Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (31 page)

I was aware of black figures, torch lights, and Halet
screaming, as well she might. Strong arms picked me up
and took me through the back door out into the cool
fresh air, where I gulped lungfuls of the stuff. It tasted
so nice compared to the puke and what I now know was
tear gas.

'Are you all right, Mr Holden?'

I nodded, and then squinted at the questioner. He
was wearing a balaclava and was in the process of
removing his gas mask. He looked the fucking business,
and I desperately wanted his job there and then. In his
right hand he held a black pistol that looked
unspeakably cool, and so unlike the type of shitty thing
you see in a film.

'I'm fine, thanks.'

'Hey, I know you!' he said. 'You're that chap off the
telly! What's your name?'

'Sam Holden,' I hacked.

'You're that bloke who tells people how to look after
their kids!'

'That's right!'

'Can I have your autograph?'

'With pleasure. But listen mate, you've got this all
wrong.'

'How do you mean?'

Fuck, my eyes stung.

'You're not meant to be in awe of me, I'm meant to
be in awe of you. Which I am!' I broke off, a hacking
cough grasping my breath.

The policeman laughed and patted my back.

'Nasty stuff, eh? I'm sorry about that.'

'That's OK, I understand. Where's she gone,
anyway?'

He looked up into the sky.

'She'll be halfway to some spook house by now.'

Another policeman joined us. He was dressed as
awesomely as his colleague.

'There's a car here for you, sir.'

'For me? Am I being taken in as well?'

'No! He says he's from the
Joseph and Mary
show. He's
to take you up to town.'

It should come as no surprise that I had quite
forgotten.

'Could you tell him to wait ten minutes?'

'Of course!'

One has to be a pro about these things, I thought.
Even if you've just been tear-gassed in your own kitchen
and had your nanny choppered out to some interrogation
centre, the show must go on.

Wednesday 24 September

Lots of fallout from Monday. Obviously it never made
the papers, and the official line for the village – for
those who didn't see Halet being bundled off – was that
the police had made a cock-up. They thought a local
drug dealer had taken refuge in our house, but they
had been given the wrong intelligence. Most of them
seemed to swallow that.

More importantly, Halet was indeed a spy. I still can't
believe this, but Sally told me she buckled under
interrogation. Apparently she had turned against the
West when her husband had been killed in an American
airstrike some years back, and she had been recruited
by her country's intelligence service to come over here
and inveigle herself into British society. She had been
amazingly lucky to get work with Sally's colleague, and
then even luckier to get work with us, because being
more senior, Sally had access to far more sensitive
information. It was Halet's spying that had blown all the
department's networks. It seems incredible to think that
while she was looking after Peter and Daisy so brilliantly
and so kindly, she was simultaneously responsible for
the deaths of dozens of people.

As was to be expected, Sally was severely reprimanded
for poor security with her laptop. I thought she would
have been sacked, but she had defended herself by
saying that Halet had been given security clearance in
order to work with Sally's colleague.

Peter and Daisy are very sad about what has
happened to Halet, and the official line as far as they
are concerned is that she had to rush back home in
order to see her sick mother. 'When is she coming
back?' Peter keeps asking, and Daisy provides her usual
refrain. When I tell them she might not come back,
there are lots of tears. They miss her so much and, to be
honest, so do I.

Friday 26 September

Although we're still in a state of shock, I've been trying
to get things back to normal. As we no longer have any
childcare, I've resumed my househusband duties. It's
fun being back in the saddle, and it's putting money
where my
WonderHubby
mouth is. I got special
dispensation to take the children out of school, and I
took them shopping for toys. We bought the most
disgusting amount, and I further spoiled them rotten by
taking them for a pizza.

'Can we do this every day?' Peter asked.

'I'd love to,' I said. 'But I think if you bought toys all
the time you'd get a bit bored.'

'I wouldn't be bored,' he said.

All this talk about toys made me worry about Emily.
Obviously, with the drama of Halet's arrest, she had
been firmly dispatched to the back of my mind, but toys
had reminded me about money (toys always remind me
about money) and that in turn made me dwell on
Emily's threat. Would she really carry it out? And would
anybody believe the drunken drawlings of a mad dipso
from the Shires?

