by Sam Holden
I must have gone white, because I certainly bloody felt it.
'Did I?'
I struggled not to make eye contact with Dom, although the farthest corners of my peepers were telling me that he had gone slightly off colour as well. At that point, he must have realised that I knew. Maybe he knew before – could he have really trusted Emily not to have spilled the beans?
'I must have nappies on the brain,' I continued. 'That's what comes of being a househusband! In fact, I'm trying to potty-train Daisy at the moment, so I'm kind of obsessed with getting rid of the things.'
This of course was a lie, as Halet had sorted all that out months ago. Even though I thought I explaineth too much, I think I got away with it, as Basil Fawlty might have said.
The rest of the meal passed in a haze of burgundy and champagne. I dimly recall leaving, I remember a taxi at some point, I even remember a train, and then I woke up this morning at 5 a.m., still in my suit, spread-eagled on the spare bed. Sally explained just before she left that Halet had filled her in on my return, which was disgraceful but not appalling. Had I offended her, I wondered? Apparently not, despite the fact that she is a good Muslim. Good old Halet. I owe her.
Now I've just got to get rid of this God-awful hangover. I don't suppose Halet knows too many hangover cures.
Sunday 17 August
Today we took the children to one of those country park places that feature a small steam train and all that jazz. Being summer, it was heaving with the most unspeakable people. I try not to be a ferocious snob, but it's pretty hard not to when one is presented with the socalled Great British Public.
On an individual level the average Brit is all right, but when you put us all together, we're a horrid fusion of excessive flesh and uncouthness. We don't seem to care that we're badly dressed, that we shout at each other, that our children behave appallingly, and that we all insist on getting sunburned. You can see why other Europeans hate us when we go over there, because, quite frankly, we lower the tone. And, to rub salt into the insult, we're proud of it. I don't get it. What's there to be proud of? What's so great about shouting 'Kylie, eat yer chips!' the whole time? Why would you want to wear clothes that exacerbate your rotundity?
I moaned as such as we walked round.
'Stop being such a terrible snob,' Sally hissed. 'After all, these people will soon be your viewers.'
'I don't know whether that's good or bad.'
'It's good. Who knows, perhaps the Holden Childcare Programme will help to make their children behave better?'
'That's right,' I said, utterly unconvinced. 'In ten years' time, thanks to the great HCP, British society will be revolutionised. I wish.'
'Well, you never know.'
'Oh, I do.'
'Why?' asked Sally. 'Do you not believe in your programme any more?'
I told her pretty much what I told Dom.
'The thing is,' I said, 'I'm in so deep, I can't express my doubts publicly. I mean, if it were properly done, then I really think it could work, but it hasn't been properly done. It's been very badly done, and then fudged to make it look as if it's as effective as a boot camp.'
'You're right there,' said Sally. 'It looks extremely convincing from the DVDs.'
'All the wonders of editing.'
'You're telling me.'
We walked along holding hands. The children were running ahead of us, playing hide-and-seek along a sandy path that led through some pines. Because we had walked away from the main area for more than five minutes, we pretty much had the place to ourselves.
'What do you think?' I asked.
'Think about what? Life in general?'
'I was just thinking about the whole WonderHubby thing.'
Sally clutched my hand hard.
'I think it's both great and awful.'
'Tell me the awful bit first.'
'I think it's awful for all the reasons you were talking about the other day – becoming a public figure, and all those people having some sort of hold on you, or some opinion about you. I'm worried that you could get hurt. And I'm worried that we'll all get dragged into it in some way. I think you're much more sensitive than you make out, and I worry how much abuse you can take.'
'I think that's fair,' I said.
'But who knows? All that may not happen.'
'Hmmm. And the great bit?'
'Well, I know I had my doubts, but I think that it's great fun. Lots of people want to be on TV, and you're actually doing it, and you're being paid well, bloody well. And you may even make more money. I can't deny that I like the money very much!'
'Aha! The gold-digger is finally revealed!'
'Oh yes,' she said, hugging me tighter.
We stopped and kissed.
'Eeeeurgh!' shouted Peter. 'Look Daisy! Mummy and Daddy are kissing! Yuck!'
We broke off.
'It's not yuck,' I said. 'It's what mummies and daddies do.'
'You are always kissing,' said Peter.
'I wish we were,' I said.
'I could do with another holiday,' said Sally.
'Now that would be nice. What say you we plonk these two in front of the box when we get back and have a little siesta?'
'A very fine idea. Sometimes I utterly approve of TV.'
Wednesday 20 August
Dave phoned late afternoon to say that everything was scheduled for Friday 5 September at 8.30 p.m.
'Dig that mate, prime fucking time.'
'I most certainly am digging it.'
'Ha! I love the way you say digging!'
And with that he was gone, perhaps with another 'dig'.
Friday 22 August
Toby Andrews has commissioned me again. He said that his editor loved my last piece (note correct use of journo-lingo) and he wanted something else about men being good at activities that are normally associated with women.
