Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband

by Sam Holden

  'Er . . . Trivial Pursuit, I think.'

  Saturday 17 May

  Sally was appalled by what had happened and made her feelings very clear. She said that it was amazing that nobody had died. I agreed. I said that if the series continues like this, Dom and I would be in prison for manslaughter. Perhaps I need to take out some form of insurance.

  Monday 19 May

  Dom has emailed a schedule of the remaining shoots. It looks exhausting, and it's going to take me all the way through to July. God knows how many more lives we will wreck. I emailed back:

  Dom

  thanks for the schedule. It certainly looks exhausting! I just hope that we manage to get through it without being sued. I'm being serious about this. It's bloody lucky that Suzie and her mum haven't done us for what happened. Or the Sincocks. So far we must have committed around a dozen offences, all of which could have seen us in prison. When I signed up for this, I knew that I would have to take some scales off my eyes, but I didn't realise that I would have to become a criminal. I really need your assurance that we're going to play it straight from now on.

  Best

  Sam

  His reply came back about ten minutes later.

  Sam

  No prob

  Dom

  This hardly inspires me, but what else can I do? I'm in so deep, the money's spent, and all I can console myself with is the fact that nobody's been actually killed.

  Monday 26 May

  Just back from filming up in Scotland. For once, and probably never to be repeated, it genuinely WENT WELL. Amazing! The family were a nice bunch, but just naughty enough for Dom, and, incredibly, they actually reacted well to some of my HCP techniques. The incentivisation and disincentivisation charts worked really well, and by the end of the week there was a distinct improvement. What was also gratifying was that nobody was killed or wounded.

  The only thing that was strange was that Dom kept having bad-tempered conversations with someone on the telephone. He was quite careful not to let anybody earwig, but I didmanage to catch the end of one of them.

  'Well, I can't help it . . . It's just the way I am . . . I know, I know . . . but I thought you would understand . . . OK . . . OK . . . Yes, I agree, best not to talk about it on the phone . . . all right . . . see ya.'

  All very mysterious.

  Thursday 29 May

  Why do I always keep bumping into Emily in the wretched supermarket? She actually seemed slightly more friendly, but I refused to engage her in conversation. I think she's got a guilty conscience.

  Sunday 1 June

  Last night was our wedding anniversary, and we went to Rookster Hall for dinner. It's our nearest country house hotel, and as such, it should do some good food. But it doesn't. In fact, it is dismal, stuffy, overpriced and just shit, frankly.

  The first warning sign was when they made me put on a tie. I couldn't believe it. It wasn't as if I was wearing jeans, and I had on a stylish (I thought) royal blue linen jacket and a white linen shirt. Sally looked lovely, and before we went out we congratulated each other on how glam we were.

  But not the right sort of glam for one David Bird, who said that I could either wear a tie or we could eat in the bar, which wasn't exactly the idea. So I wore the fucking thing, and it looked utterly absurd with the linen shirt, which was clearly not designed to take a piece of neckwear, especially polyester neckwear. I just don't get it, this obsession with ties – I looked far far worse wearing it than without.

  Bad sign number two was that our gin and tonics were execrable. They were warm, the tonic was flat, and a miserable piece of old peel floated on each. When I complained the barman looked at me as if I were an out-and-out tosser, despite the fact that I complained politely. I felt like telling him he was a fucking hick, but fights and wedding anniversaries seldom mix. Oh yes, and the crisps were stale.

  The next bad sign was the emptiness of the dining room. Despite it being a Saturday night, the only people there were a middle-aged couple, an elderly couple and a man about my age reading a trashy WWII thriller by someone called Guy Walters. We weren't expecting a room full of the young and the beautiful, but we were expecting a little more liveliness.

