Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (9 page)

Monday 3 March

Noon

I suggested the idea to Dom, who said there was no time
to get someone by tomorrow morning, and that I would
just have to convince Sally, otherwise the whole
shooting schedule would go out the window and there
was no time for things to go out the window, because if
that happened then the whole series would be in
jeopardy and then where would we be?

Fuck. This is serious. There's NO WAY I'm going to
be able to convince Sally. No way. Now what?

6.30 p.m.

The children are watching
The Night Garden
, and I'm
feeling happy, because I think I have found a solution.
It's not a perfect one, and it will have the most horrific
consequences, I'm sure, but it's got me out of a hole.
From this moment on, my TV wife will be Emily. I am
going to be in so much trouble when Sally finds out, but
I shall just have to say I had no choice. Which I don't,
frankly. I'm also not going to tell Dom – I don't want
him to think that Sally won't do as I ask. Emily's all up
for playing the subterfuge, as I thought she might be.

Rest assured, she didn't need much convincing to
take on this challenging new role. She's more excited
than I am. 'Fame at last,' she kept saying. She's worse
than me.

Tuesday 4 March

What a great big exhausting amusing educational
disturbing scary fun day it's been. I can see why some of
the actory-celebby types say their work is so demanding.
I always thought that was complete bollocks, but now
I'm a fully paid up member of the tellystocracy I can see
why they always moan, despite their vast piles of cash.

The day started with me feeling a bit of a rat. As soon
as Sally was out the door at 7.15, I phoned Emily to tell
her to come over. (She was getting a neighbour to look
after her children.) She did so promptly, and she was
certainly dressed for the occasion – shortish and tight
denim skirt, tastefully patterned tights, boots up to her
knee, and a tight cream rollneck woollen top. There was
no doubt that she was going for the yummy mummy
look, and, to be fair to her, she had succeeded.
Naturally, I felt absurdly guilty, almost as though I was
having an affair, a feeling heightened by Emily's rather
too affectionate kiss and flirtatious 'Hello new
husband', which made her sound like that rabbit going
'Hello Mr Beaver' in that chocolate-bar ad from a
lifetime ago.

'What's Emily doing here?' asked Peter.

Daisy kicked her little legs under the kitchen table –
she loves Emily, and the feeling is mutual.

'Emily is here to help Daddy today,' I said.

'Oh,' said Peter, evidently unimpressed. He finds
Emily a bit too forward, and kind of cowers when he
sees her.

'I'm here to pretend to be your mummy,' said Emily.

'Why?' asked Peter.

'Well, there are some people coming to film us,' I
explained. 'And because Mummy can't be here because
she's at work, I've asked Emily to pretend to be our
mummy for the people.'

'Oh,' said Peter. 'Is Emily going to be our mummy for
ever now?'

'No!' I said, a little too emphatically. 'Just for today,
that's all.'

'Good,' said Peter.

'Sorry,' I said to Emily, who was laughing.

'So all you need to do,' I said to Peter, 'is to make
sure that you call Emily Mummy. OK?'

'But Emily's not my mummy.'

'I know, but we are pretending.'

'Like in the nativity play?'

'That's right.'

'Can I be Joseph?'

'What?'

'Can I be Joseph today? Joseph in the nativity play.'

'Well, we're not really doing a nativity play today.
We're just having a normal day.'

'So when can I be Joseph?'

Mercifully I was saved by a knock on the door, which
heralded the arrival of the 'crew', as us people in TV call
them. This consisted of Dom, one of the Emmas, a
cameraman, and a man with a microphone. I had
expected more, but it was enough, as very quickly our
small kitchen was packed with the crew and their kit,
wires trailing everywhere.

I introduced Emily as 'Sally' to everybody, and I
thought I detected a certain frisson between her and
Dom, but that may have just been paranoia. After the
pleasantries Dom invited us just to act normally, and to
do our best to ignore the crew, who would just follow us
around.

It was highly surreal. I made 'Sally' stay seated, as I
didn't want it to be obvious that she had no idea where
things like crockery and cutlery lived. She did her best
to distract the children from just staring straight at the
camera, but it was almost impossible.

