Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband

by Sam Holden

  'Yes I do.'

  (No I didn't. Because I'm a man probably.)

  I flicked my cigarette into the fireplace, where it smouldered. I watched the smoke curl up, and I tried to attach some symbolism to it, but I couldn't be arsed.

  'Well, there it is,' said Emily.

  She looked at the fireplace.

  'Yes, there it is,' I agreed

  'I love you and you don't love me. And I shall just have to get on with it. As you can probably guess, I'm somewhat used to getting my own way in this department, and I'm not very good at coping with rejection.'

  'But Emily, it's not really rejection. That kind of says I'm throwing you away. You should think of it as, I don't know, running into some kind of force-field or barrier. There's a point you can't get past. But that point is not throwing you back. You can stay at that point for as long as you need, and if you choose to walk away, that's your choice.'

  'OK.'

  'Do you see?'

  'I think so. But what I want to know is this. How close is that point, this force field or whatever, how close is that to your heart? I know that sounds very soppy, but I need to know for sure.'

  I looked at her directly. I wanted her to be convinced that my response was completely sincere.

  'Emily, that point is miles away from my heart. Do you understand?'

  Her eyes looked puffy, and she wiped them with the back of her hand.

  'Yes,' she whispered.

  'I'm sorry.'

  And I felt it. I felt really sorry for her. Sorry because she had been so honest. Sorry because she was now feeling hurt. Sorry because she had nothing to look forward to. And sorry because I felt protective of her, some sort of skewed paternal thing when confronted with a woman crying.

  Normal procedure at this point is to put a comforting arm around the woman in this position. This is a massive error, and can only result in exploratory, tender tear-salted kisses, which then leads on to absolutely amazing sex, and then a declaration of love from the man, and then him regretting it twenty-four hours later, and then being too cowardly to ring her and say that it was a mistake, and her (rightly) feeling that he has just used her.

  So I didn't do that.

  Instead, I drained my glass and said, 'I think I should go.'

  'You don't want to stay for lunch? I got us some nice pâté, you know the salmon one you like.'

  'Got us'. There was something touchingly assumptive about those two words, something very uxorious. It's the little combinations of small words like that which I expect you would miss if you were divorced. Her thoughtfulness about the pâté seemed almost contrived, an attempt to woo me. But the 'got us' suggested a partnership, a very man-and-wifey partnership. Sally and I must say it to each other the whole time, and I never think about it. Why should I? I assume the 'us' in my life. Everything is about 'us'.

  'I mustn't,' I said. 'And I won't give you some bull that I've got things to do. It's just that I don't think it's fair on you if I stick around and drink wine and smoke fags and have a jolly time. I want you to know that when I walk out that door, it's me saying that I can't return your love, and I can't place myself in situations in which lovers might find themselves.'

  'OK, you're beginning to sound a bit pompous now.'

  'That was the idea.'

  (It wasn't.)

  'You'd better go before you get any worse.'

  We then made our predictably awkward goodbyes.

  So now what? A LOT to think about. Do I tell Sally? I wish somebody could help me with this, but who? Nigel? He'd only tell Clare, and then it would go round everyone. Matt? He'd just laugh, and then say I should poke her. No, I think I've just got to deal with this one on my own. God knows how I'm going to sleep tonight. All I can see when I close my eyes is Dom in his nappy.

  Tuesday 15 July

  I've been immensely slack with my diary, and the reason for this is simple. Hard bloody work. It's a bit of a shock to the system, frankly. So what have I been up to? Well, because I'm a management consultant at heart, I'm going to bullet-point it:

  Family first: Sally's job keeps reaching new lows. There's no doubt that the information leak is just that, and they're sure that there's a mole in the department. Despite my repeated (and sometimes sincere) protestations that they should give Nick a 'thorough debriefing', Sally is convinced that the traitor is not Nick, and she is getting a little tired of me saying so. The one person who never comes up in conversation is Emily. I decided very quickly that there was no need for Sally to know that Emily was in love with me. Although I really do think that there should be no secrets between husbands and wives, because exchanging secrets is a great way of enhancing trust, I cannot see how telling my wife that another woman – a SEXUAL PREDATOR, no less – has fallen for me will help our marriage. These things happen, one has to be big about them, and even though I am pretty bad at being big, I am doing my best to steer the wisest course.