Yes they would, probably.

So I've resolved to see her once more. I'll go round
tomorrow morning and try and sweet talk her. It's my
only option.

Saturday 27 September

7.30 p.m.

Today has been even more dramatic than Halet's arrest
day. An utter rollercoaster. I'm in dire need of the
stiffest of drinks, but first I want to get everything down.
It needs to be recorded for posterity, if that doesn't
sound too self-important.

I went round to Emily's house just after nine o'clock,
having told Sally that I was going to the ironmongers to
get some handles, knobs etc. for the front door. (The
police said they would pay for the damage, but so far no
joy. The kitchen also stinks of tear gas, which keeps
making me want to throw up.)

At first I thought all was well, because the car was in
the drive and one of the upstairs windows was open. I
knocked and waited, and then I knocked again.

'Hello!' I shouted through the letter box.

Still nothing.

I peered through. The place was even more of a tip
than it was last week.

'Hello!'

Silence.

For some reason – a logical one, probably – I decided
to walk round the house to see if everything was OK. As
I did so, I looked through the ground-floor windows,
which revealed scuzz everywhere – unwashed crockery,
leftover food, toys scattered, laundry piled up on the
kitchen floor. It was like a dosshouse, but somehow
worse, because I knew children had to live in it. (We
used to have a neighbour who lived like this, and it
constantly amazed me that her children were able to
emerge unscathed without some sort of deadly
bacillus.)

I reached the back door and knocked.

'Hello?'

I tried the handle. It turned. Should I go in?

'Hello?'

Why did I keep saying that?

I walked into the kitchen, and was struck by the smell
of the unwashed laundry and the dirty dishes, an
olfactory combination that took me straight back to
bachelorhood. Aaah – carefree, hygiene-free days.

'Emily?'

I made my way up the stairs. I could hear nothing, but
the smell was getting worse.

I couldn't remember which one was her bedroom, so
I tried the first door I came to. It was a child's room,
festooned with toys and clothes. The second door was
another child's room, a little tidier than the first,
probably because it was a girl's room.

'Emily?'

It was becoming obvious that there was no one here.
They must have all been picked up by someone and
taken away for the weekend. There was one more door
to try, which had to be her room. I gently pushed it
open.

I was met by darkness and a smell of vomit. Jesus, I
thought, this was getting out of hand.

'Emily?'

No reply. My eyes grew accustomed to the gloom.

'Emily?'

A figure on the bed.

'Oh my God!' I shouted.

I rushed in, my brain struggling to cope with what my
eyes were relaying to it. Emily was sprawled on the bed,
her body messily arranged like a rag doll.

'Emily?'

A bottle of vodka lay empty by the bed, and her hair
was matted in a pool of half-dried sick. God knows how
many hours she'd been like this. Then a flood of panic
came over me as I realised she might not be breathing
– she could have choked on her vomit.

'Oh God no!'

I slapped her face. Nothing.

'Emily! Wake up!'

A stir. A very weak mumble. She heaved and I jumped
back, fearing she'd be sick again. She briefly opened
her eyes and then they lolled back up in her head again.
I thanked a non-existent god that she wasn't dead. I
couldn't believe things had got so out of control. Why
hadn't I realised how depressed she was? I shouldn't
have left. I should have helped more. Silent tears rolled
down my cheeks as I shifted her into the recovery
position, away from the sick. The stench was making me
gag.

And then I spotted the pills, or rather the empty
bottle of pills, neatly placed on the bedside table. I felt
my heart skip, a lump of guilt and despair rising in my
throat.

'Oh shit oh shit,' I think I went.

Medically, I had no idea what to do, so I covered her
up with the duvet, recalling that warmth was always
important in these scenarios.

'Phone,' I shouted to myself, 'where's the fucking
phone?'

I looked around the bedroom. No phone.

I raced downstairs, nearly tripping over.

'Come on! Where the fuck is it?'

