Diary of a Superdad

Diary of a Superdad
Lindsay Camp
January
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Wednesday 16 January
This isn’t it, obviously. I mean, “Diary of a Superdad” won’t actually start
like this. (Not sure about that title; sounds a bit smug. Well, quite a lot smug.
Maybe something like “On Being a Dad” might be better, less selfcongratulatory, less punch-in-the-face-worthy.) Anyway, whatever it’s
actually called when it tops the best-seller list for months on end a couple of
years from now, this definitely won’t be the opening paragraph.
What will? Something wise and insightful, I’d imagine. Wise and insightful,
yet laced with a delightfully self-deprecating humour - and right from the
start, too, because I urgently need to get a laugh before the end of page one.
The obvious thing, I guess, would be something about Ellie’s nappy
exploding at an inopportune moment, all over my new cream linen trousers or
whatever. (Hah! How long since I wore anything but shapeless, encrusted
and utterly reprehensible jogging pants?) That or vomit. Vomit is always
good, particularly if it’s the projectile kind. Nothing establishes a bond with
other parents more quickly than a really hard-core scraping-projectile-vomitoff-the-wall story. Quite hard to be wise and insightful about it, though. It’s
more slapstick, really - hapless sap stuck at home with the kids, gets in a
TERRIBLE mess! I think, on reflection, it might be better to give diarrhoea
and vomit a wide berth, at least to start with. Keep them up my sleeve, so to
speak.
No need to worry about it now, anyway. I’ll come up with a killer opening
para when I actually write the book. I’ll fix the date, too - 17 January sounds
like I’ve been sitting round on my increasingly lardy arse for a couple of
Diary of a Superdad
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weeks since Christmas, instead of throwing myself with manly vigour and
almost childlike gusto into a new year’s parenting. (Speaking of my arse, it
might be worth mentioning cellulite here - the little known fact that men get it,
too - as a means of winning over female readers, who would undoubtedly be
charmed by my lack of traditional masculine reserve about such matters.)
I think I’ll probably start on 2 January, with Sophie going back to work - and
me waving her off fondly, from the flour-spattered kitchen table where I’m
baking bread, while Ellie sleeps peacefully on her hand-embroidered quilt.
Or something like that, but with a bit more scope for delightfully selfdeprecating humour. (The actual scene - in which Sophie, near-rabid with
raging flu, attempted to slide unnoticed out of the front door, after muttering
that she’d probably be back late, while I, hung-over and with my mouth full of
toast, snapped something barely intelligible along the lines of “So what else is
new?”- might have more comic potential, but not the right kind for “Diary of
a Superdad” or whatever it’s called.)
Hang on, what about:
“THE PRESENT DAD”
(sub-title)
A Year in the Life of a New Kind of Father
Rather good, I think. Because it works on two levels. First, there’s present as
opposed to “absent”- the never-there-always-at-the-office-or-wishing-theywere-at-the-office fathers allegedly responsible for single-handedly fucking
up all our lives. And then there’s present as in “contemporary”, “of the
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by Lindsay Camp
moment”, “in tune with the zeitgeist” etc. Brilliant! Or does it make me
sound like a smart-arse?
Smart and lardy, I’m afraid. Should probably stick with “Diary of a
Superdad”, for the time being. Anyway, think I can hear Ellie waking up.
Better mash a banana. More later.
Later . . . feeling really good about what I wrote earlier. Because I think I’ve
established an important principle: that this isn’t actually it. No, this is just
the source material; the base metal - random jottings, incoherent musings,
apparently shapeless, almost pointless fragments - which, by a mysterious
alchemy, I will subsequently transform into purest literary gold.
So it doesn’t matter if I write complete crap. Although obviously, I’ll try
really hard not to.
Thursday 17 January (aka “Thursday 3 January”)
I thought I’d maybe try something that Marcus mentioned when they were
here at Christmas - in one of the fleeting interludes when he and Carmen
weren’t hissing venomously at each other, or berating their kids for not being
sufficiently dynamic and competitive. (“I honestly think Joely could have got
into Oakwood if she’d just pushed herself a bit harder! It’s the best nursery
school in west London - and now she’s virtually on the scrap-heap at three
and a quarter!”)
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It’s a thing he calls, demonstrating that wonderfully supple and elegant way
with language possessed only by management consultants, Visioning Positive
Outcomes. (When did “vision” become a verb? And for that matter, what
about “source” and “task” and “impact”? What makes people like Marcus
feel they’re entitled to take perfectly good nouns and just start
. . . verbing with them? Might be something to do with the fact he’s an
arrogant little bastard, I suppose.)
Anyway, the point of the exercise is that when you’re embarking on a venture
of any kind, you imagine what it would be like if it turned out really, really
well. But obviously, Marcus wouldn’t be able to charge his clients £2000 a
day for it, if it was called Imagining What Something Would Be Like If It
Turned Out Really, Really Well . . . so Visioning Positive Outcomes it is. Or
VPO - which I suppose is a bit snappier than IWSWBLIITORRW.
Let’s try it, with the book. Yes, I can see the cover, as clearly as if I were
sitting at a table in Waterstone’s with a mountain of waiting-to-be-signed
copies in front of me, and a queue snaking out of the shop and down into
Broadmead. On the front, the title, obviously - let’s say, for the sake of
argument, “Diary of a Superdad”- in a contemporary classic typeface,
Garamond maybe . . . and then below it, a shot of me and Ellie, seen as
follows. I’m lying on my back, with my neck arched so that I’m looking at
the camera behind me. I’m smiling boyishly. My hair is tousled. On my
chest, I’m holding Ellie, so that her fat pink head is almost next to mine,
staring ahead in that vacant way that only babies can do without looking like
morons. Well, not complete morons.
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Then, on the back, the blurb:
“When Charlie Fleming lost his high-powered job in journalism just after he
became a father, he decided to take on a much tougher assignment. As full time
house-husband and hands-on dad to baby Ellie.
This tender and touching bulletin from the front-line of 21st century fathering wise, insightful, and laced with delightfully self-deprecating humour - is guaranteed
to bring both kinds of tears to your eyes. Before bedtime!”
And under that, just a very few well chosen puffs:
“If only every child in Britain could grow up with a father like Charlie Fleming. Our
future as a well balanced and caring society would be assured!”
Claire Rayner
“A skilfully woven tapestry of domestic incident, each thread seemingly trivial, that
somehow succeeds in laying out before us a sweeping vision of a better, kinder, more
compassionate way of living. The projectile vomit story, in particular, seemed as
profoundly important as it was side-splittingly funny.”
The Times Literary Supplement
“Corrosively effective; a book with - for any father, father-to-be or father manqué the breath-denying impact of a riot baton to the solar plexus; a book which, quite
frankly, I wish I’d written.
Martin Amis
“The new New Man is here . . . think Nick Hornby with a baby substituting for Tony
Adams.”
The Guardian
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Not totally sure about Claire Rayner; but I think from a marketing angle,
she’s probably worth her place. Literary acclaim is all very well, but if I want
really big sales, I’ll need to get reviewed in all those magazines with recipes
for tuna fish lasagne and knitting patterns in them. And I think “highpowered job in journalism” might be pushing it a bit, too.
Good. I feel much better, having successfully Visioned a highly Positive
Outcome. Now all I have to do is write the damn thing. Or, at least, gather
the material that will enable me to write the damn thing.
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February
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Wednesday 6 February
Damn, I knew that would happen. I knew that as soon as I’d Visioned a
Positive Outcome, I’d take my foot off the accelerator. Damn, damn, damn.
I think there’s a basic flaw in the technique. Once you’ve successfully
conjured up a picture of yourself achieving all your most cherished
ambitions, basking in acclaim, and being showered with money,
sexual
favours, first class airline tickets . . . who actually wants to sit down and sweat
for months over whatever it is that’s supposed to bring about this happy state
of affairs?
I bet it doesn’t work for Marcus’s clients. I bet they all furiously vision
themselves opening up new markets, forming strategic alliances, developing
innovative new products, then think, “sod it, maybe we’ll just go on making
wheels for supermarket trolleys, same as we’ve always done. Stick with what
we know.”
Perhaps I shouldn’t blame VPO. If I’m really honest with myself, I’m
beginning to suspect that the basic flaw may be in the whole “Diary of a
Superdad” concept. Maybe my life is just too mind-numbingly, arseexpandingly dull to form the basis of a major international best-seller.
Sometimes sitting here at home all day long, when Ellie’s asleep, my gums
ache with boredom. Sometimes I just stand by the window gazing sightlessly
out across vistas of endless tedium. Sometimes, god help me, I watch
daytime TV.
Wonder if there’s anything good on now?
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Thursday 7 February
Watched quite an interesting feature on testicular cancer on “Mary’s Morning
Medical Matters”. Slight nagging ache in left bollock all afternoon. Better
now, I think.
Reminds me, must make a vet’s appointment for Ziggy. Sophie says he’ll
stop pissing all over the curtains if he has them off.
Friday 8 February
I think I may have identified another problem with “Diary of a Superdad”.
Not enough dialogue. Who wants to read a book that’s wall-to-wall words?
What readers want these days, I’m sure, is the kind of rat-a-tat dialogue that
makes pages look really inviting. More nice creamy white paper than nasty,
difficult little black words.
But I never talk to anyone. It’s nearly 1.30 pm, and here, as far as I can
remember - apart from the odd routine endearment to Ellie and a few
muttered oaths - is all the dialogue I’ve been involved in so far today . . .
7.15 am - bedroom
Sophie:
See you later. Don’t forget the washing.
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Me:
(three quarters asleep) Nnnghh. Yeh.
Sophie:
(to Ellie, not me) Bye, my angel-love. Love you, love you, love
you.
8.25 am - kitchen
Me:
More banana? You can’t be serious. What is it with babies and
banana? You’ve had one and half whole bananas already. Any
more banana and you’ll . . .
Ellie:
Assorted baby noises, suggestive of strong desire for banana,
and incipient wrath if denied banana.
Me:
OK, OK, OK, open wide . . . here it comes . . .
Ellie:
Blows raspberry.
Me:
So why did you ask for more banana if that was what you were
going to do with it? Yes, I know I shouldn’t use mum’s cardy to
clear it up.
10.05 - utility room
Me: (to washing machine) Fucking well work, you fucking fuck!
10.30 - in corner shop
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Me: (receiving change, having bought Guardian) Thanks.
12.10 - kitchen again
Me: (answering phone) Hello?
Gid:
Hi, Charlie, it’s me. Just to let you know if Jen calls you, you
haven’t heard from me today, OK? Must fly, sweetie-pie. Hugs,
kisses, slurpy oral sex. (Hangs up)
What’s the matter with him? Why do actors feel compelled to say things like
that? I sometimes wonder if it’s something they get taught at Acting School.
(“Listen up, people, that’s enough of Booming at Each Other in Sonorous
Artificial Voices for today. I want you to find a partner, and practise saying
incredibly disgusting things for no good reason other than to embarrass prim
civilians leading sad suburban lives!”)
And what did he mean, tell Jen I haven’t heard from him today? Why didn’t
he just not ring me up? I suppose then I’d have been able to tell her I hadn’t
heard from him without lying, which obviously would have made him feel
uncomfortable. Bastard.
*
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Jen did call. Of course, Jen called. She sounded, as ever, motherly,
indulgent, pained. I pictured her kneading dough, with the phone clamped
between shoulder and ear. I could hear faint warbling in the background.
Opera, almost certainly.
“Have you spoken to him, Charlie?”
“You mean today?”
“Yes, today.”
“Yesterday? No. Er . . . and not today, either.”
I heard her sigh. “OK, thanks, Charlie. Not to worry. How’s my little sugarplum?”
I hate lying to Jen. More than I hate lying to other people.
“She’s gorgeous. You OK, Jen?”
“Me? Of course, I’m OK. I’m always OK. I just need to know what he’s
doing, for the kids. He told them he’d be back for the weekend, and they’ll be
so disappointed if he doesn’t come.”
“I’m sure he will. If he told them he would, I’m sure he wouldn’t let them
down.”
Diary of a Superdad
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Jen laughed her Weary Madonna laugh. “No. He doesn’t usually let them
down. He’s probably just squeezing in one last extra-marital shag before a
weekend of domestic bliss.”
I never know the right way to respond when Jen says things like that.
“I’m sure he’s not, Jen,” was the best I could come up with.
“You know what your problem is, don’t you, Charlie. You’re too nice. And
you think everybody else is as nice as you. How long have you known
Gordon - 25 years?”
Gordon! I sometimes forget that before he became a distinguished actor and
one of our leading voice-over artistes, he used to be called Gordon. And why
do people think I’m nice?
“Mm, something like that. Don’t remind me. Anyway, I’m sure you’re
wrong Jen. I’m sure it’s nothing like that . . . “
Of course, I wasn’t sure that she was wrong. In fact, I was pretty sure that
she wasn’t. But what else could I say? “No, Jen, I have to concede that,
based upon my extensive knowledge of your husband’s life-long dedication to
polecat-like promiscuity, the balance of probabilities would certainly tend to
confirm your suspicion that, as we speak, he’s committing lewd acts upon
some willing and entirely stretch-mark-free young female body?”
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No, I don’t think that would have helped in the slightest. But for the life of
me, I don’t know what would have done. . . Oh well, at least it’s a bit of
dialogue. Although I can’t really see how it fits into the “DofaS” concept.
That reminds me, I’m rather keen to get “a new paternal paradigm” in
somewhere. Though maybe it sounds a bit poncey/academic.
Saturday 9 February
Sophie’s in the bath with Ellie, so I’m keeping well clear - for two reasons.
First, because there’s some powerful mother/baby bonding going on in there.
Say what you like, that “flesh of my flesh” thing is BIG. OK, so the 21st
century hands-on dad can get more involved in the nitty gritty of parenting all that scraping gunk out of crevices and projectile vomit off walls - than
previous generations of fathers could ever have imagined. (Or wanted, for
that matter.) But when it comes right down to it, women can always play the
biology card - “yes, you’ve changed eight nappies a day for the past two and a
half months, but I grew her inside my body. With very little help from you.”
Game, set and match, really.
Add to that the fact that poor Sophe’s wracked with guilt and grief about
abandoning her beloved baby for her career . . . and the atmosphere in that
bathroom is pretty steamy.
Then, of course, there’s the sex thing. I’m sure there must be some
opportunities for being wise and insightful about it, or at least amusingly
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rueful (“how bonking took a back seat when baby came along!”), but right
now, it doesn’t seem all that funny. In fact, the last thing I need right now is
to see baby soap suds lapping over Sophe’s milky body.
Funny, really. I never totally got sex until now. Obviously, I wasn’t averse to
it. No, really, I positively liked it. But not the way “Gordon” does, say.
Never in an especially urgent kind of way. Not in that way which makes you
feel that unless you can bury one really rather footling part of yourself in
female flesh - any female flesh . . . well, almost any - obviously not Anne
Widdecombe’s or Edwina Currie’s - your very continued existence is
threatened. No, I never felt that way at all. Until these last few months.
Not Margaret Beckett’s or Tessa Jowell’s either, incidentally; it isn’t a party
political thing.
It strikes me I’d better hide this. Otherwise, Sophe’s bound to stumble on it.
Not that there’s any reason, I suppose, why she shouldn’t know that I’m
writing an international best-seller. Well, actually, collecting the material that
will form the basis of a book that will become an international best-seller,
thereby transforming our lives. It’s just that I’d rather surprise her. (I can
picture the scene: Sophie returning home from work, late, to be greeted by
about-to-be-famous author, Charlie Fleming. “Sophie, darling, you’ll never
guess - I’ve written a book based on the most intimate details of our lives
together, and it’s about to be published in 30 different countries, which means
we’re going to be rich and you can give up your job straight away, and, oh, by
the way, I hope you’re hungry because I’ve done something rather clever with
wild mushrooms for supper!”)
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So computer subterfuge it will have to be. Dull sounding folders within even
duller sounding folders. Oh yes, and a new title for this document . . .
Ba-ding! “Diary of a Superdad” has just been saved as “Banner ad piece contacts”. She’ll never think of opening that . . .
*
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A complete list of all the really good fathers I have known:
(OK, so maybe it’s a cheap shot. But it will use up a page that would otherwise be
covered in nasty off-putting words. Besides which, it’s basically true.)
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Sunday 10 February - late
Weekends are difficult. They should, theoretically, be the best time; a chance
for the family to bond as a unit, unbothered by the pressures and distractions
of the working week.
In practice, it doesn’t work like that. Here, in a nutshell, is the problem. I,
after a hard week pushing back the frontiers of 21st century fatherhood, feel
entitled to a break from domestic responsibilities; some quality time when I
can relax, indulge myself a little, lose myself in my many hobbies1. Sophie,
after a hard week doing whatever it is people do in the strategic planning
departments of online personal finance companies, apparently feels no less
entitled to spend most of Saturday and pretty much all of Sunday lying in bed
- or, for the sake of a little variety, on the sofa - with her baby clamped to her
breast and a dog-eared copy of “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight”, weeping.
It’s hard, to say the least, to reconcile these two views of the perfect weekend.
Impossible, actually. So instead, I’ve spent the last two days doing all the
usual chores - including about 15 loads of washing, two lifts for Danny, one
trip to Waitrose, and de-gunking the dishwasher filter - while building up a
furious, steaming head of resentment. I know, of course, that I should talk to
Sophe about it. But, at this particular point in our relationship, it’s very hard
to imagine constructive and mutually supportive dialogue taking place. It’s
not that we’re at each other’s throats. In fact, I’d probably prefer it if we
were. It’s just that, increasingly, we seem like two strangers who happen to
1
the fact that I don’t have any hobbies or interests of any kind has no bearing on the principle at stake here.
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share a bed, neither well nor ill disposed towards each other, bleakly trundling
along parallel tracks towards god-knows-where.
Just remembered, Dan is another issue that needs to be resolved. In the book
or out? In favour, a pre-pubescent son does have clear comic potential. I
can easily imagine a Dan-character who would get lots of laughs - desperately
shy, yet just starting to be interested in girls; obsessed with personal hygiene,
to the tune of three half-hour showers a day, yet plagued by facial eruptions;
unable to differentiate between Tomb Raider and real life; beginning,
perhaps, to display worrying-but-amusing sociopathic tendencies.