'I'm a bit worried I might be seen as a chauvinist,' I said. 'After my fight with Julia Stocks and that last piece, I could end up looking like a complete old fart.'
'I don't think that'll happen,' he said smoothly.
'Perhaps I should talk to my PR.'
Andrews kind of harrumphed down the phone.
'I'd really prefer it if a PR didn't get involved.'
'Oh?'
'They just put honey in the gearbox. It all tastes nice and sweet, but it also clogs everything up. PRs always want to justify their position, and I hate having to deal with them.'
'I'm sorry, I didn't realise. I'm a bit new to this.'
I cursed myself for admitting my neophyte status.
'Not at all,' said Andrews. 'Who is your PR anyway?'
'Laura Raynor.'
'Laura Raynor? Bugger me! You've got her?'
'Yes. Why? Is there something wrong with her?'
'Far from it! She's about the foxiest PR in the world.'
'Yes, I'd noticed. But is she any good?'
'Of course she is. She's sensational, but she's still a PR. Anyway, look, do you want to do another piece or not? I'll pay you two grand.'
I thought about it. For about two seconds.
'What do you want it on?'
'Why not a piece on how women are crap at cooking, and in fact it's men who are the true geniuses in the kitchen.'
'Done,' I said. 'When do you want it?'
'First thing tomorrow morning.'
'Gosh, that's quite soon. Can I have any longer?'
'No.'
And then he put the phone down. Fair enough I suppose. If you're going to earn £1.33 per word, then you've got to do it when the man says.
Sunday 24 August
People were divided into two camps about the piece. There was the camp that liked it, which consisted of me, and the camp that hated it, which consisted of everybody else. The person who hated it most was Laura, who rang up at 8.30 this morning and gave me an earful while I was still in bed.
'Have you forgotten everything we said about positioning?'
'No. Not at all.
'
(I had forgotten everything we had said about positioning. In fact, at that point in the morning, I couldn't even think what positioning meant.)
'Well, in that case, you'll remember that we wanted to position your brand as the sensitive new man, yet someone who is strong and knows his own mind. What we have here is a man who has strong opinions, but they are very much of the old-man variety.'
'Oh come on, they weren't that bad!'
'Really?'
I heard a rustle of newspaper down the phone.
'Try this,' said Laura. ' "The truth is, women can't really cook. All they can do is cater, and there's a big difference. The only people who can actually cook on this planet are men, even the ones who only cook once a year when their wife or girlfriend is ill." '
'So?'
'So?! Can't you see how sexist and old-fashioned that sounds?'
'Well, you know, I kind of exaggerated it for effect.'
'You weren't shy of doing so, were you? How about this? "Women are useless at following instructions, in this case recipes." And "Why does my wife always forget some essential part of the meal?" I could go on, Sam.'
I sat up in bed. Something in me snapped.
'Hang on a minute,' I said. 'I'm entitled to express my own opinions, no matter how objectionable you find them. You can't tell me what I can and cannot write!'
'Yes I can.'
'Why?'
'Because this TV programme isn't just about you, Sam Holden. In fact, you're just one little bit of it. Don't you see how much time and money has been put into it? This is about people's jobs, not just about your ego. Lots of people are counting on this show being a success, and they don't want it fucked up by you turning yourself into the most unattractive figure you can create. Do you understand that?'
'Of course I do, but I really didn't think it was that bad.'
'It is that bad. It's one thing telling a joke figure like Julia Stocks to fuck off back to Greenham, but another to tell all your potential viewers that they're complete fuckwits in the kitchen. In fact, perhaps Stocks had a point.'
'OK, OK, you've made your point.'
'I've got another one as well. Why didn't this go through me? I specifically told you at lunch that everything you did, every word you said to any media outlet, every word you wrote for every newspaper, all had to go through me. Do you remember that?'
'Of course!'
(Of course I didn't. I was too pissed.)
'Then why didn't you let me know you were doing the piece?'
'Because I just didn't think I had to, all right? Look, I'm new to all this, so just cut me some slack, would you? Christ! Without me, this bloody programme wouldn't have even existed.'
'That's utterly irrelevant. The fact is, you're now locked in with people who depend on you, and you need to depend upon them. You can't just be a loose cannon, do you understand?'
'Yes, yes.'
'Good. Fine. Right. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.'
'I'll try.'
I put the phone down. (Or rather, pressed the red button, which is a far less satisfyingly emphatic way of ending a bad-tempered call.)
'Who the hell was that?' Sally demanded from under the duvet.
'Laura, the PR woman.'
'What was it about?'
I crashed back on to the pillow.
'Me becoming owned.'
The rest of the day felt somewhat sour. I kept trying to justify my actions to myself, but deep down, I knew that Laura was right. It wasn't all about me. Nothing ever is.
Tuesday 26 August
Sally put my PR problems (never thought I'd have such a problem) into perspective by telling me that things at work were reaching crisis point. It looked as though they might just have to roll up everything and get out. Nearly every asset had been compromised (I think that is the technical term), and the future was looking very very bleak for the whole section.
'Does this mean your job is on the line?' I asked.