  Peter and Daisy continue to thrive under Halet, which is good and bad. Good because they are now well disciplined, polite, have got into a good routine and have progressed well at school and playgroup this term. Bad because, er, this shows up my efforts. And bad because they seem to be amazingly fond of Halet, which makes Sally and me feel jealous. And bad because she won't be with us for ever. I also can't believe how quickly they are growing up. I know this is such a parent cliché, but it's true. Daisy is now a proper little girl, and her talking is quite brilliant (as far as Sally and I are concerned). She is a proper little madam as well, despite Halet's best efforts, and she is very insistent that everything goes just as she likes it. Example: she still drinks out of one of those Doidy cup things, and if the spout isn't exactly 90 degrees to the handles, and therefore directly in line with the Little Mermaid motif, she has a fit. And not just a little tantrum, but a full-on fit. Toast must be cut into triangles, she must have two baths a day, and woe betide anybody who tries to make her wear something that isn't red. Hmmm. I just can't wait for the teenage years. Peter is a lot more laid-back, although like many boys he seems to have a new craze every day. At the moment it is Daleks, and he is insistent that we allow him to watch Doctor Who.repeats. This is refused, as it is too scary even for Sally. Protests that best friend Phil is allowed to watch it are given short shrift, although I do not explain that Phil's parents are pretty chavvy, and play computer games the whole time.

  WonderHubby: We've finally finished filming! And, miraculously, nobody got killed or wounded. There were a couple of near misses, however. The worst was when a family of six capsized on a boating lake and the mother (who couldn't swim) nearly drowned. Despite the fact she hated water, Dom had insisted that he wanted them in the boat, as this would make a nice cheesy end-of-programme shot. We finally decided to use the segment with dramatic footage of me running into the lake in an attempt to save her. Please note the word 'attempt', as I did not actually manage to save her. I got bogged down in mud after four yards, and had to be rescued myself. All I succeeded in doing was ruining the contents of my wallet, and discovering that our household insurance does not cover iPods in the event of jumping into lakes, even if it is to save a life. The second near miss was when the Holden Childcare Programme decided that the children should spend a day looking after the parents. (We call this Role Transalignment Bonding.) It started well, and the parents even got breakfast in bed, but when it came to allowing six-year-olds to do the ironing, it ended badly. Thankfully, nobody got burned, but Dom had to cough up for a new living-room carpet and seven new shirts for the dad.

  Now that the series is in the can, Dom and Emma are going to spend the next few weeks editing. I've asked if I can help, but they've decided that it's best, for the sake of the deadline, that they go it alone. The series airs at the beginning of September, and they need to get preview DVDs out as soon as possible.

  The Dom situation: Although he knows that I know that he has split up from Emily, he doesn't know that I know about his 'thing'. And what a 'thing'. However, I think h
e suspects that I may know something, and as a result, I've found him to be a lot less domineering. And whenever he does try to get arsey with me, I just imagine him crapping himself in his nappy, and then a smile of utter superiority crosses my face. I still can't get over it, and naturally I've told Sally, Nigel, Clare, Victoria, Paddy, Ian, Ed, Adrian, Sam, Rick. Of course, I've sworn them all to secrecy. The one who found it the most hysterical was Sally's sister, who has known Dom for ages, and says that this revelation 'explains a lot'. Apparently he's never really had a serious girlfriend. I can now see why. The only way he's going to find a woman who's willing to indulge his taste is to pay her, and that sort of woman isn't the sort you really want to stay with for ever. I almost feel sorry for the guy, and it makes me realise that I am lucky that my 'thing' is very tame indeed.