On the other hand, I feel it would somehow dilute the purity of the concept.
“DofaS” is, I think, all about a man in his mid-30s - well, his late mid-30s. . . .
well, OK, his early late 30s - discovering the joys of hands-on fatherhood for
the first time. I think the first time thing is crucial. If the Charlie-character
has been through it all before twelve and a half years earlier - has had the
opportunity to get in touch with his Nurturing Self but declined to do so, on
the grounds he was too busy with his brilliant career and basically couldn’t be
arsed - well, I think that would just tend to complicate matters for my readers.
They might not like me.
And I suppose Danny might not be totally happy about being turned into a
comic character, either. So I think that’s settled: from now on, Dan my son,
you don’t exist.
One brightish spot in the course of a pretty sombre weekend: lunchtime drink
today with Gordon/Gideon.
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As ever, he was late, but not by more than half an hour or so. His pantomime
walk across the not-at-all crowded pub towards the table where I was sitting expressive, simultaneously, of being famous, anxious not be recognised and
apologetic for his unpunctuality - was a brilliant little cameo; worthy if not
perhaps of an Oscar, then at least a BAFTA (“Best Body Language in a
British Public House”). Nobody took the slightest notice.
“Buy me a pint, sweetums,” he gasped, collapsing, as if shot, on the bench
beside me. “I’m parched, penniless and utterly, utterly pissed off.”
Like royalty, he never carries cash. Since he can earn roughly twice the
national average annual income in 20 minutes, providing the voice for that
hyper-active squirrel in one of those loathsome building society commercials,
this doesn’t reflect any financial hardship. Just the fact that he cherishes the
role of Impoverished Artiste.
Carrying his beer back from the bar, I wondered for the several thousandth
time how he had come to be me my best friend. Well, my only friend.
We talked for a while of inconsequential things: his nightmarish experiences
at the hands of British Rail on his return journey to Bristol late on Friday; a
promising-sounding TV part he read for last week; the lack of real creativity
in the remodelled Arsenal midfield. My interest in football, never consuming,
has waned rapidly since the time when even the most gnarled veterans in the
professional ranks somehow became significantly younger than me. But for
Gideon, it’s a Man of the People credentials thing - like those revolting rollDiary of a Superdad
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ups he insists on smoking. His views on the subject were wide ranging, and
eloquently expressed. My attention wandered.
“. . . never really been the same since Liam Brady, so it hasn’t,” he
concluded, seamlessly slipping into an Irish brogue, presumably in tribute to
the Eire international’s silky passing skills.
Registering my glazed expression, he leapt to his feet, raising his glass to the
pub at large. “Ladies and gentlemen! Will you join me in drinking to the very
good health of the Divine Mr Liam Brady, formerly of Arsenal, Sampdoria
and the Republic of Ireland!”
A few of our fellow lunchtime drinkers looked up briefly. One of them, a
young guy with tattoos, circled his thumb and fingers and performed that
wrist-waggling gesture beloved of belligerently aggrieved motorists. Gid
drank deeply, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and sat down,
apparently satisfied with this reaction.
He punched me playfully - but quite hard - on the upper arm, and fixed me
with those charismatically twinkling brown eyes. I knew what was coming.
“So, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. Enough of muddied oafs. What’s going on in
your life? That’s what I want to know.”
It wasn’t, of course. This minuscule fig-leaf of interest in my personal affairs
provided only the skimpiest covering for his throbbing desire to tell me about
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his. I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. I was still quite pissed off with
him for making me lie yet again to Jen. He really doesn’t deserve her.
“Oh, you know, nothing much. Just the usual baby-related stuff. Took her
swimming on Tuesday. Still having trouble persuading her to eat anything
other than banana. I thought I might try her on mashed avocado because I
read somewhere that the high fat content isn’t actually - “
“God, Charlie, how I envy you!” he boomed, his mighty theatrically trained
voice swatting mine aside like a bothersome mosquito. “Your life just sounds
so . . . grounded, so balanced. So real. You can’t imagine how much I miss
real life, as I scurry around my crazy little subterranean world!”
Subterranean was a reference to the fact that he spends half his life recording
voice-overs in a womb-like basement studio, deep under Soho. I was faintly
surprised by this, since he usually likes to pretend that the “telly ads” are no
more than an occasional distraction from his much more important, though
sadly less remunerative theatrical commitments.
“Maybe you should try a little real life,” I suggested, mildly. “You know,
spend a week or two at home with Jen and the kids. You could afford it.”
“God, I would love to. But Audrey would never forgive me! All those
bookings she’d have to turn down - all those ten per cents she’d miss out on.
And anyway, it’s just not in my nature. You know, Charlie, I’m not like you.
You’re such a nice man; so domestic; so wonderfully contented with your lot!
I’d give anything to be like you.”
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I spluttered into my beer - expressing my incredulity by means of expelling
Holsten Pils through my nostrils.
“No, really, Charlie, it’s absolutely true. You love Sophe and Dan and the
baby, and that’s enough for you. I love Jen and the kids . . . and yet, and yet .
. . It’s agony, Charlie. You can’t believe what torture it is going through life
with a nature like mine . . . “
He let his voice trail away, looking up at me from under his chiselled brow
(vaguely Easter Island-like, I always feel) with imploring spaniel-eyes. I
knew I would either have to leave the pub or relent. And I hadn’t finished my
drink.
“OK, Gid,” I sighed. “Tell me all about her. What’s her name? Where did
you meet? How many decades younger than you?”
Basically, of course, it was the same old story. She’s beautiful. Yes, she’s
significantly younger than him, but she has an old soul, and they have so
much in common. There’s something magical about her. When he’s with
her, he feels like a completely different person. He’s sure that she’s the
woman he’s been waiting for all his life . . . how many times have I heard all
this over the last 10 years or so? Maybe a dozen.
Anyway, more specifically, her name’s Janine; she’s small (but perfectly
formed) and dark; and she’s in her mid-20s - which probably means rising 19.
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One slight statistical oddity: unlike the previous 11, she isn’t a fellow-thesp.
They met when she started work at the studio, as a trainee sound engineer.
Poor Jen! And, I suppose, poor Gid. Alluring as all that firm-bodied sex may
sound - all that finding out what she likes and doesn’t like, what she looks like
in this or that position, what the skin in that particular nook or cranny feels
like, where she stands on both the receipt and delivery of slurpy oral sex - I
suppose it can’t be much fun for him. Not really. Not if he has even the
faintest glimmering of self-knowledge, Not if he has even the slightest grasp
on how pathetically . . . bastard!
Another thing that’s really starting to piss me off: people telling me how nice
I am.
Monday 11 February
I suppose I should miss work. But I don’t really; hardly at all. Of course, I
miss the entirely spurious sense of purpose it provides. The sense of being
really quite an important person, with underlings to humiliate, an electronic
diary stuffed with meetings to attend and an in-box containing several
hundred unread emails.
But apart from that - apart from the capacity it has to prevent life seeming like
a dreary charade, a random sequence of more or less depressing occurrences,
a weary round of futile activity punctuated only by tragedy, infirmity and,
ultimately, death - I really don’t miss work at all. (Probably need to be a bit
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
more upbeat in DofaS. Wry is fine; but anything smacking of nihilistic
despair would almost certainly have a negative effect on sales.)
Tuesday 12 February
Of course, if I’d given up a different career, I would probably have found it
much harder. If I’d been, say, a leading endocrinologist or a producer of
award-winning TV documentaries or even, perhaps, a teacher. Then, I really
would have had something to miss. All those eager young faces turned
towards me, thirsting for knowledge, as I strode charismatically into the
classroom. The buzz of knowing that my programmes were really making a
difference, helping to shape attitudes towards the key issues of the day among
the opinion-forming élite. The fascination of watching all those . . .
endocrines dancing under the lens of my microscope.
But after nearly 13 years making a living by writing about advertising, design
and marketing, it’s hard to feel any great sense of loss. Another interview
with some monosyllabic “creative” wunderkind whose soaring reputation
rests on a couple of inane jingles and a computer animation technique
blatantly nicked from a recent Hollywood blockbuster. Another feature on
how clients are shifting their budgets from above-the-line media to direct
marketing in search of greater accountability. Another fearless exposé of
how the “lad-culture” prevalent in some agencies is making it hard for women
to get a foothold in the industry - well, no, it’s not altogether surprising that
abandoning my career hasn’t left my life totally bereft of meaning.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Anyway, I haven’t abandoned it. Not completely. I’m freelancing. Still doing
the odd feature for “Creative Edge”. Well, I could be. I know for a fact that
if I wanted to, Geoff would be thrilled. For example, he’d snap up that piece
on banner ads, if I could just get round to putting the finishing touches to it.
Actually, the starting touches. It would only take me a couple of days, three
tops, to crack it out and email it over to him. So I could do that any time I
wanted. But the thing is, I don’t want to. Been there, done that, collected the
ITZ Publishing Group’s silver award for Distinguished Business Journalism
1999. Nothing more to prove in that particular direction. And anyway, right
now, I want to focus 100% on writing Diary of a Superdad. No, not even
that: on being a Superdad.
Reminds me, must check my email . . .
Not very impressive. Only one since I last checked about a week ago - from
Marcus, on his travels:
Hibigbro - Singapore sucks, spitting out chewing gum a capital offence, but flying on to
Sydney tomorrow, meeting Carmen there at weekend, should be nice. Some slight concern
over how Fat Liz will be coping with the kids, longest she’s ever been left in sole charge, but
Carmen says no point in paying London nanny wages - i.e. about two thirds of a Cabinet
Minister’s salary - then worrying about whether she’s capable of looking after children
unaided for a few days. Suppose, as ever, she’s got a point. Hang loose, M
Amazing how different he sounds in email. Almost like he used to sound
before he joined that consultancy cult. Can’t help feeling his itinerary Monday Singapore, Saturday Sydney - makes mine (er, a northern suburb of
Bristol for the foreseeable future) look just a little unexciting. But then, for
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by Lindsay Camp
me, the adventure, the journey into unmapped terrain, the opportunity to visit
places I never knew existed, doesn’t involve getting on a plane. It’s right here
between these four walls. It’s exploring what it means to be a New Kind of
Father. (Hm, quite like the travel metaphor: “A Father’s Journey” has
definite possibilities.)
Click on “reply”.
Hi, Marcus. Glad to hear your brand of consultancy is in such demand in Asia/Pacific Rim.
Might give British industry and commerce an opportunity to recover. Sure Fat Liz will be
fine with the kids, as long as she can keep her crack habit under control. You and Carmen
just relax and enjoy yourselves. Love, C
Not quite sure when this relentlessly joshing tone took over our relationship.
Well, my side of it, anyway. I think it may have been around the time, a
couple of years back, that I discovered my kid brother was earning what he
would no doubt refer to as “in excess of 200K”. Two hundred grand for
poncing around telling hard working captains of industry all kinds of gobsmackingly obvious things about how they could be running their businesses
better (“try making your product a bit less crap and over-priced”)! That’s
four times what I earn. What I used to earn, that is. Before my journey of
discovery began.
Anyway, don’t envy him meeting Carmen, in Sydney or anywhere else.
Humourless yuppie witch.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Wednesday 13 February
Fuck. Not enough about the baby. Quite pleased with some of the
background material (e.g. stuff about Gid, who definitely has potential as a
humorous minor character), but there’s nowhere near enough of the handson, touchy-feely baby stuff that’s going to make the book a best-seller. I’ve
hardly mentioned her. So far, I think all we’ve established is that she’s called
Ellie; fat-headed, spends quite a bit of time sleeping, and capable of looking
like a moron. Oh yes, and more than usually keen on banana. I’m going to
have to do a lot better than that if I want to get the Claire Rayner seal of
approval.
I can see why it’s happened. It’s basically her fault - for not being interesting
enough. She’s just a fairly standard baby. Yes, of course, I would, without a
millisecond’s hesitation, take a bullet for her - or, rather more plausibly
perhaps, given the low incidence of drive-by shootings in this neighbourhood,
throw my body between her and a runaway bus. Yes, of course, when she’s
asleep, I tiptoe to her cot to make sure she’s still breathing, every 15 minutes
or so. And yes, of course, she seems to me a peerless gem among infants-inarms; a near-certainty to become a Nobel Prize-winning Olympic heptathlon
champion and part-time supermodel within the next 20 years or so. But I’m
self-aware enough to know that’s all just standard paternal devotion; the
effect that perfectly ordinary babies have on perfectly ordinary fathers.
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And, all that apart, what is there, really, to say about a baby and the
immensely tedious and repetitious (though quite often oddly rewarding)
business of looking after one? This afternoon, she ate, shat, gurgled and
slept. Or, hang on, maybe the gurgling came before the shitting.
Thursday 14 February
Dull, dull day. Not raining and temperature well above zero, so took Ellie to
the park. Pushed her on swing for hours. Rather grudgingly, picked up (nonexistent) Danny from school because he’d lost his bus fare. S not home until
after 9, long after E went to sleep. Thought about having row, but decided to
give her silent-engrossed-in-newspaper treatment.
Friday 15 February
I think I might have to kill Paul Meadows. His life is just so transparently
Better Than Mine. He drove past me today in his brand new Saab
convertible. With the hood down. Then he saw me and gave me that
nauseating boyish grin - and a little half-wave that I take it was meant to say
“aw, shucks, just look at me showing off in my new car, with the hood down
in the middle of winter!”
With anyone else, I can just about make a case for my life rather than theirs.
Marcus? Yes, I’d like the money but no, most emphatically, not if it meant
sharing my life with Carmen. Gid? Somehow the idea of swapping places
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with Gid is just too ridiculous to contemplate. Brad Pitt? Married to
Jennifer Aniston, $20 million a movie, but famously blessed with the intellect
of a frozen pea . . . and so on. But with Paul Smug-Bastard Meadows - well,
I just can’t think of any grounds for comparison that give me the edge.
Maybe if I knew him better, it would be different.
Sophie home just before 7. She looked rather pleased with herself, and very
sexy in new suit. I spoiled the moment slightly by reeling back clutching my
forehead, exclaiming “Good heavens, what are you doing here at this time?
Are you sick?”
Saturday 16 February
Astonishing occurrence. Almost had sex this morning. Ellie woke early (i.e.
early by an eight month old baby’s standards - about the time the students in
the flat across the road were starting to think about turning in for the night),
and I took her downstairs to stop her disturbing Sophie.
Rather to my surprise, she went back to sleep about 8.30. So I took up a cup
of coffee for S. Very much to my surprise, she seemed highly appreciative of
this gesture. She kissed me, and started to do a thing with her fingers and the
hair on the back of my neck that she hasn’t done for a very long time. Then,
to my total gob-smacked bemusement, she took a sip of the coffee, leaned
forward and licked my ear with her hot tongue. “So, I wonder what it’s like
doing it with a full time house-husband,” she breathed.
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A bit out of character? Well, yes, the way it would be a bit out of character to
see Princess Michael of Kent selling the Big Issue outside Threshers. I can
only think that the combination of breast-feeding and success in the cut and
thrust world of online personal finance has played havoc with her hormone
levels.
I shivered, and put my hand on her breast, which inevitably spurted milk. She
stepped up the back-of-the-neck action, and I moved my hand downwards.
And then - and then - and then . . . I thought, no, I can’t go through with this
because . . . well, because what? Because, I suppose, I was suddenly
overwhelmed with a sense that I didn’t really know who this woman was, or
what she wanted from me, or why we were about to do what, at that moment,
it appeared we were about to do. Here’s what it was: I couldn’t go through
with it because I didn’t know what it would mean.
Me, Charlie Fleming, refusing to have sex - after several months of
involuntary abstinence - because I didn’t know what it would mean! I never
thought it would come to this.
Also, I was pissed off with her for that line about the full time house-husband.
Maybe she didn’t mean anything by it, but it sounded a bit as if she was
implying something about a man with baby vomit encrusted on his jogging
bottoms being somehow less attractive than a real alpha male in a Hugo Boss
suit.
Anyway, sex did not take place. Neither, for the rest of the day, did any
meaningful communication between man and wife.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Sunday 17 February
Bit worried about Dan. Yes, I know he’s not going to be in the book, and
therefore doesn’t exist for the purposes of this material-gathering exercise.
But I’m still a bit worried about him. He seems rather down - hardly ever
leaves his room, except to go to school. Never seems to do any homework,
so he must be getting badly behind. In fact, the only time he seems at all
happy is when he’s playing with Ellie. He actually gave her a bath yesterday.
I hovered in the doorway throughout, waiting to step in when things went
wrong. But they didn’t. He seemed to love it. And so did E. She giggled
from start to finish. Wonder how normal it is for a 13 year old boy to enjoy
bathing a baby? Of course I don’t mean that in a normal vs “Hang-TheseSick-Perverts” way. Just in a “compared with other 13 year old boys from
not more than averagely dysfunctional families” way.
Anyway, feel I need to keep a bit of an eye on him. Maybe try to get him to
talk to me about what’s going on in his life.
No word from Gid this weekend. I called him a couple of times, but his
mobile’s been switched off. Hate to think what he’s up to. But at least I
won’t have to lie to Jen if she asks me whether I’ve spoken to him.
Sophe still immersed in “Gawain and Green Knight”. Always a bad sign.
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Monday 18 February
Jen called. Didn’t ask if I’d spoken to Gid. Invited me round for coffee on
Wednesday. Nice of her, though I’m afraid she’s going to pump me for
information, like she always does in these situations.
Sophie reminded me, as she was leaving for work, to make appointment for
de-bollocking of Ziggy. For some reason, can’t quite bring myself to pick up
the phone.
E rather miserable. She keeps shoving her hand in her mouth – could be
teething. About bloody time, if Dr Miriam Stoppard is to be believed.
Actually, I could probably make this into a kind of recurring theme in the
book - Ellie’s lack of teeth, and my wise reflections on the importance of not
hurrying children, letting them do things in their own time, not expecting
them to conform to some Dr Miriam Stoppard-dictated stereotype etc etc.
Might work.
Cornered Danny in the hall when he got home from school and asked if he’d
like to talk to me about what’s going on in his life.
