'

  'I'm the number two at a leisure centre in town. It's quite full-on, especially as the boss has been sick for a few months.'

  'So you run a leisure centre and four children?'

  'That's right! My mum helps a bit, but she's got a bad hip and has been waiting ages for an operation, and it makes it hard for her to get around.'

  'Blimey,' I said, and meant it.

  A little later, I spoke to Dom.

  'I have really no idea what I'm going to do with her,' I said.

  'I know what you mean,' he said. 'She's a fucking saint. When the researcher said four kids, four fathers, I thought perfect. I even checked the postcode on our market-research database, and that said this area was all chav heaven, so I just assumed from the researcher's notes that she'd be a real Waynetta. But she's not!'

  'Too right – she's more of a Sophie or a Charlotte.'

  'She's quite fit as well.'

  'I thought that too.'

  'I've an idea for a programme.'

  'What?'

  'Make Me A Sloane. She'd be ideal!'

  'You're right,' I said. 'Give her an Alice band and a pony between her legs, and you're there.'

  Dom scribbled down a note, and I had no doubt that Make Me A Sloane would appear on our screens within the next 24 months.

  'This still doesn't solve our problem,' I said.

  Dom chewed the end of his pen.

  'I know what you're thinking,' I said.

  'What?'

  'You're wondering where the nearest chemist is, aren't you? You're thinking that if you can get hold of something that can make this lot hyperactive, we can have a show on our hands.'

  Dom laughed a little too hard.

  'I wasn't actually, but I was thinking of ways in which we could make them behave worse.'

  'And?' I asked.

  'And I couldn't think of any. Come on – you're the dad, surely you must know of something we can do?'

  'The thing is, one spends most of one's time thinking up ways of making one's children behave better, not worse. This is quite a novel situation.'

  'Hmm,' went Dom.

  'Hmm,' went I.

  Then I had an idea.

  'Why not just feed them to the gills with fizzy drinks and E-numbers?'

  'Not bad,' said Dom. 'But she'd never allow it. She seems far too sensible, and besides, you can't slip that sort of thing into their food quite so subtly as pharmaceuticals.'

  'OK,' I said. 'Perhaps we could just ask her. We could say, "Look, this programme is about children who behave like brats, and your children are not brats, so could you make them appear to be brats and then we've got a programme." '

  'Honesty, eh?'

  'Well . . . I thought it might be worth a try.'

  We carried on thinking.

  'Or we could create some sort of disaster at her work,' I suggested. 'So she's forced to take her eye off the ball on the domestic front and the children go a little haywire.'

  'This is sounding good,' said Dom.

  'Perhaps somebody could drown in the pool,' I said.

  'Wow! You're getting worse than me!'

  'All right, maybe not that extreme, but you know what I mean. And then we can get the granny in with her dodgy hip to look after the children. Lots of sympathy, and the programme will show that even a lame old dear can look after four children with WonderHubby's techniques.'

  Dom gave me a high five, or rather he attempted to give me a high five. Unfortunately I'm not terribly good at high fives, and I missed. We tried again, and we sort of clipped each other's little fingers, which was somewhat painful.

  'OK,' said Dom. 'This is great. All we need to do is engineer a disaster at the leisure centre, and we should be on.'

  'What are you going to do?'

  Dom smirked.

  'Don't you worry. I'll think of something.'

  'But please,' I said. 'No deaths.'

  'I promise.'

  Tuesday 13 May

  When we arrived a little after eight o'clock, Suzie was on the phone. She looked ashen-faced, as the tabloids would say.

  'Legionnaires' disease? Are you quite sure?'

  Dom winked at me. At first I thought he really had killed somebody, until:

  'And are they going to be all right? They are? Thank God for that.'

  We listened patiently to the rest of her side of the conversation. Toby s
tarted setting up his camera, but Dom made him put it down, which was cunningly sensitive.

  'So where are they now? . . . Still in hospital? . . . Do you think I should see them? . . . No? OK . . . What do we have to do? . . . You're joking! For how long? . . . A week? But Mr Thompson will be so angry . . . I know it can't be helped . . . Drain the pool? . . . Oh God, this is terrible . . . Anything else? . . . Just drain the pool and decontaminate the gym and the toilets and the changing rooms . . . And the kitchen? . . . Right . . . I'll be in as soon as I can . . . I'll try and get my mum to take the kids to school . . . OK, Ian, thanks . . . Yup . . . see you in a mo.'

  'What's happened?' asked Dom.

  'Something terrible,' she replied. 'A couple of people have contracted legionnaires' disease, and the Health and Safety people think that it's from our pool.'

  'I'm so sorry,' said Dom.

  'Me too,' I said, but I really meant it, because Suzie looked genuinely upset.

  'I've got to get over there right now,' she said. 'But I've also got to get the kids to school, and then get David to his playgroup.'

  'Normally we don't like to offer any practical help,' said Dom, 'but in this case I think we should make an exception. Perhaps we could pick up your mother?'

  'Would you really?' she asked. 'She could take David down to the playgroup. You sure you're sure? That would be wonderful.'

  'I'm sure,' said Dom. 'Perhaps Sam and I could get her – I expect we'll be seeing a lot more of her this week, and maybe it would be a good idea if she and Sam bonded a little bit.'

  'I don't know how to thank you! This is a complete nightmare.'

  Within five minutes Dom and I were in the car on our way to Suzie's mother, who we now knew to was called Maureen.

  'Legionnaires' disease?' I said to Dom. 'Really?'

  Dom chuckled contentedly.

  'Not really. But at the moment we've got two researchers giving a very good impression of it.'

  'But it'll cost the leisure centre a fortune having to drain the pool and disinfect the whole place.'

  'They'll be insured, and besides these places can normally do with a clean, can't they?'