Unknown - Game Over

Since he’s occupied watching the children splash and bob, I risk taking a look at his swimwear.

WHHHOOOAAA-HHHOOO.

Hello, Big Boy.

‘Should I take Ben now?’

‘Erm?’

I nearly drop the baby with the embarrassment. Why did he have to choose that moment to start up a conversation? I avoid his eye as I pass the baby to him. I feel like a kid caught with her hand in the biscuit jar. I force myself to look at Darren and he’s grinning again. Well, I’m pleased to be so amusing! Irritated and flustered, I sulkily pull myself on to the side of the pool as he climbs in. He tries to make conversation but I won’t be mollified. It isn’t until I catch him furtively checking out my tits that I start to brighten up. In fact, I feel considerably happier.

When we leave the pool we go to McDonald’s. Darren is blatantly a bit surprised by my choice of dining venue. I smile and don’t offer an explanation. It isn’t until Lucy is on to her second chocolate shake and I’ve taken Charlotte to the loo twice (unaided) that it crosses my mind to check my mobile messages. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten to call Fi or Bale. It’s not as though I’m having a good time. I mean, I’m not shopping or clubbing. Normally I check my messages every twenty-five minutes when I’m out of the studio.

I’ve had six calls.

Hi, Cas. It’s Fi. I reviewed the files through the night and have a shortlist of three possible scenarios for next week’s show. Should I interview them? If so, you’ll need to release more budget. Call me.

Hi, Cas, it’s Josh. Issie told me that you are chasing some bloke halfway up the country. What’s the angle? Is he a transvestite? Now that would make a good show. Well, call me when you get a mo.

Cas. It’s Fi again. Er, I haven’t heard back from you so I had to make the decision to go ahead with the interviews. I think I’ve found a substitute. Hope this is OK. But I didn’t really have a choice. What with the timetable being so tight. Can you call me? Er, say hi to Darren for me. Tell him I was the one in baby-blue cashmere. No, scrub that.

Cas, it’s Issie. Weeeellllllll? How goes it with Mr Northern Hunk?

Jocasta, it’s your mother. I do hate these things. Can you hear me?

Cas. Bale. Call in.

So nothing urgent. I switch the phone back to the message facility.

By the time we drop the kids back with Sarah, I am exhausted and barely have the energy to turn down the offer of staying for supper. Which under normal circumstances I’d turn down with extreme force.

‘Stay – we’re having lasagne and Mam and Dad are down the pub, Richard’s at Shelly’s, Linda’s here. There will be no one at home. You’ll be rattling around an empty house.’

Hearing this, I get another surge of dynamism and almost wrench Darren’s arm out of its socket as I pull him from their kitchen and bundle him into the car. Laughing, he turns the ignition.

‘Had enough of kids for one day?’

I feel a twinge of guilt. Perhaps he wanted to stay and was too polite to contradict me; after all, he probably doesn’t get to see his family much, being based in London. But my arms are aching with playing ‘one, two, three, swwiiinnnng’. I smell of baby puke, my mind is fried with coming up with answers to the perpetual ‘why’ question (nearly all of which had come from Darren). Most importantly, I haven’t reapplied my make-up since leaving the swimming pool.

‘To be honest, yes. I’m not used to kids. No nieces or nephews.’

‘Some of your friends must have children, though,’ he comments.

I think about it. No, not really. Women in TV rarely nod towards their reproductive capacity and my friends in other lines of work seem to disappear once they have babies. I suppose it’s because we keep very different hours.

‘No.’ I smile at Darren and decide to confess, ‘In fact, until today I don’t think I’ve ever held a child, or dressed one, brushed its hair, taken it to the loo, changed a nappy or fed it.’

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ I confirm.

I’m slightly shamefaced and don’t know how Darren will take this. He obviously values these motherly skills in his women. Indeed all men like to see a woman behave perfectly with kids. Most women like to think they have a natural ability to be patient, entertaining and loving. Not me. I’m not bothered. Well, I was keen to put the shoes on the right feet but that was because I hate to be inadequate at anything. As a kid myself, I didn’t like anyone else winning musical chairs. Second place is nowhere. If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well. That’s always been my motto. It has nothing to do with impressing Darren. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I sneak a look at him to check his reaction to my confession. Richard’s car is so tiny that Darren is almost folded double. He’s concentrating on the curling roads. He puts on the long beam lights and the windscreen wipers are valiantly trying to clear the pouring rain. I fear it’s a losing battle. Without taking his eyes off the road, he mumbles, ‘You’re amazing.’

I’m amazing! I’m floating on air. My bum is absolutely refusing to stay in the car seat.

I’m amazing? Oh yeah, and how many times have I heard that before?

I’m amazing! I’m floating on air. My bum is absolutely refusing to stay in the car seat.

I’m amazing. I bet he says that to everyone.

I pretend I haven’t heard and close my eyes, keen to get some sleep on the short journey back to the Smiths’ house.

I wake up and a young Kevin Keegan is smiling down at me. Where am I? I’m in a single bed with itchy nylon sheets and itchy nylon bedspread. They are brown. Different shades of brown. My worst fear – I’ve screwed someone with bad taste. I hear children laughing in the garden and I look out of the window.

Darren.

And Charlotte and Lucy. It’s a grey, bleak day. Grey grass, grey sky. But Darren and the girls are a remarkable contrast, their clothes and laughter, a colourful relief to the horizon. Impetuously I bang on the window and wave furiously. They all look up and wave back. Then I remember I haven’t got any make-up on, so I dive back into bed before they can see me properly. There’s a knock on the door and, before I answer, Mrs Smith bustles in. She smiles broadly and I bathe in it. Perhaps she’s heard how good I was with the children yesterday and is beginning to approve of me. Not that it matters. I neither want nor need Mrs Smith’s approval.

Much.

She hands me a cup of tea that’s so strong the spoon can stand up in it. I take it from her and thank her.

‘By, you were tired, weren’t you?’

A strange feeling of unease creeps into bed with me; it gets under the sheets and disperses the cosy feeling. Oh bugger, yes, now I remember. Last night I’d been very tired. Too tired to argue my case about the show properly but tired enough to argue petulantly. We were having a laugh. In the absence of wine or gin we decided to raid his parents’ cocktail cabinet. A walnut veneer monstrosity, straight from the Ark, justifiably hidden in the ‘front room’. We agreed that tequila was the perfect accompaniment to cheese on toast (desperate measures for desperate times. The other choices were all fluorescent in colour and likely to have been radioactive). I had the idea of broaching the subject of the show whilst the family were out and we had the house to ourselves. I thought that as he was beginning to warm to me he might be open to discussion. He wasn’t. The conversation had been brief, powerful and cold.

He turned his back to me and concentrated on grating the cheese. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing to attention. I had an overwhelming desire to blow on them.