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“Yeah, that would be great, ‘dad’. Or no, hang on, maybe it would be utterly
vomit-inducingly lame.”
He did that fingers-down-the-throat thing, as he headed up the stairs. The
door of his room slammed behind him. Hard to explain how he puts inverted
commas round ‘dad’ like that, without resorting to hand gestures. But they’re
there. I can hear them.
Tuesday 19 February
Took Ellie to Water Babies at Gloucester Road baths. As usual, a seething
cauldron of several hundred hyper-active infants and their understandably
haggard-looking carers. E loves splashing around, and the pleasure it gives
her is just about enough to reconcile me to spending an hour or so up to my
waist in virtually undiluted baby urine. Plus, she always sleeps really well
when we get home.
A few ideas for making the book less boring:
1. Homeopathic/homespun remedies - e.g. “I’ve found if Ellie has a runny
nose, a piece of cinnamon bark in her cot at night works wonders!”
2. Recipes - to tempt fussy infant eaters. (Good idea in principle, limited in
practice to “Take one medium-sized banana, and an ordinary dessert fork.
Unzip banana, mash flesh vigorously. Shovel down baby’s throat. Repeat.”)
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3. Poetry - some little verses, tender but not in an icky way, interspersed
through the text. Amusing rhyming reflections on watching a baby grow up,
and what it means to be a father. Certainly good from the point of view of
making me appear sensitive (though lack of single shred of poetic talent a
slight drawback). Visually excellent, too, because they would appear in a
different typeface, and really break up the pages, like this:
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Boring text about man looking after baby boring text about man looking after
baby boring text about man looking after baby boring text about man looking
after baby boring text about man looking after baby boring text about man
looking after baby boring text about man looking after baby.
Boring text about man looking after baby boring text about man looking after
baby boring text about man looking after baby. Boring text about man
looking after baby boring text about man looking after baby boring text about
man looking after baby boring text about man looking after baby boring text
about man looking after. Baby boring text about man looking after baby
boring text about man looking after baby boring text about man looking after
baby boring text about man looking after baby.
You’re so small
I’m quite tall,
But one day, who can say
Maybe things will be the other way
Around.
Boring text about man looking after baby boring text about man looking after
baby boring text about man looking after baby boring text about man looking
after baby boring text about man looking after baby boring text about man
looking after baby boring text about man looking after baby.
Boring text about man looking after baby boring text about man looking after
baby boring text about man looking after baby. Boring text about man
looking after baby boring text.
Looks great doesn’t it?
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Sophie not coming home tonight. Attending a 24-hour team-building seminar
in Bracknell. Wonder if she’s shagging Evan? Maybe that’s where she
picked up the hot tongue thing.
Wednesday 20 February
Coffee with Jen - and home-baked apple cake. She’s just finished stippling
the doors of the kitchen units. Ellie was shouting quite a bit - mostly
cheerfully - which prevented the conversation getting too intense. And
anyway, I had a strong sense that Jen was fighting the urge to interrogate me
about Gid. When I mentioned his name a couple of times, she changed the
subject.
But just as I was bundling E into her fleecy outdoor suit, getting ready to
leave, Jen’s resolve finally crumbled.
“Don’t suppose he’s said anything to you about his latest little tart, has he? I
know it’s unfair to ask, and all that, but shucks, Charlie, sometimes life just
ain’t fair.”
She laughed one of her repertoire of long-suffering laughs. Hard-bitten but
Vulnerable Bar Girl, it sounded like.
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“Haven’t heard from him for ages, Jen,” I said, which was true as far as it
went. “But I saw the new commercial last night - the one with the aardvark.
I thought he was on top form.”
Jen took this, reasonably enough, as a barely polite refusal on my part to
answer her question.
“Sorry, Charlie. I’m really sorry. Forget it. Forget I asked. Forget I exist.
Everyone else has. Why don’t I wrap up a bit of the apple cake for you to
take home to poor Sophie?”
Poor Sophie. From Jen, that translates roughly as “God, how does that bitch
look herself in the face, going off to work every day, leaving her kids to fend
for themselves with only a hopeless incompetent to look after them!” But, of
course, she’s much too nice to put it that way.
Thursday 21 February
Maybe the book would work better if I was a hopeless incompetent. Actually,
I know it would. There are loads and loads of laughs to be had in that whole
hapless-sap-up-to-his-elbows-in-projectile-vomit area.
But I’m not going to do it. My integrity won’t allow it. Because for me,
Diary of a Superdad stands or falls on its honesty. Yes, it’s got to be funny but not at the expense of the truth. And the truth is, I’m pretty good at this
parenting business. I suppose I’ve surprised myself, really, by just how easily
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by Lindsay Camp
I’ve taken to it. There are people out there (Hi, Dr Miriam!) who want you to
believe that looking after a baby is roughly comparable, in terms of specialist
expertise required, to launching a manned probe to the outer reaches of the
solar system or conducting one of those brain operations where the patient
has to stay awake in order to report whether the right bits of brain-tissue are
being evaporated by the surgeon’s laser.
But actually - assuming the baby is yours, and you love it - it’s basically a
piece of cake. Boring most of the time, sometimes messy, but not even a little
bit difficult.
Or maybe I am just very good at it. Maybe I really am a superdad. Ever
since I can remember, I’ve had a vague but definite sense that one day, if I
went on searching long enough, I’d find something I was really, really good
at. Maybe this is it.
God, what a depressing thought. I was really hoping I might still turn out to
be the finest flautist of my generation, or the first slightly overweight near-asdammit-middle-aged bloke to win Wimbledon, or something.
Sophie emailed me today. She normally calls me, when she has 30 seconds to
spare between meetings. But today she sent me an email:
“Know how busy you are, so I made vet’s appointment for Z - Monday, any time after 8.30
am. Try E with that apricot stuff in fridge. Might be bit late. S.”
Too busy to reply.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
*
Later . . . S still not home. I’m going to have to think very carefully about
how I present our relationship in DofaS. Very, very carefully indeed.
Because I can see exactly what could happen. How it might read. Bloke
pursues not very brilliant career, leaving little wife at home, neglected and
frustrated. Bloke’s not very brilliant career falters, pretty much grinds to a
halt. Little wife steps forward, regretfully abandons plans to write post-grad
thesis on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, dons discreetly well tailored suit,
bids farewell to beloved baby, sallies forth into corporate maelstrom, works
diligently, carries all before her, gets promoted, gains confidence, is given
BMW 318i with leather upholstery by grateful employer, seems destined to
achieve great things in the world of online personal finance . . . Bloke can’t
take it. Bloke feels a failure. Bloke doesn’t like sense that balance of power
between self and wife has shifted for ever. Bloke whinges about wife
working late. Bloke, as blokes do, sulks.
Of course, that isn’t what’s actually happened. It doesn’t begin to tell the
whole story. Not even close. But I can see that, unless I’m very, very
careful, that’s how it could come across. Hmm.
Ellie wouldn’t touch the apricot stuff. Insufficiently banana-y, I’d judge.
Friday 22 February
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Spent half an hour on the internet, looking for stuff on teething. Not exactly
worried that E is falling behind schedule, just wanted a bit of expert
reassurance that she’s not . . . dentally retarded.
Stumbled on great food-ideas-for-fussy-eaters website: www.yumyummum.com. Wonder if I could borrow some of the recipes without anyone
noticing. Maybe just change the odd ingredient - substitute courgette for
aubergine etc - in order to avoid litigation.
Gid called earlier, when I was out at TumbleTotz with E. He left a message
on the machine, starting in perfect Brando-as-Godfather, segueing crazily
through Bill McLaren, John Major and an unidentifiable Welshman (Burton
perhaps?), before ending more or less as himself. All in about 25 seconds.
Apparently, he’s stuck in London this weekend. Something that urgently
needs seeing to. And if Jen calls, would I mind telling her . . . yes, I would,
Gid. Believe me, I’d mind.
Can’t quite explain why, but suddenly seized by an overwhelming sense that
not minding - not enough, about anything, ever - is exactly where I’ve been
going wrong all these years.
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March
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Monday 4 March
Really depressed. Just spent half an hour in Blackwell’s speed-reading new
best-seller by Emily somebody-or-other, author of novel I vaguely remember
but never read, shortlisted for Booker in 1999. She’s written my book. Well,
obviously not exactly my book, given that it’s about being a mother in the
early years of the 21st century. But there’s projectile vomit on page 102 (bit
late, I think), and it’s absolutely stuffed with wisdom and insight. And here’s
what really depressed the shit out of me. Virtually every page was wall-towall baby: what its outline on the 16 week ultrasound reminded her of (a
coelacanth); the colour its head was when it “crowned” (calves liver poached
in Cotes du Rhone); how its first cry evoked a startling “memory” in her of
her own first moments of life; why the smell of its flesh (“biscuity, faintly
mossy”) made her reconsider the possible existence of a benign deity . . . and
so on and on an on, page after page. So much wisdom and insight! So many
metaphors and similes! So many Big Ideas and Important Themes! If that’s
what the market wants, I’m afraid Diary of a Superdad doesn’t have a chance.
I wouldn’t know where to start to write that kind of stuff.
Was considering buying a copy of “Mum-ME!”, for reference purposes, but
had to leave the bookshop in a hurry. Ellie had somehow twisted round in her
pushchair, got hold of Jamie Oliver’s latest and was reducing it to the
consistency of overcooked polenta with her toothless gums. One of the
assistants seemed on the point of saying something.
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Plus, the house still reeks of cat piss - despite the fact that Ziggy disappeared
last week. I was trying to get him into the basket to take him to the vet, and
the ginger bastard bit me. By the time I’d stopped the bleeding, there was no
sign of him anywhere. Still hasn’t shown up. Would be mildly concerned,
but he has a long history of unexplained absences. Suspect he may be the
feline equivalent of Gid. Off shagging somewhere, only returning home
when he needs a square meal. Needless to say, Sophie blamed me for making
him run away.
One positive thought. Lists might be good, eg:
5 things that make a 9 month old baby laugh
1. Me being bitten by cat (or otherwise injuring myself)
2. Teletubbies (especially the blue one)
3. Posting letters (but only in the post-box on the corner, not the one outside the Post
Office)
4. Black people (bit of a problem for a Guardian-reading parent, this)
5. Bookshelves (don’t ask me why)
Or:
10 ways in which being a full-time stay-at-home dad has enriched my life
1. Less time travelling to work
2. No need to shave every day
3. More in touch with my feelings
4. Plenty of opportunities to show strength of character by resisting temptation to watch
daytime TV
5. . . . . Well, maybe four will do.
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Or, of course:
3 nutritious quick snacks for a hungry baby
1. Banana (mashed)
2. Banana (cut into big pieces)
3. Banana (cut into small pieces)
Just asked Danny if he wanted any help with his science homework. He
laughed. “Yeah, right, that’s exactly what I need. Help from the only being
on the face of the planet more crap at science than me. Thanks ‘dad’.”
That’s what you get for trying to be a good father.
Tuesday 5 March
Big decision. Big, BIG decision. I’ve decided not just to get rid of Danny,
but to replace him. From now on, instead of a witheringly sarcastic preteenager, my first-born son is a Terrible Toddler. Not a Terrible Toddler,
actually; the Ultimate Terrible Toddler - rising three, I think; and, by turns
heart-warmingly loveable and rib-ticklingly destructive-verging-on psychotic.
Archie. I’m pretty sure that’s what his name is going to be. It has a faintly
Victorian goody-goody ring to it, which will contrast nicely with the anarchic
evil he will so amusingly embody.
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Important to get the rationale for . . . Archie - yes, I definitely like it - as clear
as possible. I think there are two main reasons for bringing him into
existence:
1. Opportunities to demonstrate sensitive fathering
I’m envisaging lots of dialogue between Archie and the Charlie-character,
enabling me to display my almost uncanny empathy with the workings of a
small child’s mind; my boundless patience; my unfailing wisdom and
occasional whimsicality:
“Why are birds, daddy?”, Archie asked me today, as he climbed out of the
bath, into the warm towel I was holding ready for him.
“Why are birds what, Archie?”
“Just why. Why are they, daddy?”
I knew instinctively that it would be wrong to press him further to explain his
question, when it clearly made perfect sense to his almost-three-year-old
mind.
“Oh, I see what you mean,” I replied, with a wisely twinkling smile. “ I think
it’s because trees and air.”
“Because trees and air what, daddy?”
Diary of a Superdad
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“Because trees need birds to sing in their topmost branches, and air loves to
feel their wings beating against it.”
Archie yawned hugely, but his eyes were glowing with childish wonder....
That kind of thing. Though I probably need to make the sensitivity/wisdom a
bit more subtle.
2. Opportunities for amusing mayhem
Yes, I’ve made an irrevocable decision not to go down the vomit and
diarrhoea route, because that would cheapen DofaS. But having said that, it’s
increasingly clear to me that if I’m going to compete out there in the
marketplace with Booker-shortlisted Emily and other incredibly sensitive
souls like her, my most powerful weapon is going to be humour. The only
vaguely amusing moment in “Mum-ME!” is when she grills her placenta, then
gets distracted by the baby crying and cremates it - and that definitely isn’t
supposed to be funny.
No, to give myself a clear-cut competitive advantage (a USP as those selfsatisfied wankers in advertising would say) I absolutely have to go for laughs,
albeit of a predominantly wise and insightful kind. And Archie - with his
uncontrollable boisterousness, his manic energy, his inability to touch
anything without breaking it - will be my indispensable ally in getting them.
Diary of a Superdad
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“Oh, Archie! Just look what a mess you’ve made! That’s the last time I
leave you alone with a white leather sofa and a 5 litre can of pillar box red
vinyl matt!”
Wednesday 6 March
New Personal Best for E. This morning, she spent one hour and 26 minutes
suspended in the sitting room doorway, bouncing contentedly. Well, fairly
contentedly. Sufficiently contentedly that I didn’t feel too guilty about
leaving her there watching her Teletubbies video, while I attended to a range
of indispensable household chores, such as lying on the sofa reading the
Guardian review section. Interesting article on new “infidelity-check kits”,
just arrived in UK from US where, apparently, everybody’s using them. For
only £59.99 or some such paltry sum, you get a selection of little bottles
containing brightly coloured liquids, plus pipettes, test tubes etc - a bit like
those chemistry sets that used to get left unopened at Christmas when we
were kids. All you have you to do is take a pair of your partner’s soiled
under-garments, use one of the pipettes to apply a brightly coloured liquid to
“the affected area” - then, hey presto, if the liquid turns blue, that proves
conclusively that semen is present, and was deposited in the last 72 hours. If
you know that the semen present is not your own - or in the case of a woman,
that the semen was not deposited in your presence - then you have your
partner, bang to rights. He or she is a Love Rat! (Or, of course, in the case
of a man, quite possibly a Wank Weasel.)
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Imagine how utterly sad you’d have to be, how irretrievably your relationship
with your partner would have to have broken down, before you’d stoop to
conducting DIY chemical analysis of their dirty knickers.
Wonder if Jen read the piece?
Feeling a bit unsure about Archie today. I’m pretty sure I need him, if I’m
going to make Diary of a Superdad work. But what happens if anyone finds
out he doesn’t actually exist? Of course, from my own point of view, it
makes absolutely no difference to the essential Truth that the book will seek
to express. It’s just a small piece of creative licence, a minor heightening of
reality, that in no way affects the integrity of the undertaking; that,
paradoxically perhaps, will make it more rather than less “authentic”. But
I’m a little concerned that some readers might not understand that. They
might just think that if one of the main characters in the story is invented,
then the rest is probably a pack of lies, too. Hmm, need to give this some
careful thought.
Also, I think I prefer Rory. Archie, for all its virtues, sounds just a tad more
Little-Lord-Fauntleroy than I’d want any son of mine to be. Rory, I think, is a
bit more Dennis the Menace. You wouldn’t catch a Rory asking questions
like that one about the birds.
“Dad. Can I have a gun – a great big one that fires real exploding bullets
and goes RAKATAKATAKATAK!!!”
“Oh Rory, what am I going to do with you?”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Thursday 7 March
Fantastic day. More like late May than early March. Took Ellie for a long
walk in her buggy - right down round the docks, and back up Park Street.
(Wondering a bit if I need to relocate the book to London. Might broaden its
appeal, make it easier to sell the movie rights. Red buses, mime artistes in
Covent Garden, scenes outside sushi bars etc. But on the other hand, maybe
Bristol has provincial charm? Hard to tell, living here.)
E had a great time. Nothing she likes better than being trundled around,
blowing bubbles and charming the pants off baby-friendly strangers. And I
must say I felt pretty good, too - sitting by the waterside, sipping a
cappuccino while the rest of the world went about its business. All those
planning meetings, brainstorming sessions and strategy huddles going on
around me! All those estate agents, solicitors, bankers, independent financial
advisers, chartered surveyors, accountants, management consultants (yes, I’m
thinking of you, Marcus), marketing executives and PR people doing
unspeakably dull things! All those sad people trying desperately to convince
themselves and each other that meeting their targets, or developing a new
market positioning, or striving to deliver on the company’s 100%
commitment to this-that-or-the-other might just possibly be a worthwhile way
of spending their brief, brief lives. Suckers! Drones!
Euphoric mood didn’t last long. Saw the Meadows’ new nanny on the way
back. Australian, I’m pretty sure Sophie told me. She smiled in my direction
- almost certainly at E. She was wearing one of those tops that ends just
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below the rib cage, leaving exposed a couple of square metres of what looked
like a very fine digestive-biscuit-coloured velvet. It made me want to do one
of two things. Sink to my knees, and lick every square millimetre. Or weep
piteously. Didn’t do either, fortunately.
Message from Gid on the machine when I got in. It started with a bit of
heavy breathing and some routine stuff about how my flawless creamy body
made him drip - positively drip, do you hear - with desire. Then, a brief
transition into Crazed Shakespearean Thesp mode: “Rejoice, rejoice, my
most rever-ed liege, thrice say I rejoice!”. And finally, Gid playing himself,
unconvincingly as ever: “Seriously, Charlie, I’ve got some fan-bloody-tastic
news. I think I can guarantee you’ll have an orgasm when you hear it. Call
me when you have spare a moment - there’s a too, too perfect sweetheart!”