'Don't worry too much about that,' said Dom.
'They'll get used to us.'

Dom then talked us through the shots we needed –
me cleaning their teeth, me getting their coats on to go
to school, me making Peter's packed lunch etc. Emily
asked if Dom wanted her to do anything, but he told
her that the whole point was that I was the one doing all
the work, and shouldn't she be at work? Emily
explained that she had taken the day off (as Dom
requested), and Dom then suggested that we should do
some shots of Emily kissing us all goodbye.

This wasn't great news, to put it mildly. The last thing
I wanted enshrined on tape, for all the world to see –
including my wife – was Emily giving me a kiss. But I
could think of no way in which I could wriggle out of it.

'Why don't you get into your work clothes?' asked
Dom. 'And then we'll do some shots of you going.'

'These are my work clothes,' said Emily quick-wittedly.
I thanked God that we were spared the further
hell of Sally seeing Emily kiss me while wearing one of
her work suits. I think that would have meant instant
divorce.

Emily grabbed a coat from the utility room, and then
she bustled into the kitchen as if she had always lived
here. I had to hand it to her, she put on a brilliant
performance. The children, on the other hand, didn't,
and Peter scowled when she kissed him, and Daisy said
'bye bye Emily', which luckily came out as 'aye aye ilee',
and seemed to fool the assembled throng.

Then came the kiss goodbye.

'See you later, darling,' she said, her eyes locking on
to mine, accompanied by her trademark smirk.

She then held my face in both her hands, and
proceeded to give me a rather too passionate kiss for a
wife who has said goodbye to her husband nearly every
morning for seven years. It felt like utter treachery, but
also thrilling treachery. Apart from the obvious reason
of desiring sexual variety, I can see why people have
affairs – it clearly feels SO naughty, and with that, an
immense thrill that must only heighten the sex.

'Wow,' said Dom.

Emma gasped.

'I wish I got a kiss like that every morning,' said Dom.

(To be honest, so do I.)

Emily smiled contentedly, clearly revelling in
exhibiting her oscular prowess.

'However,' said Dom, 'I think it was a little too
passionate. Can we try it again, and make it more
husband and wifey?'

'Sure,' said Emily. 'No problem.'

Fuck, I said inwardly.

Emily came into the room again, said goodbye to the
children, and then proceeded to give me yet another
over-the-top smoocher.

'Again,' said Dom, giggling slightly.

Third take, and Emily once again over-egged it. I
knew her game now – she was going to give me as many
kisses as possible, wear me down with repetition. Well, I
was determined not to let it work, and decided to make
it feel as though she were kissing Hitler.

'Um,' said Dom, 'could you try and look slightly less
revolted when your wife gives you a kiss please?'

By the eighth take we got it right, and I felt nauseous
when I realised that it would be impossible to make the
children keep it quiet. They both looked a little
confused, especially Peter, who kept trying to ask what I
was doing, and I kept pre-empting by telling him to eat
his breakfast.

'Is there anything else you need me for?' Emily asked,
clearly desperate to ensure a run on videotape.

'Um, I don't think so,' Dom replied.

'OK,' said Emily, her crest somewhat fallen.

'I suppose we could shoot you coming back home at
the end of the day, but we need it to get darker for that.
How about you come back at 4ish and we take some
shots then?'

'Fine,' said Emily.

'You can have a day all to yourself, darling,' I said.
'You could go shopping or something. Have lunch with
Kate maybe.'

Emily gave me a strange look. It was hardly surprising
– Kate is a friend of Sally, and clearly not of Emily. Still,
I had rather hoped that Emily wasn't going to be so
dim.

'Kate?' she went.

'Yes, your friend Kate who lives in the next village.
You know, Kate?'

'Aaah,' said Emily. 'Kate. Of course.'

She still looked blank, and I could tell that Dom and
Emma were looking at us not so much with suspicion,
but more out of confusion.

'Good idea,' Emily continued. 'I think I'll go and see
Kate.'