  Then came the menus – enormous things, full of overly complicated dishes that you just knew couldn't be cooked there and then. And if they couldn't be cooked there and then, that could only mean one thing – they were basically all ready meals, ready to be pinged in the microwave, and ready to be met with the derision they deserved. Eventually we both opted for soup, and Sally went for some monkfish and I for steak. How would sir like it cooked? What an irrelevant bloody question that was. Whatever you answer, it will always come back well done.

  The soup was fine, but our main courses were terrible. The plates had been microwaved along with the food, and although I have no objections to microwaves for heating things up, they are not ovens. They do not cook things. They simply make things hot. Thus our food was hot and not cooked and it was expensively revolting. We didn't bother with pudding, neither did we go back to the bar for a coffee or a whisky. We just wanted to get out.

  The price for all this? £150. Fuck knows how. But there you go. The middle-class curse: paying far too much money for shit food because we don't have high ceilings at home. Madness.

  Wednesday 4 June

  This week we're up in London with a family called the Desmonds. Again, it seems to be going well. Children are normally bad, and the mother, Sarah, I reckon suffers from depression and lets them watch far too much TV. The Holden Childcare Programme simply involves minimising the TV watching, after which everything has sort of fallen into place. Of course, I've made it seem far more in-depth than that, and I think she's fallen for it.

  It feels good to have been in London, and I've spent most evenings getting smashed with old friends. This has meant hangovers during filming, but nobody seems to notice.

  Friday 6 June

  Today I overheard another mysterious Dom phone call, or at least the first bit of it.

  '. . . I'm sure you can get used to it . . . it's not as if it's that strange . . . don't be like that . . .'

  And then he noticed that I was near and moved off. I wonder what it's about?

  Monday 9 June

  I know now. Oh boy do I know now. Hahahahahahaha! Who would have thought it? Anyway, to begin at the beginning.

  Once again I bumped into you-know-who at the supermarket. But this time she looked really upset, and even more keen to talk to me. Because I'm a complete softie, and because I'm so nosy, I asked her what the matter was.

  'I've split up with Dom,' she said, clutching her shopping list.

  'I'm, er, sorry to hear that,' I lied.

  'I know you're not.'

  'All right, I'm not.'

  It was tempting to play the hard cold fish (if such a role can be played), but I couldn't find it in me. In fact, I'm old enough to know that it's not actually in me at all, so there's no real point in looking for it.

  'But I guess I'm sorry for you,' I continued. 'I thought things were going well.'

  'I thought so too,' she said.

  'So why did it end?'

  Emily looked around.

  'I don't think I can really talk about it here.'

  'Fair enough.'

  'Can you come over after you've unpacked your shopping?'

  I thought about this hard, I really did. This woman has caused me no end of fucking grief with her lies and flirtatiousness, so why did I owe her any of my time? A reasonable response would have been, 'Fuck you Emily, I owe you nothing', but the actual response was:

  'Of course.'

  And so at 11.35 I found myself knocking on her door, and her asking whether it was too early for a glass of white and me saying of course not because if you've split up with someone a glass of wine at coffee time is just what you need and besides who cares.

  'So why did you split up?'

  'Do you swear not to tell anyone else, not even Sally?'


  Again, this is another thing about myself that I have given up trying to improve. I am incapable of keeping secrets. So when people ask me that question, I now always say 'No,' except for today when I went, 'Yes.'

  Emily took a big big swig of wine.

  'It's because he's weird in bed.'

  'Weird in bed?'

  'Yes.'

  'What sort of weird?'

  'Very weird.'

  By now I was actually rubbing my thighs in glee.

  'Come on!' I went.

  'I don't know if I should tell you. Perhaps I'm being unfair on him. After all, he can't help it.'

  Jesus, I thought, how bad could this be? If it was too racy for Emily, it must have been immensely bloody racy.

  'Stop teasing me!'

  Emily took another swig.

  'All right,' she said. 'But you promise promise promise?'

  'Yes, yes, yes!'

  'He's got a fetish.'

  'Yes?'

  'It's a strange one.'