I scrabbled through the mess in the drawing-room.
No phone. Into the kitchen, and after what seemed like
decades, I found it under a cereal packet. I pressed 999.
Nothing. I looked at the screen. Blank. The wretched
battery was not charged up!

'Must be a normal phone! Come on! Give me a
normal fucking phone!'

I ran around the house, panicking. I knew that
panicking would achieve nothing, and I made myself
calm down. I went back to the drawing-room, and tore
it right up. No phone.

No phone in the dining-room, but just off the dining-room
was a small door, which I all but kicked in. A
study! There had to be a phone in here, there just had
to be.

And there was. And it was a normal, batteryless
phone.

I dialled 999, reflecting that the only land-based
emergency service I had yet to encounter this week was
the fire brigade.

'Which service do you require?'

'Ambulance please!'

After an age, I was routed through to some control
centre in Djibouti.

'She's had an overdose,' I shouted. 'Please come
quickly.'

I ran back upstairs, back into Emily's bedroom, and
checked on her. I became angry and upset, feeling that
this was somehow all my fault, and yet knowing that it
really wasn't. Emily was in a far worse state than I – or
perhaps anyone else – had imagined.

'You stupid girl,' I said. 'You stupid bloody girl.'

Once again, that strange feeling of paternalism. I felt
like she was my daughter, and that I had to do my best
to protect her. At that moment I felt a very real and
deep love for Emily, the love of a father for a child.

When the ambulance came I felt a sense of relief, but
also a sense of loneliness. I needed someone here, and
that could only be one person.

Sally clutched my hand reassuringly while we watched
Emily being loaded into the ambulance. When the
police arrived Sally carried on holding my hand as they
satisfied themselves that I wasn't some failed murderer.
Afterwards, as I sat numbly at Emily's kitchen table,
remembering happier times when we had shared
glasses of late-morning wine and chatted about the
children, Sally went about cleaning Emily's bedroom
and the general carnage. What a woman.

Then we left, grateful to return to our warm, happy
home. It still amazes me that Sally asked no questions.
We both knew that what had happened had gone
beyond jealousy and marital tiffs.

After leaving Peter and Daisy with Kate, we went to see
Emily in the hospital. I couldn't believe that Sally
wanted to come, but she insisted.

'The woman's ill, Sam,' she said. 'She needs our help.
I'm not going to let the fact that she is in love with you
stand in the way of that.'

'Thank you,' I said.

We arrived at her bedside, where we found Jim, her
ex-husband. He looked terrified.

'How is she?' I asked.

'She'll make it,' he said. 'I expect her liver will be a
bit ropy from now on.'

'No more booze for her,' I said.

'Quite.'

We all stared down at her in silence. She was asleep,
and she looked peaceful. There was some colour in her
cheeks, and, strangely, she looked better than she had
done in weeks. It was as if all the vomiting had purged
her of her demons. Jim looked up and caught my eye.

'I gather you found her,' he said.

'That's right.'

'Thank you,' he said simply.

He looked down again at his ex-wife. He had both
love and tears in his eyes.

'Do you think she wanted to die?' he asked.

I paused.

'No,' I said confidently. 'I think it was a cry for help.'

'I hope so,' he said.

'She's not been well,' I continued. 'You know she's
been . . .'

'I do,' Jim said immediately. 'That's why I've just been
awarded custody of the children.'

Sally and I exchanged glances.

'I hadn't realised,' I said.

'She only found out yesterday. I convinced the courts
that she was no longer fit to be a mother. Too much
drinking. Too much, you know,
running around
.'

I knew what the euphemism meant.

'But it's created a vicious circle,' he said. 'Made her
worse.'

Jim's bottom lip started quaking. Sally walked over
and put an arm round him. I stood there hopelessly
while he wept.

'Would you like a cup of tea?' I asked.

'How brilliantly British,' said Jim through his tears.
'And do you know what, yes I bloody well would. A good
cup of thick black English builders' tea.'

I went off, knowing that the chances of finding a
decent cup of tea were minimal.

