Unknown - Game Over

‘So what do you do for a living?’ asks Sarah. I am about to offer to fill in a questionnaire but I notice that Darren and Richard have just come back inside. I bite my tongue.

‘She works in TV,’ jumps in Linda. Linda is the only one who is impressed by my career choice.

‘What exactly do you do in television, then, dear?’ asks Mrs Smith. I give my dummied-down job description, which I assume will be adequate. No one ever really understands what someone else does for a living.

‘I think up ideas for programmes.’

‘Ooohhhh,’ the kitchen choruses.

‘Did you think up Friends?’ asks Shelly.

‘No, it’s American.’

‘Did you think up Blue Peter?’ asks Charlotte.

‘No, before my time.’

‘Did you think up that game show with the nice Mr Tyrant? The one that makes people very rich?’ asks Mrs Smith.

‘Or Cold Feet?’ asks Linda hopefully.

‘No, not my channel,’ I add apologetically. Clearly I’ve failed to impress anyone.

‘Oh. Well, what did you think of?’ asks Sarah.

Mercifully the doorbell rings and this causes such concern that everyone, other than Darren and Lucy, leaves the kitchen.

‘No one ever rings the door bell,’ he explains. They all come round the back. It must be a delivery.’

I nod as though this outlandish behaviour was second nature to me, rather than the extraordinary adventure it is.

‘Why didn’t you tell them the name of your show?’ he asks.

I stare at him sulkily. ‘I guess I didn’t think it was their cup of tea,’ I mutter.

‘Oh, you took a guess that they weren’t part of your 8.9 million. Very astute.’

I glare at him.

He is so smug. He is so cocksure. He is so sexy.

I think it’s the mouth.

10

I am unsure how I got myself into this predicament. I can’t remember the point when I actually agreed to accompany Darren, Charlotte, Lucy and baby Ben to the swimming baths. The noise and confusion that reign in the Smith household are so extreme that it is possible I didn’t agree at all but simply was unable to resist their collective force.

I don’t do public baths. I do health spas and private gyms. I can feel the foot diseases waiting in the cracks of the tiles and despite the gallons of chlorine that the local council has tipped into the pool, I am sure that I am about to swim in neat child’s wee. To add insult, I catch a glimpse of myself in the steamy mirror. It’s bad. I didn’t bring a costume with me and therefore I’ve been forced into borrowing Sarah’s. Although there is evidence that Sarah has been a very attractive woman in her time, she has had three babies and has let her figure go somewhat. I get the feeling sartorial elegance is not the top of her list of priorities. The bathing suit is high street rather than high fashion. I did explain to Sarah and Shelly that I only ever wear black. They smiled and handed me this monstrosity. I think that initially it was a mass of fluorescent flowers, which thankfully have faded. The cut is all wrong. Damn, why didn’t I bring my Calvin Klein costume? It’s cut to maximize the length of the leg and minimize the waist. It’s padded at the breast, creating a look that is undisputedly flattering. The floral number is baggy at the crotch and hips, plus the straps keep sliding off my shoulders. As if the possibility that I might fall out of the suit altogether isn’t terrifying enough, suddenly I find that I’m alone in the changing rooms with two small people.

The panic rises. Not just because I haven’t shaved my legs in over a week, but because Charlotte and Lucy are both looking up at me with expectancy in their eyes. It appears that everyone – Darren, his mum, Sarah, Shelly and these kids – all seem to think I am in charge.

And that I’m capable of it.

Which, I am, of course. I mean, I run a show that pulls in millions of viewers per week, for God’s sake. I control budgets of hundreds of thousands of pounds, create revenues of millions. I can undress two small children and dress them again in suitable attire.

Surely.

They don’t stand still. They slither and slide all over the place. They don’t want to wear costumes anyway, much less their armbands, which I abandon altogether. It seems that no sooner have I got the appropriate limb in the appropriate hole than they take it out again. I do manage to get the costumes on but one is inside-out and the other is back-to-front. I realize that above all else, I must remain calm. Like any confrontation it is important not to let the adversary know that you feel menaced or panicked. I can outstare four-and six-year-olds – definitely. If only they would stay still.

‘Charlotte, don’t run. The floor’s slippery. You might hurt yourself.’ I try to make this sound like advice or a warning. It comes out sounding like I’m threatened or threatening. ‘Lucy, we didn’t bring your pink costume. You have to put this blue one on. Now please, stop crying. Just one more arm. Please.’ Both the girls are crying (although I suspect Charlotte’s are crocodile tears) and I am closer to tears than I’ve been in twenty-five years, when another mother offers to help.

They’re not yours, are they, pet?’

‘No.’ I’m irritated and relieved all at once. They aren’t hers either, are they? But, in a blink of an eye, she has managed to get them both into their costumes, the right way out, and facing the right direction. Why couldn’t I? Can it be that there is a mother gene that makes this stuff easier once you are a mum? Not that I ever want to be a mother, not in my wildest dreams. In fact, it’s close to my worst nightmare. But I do like to be able to do things properly. I don’t like to fail.

I bribe the girls into not telling Uncle Darren that the nice lady had to help with dressing them. I offer them each a pound but Charlotte informs me that the going rate is a new outfit for her Barbie doll and a trip to McDonald’s. I would be annoyed but actually I admire her business acumen and I’m sure that she’ll go far.

Darren doesn’t comment that we’ve been in the dressing-room for forty-five minutes but waves cheerfully from the baby pool, where he is confidently handling a happy, gurgling Ben.

I lower myself into the pool and try not to think of the wee. I hand him the armbands for the girls. Making it clear that it’s his turn.

‘Will you hold Ben?’ I nod, as I don’t want to open my mouth for fear of what will go in it. Darren grins and hands him over. I’m relieved that he doesn’t start to cry. I smile winningly at him and hope that my legendary way with men works on someone so young. Darren hoists himself out of the pool.

He is divine.

He must work out. His muscles are taut and developed. He’s lean and tanned. I watch the pool water glisten as it clings to his shoulders and legs. I’d glisten too if I was clinging to that Adonis. I’m thrilled to note that his strong chest and legs are hairy but his back is clean. My nipples harden and chafe against the costume. Bloody cheap thing, no lining.

Darren puts the armbands on the girls and lowers them into the pool with me. He sits on the side, dangling his legs in the water. He drags his feet unselfconsciously through the water, bending and straightening his knees. My knees have turned to Play-Doh. My entire body is on fire. I cannot drag my gaze from him. He is utterly, utterly stunning. From his tanned feet, with neat square nails – rather than the yellow, curled nails that most men choose to sport – to his long, tight, muscular legs, to his neat, flat stomach. Six pack, forget it – this is an entire shelf at the off-licence. I want to entangle my fingers in his chest hair. Lose them there and never ever find them again. His shoulders are as rigid as they are broad. They look almost polished. He’s staring out at the children and not aware that I’m studying every little droplet of chlorine that’s clinging to him. His glossy hair curls rebelliously at the nape of his neck and I’m envious. I want to be that lock of hair; I want to be the drops of chlorine, pool water and pee.