Called him back. Apparently, he’s got the lead in a new TV series about a
Cambridge don/chat-show host who dabbles in counter-intelligence work in
his spare time, owns a vineyard and drives a vintage car. It’s going to be the
biggest thing on primetime Sunday evening BBC since Bergerac. So he, Gid,
will be up there with the Ross Kemps and Robson Greenes. And I, Charlie,
will be able to bask in the reflected glory of being on first name terms with
one of the most brilliant stars in the televisual firmament (this, I think, was
the bit that was supposed to make me have an orgasm). Oh yes, and he’d
rather I didn’t mention it to Jen just yet.
Thrilled for him, obviously. Arranged to buy him a celebratory drink on
Sunday.
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by Lindsay Camp
Friday 8 March
“Is Ziggy dead, daddy?”
I was on the point of saying no, of course not. But wisely, I bit my lip.
Denying the possibility of Ziggy’s death would be to deny my son the respect
his question deserved.
“I don’t know, Theo,” I replied. “We don’t know where Ziggy is. He might
be all right, or he could be dead. What do you think?” (NB I’ve definitely
decided on Theo - Rory just didn’t stick somehow.)
“I think he’s alive. I think he’s a super-cat with super-powers and nothing
can kill him even if he got shot with a bullet right through his eyeball!”
“Well, I’m not sure about that,” I laughed. “But he is pretty tough - and he
has disappeared before, then come back perfectly all right.”
“But if he doesn’t, daddy, if Ziggy is dead - if a car’s run over him and he’s
all mashed up and squished and covered in maggots and his brains are all
coming out of his head . . . can I have a rabbit instead? Oh, can I, can I, can
I?”
Brief musings here about robustness of children’s attitudes towards death
etc.
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Also, I think I need to do some stuff sooner rather than later about E’s
sleeping habits. It’s expected in this kind of book. But not sure what angle to
take. The orthodox approach, of course, is to whinge furiously about the
broken nights – lamenting the loss of a refreshing, uninterrupted eight hours
(“these days I’m grateful for eight uninterrupted minutes!”) and wildly
exaggerating the effects of sleep deprivation to supposedly humorous effect
(“woozy and semi-comatose at breakfast time, I popped my newly arrived
bank statement into the toaster!”).
Not really true in my case, though. Most nights E goes off to sleep about
nine, then wakes between 1 - 2 am. I jump out of bed, fetch her, bundle her
into our bed with Sophe, then go and spend the rest of the night in the spare
room. The bed in there is actually very comfortable. And without the benefit
of a baby’s foot thrust firmly in my ear, I usually get a pretty good night. In
fact, I’m thinking quite seriously about starting my nights in there. Don’t
really find that the intimacy of the marriage bed does much for me these days.
Not since that invisible Berlin Wall sprang up between S’s side and mine.
Jen popped round earlier. She was just passing on the way to the shops and
wondered if I needed anything? Asked her in for coffee. The way she didn’t
ask if I knew anything about Gid’s plans for the weekend was little short of
heroic.
Thought about dropping casual mention of Identi-Sperm, or whatever it’s
called, into conversation, but didn’t.
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Sunday 10 March
Fuck. Totally in the dog-house for forgetting that it’s Mothers’ Day.
Apparently, I should have known and made suitable purchases on on E’s
behalf. (There are, it seems, big signs up outside every florist’s shop, every
branch of Body Shop, every retail outlet purveying hand made Belgian
chocolates.)
Danny really showed me up by presenting Sophie with a gift-wrapped jar of
lime, ginger and chilli pickle, and a home-made card addressed to “the best
mum in the world”. Actually, I wondered if this was meant ironically, but he
looked very butter-wouldn’t-melt, so I guess not. And S certainly took it at
face value - cradling his head to her bosom and going all tear-y. But honestly,
“best mum in the world”? Considering how very little time her career permits
her to devote to her maternal duties, that’s quite an accolade. She must be
cramming some pretty shit-hot mothering into those occasional half hours
after she gets home from work and before Danny goes to bed.
Tried to redeem myself with breakfast in bed. But by the time I brought the
tray upstairs, she was up, wrapped in a dressing gown, and sitting at her
dressing table tapping away at her lap-top.
“Um, happy Mother’s Day,” I said, putting the tray down.
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Too little, too late. She picked up her coffee without taking her eyes from the
screen.
“Thanks. Nice of Danny to remember.”
“Mm,” I murmured. “And lime, ginger and chilli pickle - what more
appropriate gift?”
“It’s the thought that counts, Charlie.”
“Ah yes, the thought: ‘How best to show my affection for my mother who is
renowned for breaking into a sweat at the sight of the most innocuous chicken
korma? I know, I’ll give her a jar of really, really hot pickle!’”
“Don’t always knock him, Charlie. Why don’t you try giving him some
credit, for a change? It’s really starting to piss me off the way you never give
anyone any credit for anything they try to do.”
Somehow, I suspected we were no longer really talking about Danny and the
pickle. I was itching, of course, to take Sophie up on this alleged persistent
failure of mine; to press her for details of occasions on which, faced by
clearly meritorious behaviour on the part of those around me, I had wilfully
withheld the appropriate praise and recognition. “Go on, just give me one
fucking example of me never giving anyone any fucking credit for anything
they try to do – other than Danny and the sodding pickle,” I felt like yelling in
her face. But she was ostentatiously absorbed in whatever she was doing on
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her lap-top now, blonde head bowed so that a curtain of hair hid her face
from me; subject very clearly closed as far as she was concerned.
“Yeah. Well, we all have our failings,” I muttered, edging towards the door.
“I’ll leave you to get on with your work.”
Downstairs, that phrase of S’s about my reluctance to give credit “really
starting to piss her off” kept going through my head. “Really starting
to. . .” It sounded like a warning. Maybe not a final warning, but a not-farfrom-final one: a change has begun to take place in me and my feelings
toward you, and unless you modify your behaviour accordingly, I can’t
answer for what the consequences will be. That’s what it sounded like to me.
“Daddy, why is mummy always working?”
“She isn’t always working, Theo.”
“Yes she is. She’s always working when I want to play with her, or show her
my dead insects, or go to the park with her.”
“No, Theo. Not always. Mummy has to work hard to earn enough money to
buy us all the food and clothes and things we need. But she often plays with
you, or reads you a story.”
“No, she doesn’t. She’s always too busy.”
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He was on the point of tears, and I knew it wasn’t worth trying to argue him
out of his perception of being neglected by his mother. So I scooped him up
and carried him to the kitchen table. “Come on, I want you to draw a lovely
picture for mum, so you can give it to her when she finishes her work.”
“All right,” said Theo, sniffing bravely. “But sometimes I think I’d like to
shoot mummy with my big gun. Rakatakakatakatak!!!”
Did a few chores to bolster my sense of righteous indignation. Then slipped
out about mid-day to meet Gid at the pub - leaving Dan in charge of Ellie, and
Sophie still working upstairs.
Presumably to celebrate his arrival in the upper échelons of primetime TV
stardom, Gid was almost an hour late. I was nearing the bottom of my third
beer by the time he finally made his entrance, mobile clamped to ear, free
hand gesticulating eloquently.
“Believe me, my love,” he boomed into the phone, with no hint of a
concession to being in a public place, “I am doing everything in my power to
extract myself from this living hell that is being apart from you!”
He waved at me briefly - the wave being swiftly followed by patting of
pockets and drinking gestures. “I’m broke, buy me a pint,” his matchless
thespian skills allowed him wordlessly to communicate, as his conversation
continued.
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“No, trust me when I tell you this place is the slow agonising death of the
soul, a numbing vortex of mediocrity, populated exclusively by beetle-browed
neanderthals - dribbling, sweat-stained morons to a man! I’d gouge out my
eyes with a spoon rather than spend a moment longer here than I am
compelled to do - ”
For a moment, his flow was interrupted. From the bar, as I paid for maybe
the fiftieth pint I’d bought him without reply, I couldn’t help noticing that a
few beetle-browed morons were eyeing him speculatively, over their drinks.
He plunged on, regardless.
“In that case, my darling, I’ll have no option but self-slaughter. I’m warning
you, if I get there and find you’ve gone out without me, I will stick my head in
the oven - and leave you to live with the guilt!”
The conversation continued in this vein for another five minutes or so, before
he eventually brought it to an operatic conclusion. Blowing out his cheeks, he
placed the phone with exaggerated care on the table, next to his drink.
“My god, Charles. You cannot begin to imagine the pressure I’m under. I’m
afraid I’ll have to just glug this down, and skedaddle. As you probably
gathered, she wants me back in London.”
“Yes, I did sort of deduce that. And by the way, no point sticking your head
in the oven, unless you light a match. Gas hasn’t been poisonous for years.”
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He continued as if I hadn’t spoken, shaking his head ruefully. “And this one,
Charlie - what this one wants, she gets. It’s as if she can reach down inside
my soul and grab my bollocks - “
Before I had a chance to take him up on this novel metaphysical/anatomical
concept, his mobile chirruped again. He snatched it up.
“No, of course not. No, a thousand times, no. I swear to you on all that is
most precious to me in this god-forsaken world!”
He clasped his free hand to his heart, glancing across at me with haunted
eyes.
“OK, I Gideon Farley, swear to you, Janine Ackerley, that I have not shagged
her - as you so elegantly put it - this weekend. I haven’t shagged her this
century. I wouldn’t shag Jen if she was the last woman on earth, and teams of
evil scientists were regularly pumping me up to the eyeballs with Viagra! Is
that good enough for you”
He listened again briefly, sighed deeply, and put the phone down.
“Oh my god, Charlie, this is one is going to be the death of me.”
“So you’re still seeing her then?” I said brightly. “Must have lasted, what,
almost a month?”
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“Typical of you, Charlie, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, to imagine that
the depth and intensity of the rapport between a man and woman has anything
whatever to do with mere chronology. With Janine, I - ”
His phone rang again. He glanced at the display - before answering with
apparent relief, and in slight but clearly detectable West Country accent.
“Tristan, my flower. What can I do for you?”
Tristan told him, at some length. Gid seemed pleasantly surprised.
“Well, I must say that’s very big of you, my lovely. I’m delighted to hear it. I
look forward to seeing bright and early at the read-through on Tuesday. Take
care now.”
This call appeared to have changed Gid’s mood spectacularly. Suddenly, he
was elated, bumptious, positively zinging with self-satisfaction. And
determined to tell me why.
“That was Tristan - climbing down, big time. Grovelling, actually!”
“Tristan who?” I asked, like a sucker.
“Oh for god’s sake, Charlie, don’t you know anything? Tristan Rhys
Llewellyn - you must have heard of him, he’s one of the hottest talents in TV
right now. Won a BAFTA last year for that thing with the canoeing lesbians
on Channel Four.”
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“And what was he climbing down about?”
“Well, as you would know if you knew anything at all, he’s directing my new
show. And we had a little teensy falling out in rehearsal over a character
suggestion of mine.”
I raised my glass. “By the way, congratulations. Your 15 minutes start here.”
He glowered at me.
“What was your character suggestion?” I asked, contritely.
“Somehow I just knew as soon as I picked up the script that my character Jack Pencarrick - is a Cornishman. Don’t ask me how. Sometimes these
things just come to an actor - Kaboom!”
“And Tristan disagreed?”
“God knows why. For some reason, he took the view that just because Jack is
a history don, chat-show host, part-time intelligence agent and vineyard
owner, that inevitably meant he must have a mouthful of fucking plums! I
mean, I fucking ask you, how are you supposed to work with fucking
dickheads like that?”
He was getting over-excited now. I thought I’d better try to calm him down.
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“So anyway, you got your way?”
“Too fucking right I did. Phone calls were made. Riot acts were read.
Contractual clauses were invoked. Lines were drawn in the sand . . . and the
little dumb-fuck climbed down!”
Her grabbed his glass, and got to his feet. He was going to do the toasting the
pub thing again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Jack Pencarrick is, I’m delighted to announce, a
Cornishman!”
“Come on, Gid,” I muttered, glancing round to see how the morons would
take this. “Let’s get you out of here.”
As I pushed him through the door, his phone rang again.
”I’m on my way. As we speak. My dear friend Charlie has insisted on
driving me to the station. I’ll be with you quicker than an arrow from a
tartar’s bow – First Great Western’s Sunday timetable permitting.”
I drove him to the station. I didn’t want to, not least because I was almost
certainly over the limit. But he’s a very hard man to refuse. We had to go via
his house, because he needed to pick up his stuff, and he made me go in with
him. Jen had clearly been crying. My role, obviously, was, by my presence,
to prevent a scene.
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There was no scene. Gid grabbed his bag, hugged the kids briefly, and was
out of the door. Leaving me to sketch a little wave at Jen, and sidle out after
him - feeling obscurely as if I was the one walking out on her. As if I was the
one always letting down the people who cared about me most.
Monday 11 March
Oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-mygod-oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god . . . just had a potentially life-changing
experience.
Miserable wet morning, but Ellie wouldn’t settle down - didn’t even want to
watch Teletubbies - so I took her to the park. Pushed her on the swing for
maybe 20 minutes, and was just trying to prise her out to go home (almost
exactly the opposite problem to getting that bastard Ziggy into his basket),
when I heard a voice behind me.
“Looks like he isn’t ready to go home just yet.”
I knew who it was straight away. You don’t hear many Australian accents in
these parts.
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“Actually, he’s a she,” I replied, automatically, still trying to unravel Ellie’s
limbs from the seat.
“Oops.”
Then I looked round. And promptly lost the power of rational speech.
“No, it’s OK. Don’t worry, no. It’s always - y’know, well, babies - it’s hard to
- they’re not very easy to - unless they’re wearing pink or whatever, otherwise
they’re just interchangeable fat-headed little bastards, really aren’t they?”
Understandably, she was looking at me as if I might be dangerous. But, at the
same time, not without amusement.
“Guess you’ve got a point. Anyway, sorry. Now I’ve taken a proper squint at
her, I can see she’s a she.”
I think I must have made some kind of reply to this, because I’m fairly sure
the conversation continued. But by this point my brain had shut down
completely. I was floating, powerless, on a sea of mood-altering chemicals hormones, adrenalin, endorphins, pheromones, who knows, maybe even
endocrines. I was falling, agonisingly, hopelessly in love.
Funny, really. Because she isn’t beautiful by any conventional standards. In
fact, she isn’t beautiful at all. About the same height as Sophie; shortish,
reddish (henna-ed?) hair, a bit unwashed-looking, pulled up in scrappy
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bunches; faintly angular, but in no way memorable features; slightly stickyout ears.
But there’s something about her; something . . . let me try to pin it down.
First, and most obvious to a man who hasn’t had sex this century, there’s her
body. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not spectacular. It isn’t one of those in-yerface pornographic female bodies made up entirely of primary sexual
characteristics, all apparently defying the laws of physics. But there’s a
certain springy tautness about it that, even through several layers of winter
clothing, is impossible to miss. Somehow, you get a powerful impression that
every part of her combines resilience and give in precisely the appropriate
proportions; that the soft bits would have a pleasing underlying firmness to
them, and that the hard bits wouldn’t be too hard to nestle your face against.
Next, construction. You feel, looking at her, that other people may be put
together from comparable component parts, but that in few cases, if any, are
they so artfully assembled. There’s something precision-engineered about
her. She moves like . . . golden syrup, with a sense of rhythm.
But more than anything, there’s the way she looks at you. There I was, just
some semi-mad bloke with a baby in the park, but when her eyes met mine, I
felt as if she’d seen right through me. Knew it all - the failures and
compromises, the frequent disappointments and occasional minor triumphs,
the hopes and fears, the abandoned allegiances to The Jam and West Ham
United. I suppose she can’t really have seen all that. I guess it’s just an
antipodean thing: a certain amused directness of gaze that gives the
impression of soul-stripping insight. But that’s exactly how it felt, I swear.
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Thanks to Ellie, I managed to pull things round a bit. (There’s nothing like a
friendly baby for social lubrication.) She had the two younger Meadows
brats with her (Conor, same age as E, and Zack, nearly three), and I
succeeded in establishing: that she’ll be looking after them until September,
when she’ll be going back home to resume her studies at “uni”. That Paul
and Susannah are great to work for - “really good fun”; that she likes Bristol,
but isn’t overly fond of the British climate; and that she comes from a little
place just outside Adelaide that I wouldn’t have heard of.
Oh yes, and her name is Amber.
Amber. Amber. Amber. Amber. Amber. Amber. Amber. Am-ber. Amber. Am-ber. Ammm-ber. Oh, Amber.
*
Later . . . Geoff called this afternoon. Wanted to know if I was working on
anything for “Creative Edge’. Said he just wanted to keep me in the loop, and
felt it was very important for me to “maintain a presence in the marketplace”.
Yes, he perfectly understood my reasons for wanting to take a career break nobody better, in fact - but would hate to see me losing touch, falling off the
pace, becoming - well, a bit of a dinosaur. Nobody, he assured me, could
have a higher regard for me professionally; but, as a friend rather than a
colleague, he felt I should know there was some hot new journalistic talent
around - in fact, he’d got a piece just last week from some young guy he’d
never heard of on the authorial intention in graphic design that had frankly
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blown his socks off. So, no pressure or anything, but did I think I was going
to have anything for him any time soon?
I mentioned the banner advertising piece. He was off in pursuit like a ferret
down a rabbit hole, wanting to know what angle I was taking, who I was
planning to talk to, how many words, etc. At the best of times, I would have
struggled for convincing answers to such probing questions. But on this
particular afternoon, with my brain woozily suffused with thoughts of green
eyes and golden flesh, I think my own name and telephone number might well
have been beyond me.
“Slight baby-related crisis, Geoff. I’ll email you with a few idea asap.”
“Don’t like to press you, Charlie, but when - “
“Gotta go, Geoff. Sorry. I think she may have swallowed something.” I
slammed the phone down. Then unplugged it to prevent him calling me back.
Later still . . . managed to get Ellie off to sleep just minutes before S came
home. It always gives me satisfaction being able to tell her she’s too late to
say goodnight. God, did I really just write that? How utterly tragic a human
being does that make me sound.