  'Well, we've probably all got one of those.'

  'Yes, but this isn't like asking your girlfriend to dress up as a maid, or spank you, or tie you to the bed, or wear rubber or high heels or anything like that.'

  (That all sounded rather good, I thought.)

  'OK?'

  'This one's REALLY strange.'

  'What is it?'

  'He likes to dress as a baby.'

  'WHAT?'

  'That's right, and he even has to wear a nappy.'

  'A nappy!'

  'And a dummy. And he insists on making these goo goo noises and asking to suck milk from my tits.'

  'MILK!'

  By now I was shrieking like a teenage girl who was listening to her best friend describe giving her first blow job. (I'm so imagining that. Maybe such conversations take place in an atmosphere of respect and reverence for the male member, but I'm guessing not.)

  'And he wears a bonnet!'

  'A BONNET? You've got to be fucking kidding.'

  'I wish I was.'

  'But . . . but . . . but . . .'

  So many questions, but which one first?

  'But . . . but . . . but what . . . what does he actually do?'

  'Well, he insists on lying on the bed dressed like that – and he has a teddy bear by the way – and I have to talk to him as if I were his mother, you know, sing him nursery rhymes and things like that.'

  'Holy cow. But why did you agree to do it?'

  Emily chewed her bottom lip, and then drained her glass. I quickly refilled it, hoping it would make her even more indiscreet, although as this was the most indiscreet conversation that has ever taken place, more alcohol hardly seemed necessary. She thought for a bit longer and then:

  'Well, I think everybody has their "thing", you know?'

  'I do.'

  I briefly thought about my 'thing'.

  'And I think one should be tolerant of people's things. Because people's things are important parts of their sexuality, and so long as it's not illegal and doesn't involve shit, then I'm pretty much game. I had one boyfriend who liked to be spanked with sausages.'

  'Raw or cooked?'

  'Gosh, what a strange question. Um, raw. He liked them in a string, you know.'

  'And did you eat them afterwards?'

  'God no!'

  'It's only because I have a thing for sausages as well,' I said.

  Emily studied my face.

  'You're taking the piss, aren't you?'

  'Of course!'

  'Fuck! I totally believed you for a second.'

  'Anyway, you were talking about "things".'

  Another mouthful of wine. She was really putting it away.

  'Well,' she said, 'I really respected him for telling me what his thing was. It can't have been easy. So I went along with it, partly out of curiosity. But the problem was, after we had done our first session with him as a baby, I just couldn't take him seriously at all. All I could see was this gangly figure on the bed, wearing his nappy – God knows where he got that from – and with his bonnet and dummy and teddy bear and making all these goo goo noises.'

  'And would you . . . you know?'

  'What? Have sex?'

  'Er, yes.'

  'Yes we would. I had to go on top and he would go goo goo as we did it.'

  'Jesus.'

  We both took glugs of wine. This was huge news.

  'But what I don't understand,' I said, 'was what made you split up? I mean, it sounds as though you'd taken it all on board.'

  Emily looked me in the eye.

  'Are you sure you want to hear this?'

  'Probably not.'

  (I was trying to sound cool about it. Yeah, right.)

  'Well, it was about our third or fourth baby session, and about halfway through, before we got to the actual sex bit, he asks if I can change his nappy.'

  'What? Had he wet it? Ha ha! How rank!'

  But Emily had gone quite solemn.

  'Worse than that.'

  Cogs whirred in my brain. They didn't have to whir that much.

  'YOU'RE JOKING!'

  'I wish I was. I can't tell you how utterly disgusting it was. He kept going, "Mummy, change nappy," and the smell was something else.'

  I started to feel physically sick. Unfortunately, I am very good at visualising things, and the sense of nausea was very real. I took another swig of wine to try to mask the virtual stench that was wafting over my olfactory nerves.

  'You didn't change it, did you?'

  'Fuck no! I walked straight out there and then! It was the grossest thing I'd ever seen!'