  This brings me on to the Emily situation. Since her great DECLARATION, I have kept my distance, for the same reason as when I walked out of her house all those weeks ago. We bump into each other, which is inevitable, and we keep up an air of warm civility. The children like playing with each other, it's just that the adults don't. Or at least one of them knows that he shouldn't. Whenever I drop Peter round for a playdate, she always invites me in for a coffee or a glass of wine. I always politely decline, and her expression is usually a mixture of hurt and annoyance. Perhaps I should accept one of these days. The more I refuse, the more it looks as if I'm trying to steer myself away from temptation, which I'm not. Honest. There is no temptation.

  And now we're going to go on holiday. I can't wait. With all our massive WonderHubby wealth we've hired this amazing villa in Chiantishire, and we're having a week with just the four of us, and then the second week we're being invaded by Nigel and Clare and all their mob. It's going to be such fun – and, best of all worlds, Halet has agreed to come and help look after the children during the second week. I feel like a millionaire. Sally was reluctant at first, thinking it would be an invasion of our privacy, but I said that I was sure that Halet was enough of a woman of the world to avert her eyes when drunken thirtysomethings decide that skinny-dipping is just the best fun in the world.

  Monday 4 August

  Holiday was exactly as I had hoped – see separate photo diary for details. The children behaved and the adults misbehaved, which is just as it should be. I now have a tan, and I have restored all the weight lost for and during the filming. What's more, thanks to Halet being around, Sally and I managed to have lots of sex, which made us feel like a couple again. If you don't get round to having sex, or fall out of the habit, then you can end up feeling like just good friends who are bringing up children together. Highlight of the holiday was Nigel appearing in a makeshift nappy after one drunken supper, whereupon Clare ripped it off and chased him round the garden until he fell into the pool. I think you had to be there. I'm just glad the children weren't awake.

  Tuesday 5 August

  Have just got back from London from seeing the final edits of the programme. I'm both astonished and appalled. Astonished, because they have truly made silk purses out of sows' ears. Appalled, because the level of deceit that the viewer is being exposed to is almost criminal.

  'Wouldn't it have been easier to just hire actors?' I asked Dom. 'And then got them to sign non-disclosure agreements?'

  'We could have done, but I like to think that we make quality programmes.'

  'Ah.'

  (I wondered what could possibly be inferior, but then I don't have satellite TV.)

  'And you can also just tell when actors are acting,' he continued. 'Let's face it, the only actors we could afford are ones that nobody would recognise, and there's often a good reason why an actor is not recognised.'

  'Because he's crap?'

  'Exactamundo. So, cheaper to use real people, as we don't have to pay them, and when they moan that the editing has made them look bad, everybody ignores it because people always moan about the editing.'

  'Cunning.'

  'Extremely.'

  (The image of Dom in his nappy crossed my mind, but I did my best to get rid of it.)

  'What I find amazing,' I said, 'is that it actually looks as if the Holden Childcare Programme really works.'

  Dom chuckled.

  'I know. Because let's face it, it's a bunch of bollocks, isn't it?'

  I honestly didn't know what to make of that, and I still don't. The truth is I'm increasingly undecided about the whole Holden Childcare Programme. Yes, yes, yes, I know deep down that it's probably a load of – sorry, a bunch of – bollocks, but at the same time I still think there is something in it. There's no doubt that the way we bring up our children is entirely haphazard, slapdash, make-do, on the wing, random. None of us really think it out and plan how we're going to do it. These creatures arrive, and then we just muddle through from day to day, and kid ourselves that we know what we're doing and that we're completely in control.

  The fact is, we're not. The children are in control. Not in the sense that they're telling us what to do, but because our lives are entirely based around them. There's nothing wrong with that – in fact, it's just as it should be – but isn't it ridiculous that we don't have a system in place that enables us to be in command of childcare in the same way as a good CEO is in command of his company? It's not that I want my children to behave like cowed employees, but I just want the whole thing to run itself smoothly, and to have a programme that enables that.