As I walked down the corridors, vainly searching for a
vending machine, my mobile rang. I cursed that I had
forgotten to turn it off, but I nevertheless answered it.

'Hello?'

'Hi Sam, it's Toby Andrews here.'

'Oh hello.'

This was the crunch time. This was when they were
ringing me to get my response to all of Emily's
allegations. The fact that it was Toby doing it annoyed
me, because of all the media people I had been dealing
with, he's the only one I've got any time for.

'Where's your bloody column?' he asked.

'My column?'

'Yes. I was rather hoping to have had it by now.'

'I'm sorry, I'm in a hospital at the moment. A good
friend has just had a terrible accident.'

'Does this mean you can't do it?'

I literally scratched my head.

'I was kind of thinking . . .' I began.

'What?'

'I was thinking that you wouldn't want a column from
me any more.'

'Why?' Toby sounded perplexed.

'Um, haven't you been approached by someone
about my programme?'

'Yes.'

'Emily Taylor?'

'That's the one,' said Toby.

'And, aren't you going to be doing something about
what she said?'

'Hold on a sec.'

I heard Toby issuing some instructions to an
underling.

'Sorry about that,' he said. 'Where were we?'

'Emily Taylor,' I said. 'Apparently she came to see you
with a story about me. I was wondering if you were going
to be writing about what she told you.'

'No.'

My heart skipped.

'No?'

'That's right.'

'But why not?'

'Three reasons. First, she's a honey-nut fruit loop.
Second, there's no mileage in stories about reality TV
being bollocks. We all know it is, and frankly, everybody
knows your show is a comedy. No one believes your
system really works. And thirdly, we are loyal to our
columnists.'

'So you're not going to run anything?'

'That's what I said. Now when can you give me your
bloody copy? If I don't get it by four, I'll be tempted to
go with Emily.'

'I'll do it right away,' I said.

'Good stuff. Hope your friend gets better and all
that.'

'I'm sure she will, thanks.'

I put the phone back in my pocket. I walked along,
dumbfounded. I literally jumped up and clicked my
heels together, and then realised too late that I am not
very good at jumping in the air and clicking my heels
together, and fell over.

SAM ON A SUNDAY

Yesterday I had one of those experiences that has reminded me
what's important in life. You need these experiences pretty
regularly, otherwise it's too easy to forget about who you really
are, and who you really are to other people, especially those you
love and care for.

I don't know what time my friend took too many pills, but I
do know that when I got there, she was in a bad way. I'll spare
you the details, but she was very ill indeed. Not being a medical
man, all I could do was to roll her into the recovery position
and dial 999. While I waited for the ambulance, I thought she
might die, because what she had taken could have felled a
horse.

The good news is that she pulled through. Her death would
not just have been a tragedy to her ex-husband, who I know still
loves her very much, but especially tragic for her three beautiful
children to whom my friend is a brilliant mum.

The bad news is that the pills and the alcohol will have
damaged her insides, although the doctors say it is too early to
establish quite how badly. But the crucial thing is that she is
alive.

So why did my friend take an overdose? As is usual, there are
lots of reasons, some of them simple, some of them complicated.
The simplest one is the fact that she had fallen in love with
someone who didn't love her back. Another simple one is that
she was clinically depressed, and I am now kicking myself not
to have insisted that she sought some help. I think that the
overdose was not so much a suicide attempt, more a desperate
call for attention.

Not so long ago, my friend was a vivacious, fun-loving
woman. She was a bit of a flirt, frankly. Parties without her
were just not the same, even if wives no longer had to keep an
eye on their husbands! But it was all just a bit of fun for her,
and she wasn't some kind of man-snatching monster.

But recently, eaten away by the depression and the
unrequited love, she began to change. She became bitter
and increasingly poisonous. She no longer took any care of
herself, and her house began to resemble a squat. Things got
so bad that her ex-husband was granted custody of the
children. Although this was right and necessary, it was a deep
blow.

She knew, deep down, that this sort of behaviour was not
right, but she was unable to change it. She knew she was
starting to mutate into a quite different person, and there was
nothing she could do.