Tuesday 12 March
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Brief excitement at breakfast this morning when I thought I’d detected that
breakthrough first tooth. Turned out to be a fleck of mashed banana that had
somehow attached itself to Ellie’s gum. Slightly concerned that her poor
performance in this area may attract adverse comment at her nine month
check-up, due next week.
Probably should give her a bit of practice with the motor skills tests which I
gather play an important part in determining whether she meets the
government’s quality standards. Don’t want her off the pace in two areas.
(God, I sound like Carmen! I’ll be doing that thing with flash cards next showing her pictures of different species of frog, and expecting her to file it
all away for future reference.)
Persuaded her to sleep at lunchtime, and sat down to plan banner advertising
piece. Sharpened pencils. Wrote “Banner advertising piece” on yellow pad.
Underlined it. Twice. Wrote “Amber” in big letters. Added “4 Charlie”
underneath. Then drew heart around the outside. Thought very, very hard
about what would make a man like me allow himself to behave in such a
pathetic adolescent fashion. Failed to reach any firm conclusions. Tore off
sheet, scrunched it up, pushed it well down into the kitchen bin, underneath
last night’s potato peelings.
Decided to try again, working straight onto computer instead of wasting time
making long-hand notes. Checked email before starting. One from Marcus:
Hibigbro - Music quiz time. Study carefully the names of the following bands/solo artistes:
1. The White Stripes
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2. The Hives
3. Sparklehorse
4. Ryan Adams
5. Depth Charge
6. Ron Sexsmith
For every band/solo artiste you’ve heard of, award yourself one point.
For every band/solo artiste whose music you’ve heard, award yourself two points.
For every band/solo artiste featured in your CD collection, award yourself three points.
Warning: to prevent cheating, one or more of the bands/solo artistes listed is fictitious.
10 points or over - Congratulations, Charlie, you are a man of taste and discernment, with
a CD collection that does a man of your age great credit.
5 - 9 points - Well, I suppose it could be worse. Considering how old you are and
everything. And how crap your musical taste always was.
Under 5 points - For god’s sake Charlie, you should be ashamed of yourself. You sad old
git. Still listening to The Jam, and feeling all hormonal and rebellious? You make me sick.
So, how did you do? M.
Stared blankly at list. Ryan Adams? A typo perhaps for that crater-faced
bloke who sang the Robin Hood song - he was definitely Bryan, not Ryan.
Decided the ficititious band must definitely be Sparklehorse. Or possibly Ron
Sexsmith. Or maybe the very implausibility of their names made them the
least likely to have been made up by Marcus . . .
Clicked on reply:
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Er, not very well. Think I read something about the White Stripes in The Guardian a while
back . . . so that would be a grand total of one point out of a possible 15 (assuming only one
fictitious). Which may make me a sad old git, but what does knowing this kind of stuff make
you? Seriously, Marcus, haven’t you got anything better to do with your life? Shouldn’t
you be dispensing blindingly obvious advice to senior management morons at prices so
inflated they can only afford to pay by firing half their workforce? Do your employers
have any idea how you’re frittering away your time? And what would Carmen say? Take
care, M. PS Sparklehorse must be the fictitious band?
Suddenly felt urgent need of fresh air. Bundled E, still sleeping, into her
pushchair and walked her round the corner into Balmoral Avenue - where,
entirely coincidentally, Paul Mr Perfect Meadows and his perfect wife and
three perfect children live in their highly desirable detached house with
mature well-stocked gardens front and rear. And with their no less perfect
and desirable Australian nanny who was neither entering nor leaving the
house as I passed - nor indeed as I passed again and again and again. And
again.
Well, why shouldn’t a man spend half an hour or so pushing his sleeping baby
up and down a pleasant suburban street on a not-torrentially-wet Tuesday
afternoon in early Spring?
Ellie woke and seemed a bit disgruntled. Took her home, and played with her
bricks. Definitely capable of putting one on top of another. Feel that with
intensive coaching she could be piling up three or four by time of motor skills
test next week.
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“Daddy?”
“Yes, Theo?”
“What’s third world debt?”
I gaped at Theo, astonished. If I’m honest, I felt a pang of guilt, too. I’ve
been a little concerned lately that I may have been letting him watch too
much television. I don’t line up with the hard-line“TV-rots-children’sbrains” brigade, but I think there have to be limits. And I suspected
immediately that this was proof we’ve been overstepping them.
“Third World debt, Theo? Wherever did you hear about that?”
“On television. A man said it was killing millions of children.”
My suspicions were confirmed. What to do? Of course, I’d prefer Theo not
to have been exposed to such a complex and distressing subject; but it was
too late to undo the damage now.
I did all that any parent can do. My best. Using a handful of mung beans
from the store cupboard, I tried to bring alive for Theo the concept of
compound interest mounting inexorably, condemning the world’s poorest
people to perpetual indebtedness - always paying back on what they owe, but
never able to pay it off.
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I wasn’t sure how successful I’d been. I felt, as we parents so often do, that
I’d failed my child. But today, after breakfast, I found Theo in his room
stuffing a handful of small change - about 20p in total - into an envelope.
“What are you doing, Theo?” I asked him.
“Sending some money to those poor children in Africa. To stop that monster
killing them!”
Maybe, I reflected wisely, I hadn’t failed completely, after all . . .
Rather pleased with the mung beans. Feel they’re the kind of detail that will
help to bring “Diary of a Superdad” alive, by placing it in a very specific
social context. Wonder what mung beans are?
Shattering thought. Maybe this afternoon, while I was pushing E up and
down Balmoral Avenue in the pouring rain like a total idiot, Amber and the
smaller Meadows were at Water Babies. Just the kind of thing an Aussie
nanny would do with her charges. And just my luck that, thanks to my
laziness in not bothering to take Ellie this week, I missed the chance to see
her in a swimsuit. I suppose there’s always next week.
Later . . . occurred to me while I was cooking supper for Dan (pasta with
grated cheese and tomato ketchup for third night running) that she would see
me in a swimsuit, too. Went upstairs, closed bedroom door, undressed, pulled
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on Speedos - originally black, but now mottled and rusty with exposure to
chlorine and baby wee. Stood in front of mirror, took deep breath, held it.
“Daddy?
“Yes, Theo?”
“Why does your tummy stick out like that? And why are your legs so funny
and white?”
“Just shut up, Theo. Just shut the fuck up.”
Wednesday 13 March
Decided to put Amber out of my mind completely today. Had another crack
at getting the banner advertising piece started this morning. Typed:
“Why has the web proved such a crushing disappointment to advertisers?
The standard response to lamentably low banner click-through rates (latest
estimates under X%) is to blame the medium; to theorise that cyberspace,
essentially communitarian and interactive, is simply an alien environment for
the promotion of brands, a place where people go not to buy but to be - very
often with a specific desire to avoid the tawdry hucksterism (the rattle of the
stick in the swill bucket as Orwell described it) that’s taken over every other
part of our lives. It sounds plausible enough. But maybe what we’re really
looking at is a disastrous failure on the part of the so-called creative
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community - an utter absence of the vision and commitment needed to seize
the new opportunities, and yes, tackle the new problems encountered in the
digital environment . . . But frankly who gives a shit, anyway?”
Felt Geoff probably wouldn’t be over-impressed by such a synopsis. Decided
to try again, maybe tomorrow. Checked email. Surprised to find reply from
Marcus so soon. Normally, I’d expect to wait at least a couple of weeks
before he found five minutes - probably between flights in Jakarta or Helsinki
- to get back to me.
Sparklehorse - fictitious, you twat? Christ, Charlie, what’s it like having been dead for the
last 10 years? Have to admit, though, you’ve got a point: right now, music is just about the
only thing that makes the pressure I’m under (at work and at home) vaguely bearable. I’ll
tell you all about it next time I have a couple of years to spare - which could be sooner
rather than later if certain things turn out the way they rather look like turning out. Keep
breathing in, keep breathing
out, M
Wonder what all that’s about? If I was as nice as people keep telling me, I
probably wouldn’t be feeling this slight pleasurable frisson at the thought that
perhaps, for the very first time, not everything in the life of my talented, hard
working and highly successful younger brother is going precisely according
to plan.
Seized by a powerful urge to tell Gid about Amber (whom, incidentally, I
have barely thought about all day. Certainly not more than 90% of the time
when my brain hasn’t been actively engaged with other matters.) After all,
who better to advise me on the correct procedure for a married man of mature
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years who finds that he has inadvertently fallen helplessly in love with a
woman half his age? If Gid can’t provide some useful insights into my
present situation, I don’t know who can. Never thought I’d hear myself
saying that. Probably better wait till next time he’s in Bristol - don’t think the
conversation would work over the phone.
Took E for long walk. Bought new swimming trunks at sports shop in
Whiteladies Road. Came home via Balmoral Avenue. Smug Bastard
Meadows was loading his brats into the Saab. Seeing me, he obviously felt an
explanation was due.
“Nanny’s afternoon off. And Susannah’s in Milan - so muggins here gets
lumbered with the ankle-biters!”
So Wednesday was her afternoon off. I filed this news item away for future
reference. I realised I desperately wanted to hear her name.
“Seems like a nice girl - your nanny, I mean. You’re lucky to have found
her.”
“Amber? Yeah, she’s a good kid. These two love her to bits. Don’t like to
think what she’d doing to my phone bill, though - all those calls to her mum
and dad back in Wonga-Wonga, or wherever it is.”
“Unusual name, Amber,” I croaked, my craving not yet satisfied. “Don’t
think I’ve ever met an Amber before.”
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Understandably enough, SmugBastard looked a bit non-plussed by this.
There didn’t seem to be anywhere much for the conversation to go.
“Probably quite common in Australia, though,” I blundered on, drooling
slightly. “Probably loads of Ambers there - no more unusual than being
called, I dunno, Katie or Emily in this country. . . “
Mr Perfect glanced at his watch briefly, before sliding into the Saab’s leatherupholstered driving seat.
“Anyway, gotta fly. Promised to take the kids to the zoo, for some reason.
Good to see you. Take care now.”
“Nice car, by the way,” I said, hoping to retrieve something from the
situation. But it was too late. He’d already slammed the door shut and was
revving the turbocharged engine in a quite unnecessary manner. A forefinger
raised from the steering wheel in farewell, accompanied by a wink, and he
was off down Balmoral Avenue - perfect children, I couldn’t help noticing,
perfectly behaved in the back seat.
Winker!
Thursday 14 March
Diary of a Superdad
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Question: does Amber have potential as a DofaS character? The obvious
answer, I suppose, is no absolutely not forget it on no account don’t even
think about it!
But thinking about it, which I can’t help doing, I wonder if not including her
in the book would be a bit of a cop-out? Yes, absolutely too bloody right, I
want the Charlie-character to be as sympathetic as possible (especially to the
kind of female readers who may be interested in having sex with him/his
creator when I embark on one of those book promotional tours that bestselling authors always whinge so tediously about). But, at the same time, I
want the book to be as honest as I can make it, even if that means facing up to
the odd unpalatable truth. Plus, I really don’t think Charlie will benefit from
being too whiter-than-white. If I don’t want people to think I’m a stay-athome wimp, I definitely need some little foibles, even a few oddly endearing
minor weaknesses, to counter-balance all my outstanding qualities.
Not sure, though, how easy would it be to portray my love for Amber in this
light. Suppose I might be able to make it sound quite touching: self-aware
thirty-something wryly amused to find himself in grip of teenage-style
infatuation, while never for one moment losing sight of his true priorities home, hearth and basically-happy-though-currently-going-through-a-stickypatch marriage. But I think it’s much more likely I’d just come across as a
dirty old man.
Plus, even allowing for literary contrivance, Sophie might just possibly fail to
see the funny side of me lusting after a firm-bodied 22 year old.
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Later . . . just back from parents’ evening at D’s school. Thoroughly
enjoyable: teachers swarmed around me, jostling each other in their eagerness
to shake my hand and congratulate me on being the father of such a talented,
highly motivated and socially well adjusted young person.
Slight exaggeration. Actually, most of them barely seemed to know who
Danny was - except Physics, who spoke rather fondly of him, though in a
head-shaking, he’ll-never-be-a-scientist kind of way; and English, who
described him as “an enigma”. I think this was a reasonably polite way of
saying that he suspected Danny might have some ability in his subject, but
found it hard to judge on account of D’s principled objection to handing in
any homework.
To my not quite complete astonishment, Sophie was late. We’d arranged to
meet there, so that one of us could distract Ellie while the other did the
concerned parent bit. But by the time she arrived, I’d almost finished. I was
onto the last teacher on my list - History, a spotty youth who looked as if he
might have left his skateboard outside - when I caught sight of her across the
school hall, peering around for me short-sightedly.
Slightly pink and flustered, she looked beautiful. Instinctively, I half-raised
my hand to wave. Then dropped it again, and went on talking - hampered
considerably by Ellie, who was getting seriously restless by now. Sophie
heard her impatient squawks, and came hurrying over, just as I detached
myself from the History Boy with the usual promises to oversee Danny’s
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homework conscientiously, and miss no opportunity to impress on him the
need for more focused effort in future.
“Charlie, I’m really sorry,” she said, gathering Ellie from me.
“That’s all right. I managed without you. I can, you know.”
“Don’t be like that. I really tried to get away, but - “ Seeing my unforgiving
expression, she broke off. “Well, never mind. I’m here now. Who are we
seeing next?”
“Nobody. I’ve finished. I’ve talked to all Danny’s teachers. All by myself well, obviously enormously assisted by Ellie.”
“I told you she’s old enough to leave with a baby-sitter. You could have
asked Sacha.”
Cleverly, she’d made me furiously angry in three different ways at once.
There was the obvious provocation in that phrase “I told you”, implying a
mother’s superior intuitive understanding of her child’s needs. Next,
goading me to helpless fury, there was the bit about E being “old enough to
leave” - with its clear suggestion that I was a sentimental fool for feeling that
an infant-in-arms might possibly be better off being cared for by its parents,
rather than some potato-faced teenager who’d rather be taking drugs on
College Green. And finally, there was “you could have asked”. Why me?
Why couldn’t she, if she knew she was going to be late - thereby leaving me
holding the baby?
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Like a weary bull surrounded by red rags, I couldn’t make up my mind which
way to charge. Defeated, I sighed, “Come on, let’s go home.”
As soon as the car started, E went to sleep. (NB Could probably get a para
for DofaS out of this: the uncanny ability of the internal combustion engine to
induce sleep in even the most hyper-active baby. May have to exaggerate a
bit to make it funny/wise.)
“She’s off,” whispered Sophie, glancing back at her. “Why don’t we stop for
a drink?”
“What, you mean like, a drink? In a pub?”
Sophie laughed. “Why not? She won’t wake up. And I could really do with a
small bucket of vodka.”
“What about Danny?”
“I’ll call him,” said Sophie, fumbling for her mobile. “I’ll tell him we’ll be
back in an hour or so. He’ll be fine.”
And so Sophie and I went to the pub for a drink - accompanied, admittedly,
by a comatose nine month old in a portable car seat, but otherwise for all the
world like a man and woman going to the pub for a drink together.
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It was good. As the alcohol seeped into my system, I felt the anger fall away
from me. I was happy to be having a drink at the pub with this really rather
beautiful and awesomely poised woman who, bizarrely, had chosen to spend
her life with me. For the moment, there was no one I would rather be sitting
in the pub having a drink with. No one.
I made her laugh. I told her about Paul S-B Meadows and his Saab
Convertible. I told her about Jack Pencarrick’s Cornish accent (then had to
swear her to secrecy, when I remembered that Jen probably still knows
nothing about Gid’s imminent superstardom). I told her about Danny being
“an enigma” to his English teacher.
Then she told me something. She told me that Evan is leaving. Apparently,
he’s been offered some incredibly high-powered job by something called
MoneyWomb. I had to restrain myself from jumping out of my seat and
punching the air.
“Oh well, I guess he was bound to move on, being so thrusting and dynamic
and everything. I’m sure you’ll manage without him.”
Sophie seemed uneasy. “The thing is, he seems to think he can’t manage
without me.”
“So you mean he’s not going to leave?” I said, my heart sinking.
“No, I mean he wants me to go with him.”
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“Go with him?” I repeated stupidly.
“Yeah. To MoneyWomb. He’s going to be on the Board, and they’ve given
him pretty much carte blanche to blue-sky the whole thing - bring in his own
people, throw away the rule-book, whatever.”
So Sophie’s charismatic young boss was going to take her with him to his new
job, like a favourite stapler or an especially comfortable executive chair. And
then an even nastier thought struck me.
“And where is MoneyWomb?”
“Clerkenwell - just off the green.”
“In London?”
Sophie pursed her lips and nodded. I gazed blankly at the head on my drink.
I put my finger in, and disturbed it. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Sophie went on, without looking at me. “It’s a fantastic opportunity. But I
really don’t see how I could do it - with you and the children here. Unless we
moved, of course. Commuting would be a nightmare.”
“Moved to London?”
“Well, I suppose we could.”
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“You’re seriously suggesting we should move back to London? I can’t
believe I’m hearing this. You’re seriously suggesting we should uproot
Danny, leave all our friends, sell our nice house and buy some poxy flat in
Walthamstow or somewhere, all for the sake of your brilliant career?”
“Well, people do. Move for career reasons. It’s not unknown. And anyway,
we’ve hardly made any friends here.” As ever, Sophie was infuriatingly calm.
I wasn’t. I was anything but calm.
“Forget it. I’m not fucking moving for your career,” I hissed, just enough in
control of my feelings to keep my voice down.
She looked at me levelly for a moment. Then she leaned forward, and ruffled
my hair, with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, I thought.
“Don’t panic, Charlie. I’m not even sure I want to go on working under Evan
- quite apart from the London thing. It occurs to me that with him out of the
way, there are some quite promising career opportunities for me right here.
You know, a chance to spread my wings.”
I had no desire to discuss her career plans any further.
“Mm,” I grunted, finishing my drink. “We’d better be going, or Danny will
be worried about us.”
It bothered me the way she ruffled my hair like that. As did the mental
picture conjured up by that line about her working under Evan. As, in spades,
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does the idea of moving back to London. The words dead, body, my and
over come to mind.
