Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (17 page)

Friday 18 April

Had a long chat with Halet today. She says that she is
really enjoying being Peter and Daisy's nanny, and
reckons that they are the most fun children she has
looked after. I asked her to work for us through to the
end of the year, and she readily accepted. I gave her the
afternoon off, and took the children to the park, where
I spotted Emily. We sort of scowled at each other. This
is going to be tedious if it carries on for the next few
years. Either she'll have to move again, or we will. I'm
sure there's nothing she can do to spoil the
programme, but it irks me that she and Dom are
intimate. God knows what sort of poison she will pour
in his ear. Fuck her. She can do what she likes – without
me, there is no
WonderHubby
. I am the WonderHubby.

Peter and Daisy seemed somewhat miffed that Halet
was not looking after them this afternoon.

'But where is she?' Peter moaned.

'Where is 'alet?' Daisy asked.

'She's gone home,' I replied. 'I said that she could
have the afternoon off so I could look after you.'

'But why do you want to look after us?' asked Peter.

'Because I haven't seen much of you for a bit, and I
thought it would be nice.'

Peter stamped his right foot in a little huff.

'But I want to see Halet!'

'Peter! I won't have this sort of behaviour! Do you
behave like this for Halet?'

'No,' he said.

'So why are you being like this for me?'

'Because I want to see Halet!'

(There was something very neat about Peter's logic.)

'I 'ant to see 'alet too,' said Daisy.

'Not you as well,' I sighed.

My irritation was quickly transmitted, and within a
few seconds both Peter and Daisy were emitting a
variety of moans, bleats and cries that their beloved
nanny had abandoned them.

'If you're not quiet, you can both go to your rooms!'

This only made them more angry, and the volume
and intensity of the moans, bleats and cries increased.

'Right! Up to your rooms!'

'No!' they shouted in unison.

Struggling to maintain my unlegendary sangfroid, I
picked Daisy up and carried her to her room. This
caused her to shriek, and when I closed the door on her
I swear that what emanated from her mouth could have
destroyed all the glass in a five-mile radius. Peter's
hollering was no less violent, and after I had shut his
door I could also hear the sound of toys being thrown
around.

Thinking they would calm down in a couple of
minutes, I retreated to the kitchen, where I turned on
the kettle and anticipated a peaceful cuppa over the
local rag. No such luck. If anything, the racket
increased, and every time I shouted up the stairs for
them to stop it, it just got louder. I was determined to
win this particular battle.

In the end they were saved by the bell, or rather the
phone. It was Sally, who was ringing to check in.

'What's that noise?' she asked. 'Have you got the TV
on or something?'

'The children are bellowing in their rooms.'

'Christ, Sam, they sound as though they're in a
Romanian orphanage! What are you doing to them?'

'I've shut them in their rooms because they were
showing a distinct attitude problem.'

'Attitude problem?'

I explained what had happened.

'And so you've shut them in their rooms for
that? Sam, shutting children in their rooms is a very
harmful thing to do. You should only use it as the last
resort.'

'Oh come on, my mother shut me in my room
countless times. It never did me any harm.'

'That's debatable. And besides, I find that people
who say "it never did me any harm" are damaged in
some way.'

'Gee, thanks.'

The bellowing went up a few decibels.

'Jesus, Sam! Aren't you going to let them out?'

'Yes, yes. I just want to show them who's boss.'

'Where's Halet, anyway?'

'I gave her the afternoon off. I thought it would be
nice for them to have some time with me instead.'

Sally laughed, darkly.

'OK, I'll let them out now. I'll see you later.'

It took at least half an hour of
Bob the Builder
to calm
them down, and even by bathtime, they were still not
exactly on great form. By the time I had tucked them up
and started getting supper ready, I reflected that there
was little 'wonder' in WonderHubby today. In fact, I was
CrapBad-TemperedHubby. Shutting them in their
rooms was too harsh, too Victorian dad, and I swore to
myself that I'd make it up to them.

All this then gave me the fear about the whole
programme, and whether I could possibly pull it off. I
can't look after my own children properly, let alone
those of other people.

Just how much bribery, editing and reality
enhancement can Dom get away with? In some ways,
this programme will have to be truly groundbreaking.

Monday 21 April

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.

'Naturally,' 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.