'Yes. And before you start pleading with me to chuck it in, I'm not going to.'
I am surrounded by strong women. Or at least women who are stronger than me.
Wednesday 27 August
Laura phoned to tell me three things. First, that she hadn't forgiven me for not keeping her 'in loop' regarding the Sunday Advertiser piece. However, she sounded somewhat better-tempered about it. I decided not to apologise, because I already had. The second piece of news was that having sent out preview DVDs 'we are getting great feedback' from the TV reviewers. Nothing specific, but they all seemed to like it, and it would certainly get a lot of review coverage, which is both great and terrifying. And, more exciting still, she's booked the Harpo Club for a launch party next Friday. Excellent! Now I can truly call myself a fully fledged member of the tellystocracy.
An actual party. I can't remember the last time I went to one of those, probably some dull management-consultancy affair. I expect the one at the Harpo will be very different. Better-looking people, for starters. And a lot more cocaine.
Friday 29 August
Today was the big interview day, which was spent in a suite in one of those trendy little boutique hotels in a part of London you never knew existed until you found yourself having to give interviews in a suite in a trendy little boutique hotel. Laura was fantastically efficient, and had lined up no less than twenty-three people to interview me. I was astonished – an emotion I am experiencing more often these days.
Normally I quite like the sound of my voice, but by the end of the day I hated it. Of course, I don't want to sound blasé, but there's nothing more tedious than repeatedly answering the same questions. How did you become a househusband? Where did you get the idea for the programme? What was it like to make? Why are your children not on the Holden Childcare Programme? (They had clearly listened to my interview with Stocks, which I see has become a bit of a hit on the Web.) Will you go back and visit the families you helped on the show? (Er . . . no, but I said yes. Nobody is to know that we aren't planning to.)
What irked me was that Laura sat through all the interviews. I told her it really wasn't necessary, and that I was perfectly capable of answering questions all by myself. Laura said that was the problem. Now I know why celebrities say they feel like caged animals. You're there to perform, and although your cage is very opulent there's no doubt that if you don't perform just how the zoo-keeper and the public want, then you're thrown back into the wild. Naïvely, I thought that spending a whole day in a suite talking about myself to pretty female feature writers would be almost the stuff of a wank fantasy, but it wasn't. At one point, when the umpteenth journalist asked me how I had become a househusband, I felt like shouting, 'Read the fucking press release you thick twat!' and then storming out. It's amazing how quickly you become a prima donna.
What also annoyed me was that Laura forbade me to have anything to drink, by which I mean booze.
'Why not?' I asked.
'Because you'll only get pissed and start insulting everybody.'
She was perfectly charming about it, but I could tell that she was as serious as a post-coital female Black Widow.
'You just don't trust me at all, do you?'
'Not one little bit.'
This brought out the rebel in me, and I vowed that I would help myself to something in the minibar when she went to the loo. Eventually, at some point in the mid afternoon, she disappeared, and I seized my chance. I dashed over to the fridge and opened it up, wondering what absurdly overpriced little something was going to end up down my neck. A little bottle of whisky? A quick cheeky beer? Perhaps even one of those cans of ready-mixed gin and tonic? I felt like a complete alkie.
I couldn't believe it. I was in the one hotel suite in the whole of London that couldn't provide an alcoholic drink. What was this, some kind of Mormon boutique hotel? And then it occurred to me – Laura must have taken it. She is as sly as she is beautiful. I was so put out, I challenged her about it.
'Did you take all the drinks out th
e minibar?'
'Yes.'
'OK.'
And that was that.
When the interviews were over, I went down to the nearest pub and necked two pints of bitter before you could say 'positioning'.
Sunday 31 August
This afternoon, Sally and I had a great time working out who should come to the launch party at the Harpo. Naturally, both sets of parents, various siblings, and old muckers such as Nigel and Clare, etc. By the end of it we had thirty names, and it was pretty tough keeping it that short.
'Will you be inviting the families in the show?' Sally asked.
'Good idea,' I said. 'After all, they were the ones who put in the real work.'
Monday 1 September
Laura's first words were:
'You've got to be kidding.'
Her second set of words were:
'Are you mad?'
And her third:
'We don't want them anywhere near.'
'But they're the ones who really made the programme,' I said. 'They're the ones who gave up their time, took their children out of school, made big sacrifices. The least we can do is ask them to have a drink. Where's the harm in that?'
'One. Launch parties are not for the subjects of the show. They are for the people who are going to write about it and publicise it. If the journalists actually found out the truth about how these programmes were made, then we'd be sunk before we even set sail. We can't have some of those people actually talking to journalists! Have you no idea?'
'None whatsoever,' I said wearily. 'Anyway, was there a second reason? You began by saying "one".'
'Yes. The sort of people featured in the show would massively bring down the tone of the party. They're the cooee brigade, the type of people who've won a trip for two to the West End to meet the stars of some crap musical. Betty and Derek from Blackpool. No thanks.'
Blimey, I thought. Laura was even more of a snob than me. That took some doing.
'Don't you think that's just a little unfair?'