Friday 15 March
Saw Amber this morning. Ran down to the corner shop to buy a paper while
Ellie was asleep, and she was just coming out of the door, with Conor in the
pushchair. (I’d never have thought a baby was capable of looking smug until
I saw that one.) She smiled as if she was pleased to see me.
“Hi . . Charlie.”
She’d remembered my name. Massed angel choirs raised their voices in
joyful Motown alleluias.
“Hi, Amber. How’s life?”
“Good, thanks. How about you? Free man today?”
I gaped at her, koi style, for a moment - trying through the haze of lust and
longing to make some sense of her last question. She was looking heartbreakingly gorgeous, in a short green leather jacket and low cut jeans. A
narrow sliver of digestive biscuit-coloured velvet was showing . . . Oh god,
she meant where was Ellie. But obviously, I couldn’t tell her I’d left a
sleeping baby alone in the house.
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“Oh no,” I eventually stuttered. “No. Well, yeah, but only like for, y’know, a
few minutes. Because I’ve got a friend over - and she’s keeping an eye on
Ellie . . .” Fuck. I’d said “she” because what kind of man leaves his baby with
a hopeless incompetent male friend, even for five minutes? How would he
cope, with his big clumsy fingers and predisposition to panic, if the baby
woke up and needed to be fed or have its nappy changed? But, on the other
hand, I didn’t want her thinking I was the kind of man who had female friends
over while his wife was at work, either. “Well, not exactly a friend,” I heard
myself saying, “it’s actually my mother-in-law. Bit of a battle-axe. Better get
back as quick as I can. Bye now. Take care.”
And on that urbane note, I dived despairingly into the shop. Not exactly the
encounter with my One True Love I’d had in mind.
Called Gid to find out if he’s going to be around this weekend. He was in one
of his butch Man of the People moods.
“Not fucking likely, Charlie. You saw the kind of shit that was flying at me
from all directions last weekend. No fucking way am I subjecting myself to
that again so soon.”
“You did seem to be under a bit of pressure.”
“A bit? That’s the under-fucking-statement of the year. Anyway, I’ve got
costume stuff I need to take care of here. That little dumb-fuck wants Jack
Pencarrick to ponce around in tweeds!”
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“Not very Cornish,” I murmured supportively. But Gid wasn’t listening.
“Fucking tweeds! I see him way more interesting that that. Leather. Fur.
Gold - y’know, lots of big chunky jewellery.”
It sounded as if, since we last spoke, Jack Pencarrick had added pimp and
drug dealer to his already impressive CV. I made appreciative noises.
“And we start shooting in just over 10 weeks,” Gid went on, “so I urgently
need to give Tristan’s spotty little arse a good kicking this weekend. Bristol
will just have to wait for Gideon Farley’s next visit.”
“What about Jen?”
“What about her?”
“Well, isn’t she expecting you?”
Suddenly, Gid sounded tired, dispirited.
“I haven’t a clue what Jen is expecting from me any more. But I can tell you
this, Charlie. Whatever it is, she’s going to be disappointed.”
There was a moment’s silence. A rarity in any conversation involving Gid.
“The thing is, Gid, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
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“God, Charlie, my life is a mess.”
“Something I need your advice on, actually.”
“You can’t imagine how much I envy you with your cosy little life down there
in Bristol.”
“Gid, listen. There’s something I want to talk to you about. Not on the
phone. Face to face.”
I’d finally broken through Gid’s self-absorption. “What kind of thing?” he
asked.
“I’ll tell you next time I see you. Maybe next weekend?”
“It’s Milo’s birthday on Wednesday. I was thinking of making a flying visit.
I’ll let you know. Ciao.” He hung up abruptly - disconcerted, presumably,
by the almost unprecedented intrusion of my life and concerns into our
conversation.
Saturday 16 March
Sophie said she had to pop into the office this morning. From long
experience, I know that her “popping into” is most people’s “spending a
longish day at”. So I took D and E for lunch at Pizza Express - in the almost
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certainly futile hope that S would come back while we were out, not know
where we were, and be struck by a powerful sense of how much she’s missing
out on, by putting her career before her family.
Lunch not an unqualified success. Banana pizza not featured on menu though Ellie quite enjoyed sitting in one of those rather well designed high
chairs they have, and chucking bits of garlic bread around. But Danny and I
conspicuously failed to bond. As increasingly happens when I’m with him
these days, I found myself slipping into Hearty Dad mode (“Come on Dan,
shovel it down! I thought you were supposed to be good at eating pizza!”).
And when, inevitably, that didn’t get any very positive response, I pulled off a
near-seamless transition into Hectoring Dad, passing on to him in
considerably more detail than was necessary some of the parents’ evening
feedback - all the stuff about him needing to focus more in order to fulfil his
academic potential.
He snorted a few times, through mouthfuls of pizza, in what I took to be a
derisive manner - and muttered, “Yeah, like I’m really going to work harder
because that little twat says I should”, when I mentioned the History Youth by
name. But otherwise, he became progressively quieter as I blustered, and
would very happily have retreated to the shelter of his Walkman if I hadn’t
vetoed the request.
To make matters worse, half-way through our meal, the Family Smug came
in. Inevitably, they were given the best table - the big round one by the
window. And while in our dark corner the conversation dwindled and died,
they - bathed in golden March sunlight - proceeded to do a more than a
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passable imitation of a family in a TV commercial for home made Italianstyle pasta sauce. Much chucking of infants’ chubby cheeks. Many a sudden
gust of laughter, shared by all. And quite a bit of yuckily uxorious behaviour,
over the heads of their children, between Mr and Mrs Perfect. We were only
narrowly spared spontaneous bursts of opera singing.
In contrast to us - me unshaven, Danny Slipknot-T-shirted and glowering,
Ellie food-encrusted - they all looked perfect, too. Paul, immaculate in
unsullied chinos and expensive looking leather. Susannah, pulling off that
difficult Rock Chick of Mature Years thing better than I’ve ever seen it done.
Their eldest (Harrison, I think) shock-haired and Man U-replica kitted. Zack,
blond and irrepressible, yet spookily well behaved. The baby, rosy-cheeked
and placid.
Altogether, it was a sickening exhibition. And, hard as I tried, I didn’t
manage to sneak past them unnoticed on the way out.
“Charlie,” said Paul, as I shuffled by their table, ostentatiously absorbed in
securing E’s hat on her fat little head. “Don’t worry,” he went on, putting his
hand on my arm, “I’m not stalking you.”
I looked at him blankly.
“We seem to keep on bumping into each other,” he helped me out.
Hardly true. But perhaps in his action-packed life crossing paths with the
same close neighbour twice in a week counted as a major coincidence. I
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laughed over-heartily, to compensate for not having got his crap joke, raised a
hand in benediction, and tried to keep moving towards the door.
“No Sophie?” said Susannah.
I looked round at my family, as if noticing her absence for the first time. D
was already outside on the pavement, headphones firmly clamped over ears,
my veto having clearly expired as soon as we left the table. “No, she’s - “
I didn’t want to tell them she was at work. Their joint income must be three
times ours, but neither of them seemed to feel they needed to “pop into” the
office on a Saturday morning. “ . . . at Pilates,” I stammered.
Christ, what were Pilates? I vaguely remembered reading something to the
effect that they were some kind of aspirational leisure activity enjoyed by
people like Cameron Diaz and that very glamorous Asian newsreader on
Channel 4. But beyond that, I didn’t have a clue.
“God, how fab!” husked Mrs Perfect, in her implausibly deep and sexy voice.
I just knew she was going to ask a follow-up question. Where? How often?
Who with? So I was deeply relieved that Ellie chose that moment to squawk
restlessly, in her pushchair. I threw them one of those ritual eye-rolling
grimaces exchanged by parents of young children which say something like,
“Gosh, they’re demanding! But don’t they make life richer and more
fulfilling!”
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Then I fled “Wish mine were as well behaved as yours! Anyway, gotta run.
Bon appetit!” I called back, over my shoulder.
Back home, my plan had hadn’t worked. Sophie was still at work - never to
know how much heart-warming family fun she had missed. Unless I told
her, of course, when she eventually came home.
Sunday 17 March
Not a good day. Sophie somehow (god knows how) persuaded Danny to
come for a Sunday afternoon stroll with us. Naturally, he was in a state of
traumatised grief and shock, at being separated from his PlayStation. E
grizzled. A razor sharp wind sliced into our faces. We stomped around
Ashton Court in miserable silence.
Tried on my new swimming trunks again when we got back. Did some pressups, and went for a run. Ate one of E’s bananas for supper, and hardly
anything else. Doubt whether my body will reach a state of toned muscular
perfection by Tuesday. Probably need at least another week for that.
Moving to London most emphatically not discussed.
Monday 18 March
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
When do men become sexually ridiculous?2
Obviously, there’s no definitive answer. I’m always seeing magazine polls
that rate Sean Connery (102) as third Sexiest Man in the World - behind only
Harrison Ford (83) and Mel Gibson (a mere whipper-snapper at 64).
But for the rest of us - those not primped by Hollywood’s finest make-up
artistes, not shot through Vaseline-coated lenses, not dipped and twizzled in
Major Movie Stardust - when does it happen? I’m pretty sure for me, it was
just around the time of my 31st birthday. Up until then, I’d been - well, never
some hunky heart-throb type, admittedly; but at least a contender. If I saw a
pretty girl in the street, it was possible (not likely, but possible) I might catch
her eye. And if I did, it was not entirely inconceivable that something might
pass between us - a smile, a soulful stare, a knowing smirk. It was an
established fact that one or two of the secretaries at work used to fancy me.
And every year, I went to the office party in the fairly confident expectation
that, at the very least, the evening would not pass without some mildly (and,
on a few occasions, not so mildly) flirtatious behaviour.
Then, boom, overnight it seemed, all that was in the past. Suddenly, the
world found the very idea of me fancying someone - or being fancied by
someone - absurd, laughable, disgusting! One day, I was a sexual predator
(not a very hungry or successful one, true), the next, as a product in the
sexual marketplace, my sell-by date had expired. I was either a dirty old man,
2
Wonder if this has potential as Guardian Women’s page piece? Would need to tweak it a bit to give a
solidarity-with-the-sisters angle (“it’s not just you girlies who have a tough time when you pass 30”), but that
shouldn’t be too hard. Could work. Wonder what they pay?
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
or a nonentity. In the sprawling, never-ending blue movie of modern life, no
other roles were available to me.
Of course, at the time, it didn’t really bother me. My life was ticking along,
my marriage was happy - well, certainly not unhappy - and hey, what did it
matter if I no longer caused attractive young women to choke on their
carbonated drinks like that bare-chested window-cleaning bloke in the TV
commercial? There wasn’t any mystery about it. I could see in the mirror
that whatever physical charms I’d had were, to put it politely, on the wane.
I’d been tallish, slimmish, fairish (somebody once said I looked like Jeff
Bridges). I was still tall - but now, it seemed, pointlessly, exaggeratedly so. I
was no longer slim; not stout either, but unmistakably soft and puffy-looking
around the middle. I was no longer fair; my hair hadn’t greyed exactly, but
had faded and lost all trace of sheen. And somehow, imperceptibly, my
characteristic facial expression had taken on something of the anxious
hamster. Without great wealth or vast power by way of Kissinger-style
compensation, there was no good reason why my sexual currency would
retain its value. And it really never bothered me very much at all. Until now.
Later . . . went to Boots and bought fake tan. Applied to legs. Quite pleased
with results - though a little streaky.
“Dad?”
“Yes, Theo.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“Have you forgotten me?”
“Forgotten you? Of course I haven’t.”
“You haven’t written anything about me for ages.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten you, Theo. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.
I’m going to write more about you soon.”
“If you don’t, I’m going to shoot you with my big gun, as well as Mum.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if I was right to let you have that gun, Theo.”
“Rakatakakatakatakatakatakatak!!!!!”
Tuesday 19 March
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ellie struck down by appalling diarrhoea. Quite chirpy, but
unable to go more than about 15 minutes without emitting a greenish-yellow
tidal wave, reminiscent of the Ganges in the monsoon season. Spent entire
day so far hosing her down, and changing her clothes from head to toe.
Nothing remotely amusing about it. Absolutely no insight or wisdom to offer.
And, of course, can’t possibly take her to Water Babies, so won’t see Amber
in swimsuit. Or otherwise. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Wednesday 20 March
Gid turned up on my doorstep earlier. Almost unprecedented. His ravening
hunger for an audience has long dictated that our meetings should take place
in public. If we could meet for a quiet drink on the stage of a packed London
Palladium - well, we’d probably meet a lot more often. The notion of privacy
being desirable is as alien to him as to a member of a million-strong herd of
migrating wildebeest.
Which is why seeing him there, shoulders hunched against the raw drizzlefilled morning air, seemed wrong somehow. Not quite like bumping into
Madonna pushing a trolley round B&Q, but incongruous nonetheless. We
both clearly felt awkward, though we responded in rather different ways.
“Gid! Good heavens! I remembered you were planning to come down for
Milo’s birthday - but I thought you’d call me.”
He picked up one of the milk bottles that were still on the step.
“Hubby out, is he luv?” he rasped, leering Sid James style. “Going to invite
me in for something hot and steamy?
I never know what to say when he does that kind of thing. Luckily, Ellie
intervened - holding her arms out to Gid, who actually, it must be said, for all
his failings, is brilliant with small children. Charmed, he grabbed her from
me.
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by Lindsay Camp
“Hello, sweetheart. You want me to rescue you from the nasty man?
Nothing would give me more pleasure.” Holding her protectively like a social
worker removing a child from a potentially violent abusive parent, he barged
past me into the hall, heading for the kitchen. “Fuck me, Charlie, she’s
absolutely gorgeous. Aren’t you, princess? Absolutely fucking gorgeous.
Yes you are, you are, you are!”
“Thanks,” I murmured, faintly.
He sat down, plonking E on the kitchen table in front of him. She cooed and
fluttered her eyelashes. “Seriously, Charles, I can perfectly understand why
you want to stay at home and devote your entire life to this little bundle of
gorgeousness. I only wish I’d had the chance when my lot were this size.
You’re a lucky, lucky man, Charlie Fleming.”
This wasn’t really what I wanted to hear. It was going to be hard, to say the
least, for this paragon of domestic felicity to introduce the subject of
infidelity. “Hey, Gid, there’s this barely post-teenage girl I want to shag give me some tips on getting into her knickers,” it would hardly now be
possible for me to say.
I didn’t. Instead, biding my time for an opening to present itself, I asked him
about the TV series.
He was airily dismissive. “Oh, it’s fun I suppose. We show-people do so love
the limelight. But of course it isn’t the real work.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“You mean the voice-overs?”
“No I fucking don’t,” he replied, hurt and reproachful. “I mean the stage
work, you dumb-fuck.”
Normally, I would have taken pleasure in pricking this particular balloon.
Sightings of Gid on stage in recent years - since he found so many more
lucrative ways of employing that wondrous organ in his throat - have been
only slightly more frequent than authenticated UFO landings in provincial
High Streets. But, preoccupied, I allowed him to witter on - about an open-air
“Dream” he’s hoping to direct in the summer; a possible part in the new
Mamet at the National; a libellous comment that Trev (Sir T Nunn to me) had
made to him about Pete (Sir P Hall). Ellie listened, enchanted. I made
coffee.
“Gid,” I blurted, when he eventually paused for breath. “You remember
there was something I wanted to talk to you about?”
“God, Charlie, this sounds sinister. You’re not going to go weird on me, are
you? I can’t allow that. I rely on you absolutely to remind me what a really
grounded, domesticated man looks like.”
I squirmed. “Gee, thanks. I’m honoured to play such an important role in
your life.”
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“You do, Charlie. You’re everything that I - to my eternal and most profound
regret - am not.”
A wave of anger swept over me.
“No, I’m fucking not, Gid. Whatever makes you think that? What makes
you think you have the right to cast me as this pathetic grinning stay-at-home
wimp you want me to be? I’m absolutely not everything you’re not, Gid. OK,
I’m not a self-obsessed pillock like you, but believe me, I share plenty of your
loathsome characteristics.”
I stopped, embarrassed. Ellie looked at me with interest: Who was this
vehement stranger with the striking physical resemblance to her father? Gid
was eyeing me appraisingly, too. Then he raised a quizzical eyebrow
(plucked, I was almost certain), and said: “All right, I suppose you’d better
tell me what’s on your mind. Your Uncle Gideon is listening.”
So I told him. I tried to inject a note of wry you’ll-never-guess-what
detachment into the story, but this, I could hear myself, was effortessly
overpowered by agonised yearning. After my first couple of faltering
sentences, Gid’s mouth was hanging open. His eyes were glazed. When I
finished, there was a long, long silence.
He looked like a small child who’d just been told that Father Christmas didn’t
exist. He clasped his hand to his brow, then ran it slowly down over his face,
allowing a shuddering sigh to escape through his fingers.
Diary of a Superdad
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“Oh shit. What the fuck did you tell me that for?”
“I told you because I needed to confide in someone – and, stupidly, I thought
that, as my oldest friend, you might be the right person.”
He wasn’t listening. “Why oh why oh why? Why you, Charlie? Why now?
You have everything, absolutely every-fucking-thing you could possibly
want, right here.” He waved his arm around, to embrace Ellie, the kitchen,
the dilapidated fabric of 45 Arundel Road, my life. “And now you’re telling
me you want to put it all at risk, chuck it all down the toilet, just so you can
chase some little Aussie tart. Oh Charlie, I thought so much better of you!”
“I can’t quite believe I’m hearing this,” I said bitterly. “From you.”
“But you’re different from me, Charlie.” Gid was on his feet now, prowling
my kitchen like a young Brando. “You don’t have my nature. You’re not
governed by uncontrollable urges. You’re not a slave to passion! This just
isn’t you, Charlie!”
“Not the me you thought I was, definitely. And I can’t really blame you for
that, because I didn’t realise this kind of thing was ‘me’ either until – “
“Stop!” commanded Gid, wheeling round and jabbing a finger in my face.
“Don’t say another word. I am, as you say, your oldest friend – and, as such,
I’m telling you must be true to your own nature, and forget this pathetic, sick
fantasy. Don’t ever mention it to me again, Charlie, and I’ll behave as if this
conversation never took place!”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
And with that, pausing only to plant a kiss on Ellie’s head while shooting me
an accusing stare, he fled.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Have you, Theo? What about?”