  'That's saying something.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Sorry, sort of came out the wrong way.'

  Emily let it go.

  'Anyway, I told him the following day that was that, and he pleaded and grovelled and begged. You know what you men are like. But as I said, I don't do shit, and what really annoyed me is that he KNEW that, because I told him before we had our "what's your thing" conversation.'

  'Jolly rude of him.'

  Emily giggled.

  'Stop it. It's not that funny, you know.'

  I tried not to laugh, but I couldn't, and soon we were both in hysterics. After we recovered, Emily swiftly became somewhat maudlin.

  'So now I'm single again.'

  Uh-oh, I thought.

  'And,' she continued, 'I said some beastly things about you.'

  I got up from the chair.

  'Yes you did,' I said. 'And despite all this laughter about Dom, I'm really angry with you for telling him a pack of lies. You know he tried to blackmail me with them?'

  'I do, yes.'

  'Well, it was fucking unpleasant.'

  'Believe me Sam, I'm so terribly sorry. I really am. It was foul of me to have said those things. I guess I was annoyed at not being on the programme, and a whole load of other things as well.'

  'What other things?'

  'Oh, they're not important.'

  'No go on, what other things?'

  Emily got up and fetched her handbag, out of which she extracted a packet of cigarettes.

  'Would you like one?'

  'Go on then.'

  We lit our cigarettes and remained standing. Emily started picking at a scab on her arm.

  'Other things,' she said gently under her breath.

  'I'm all ears.'

  I knew what she was going to say.

  'Oh godammit Sam, are you really so thick? Can't you guess what it is?'

  'I think I can,' I said. 'But if it's what I'm thinking, then it would feel somewhat arrogant to assume it.'

  'In that case you're thinking the right thing.'

  'I am?'

  Emily's eyes looked watery as she stared at me.

  'Yes you are, because you must already know that I love you very much.'

  My hand shook as I took a drag of my cigarette. I was totally blindsided by this. Even though I had no intention of acting upon Emily's declaration (how Jane Austen that sound
s) it still felt like a big moment. Here was somebody declaring their love for me. (To think that I just thought that she fancied me.) The last person who had done that was Sally, and that was many moons ago. (I'm not referring to all the subsequent I Love Yous, I'm talking about the first one, the really BIG one which feels like such a risk when you say it, because there's always that little bit of you that worries whether a rather big bit of them doesn't really love you that much, and that the whole thing has just been about fondness and sex.) I didn't know what to say. Normal procedure is to say 'I love you' back, but this was not normal, and neither would I have been telling the truth.

  'So,' she said. 'There it is. I love you, Sam Holden. I have for a long time, because you are a wonderful man. You're kind and thoughtful and funny and not bad-looking at all . . . and I really really want to know what your thing is.'

  I laughed nervously.

  Another drag of my cigarette. More wine. It felt like the type of talk one should be having twelve hours later, not in the middle of the day. And, funnily enough, now that the air was cleared, there seemed very little to say. It almost felt anticlimactic.

  'You must understand, Emily, that I love Sally. Only Sally. You do realise that?'

  She nodded.

  'And I'm one of those boringly monogamous types, as you've probably worked out.'

  'More's the pity.'

  I know what she wanted to ask me. Just because I loved Sally, that didn't mean I couldn't love someone else. But the fact is, even though I think you can love two people, I just don't love Emily. But I thought the kindest thing to do was to lie.

  'And I'm also one of those people who can only love one person at a time.'

  Emily nodded ruefully.

  'You don't even love me just a teensy bit?'

  I shook my head.

  'I'm sorry,' I said. 'Perhaps it would be different if I were single or in another life, you know. But this is who I am, and I love Sally. That's not to say that I don't think that you're great fun and that you're attractive . . .'

  'But you just don't love me. I'd rather you found me boring and ugly and yet loved me. Do you get that?'