  Hence the HCP. I think, besides all the management speak, it really has potential. The only problem has been the way it's been applied. I haven't done it successfully at home, and with our six families the whole thing had been hopeless, frankly. Utterly unscientific, and completely chaotic. So much for the observer not reacting with the system. I'm convinced that with at least two or three of the families, a properly established HCP might have yielded some results, perhaps even positive ones.

  I pretty much said all this to Dom, who nodded.

  'Well, I'm glad you think that,' he said. 'Because you're going to need to be saying that sort of stuff over and over again for the next few months.'

  'Really?'

  'Oh yes. Have you not seen Emma yet about your media schedule?'

  'No.'

  So I did. And when I saw her, I was amazed. She read out a long list of magazines, newspapers, TV and radio shows, some of which I had even heard of.

  'You're very much in demand,' she said. 'And this is before the preview DVDs go out. We're extremely excited Sam. We think this could be bigger than Make 'Em Work!'

  'Make 'Em Work?'

  'Didn't you see it? It was our biggest hit. It was all about getting your kids to do your job for a week. The coalmining one was a hoot.'

  'I must have been out or something.'

  'Anyway, we think this is going to go far far bigger than that.'

  'Wow.'

  'Wow indeed. Look – here's a provisional timetable.'

  She passed me three sheets of A4.

  'You'll see that the first interview is on Monday with Julia Stocks on BBC9. Can you do that?'

  'Course I can.'

  'Great! Because from now on, these interviews are your 100 per cent priority, OK? No excuses!'

  'Who is Julia Stocks anyway?'

  'You've never heard of her?'

  'Nope.'

  'She's an agony aunt-cum--shrink type. You must know her – fat and annoying.'

  'I tend not to mix with such people.'

  Emma laughed.

  'Anyway, she's one of the original feminists. I think she was even there when Emilia Pankhurst chained herself to that horse back in the 1960s.'

  There were too many errors in that sentence to even bother correcting, so I just let it go. Having worked with TV people all these months, I'm used to the staggeringly bad grip that they have on history, or 'facts' in general. In truth, TV people just don't care about the truth. Truth is boring and static, and it shouldn't be obeyed. There's nothing sexy about truth whatsoever.

  'Julia has this theory that the
whole househusband thing is a load of crap.'

  'Does she now?'

  'Oh yes! She told me on the phone that it was just a myth put about by men in order to make it look as though feminism had succeeded.'

  'Sigh,' I said. 'Will these people never be happy?'

  'Of course not! Take away their war, and you take away their reason for living. But you must promise to behave, do you understand? You must be nice to her, or she'll tear you apart.'

  'Hah! Tear me apart? Some old braless dungaree-wearer with a crap haircut? Not a chance!'

  'Hmm,' went Emma. 'You see, that's the old-fashioned attitude that you need to keep hidden. And please never admit you vote Conservative.'

  'Why?'

  'Because it's TV death.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. Do you remember all those stars in the 1980s who used to make pop records for Maggie at election time?'

  'No.'

  'My point exactly. They're the same ones who also said they were going to leave the country when Labour got in, and somehow they never got round to it.'

  'Interesting, but I don't see why being right wing is TV death. After all, aren't most people in this country pretty right wing?'

  'Of course they are! But they're not Conservatives. There's a huge difference. Being right wing is pretty much OK, but being a Tory is a total no-no. Got that?'

  'OK, OK, got it, but please don't tell me what to say or think,' I said. 'I react very badly to it.'

  'Perhaps we should cancel Julia,' said Emma as she looked down the list.

  'Certainly not!' I said. 'Bring her on! I shall answer her questions sensibly and with the intelligence she and her listeners deserve.'

  Emma raised an eyebrow.

  'I really think we should cancel.'

  'I really think we shouldn't.'

  Thursday 7 August

  We should have cancelled.

  The interview was, to put it mildly, a complete and utter fucking disaster. Thank God the BBC9 audience is only in the tens of thousands.