“About why you don’t write about me any more. I think it’s because you
don’t know anything about boys my age. How we talk. What we’re interested
in. What we can and can’t do.”
“Nonsense, Theo. Danny was your age once.”
“Yes, but you weren’t there. You were always at work. You only used to see
him about once a week.”
“Well, that’s pretty much true.”
“So that’s why I’m a bit concerned whether you, as a writer, have the ability
to create a convincing Theo-character.”
“Hmm, must admit you’ve got a point, Theo.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Thursday 21 March
Well, let’s get the good news out of the way. Ellie is an exemplary nine
month old. Her performance at her check-up this morning was outstanding.
Short of reciting a Shakespearean soliloquy while performing a series of
perfectly executed back-flips, she could hardly have done more to
demonstrate her preternaturally advanced intellectual and physical
development. Her ability to pick up extremely small plastic beads between
her thumb and forefinger, in particular, had the Health Visitor in raptures.
She put three bricks on top of each other, and only narrowly failed with the
fourth. She pointed me at and said quite distinctly (to my ears at least) “that’s
my father, who is doing an admirable job of bringing me up”. And the Health
Visitor seemed quite relaxed about her toothlessness (“only worry if she still
hasn’t got any when she starts school!”).
All good. Top quality baby. Simply the best - better than all the rest.
Absolutely nothing to worry about. And yet more proof, of course, of my
superdad-style parenting skills.
Now the not so good news. Amber was there, and I totally screwed it up. Big
time. She was sitting with Conor on the opposite side of the crowded waiting
room. We were separated by the tropical fish tank, and at first, she didn’t
notice me. But eventually, by means of a rather flamboyant game of peekabo
with E, I managed to catch her eye. She smiled, and waved. She glanced at
the clock on the wall, and blew out her cheeks - a piece of mime Gid would
have been proud of, I thought. Then, when the person sitting next to me left,
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
she came over with Conor and took the empty seat. A whiff of her scent vaguely lemon-y, with maybe a hint of honey and warm summer meadows and I was reeling on the ropes before she even spoke.
“Hi, Charlie. Fancy seeing you here.”
“Well, it’s where anyone who is anyone wants to be on a wet Thursday
morning,” I replied, fluently enough, but without a vestige of meaning. “You
know, surrounded by all the latest infectious bacteria.”
She was looking at me in that green-eyed faintly amused away again. “Yeah,
and of course it’s a chance to catch up on all the hot 1998 celebrity gossip,”
she said, leaning forward and picking up a dog-eared copy of ‘Hello’ from a
pile of quite collectable-looking antique magazines. She riffled idly through a
few pages. “Jeez. Catherine Zeta Jones and the old tortoise guy - what’s that
all about?”
Sadly, I was unable to reply. She was wearing jeans and a short denim jacket,
and leaning forward had revealed a smallish expanse of golden lower spine,
and a narrow strip of knicker waistband. Red, silky looking. Quite possibly
a thong. If I’d been capable of rational thought, I would probably have
reflected on the unsurpassed erotic power of the unexpected glimpse, as
compared to the premeditated eye-full. It was a hundred times more arousing
than any Playboy centrefold.
She sat back in her chair, seemingly unaware of my heightened state. “You
here to see the doc yourself?” she asked, with that winning directness I
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
remembered from our previous encounters. “Or is there anything up with the
little one?”
“No. Not really. Slight touch of diarrhoea, but it’s getting better. I mean
Ellie, obviously, not me. I haven’t got diarrhoea - my stools are
commendably firm, I’m happy to say . . . just here for her nine month
check.”
“Snap!” she said, bouncing Conor on her knee. “I didn’t realise these two
were so close together.”
I refrained from pointing out that this was hardly surprising, given E’s vastly
superior range of accomplishments. And, in fact, we established that Conor
is - incredibly - six days older than E. The babies were eyeing each warily,
like Sumo wrestlers about to begin a championship bout. But Amber and I
were, I thought, beginning to establish a real rapport. Until it all went
horribly wrong.
“How’s the battle-axe?” she asked, when the baby-related conversation
flagged.
I gaped at her blankly. “The battle-axe?”
“Your mother-in-law?” she prompted. “Gone home now, I hope?”
“My mother-in-law?” I still hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“She was staying with you last time we bumped into each other.”
Fuck! Of course! Outside the corner shop - it all came flooding back. But it
was too late; she must have realised by now that I’d been lying. And if I tried
to cover up, it was only going to make me look an even bigger prat. Unless,
perhaps, I could still rescue something from the situation by means of a
sparkling humorous rejoinder . . .
“Yeah. Of course. I was just playing for time,” I dropped my voice to a
confessional whisper, and leaned closer to her. Oh god, that scent!
“Because, actually, that very day I got so fed up with her constant carping
and incessant criticism that I stabbed her with the bread knife and buried her
body under the patio. But you won’t grass me up, will you?”
Now it was Amber’s turn to stare at me blankly. But mercifully, before the
toe-curling embarrassment could creep very far up my legs, a nurse appeared
and summoned Conor Meadows to Treatment Room 1. Hurriedly gathering
up his things, Amber only had time to nod at me - in a way that seemed to
suggest her worst suspicions about me had been confirmed - and murmur,
“See you, Charlie.” Then she was gone.
Friday 22 March
Maybe I’m writing the wrong book. Maybe I should forget “Diary of a
Superdad and write “Memoirs of a Horny House-husband” instead. Maybe
there would be more of a market for a raunchy tale of a libidinous male,
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
earthily in touch with his feelings, cutting a swathe through the naughty
nannies of north Bristol, and fought over by frumpy young mums, eager to
prove to themselves that passion and pleasure can persist post-partum.
One drawback. Unlike “DofaS”, it would have to be entirely fictional. Not
just mostly.
“Dad, I’ve had an idea.”
“Have you, Theo? What kind of idea?”
“An idea for helping you write your stupid book. You could base my
character on Zack Meadows.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“Dur-ur! Zack Meadows is about the same age as me. You could get to
know him, and - y’know, borrow all the funny bits and make them about me.”
“But how would I get to know him?”
“That’s the beauty part! You’d have to make friends with Nanny Amber!
You could invite her round for coffee.”
“Invite her round for coffee? I couldn’t do that. She’d think I was some
dirty old man, making a pass at her.”
Diary of a Superdad
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“Not necessarily. Not if you did it the right way.”
“What do you mean - ‘the right way’?”
“You just need to make it sound ... innocent, neighbourly. You could say that
you really want Ellie to spend more time with other babies her own age, like
Conor. She’d believe that.”
“Hmm. I suppose she might.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well, when are you going to invite her?”
“Don’t rush me, Theo. I’m thinking about it.”
“Well, don’t take too long. A not quite three year old who talks like this is,
frankly, not entirely plausible.”
Two emails this afternoon:
Hi, Charlie. Hate to nag, but any progress with the banner advertising piece? Geoff.
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by Lindsay Camp
And:
Really sorry, Charlie, but won’t be back tonight. Evan’s taking the web guys to some
football match (Chelsea vs somebody), and he’s insisting that I go with him. Me at a
football match! And he’s booked hotel rooms for everyone, so I’ll have to stay. Back as
early as I can tomorrow. Don’t be cross. S.
Didn’t reply to Geoff. Tried to call Sophie, but only got her voicemail. She
and Evan were probably already on their way to the match. Didn’t leave a
message. Didn’t call her mobile.
Saturday 23 March
Tired. Didn’t sleep well. Tossed and turned, thinking of Sophie and Evan
conducting in-depth post-match analysis, assessing merits of sweeper system
versus flat back four, pondering merits of squad rotation as means of keeping
players fresh etc. Haunted by vision of S in Chelsea replica shirt, sucking
David Mellor’s toes. (Pretty sure this is some kind of flashback to a tabloid
scandal of yesteryear - if not, I’m a very, very sick man.) Eventually dropped
off just minutes (or so it seemed) before Ellie woke, ready to begin the day.
Sophie got back around lunchtime. Pale and, by the look of her, badly
hungover. Made a big fuss of E and Danny, presumably by way of salving
her conscience. Barely spoke to me - which may, I suppose, have had
something to do with the fact that I had absolutely nothing I wanted to share
her with her. Heavy, heavy tension over lunch. E seemed unaware
(insensitive little bastards, babies), but poor D was squirming in his seat. And
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by Lindsay Camp
as soon as he’d finished, he asked, rather touchingly, if he could take E to the
park.
I looked at Sophie. Despite everything, I still have an instinctive urge to defer
to her in all baby-related matters.
“I don’t see why not,” she said. “As long as you’re very careful crossing the
road. And make sure she doesn’t get cold - there’s a freezing wind.”
As soon as they’d gone, I started to clear the plates, long-sufferingly.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I said. “He’s only thirteen.”
Sophie shot me a glance that dripped contempt. “I thought you’d left the
decision to me. Like you always do.” And she buried her head in the
newspaper in a way that emphatically declared the matter closed.
As it turned out, E survived trip to park with D. They both came back pinkcheeked and laughing. I sometimes wonder how, in view of gross parental
dysfunctionality, they seem to have turned out so well.
Later . . . watched Sophie unloading contents of overnight bag. Couldn’t help
noticing she’d had overnight bag with her, despite allegedly last minute nature
of overnight trip. Couldn’t help noticing she’d been wearing a pair of lacy
black knickers I’d never seen before. Almost found myself wishing I’d
invested £59.99 in “marital peace of mind”, in the form of the amazing
Spunk-o-find infidelity check kit. But I’m not quite that sad. Yet.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Sunday 24 March
Slight thaw in relations with S this morning. No real reason, just an
instinctive pulling back from the brink thing we both seem to do whenever the
tension between us threatens to spiral out of control.
Conciliatory gestures on my part included: pouring glass of orange juice for
her, instead of shoving carton across table; letting her read review section of
Observer first; agreeing to accompany her on annual visit to garden centre.
Once there, she slipped into full Charlie Dimmock mode, roving the aisles
with a gigantic trolley, inspecting foliage, scrutinising labels and generally
behaving like a lifelong plantswoman. Quickly exhausting my limited supply
of enthusiasm for all things horticultural, I retired with Ellie to the kids’ play
area.
“Hi, Charlie. I never think of you as a gardener.”
It was Jen - festooned with shrubs and looking, frankly, terrible. Puffy-eyed,
blotchy-skinned, wild-haired. Not far off trainee-bagwoman.
“Jen!” I said, not entirely succeeding in concealing my dismay at her
appearance. “No, neither do I. Think of myself as a gardener. I’m only here
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by Lindsay Camp
under extreme duress.” I gestured vaguely towards Sophie, who was
attempting to wrestle a medium-sized tree into her trolley.
“I suppose Gordon’s told you,” said Jen, barely registering that I’d spoken.
Told me what? Since Gid’s abrupt departure the other day, I haven’t been
even slightly tempted to contact him. “Actually, I haven’t spoken to him for a
while, Jen.”
“In that case,” she said with a deliberate dignity that made me wonder if she’d
been drinking, “you won’t know that he’s left me.”
“Oh shit. I’m so sorry. When?”
“Wednesday. He came down for Milo’s birthday. He brought him a pile of
computer games - the really ghastly violent ones. We got in a stupid
argument about it, and he just said he’d had enough - and that was it.
Fourteen years of marriage written off. Game over. Exit Gideon Farley, to
start new life, stage left.”
She made a feeble attempt to laugh, which came out as a kind of wheeze Consumptive Crack Addict Whore, perhaps.
Of course, he’s left her before. Quite a few times. But somehow this time,
when she told me, it felt a lot more final. Yes, I’ve listened while Gid has
yammered on about his latest one true love a dozen times before; but the note
of almost despairing bafflement when he talks about - Janine, isn’t it - is
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by Lindsay Camp
entirely new. In the past, I’ve always felt he was, more or less consciously,
playing the role of a man undone by the irresistible forces of his passionate
nature; this time, I’ve really begun to suspect that he’s in way over his head.
What to say to Jen? I couldn’t think of a thing. “I’m really sorry, Jen. If
there’s anything I can do . . . “
I thought for a nasty moment that she was going to throw herself sobbing into
my arms. She didn’t. Not quite. Instead, she took one step forward and
kissed me on the cheek, murmuring: “You’re so sweet, Charlie.”
Over her shoulder, I noticed Sophie now in animated conversation . . . with
Susannah Smug. And I knew what they were - or very soon would be talking about. Pilates! Susannah had been so interested when I’d mentioned
it, she was bound to ask. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear to think of
Sophie, mystified by this enquiry, having to bluff and bluster in order to cover
up for her hopeless husband (“Oh yes, I’ve got a feeling I did say something
to Charlie about giving it a go - he must have got hold of the wrong end of the
stick and thought I was actually doing it. . .”)
“Jen, I’m really sorry, but I have to go. Why don’t you come round for
coffee tomorrow morning and we can talk about it properly? About eleven?
Great. See you then.”
Snatching up E, I hurtled across to intercept Sophie’s conversation with
Susannah.
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“Hello,” said Susannah. “Sophie’s just been telling me what a brilliant househusband you are. Anyway, nice to see you, must dash, Paul’s baking a sea
bream for supper and I said I’d pop into Waitrose for fennel, and it closes at
four. Bye-ee!”
Sophie didn’t say anything about Pilates in the car on the way home. So I
didn’t raise the subject. And anyway, I was pretty much lost in contemplation
about what she’d meant by that “brilliant house-husband” remark. Is that
really how she thinks of me? If so, I can’t decide whether I’m quietly pleased
or utterly appalled.
Baking a sea bream! I hope it’s full of bones and the entire family chokes to
death.
Monday 25 March
“So are you going to call her this morning, dad?”
“Hmm. . . . I was going to, Theo. But Jen’s coming round any minute.”
“Cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck!”
“I’m not chicken, Theo. I’m just a bit pre-occupied about Jen. What can I
possibly say to her?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m not even three yet.”
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“And anyway, I’m hoping she’ll be at Water Babies tomorrow. I’ll ask her
round then.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea, dad? With your tummy sticking out over
your swimming trunks, and your funny white legs?”
“Actually, they’re quite brown now - if a little streaky. And I think I’ve lost a
couple of pounds.”
“Doesn’t look like it. I’d definitely do it on the phone, if I were you.”
“Thanks for the advice, Theo. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward
to finding out how a three year old really talks, so I don’t have to listen to
you any more.”
Jen came round. We drank coffee. She made a fuss of Ellie. She talked a lot
about Gid and how much he’s changed since she first knew him. She laughed
bravely. Then she cried, and cried. I passed her the kitchen roll. She told
me how nice I am several times, and went home.
Very sorry for her, obviously. Nobody as good and kind as Jen deserves to be
treated like this. But to my surprise, I find my main reaction is one of
incandescent anger. If Gid knocked on my door now, I’d tear his fucking
head off. I would.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Tuesday 26 March
Total anti-climax. Took E to Water Babies (despite very slight reappearance
of diarrhoea ) but Amber didn’t show. Knew she might not, but still a
crushing disappointment. Only slight consolation: quite glad she wasn’t there
to witness my discomposure when tell-tale yellowish-brown cloud appeared
around us in the water, compelling me to flee pool under disapproving stare
of fellow swimmers.
Wednesday 27 March
“Hi Amber, it’s Charlie - Ellie’s dad.”
“Hi Charlie-Ellie’s-dad.”
“I’ll tell you why I’m calling. I’ve been thinking I’d like Ellie to spend a bit
more time with children her own age - you know, to polish up her social skills
a bit. And I was wondering if maybe sometime you’d like to bring Conor
round here?”
Fuck, forgot to mention Zack!
“Yeah, cool. When were you thinking?”
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“And, of course, you can bring Zack, too - Ellie loves older kids, she’d be
really excited to see him. I was wondering about tomorrow?”
“OK, but it’ll have to be afternoon - Zack’s at nursery in the morning.”
Note to self: three year olds go to nursery (presumably some kind of junior
school), but only in the morning.
“Great. About two?”
“Cool.”
“And you know where we live?”
“Think so. But I can always check with Susannah - she’s friends with your
wife, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” As far as Sophie has time to be friends with anyone
these days. “Anyway, look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Result! Shove that up your arse, Theo!
Christ, I’m talking to an imaginary toddler. Not a brilliant sign, really.
Thursday 28 March
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Didn’t sleep well. Hardly slept at all, actually. Worried - with good reason,
given my hopeless track record - about my ability to behave like fully
functioning adult member of human race in close proximity to Amber. Kept
picturing myself drooling and gibbering, under her dispassionate green-eyed
gaze. And when I did eventually fall into a fitful doze, I had a disturbing
dream in which I was changing E’s nappy (a particularly molten one), and
suddenly it was Amber lying on the changing mat, looking me in the eye and
saying, “For god’s sake, Charlie, isn’t it time you grew up?”
Spent the morning tidying. Obviously didn’t want A to think I’m some kind
of anal compulsive about cleanliness, but felt the house was significantly
closer to stomach-churning squalor than devil-may-care bohemianism. Ran
down to corner shop and bought digestive biscuits. Tidied a bit more.
Checked watch repeatedly - tapping and shaking it on each occasion to
dislodge invisible dust particles apparently impeding normal movement of
hands. Ran down to corner shop and bought chocolate Hob-nobs. Changed
Ellie into stylish purple dungarees. Paced up and down hall waiting for
doorbell to ring.
Doorbell rang . . . and actually, all things considered, it went pretty well to
start with. As well as being an angel in supernaturally desirable human form,
Amber is really, really nice. Unaffected. Down to earth. Far from reluctant
to laugh at my better jokes. A bit goofy, maybe, but in a good way; a way that
gives you to understand she doesn’t take herself too seriously. I made coffee.
Delightfully unconcerned with counting calories, Amber put three large
sugars in hers, before ploughing into the chocolate Hob-nobs. The babies sat
on the floor, and occasionally passed each other toys with a solemn air, like
Diary of a Superdad
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two dumpy solicitors exchanging documents before a trial. Zack trampolined
endlessly on the sofa in the sitting room, leaving us free to talk largely
uninterrupted. The conversation didn’t exactly flow (Amber seemed less
than eager to satisfy my curiosity about all things Australian, and I certainly
didn’t want to hear any more heart-warming testimonials to the many
admirable qualities of her employers), but it didn’t falter too badly, either. No
embarrassing silences. And I just about managed to restrain myself from
declaring my undying love. (Turned out, incidentally, that - perhaps uniquely
among her compatriots - she can’t swim, hates water and wouldn’t be seen
dead at Water Babies. Needn’t have wasted time on fake tan and new
Speedos!)