'Send her my love,' I said.

'Will do.'

Phew. I really didn't want Dom to rumble that I was
using an impostor. Even though I knew that making up
'reality' was his stock-in-trade, there was no way I wanted
him to think I was like him.

With Emily out the way, things were a bit more
relaxed, and soon the three of us got accustomed to
having the crew following us around. At one point Daisy
asked if they wanted to watch her having a pee on her
potty, but Dom and Emma thought that might be
unnecessary. She looked most disappointed and ended
up peeing on the floor, the result of which was captured
on tape, along with my somewhat ineffectual attempts
to clean it up. In the end, Emma had to show me how
to do it.

'Dab it,' she said. 'Don't wipe it.'

I dimly recall Sally saying something like this to me
once, but I tend to forget most domestic advice.

After I had done my best to clean it up, Dom asked if
I could do it again.

'Do what again?'

'Clean up the pee,' he said.

'What?'

'The thing is, it didn't really look as though you knew
what you were doing. You looked like any normal bloke
trying to do it, and we want you to look like a complete
expert. After all, nobody's going to take your advice
seriously if you can't even clear up child's piss.'

This was a good point, but I didn't want to take it
lying down. (I was in fact on my knees, which is no less
submissive a position, perhaps even more so.)

'You really sure about this? I mean, it's not as though
I can get Daisy to pee at will. And I don't think it would
be kind to make her drink lots just to make her pee.'

Dom held up his hand, laughing a little.

'Don't worry,' he said, 'we'll just use water.'

And so, a few seconds later, I was clearing water off
our landing carpet. And then I did it again, and again,
and during all this, Dom thought it a bright idea that I
should clean the lavatory. So I had to scrub that
repeatedly, and between each take we had to 'dirty' it
with a little orange barley water and some chocolate,
which looked surprisingly effective.

The rest of the morning largely featured me doing
such chores, and talking to the camera, saying how all
of this was part of a highly structured routine that had
been born out of my years as a management consultant.
Dom and Emma seemed delighted by what they rudely
called my 'bullshit bingo', and said that it worked really
well as I did the cooking etc. They even followed me
taking the children to the supermarket after school,
where I had to talk to the camera, explaining how the
Holden Childcare Programme was useful in 'maxi-mising
the effectiveness of my grocery choice solutions',
which again, Dom and Emma seemed to love.

By the end of the day, as I was filmed tucking the
children into bed and giving them kisses good night (at
least eight takes), I realised I was exhausted. The crew
took a last few shots of me preparing dinner, and then
they finally departed, leaving the house feeling
exceptionally empty. When Sally came back I wanted to
tell her all about it, but she said that she would speak to
me tomorrow – too tired – and she fell asleep in the
bath at 9.15. I almost had to carry her to bed.

I'm worried that our lives couldn't be more different.
Is that good or bad? Now is perhaps not the time to
answer questions like that. Bed for me as well.

Wednesday 5 March

Dom rang to say that the footage was great from
yesterday, and said that I was very lucky to be married to
someone like Emily, who not only kissed brilliantly, but
also looked brilliant as well. I muttered appreciative
noises about what a lucky bloke I am etc., and felt guilty.
I am always feeling guilty these days. It can't be good for
me.

Dom said that we would be starting the filming on
Monday, although it might be held up, because Little
Ted had to be at court that morning. Something to do
with breaking his ASBO apparently. I'm terrified of
these people, and told Dom as much.

'You'll be fine,' he said, sounding like me.

'I hope so,' I replied. 'At least I'll have Big Eric on my
side.'

A silence.

'Yes,' said Dom eventually. 'About Big Eric.'

'Don't tell me he can't make it.'

'Not sure yet, I'm afraid.'

'Why, where is he?'

'He's got to go to court that morning as well.'

Great. What am I letting myself in for? By this time
next week I might be being stitched up in some grim
Midlands hospital, the Holden Childcare Programme
having seen its demise at the hands of a psychotic
fourteen-year-old wielding a broken beer bottle.

Or you never know, the Programme might just work.

In fact, I think I do know.