Then the doorbell rang again. It was Danny - minus his front door key, which
he loses about three times a week, and home from school a good two hours
earlier than usual.
“Dan, what are you doing here at this time?”
“Broke up. Easter holiday. Finished early,” he explained, not wasting a
syllable.
“Christ, I’d forgotten all about that.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he murmured, brushing past me into the
kitchen.
“Hi there,” said Amber.
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“Nngghh,” said Danny, very clearly in the grip of feelings similar to those she
inspires in me.
“Danny, this is Amber, and vice versa,” I said rather tersely, by way of
introduction. “Amber looks after Conor and Zack - so we’re talking about
nappies and stuff like that.”
This, I can’t deny, was a blatant attempt to get rid of Danny. He didn’t budge.
For a moment, we all looked at each other. Then Ellie held her arms out to
him and said quite distinctly: “Da-da-dada.”
He picked her up and kissed her cheek. “Told you she was trying to say
‘Danny’ not ‘dad’” he muttered, triumphantly.
“Somebody loves her big brother,” cooed Amber.
Danny had sat down at the kitchen table by now, and was helping himself to
the remaining biscuits. He evidently wasn’t planning on going anywhere in
the foreseeable future. Now there was an awkward silence - interrupted, after
a few seconds, by the doorbell ringing yet again.
It was Jen. Bedraggled. Holding a cake tin. Very clearly drunk.
“Charlie, I’m sorry,” she said, enunciating carefullly, “I was just passing and
I thought I’d better give you some flapjack by way of apology for blubbing all
over you the other day and to thank you for all your excellent advice.” She
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held out the tin, stumbling forward as she did. I had no choice but to catch
her. She was a dead weight in my arms.
“Come on in, Jen,” I sighed. “Come and have some coffee.”
Half-supporting her, I guided her into the kitchen. Despite her condition, she
was clearly taken aback to find Amber there, now deep in conversation with
Danny about some band I’d never heard of (“System of a Down”?). I was
just making more introductions, when the phone rang. I left the answering
machine to pick it up.
“Hi Charlie, it’s me,” boomed Gid, through the tinny speaker, effortlessly
silencing those actually present in the kitchen. “Just wanted to say sorry
about the other day. Went off on one ever so slightly. Over-reacted. You
can’t blame me really - never thought I’d live to see the day when you turned
into a shag monster! But seriously, mate, don’t even think about it. Believe
me when I tell you that leaving sticky deposits inside luscious young
creatures half your age, however alluring the prospect, however gratifying in
the throbbing moment, won’t bring you lasting happiness. Trust me on this,
Charlie. Ciao!”
*
Later . . . email from Sophie:
Can’t remember whether I mentioned Mummy and Daddy are coming for Easter, arriving
Saturday morning? See you later. S.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
April
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Tuesday 2 April
Needless to say, Sophie hadn’t mentioned it. She doesn’t mention much these
days. Hard to mention things when you’re never there. Mentioning - as
opposed to informing or notifying, say - pretty much depends on a degree of
physical proximity. An opportunistic seizing of an appropriate moment to
pass on some not-shatteringly-important titbit of information; that’s what
mentioning is.
And now I come to think of it, by that definition, even if Sophie had been in a
position to do any mentioning, she couldn’t in fact have mentioned that her
parents were coming for Easter - any more than Camelot could ring up and
mention that your jackpot-winning lottery ticket was in fact a fake, or your
doctor could look at the X-rays and mention that you had a month to live.
Some things are, literally, unmentionable.
Among them my parents-in-law. God, they were terrible. Worse than ever. I
spent so much time over the weekend fruitlessly trying to prevent them from
ripping each other’s throats out, it felt like I should be driving around in a
jeep, wearing one of those rather fetching pale blue berets. And, like wouldbe peacekeepers everywhere, I kept getting dragged into their battles, despite
every attempt to maintain my non-combatant status.
The basic pattern goes something like this. Bill sits around saying little, and
sucking his teeth in a disapproving manner. The disapproval is general; he
disapproves of modern life. But it also has specific causes, quite a few of
them fairly key aspects of our lifestyle. He disapproves, among many other
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things, of pizza (especially if home-delivered), electric kettles, teabags, The
Guardian, oriental-looking rugs, Rothko prints on lavatory walls, neglected
gardens, terra cotta pots, pasta, lager, television (other than gardening
programmes and news), radio (other than 4), muesli, cats, politicians (except
Tories who, he feels, are not really politicians at all, simply receptacles of
sound common sense), all cars except Toyotas, all herbs other than parsley,
mineral water, water filters, fiction, music, children’s laughter, laughter
generally . . . oh yes, and me. He’s always disapproved of me. And since I
gave up my career to be a superdad, his strong suspicion that I was never the
man his daughter deserved has hardened into certainty.
Meanwhile, whatever I may be doing that Bill disapproves of, Eileen makes it
clear that she does approve. Strongly. She makes a point of approving of me
and everything I do because she knows how much it pisses him off. And
she’s found that by expressing her approval - often and vociferously - she can
vent just a little of the rage and resentment she feels towards him after 40
years of mutual incomprehension. She uses me, in short, as a big, pink,
puffy-bellied stick to beat him with.
A sample scene from the delightful Bank Holiday weekend en famille just
ended:
SOPHIE is upstairs on the computer. DANNY is in his room, new System of a Down
CD on loud, door firmly shut. CHARLIE is lying on the sitting room floor, balancing
pieces of banana on his face. ELLIE (who, incidentally, screams if anyone tries to make
her sit in her high chair at the moment, and hates eating out of a bowl), is using the
pieces of banana to collect fluff from the carpet, before, in some cases, eating them.
Diary of a Superdad
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BILL, who has just tossed aside The Guardian in disgust, is watching this performance.
Disapprovingly. EILEEN is watching too, face wreathed in adoring smiles.
EILEEN:
I don’t know how you do it, Charlie.
CHARLIE:
It’s not that hard. The secret is to use slightly over-ripe bananas they stick to your face better.
EILEEN: (laughing as if this isn’t a crap joke)
I didn’t mean that! I meant all you do for Ellie. Sophie’s so lucky
to have you.
BILL clears his throat in a way that eloquently expresses disagreement.
EILEEN:
She really is. I hope she appreciates it. Things are so different for
girls of her generation. When I was her age, you’d never have
caught a man doing all the wonderful things you do. If I left
Sophie with Bill when she was a baby, even for half a tick, while I
spent a penny, he’d BILL: (unable to restrain himself any longer)
Oh for goodness sake, there’s fluff all over it! You can’t let her eat
that!
ELLIE pops the offending piece of banana into her mouth, and swallows. CHARLIE
shrugs and grimaces ineffectually - “Whoops, too late!” EILEEN shoots a triumphant
look at Bill, who expels air noisily through his nose.
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EILEEN: (coochy coo voice)
It’ll all come out the other end, won’t it, Ellie darling? And I
expect it’ll be daddy who changes your nappy. What I wouldn’t
have given for a man like your daddy when your mummy was a
little bundle of fun like you! Maybe your old granny might have
been able to have a life of her own!
BILL sighs so deeply the entire room vibrates, picks up The Guardian and disappears
behind it.
BILL:
Don’t mind me. Despite appearances to the contrary, I’m not
here. (starts whistling tunelessly)
EILEEN: (determined to have the last word)
They were completely useless in those days, men. A complete
and utter waste of space . . .
And so on, all through the weekend. Thrust and parry. Jab and counterpunch. Depressingly, Sophie seems to see nothing odd about it - presumably
because she’s grown up with it. The spectacle of two OAPs going after each
other, remorselessly, interminably, like two ferrets in a securely sealed sack
doesn’t appear to distress her in the least. I sometimes think that if Eileen
literally, rather than just metaphorically, leant across the breakfast table and
plunged a red hot skewer into Bill’s vitals, Sophe would only roll her eyes a
bit and sigh, “Oh, that’s just Mummy and Daddy’s way!” (Bill, I’m quite
sure, would bleed to death with disapproval written all over his face.)
Diary of a Superdad
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Anyway, they left early this morning, to my inexpressible relief. Not least
because I couldn’t write a word with them in the house, stifling my creativity
with their noxious hate waves. Now that they’re on their way home - and,
who knows, looking on the bright side, possibly being incinerated at this very
moment by a fireball resulting from a major motorway pile-up - absolutely
nothing stands in the way of me becoming a best-selling author, one of that
tiny élite who garner critical plaudits and commercial success in equal
measure.
Tuesday . . . but no point going to Water Babies now I know that Amber
won’t be there (apart from the minor consideration that Ellie would enjoy it,
of course). And anyway, even if I did see her, I wouldn’t know what to say
after that excruciating scene last week. What a disaster! The only
consolation I can think of - not much of one, admittedly - is that Gid didn’t
actually give away the identity of the luscious young creature half my age
responsible for turning me into a shag monster. I’ve checked the message,
and no names were named, thank god. So I suppose it’s possible she may not
have realised who he was talking about. Which is definitely a good thing. At
least, I think it is.
“Theo, I think it’s time you stopped bouncing on the sofa.”
“Why?”
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“Because you’ve been bouncing for hours, and the sofa is starting to look a
bit squished, and sorry for itself.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s quite an old sofa, Theo. And it wasn’t really made for bouncing
on.”
“Why?”
“Because - well, because sofas are for sitting on, not bouncing.”
“W-“
“And if you bounce on them, they get broken. And then someone has to buy a
new one which costs a lot of money. Which means there’s none left for
buying toys and sweets and barbecue flavoured Hula Hoops and things like
that. That’s why. And anyway, it’s time for nursery.”
“Why?”
“Because I say so. Stopping bouncing right now, before I get really angry,
Theo!”
Hmm, not sure if my readers will be quite ready for the Charlie character to
lose his temper yet. But the “why” thing is definitely good. And maybe it
could work if the episode ended with Charlie reflecting ruefully on his
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occasional failings as a father, and offering to buy Theo a trampoline to
bounce on instead.
Later . . . Eileen called to say they’d got home safely (heaven be praised!),
and to thank me for taking such wonderful care of them. She also wanted to
apologise for the fact that Bill had been a bit grouchy, attributing this, in a
stage whisper loud enough for him to hear provided he was in the same
county, to the fact he’s recently been having “a bit of trouble with his
waterworks”.
Occurred to me as I put down the phone that I urgently need to decide what to
do about my parents. Somehow or other, they’re going to have to feature in
Diary of a Superdad. I can’t just make no mention of them, particularly dad.
In this kind of book - a book about the changing face of fatherhood, about the
forging of new paternal paradigms (I still rather like that), about, when all is
said and done, what it means to be a man - the relationship of the central
character with his own father is absolutely critical. It probably needs to start
off rocky, then gradually improve as they come to appreciate each other’s
qualities, and the different challenges that each, in his own time, has had to
face. (Important, though, that the reader should appreciate the Charlie
character’s qualities more, and be more keenly aware of the challenges he’s
had to face.) It definitely needs to be touching, in a manly brushing-away-atear way. And I suspect that in the closing chapters, there should almost
certainly be a hugging scene.
Diary of a Superdad
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Hmm, difficult. Need to think very hard about how I’m going to get round
this . . .
Wednesday 3 April
Big envelope arrived in the post for Sophie, just after she’d left for work.
Opened it in error. Estate agent’s details. Desirable terraced Victorian
properties - some retaining “a pleasing degree of original period features”,
most offering “significant opportunities for sympathetic renovation”; all less
than half the size of our present far from palatial residence - in up and coming
neighbourhoods of North Peckham, South Wanstead, and East Molesey.
Deposited them in recycling bin in error.
Too cold to hang around in park, so took E for long walk in buggy. Saw all
the usual crowd. The Mad Bloke who walks incredibly fast with his nose
perpetually buried in a book, held just a couple of inches in front of his eyes.
The Even Madder Bloke who, every time he crosses the road, gets down on
his hands and knees and hauls himself up onto the pavement, as if scaling the
North Face of the Eiger. The Sad Bloke who looks like a rather distinguished
jazz musician, and carries a large case that might contain a tenor saxophone,
but probably doesn’t. Almost afraid I might be becoming one of them: the
Mad, Sad Blokes with nothing better to do than endlessly tramp the streets of
this undistinguished suburb, day after day. Maybe they see me, and think,
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“There he goes, the Mad, Sad Bloke who spends his entire life pushing that
really rather beautiful baby around Bristol in its buggy”.
On our return, found Tupperware container waiting on the doorstep. Inside,
walnut bread and brief handwritten note:
Dear, dear Charlie - Can you ever forgive me for my appalling behaviour the other
day? You were so kind to me - I really appreciated it. I promise it won’t ever
happen again! Utterly determined to move on and make a new life for myself,
unencumbered by That Shit (yes, I know he’s your best friend!!!)
Lots of love,
J
XXX
P.S. Big nutty bits in walnut bread, so better not let E get her sticky little paws on
it!!
Delighted to hear Jen sounding so robust, obviously. But feel there’s maybe
something just slightly forced about her optimism. And this cake thing is
definitely getting out of hand.
Thursday 4 April
“Hello?”
“Hi, Charlie-Ellie’s-dad. It’s Amber-Rory-and-Zack’s-nanny.”
Diary of a Superdad
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My heart performed several quite complex zero gravity manoeuvres.
Endocrines started to surge around my veins. My tongue expanded until it
would no longer fit in my mouth.
“Hi! Hello! Good heavens.”
“How y’doing?”
“I’m fine. Great. Wonderful. I’m really sorry about - y’know, the other day .
. .”
“Your friend - Jenny?”
“Jen. Yeah, she was . . .”
“Mm, I could tell. Not a problem. Seemed like a really nice woman - just
having a bit of Evil Bastard trouble. We’ve all been there. Anyway, you up
for bringing Ellie round later?”
“I’d love to, my darling Amber. I have never, ever been so ‘up’ for anything
in my entire life. Nothing could conceivably bring greater joy and solace to
my aching heart, you gorgeous, gorgeous creature.”
Obviously, I didn’t say that last bit. But I did take Ellie round to the
Meadows place for tea. And god, it was wonderful to see her. I’m starting to
feel so much more comfortable with her. We chatted for ages, like old
friends (well, like old friends one of whom would happily sell his children
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into slavery if that were the price of shagging the other). Mostly just routine
kid-related stuff, though there was one rather gratifying passage of
conversation in which she made a big deal of refusing to believe that I could
possibly be the father of a boy Danny’s age. I then forced her to guess how
old I am, as you’re obliged to do in such situations; and she sealed her place
even more securely in my affections by replying that I couldn’t possibly be
more than 31 or 32 at the outside; and then whistling and saying “Jeez, no!”
when I told her the awful truth.
But I’m afraid there was probably a bit of self-interest in this, since it led
pretty directly into a request for me to keep an eye on the kids while she had a
quick fag in the garden. (Apparently, Paul and Susannah “totally spac out” if
she smokes in the house. I usually react equally strongly to smoking myself;
but somehow, in Amber it seems like an enchanting foible - not least because,
I couldn’t help noticing, she smokes roll-ups. So much more stylish and
individualistic than pre-manufactured cigarettes!)
When she came back in, smelling deliciously of freshly burned tobacco, I was
rather too obviously admiring the Aga. She seemed amused by this.
“Neat, huh? But christ knows how you boil an egg on it!”
“Must’ve cost a fortune,” I said, not altogether concealing the crushing sense
of socio-economic inferiority the house inspired in me.
“Fancy a snoop?” she asked, picking up on this. “Might as well, while you’re
here.”
Diary of a Superdad
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“No, really, that’s OK.”
“Come on,” she said, scooping up Conor and heading for the door, “I’ll give
you the guided tour.”
Grabbing Ellie, I followed her up the stairs, mesmerised by the view of denim
stretched over taut flesh that this presented. What I saw, when I’d recovered
my composure slightly, was quite, quite appalling. Acres of marble in all
three bathrooms. Sunken baths big enough for half a dozen Roman senators
to plot an assassination in. A full sized snooker table (not in any of the
bathrooms, obviously.) Leather sofas so vast you could lose a small child
down the back without even noticing. A TV screen the size of Lithuania.
Unmistakably costly rugs, carpets, curtains and furnishings gleaned from
every corner of the globe. And everywhere, on every wall and surface,
picture after picture of Mr and Mrs Perfect and their perfect children,
individually and in every possible combination. Grinning, always grinning.
By the time we finished the tour, I was ready to vomit.
Left about five-ish, just in time to avoid an unwanted encounter with Amber’s
employer. The Smug-Bastard-mobile swung into Balmoral Avenue, with a
faint squeal of low profile rubber, just as I was pushing Ellie round the corner
into Arundel Road, with its student houses, abandoned cars and noticeably
poorer air quality. I hoped he hadn’t noticed me, but a staccato volley of
toots on his horn followed me as I fled. At least I didn’t have to speak to him.
Diary of a Superdad
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Notes on Zack: wearing Man U “Giggs” top; spent quite a bit of time under
kitchen table, barking and licking my hands when in reach; kept rushing out
into the garden, bringing in woodlice, then flicking them round the room.
Friday 5 April
Fuck, just remembered it’s Danny’s birthday on Sunday. Totally forgot about
it until now. Knew there was something familiar-sounding about the seventh
of April. And I think that conversation I had with Amber yesterday about me
being the father of a boy D’s age set off a few subliminal alarm bells, too.
Rang S at work to ask if she’s got him a present, but got her voicemail.
Didn’t bother to try her mobile. Just left a message:
“It’s me. Remember Danny? Our son? It’s his birthday on Sunday. I’m
assuming you’ve been too busy to buy him a present, but let me know if I’m
wrong. Bye.”
What do you give a 13 year old boy these days? Don’t think he’d be too
thrilled with a chemistry set, or the timber and tools to build a tree-house.
Suppose I’d better ask him what he wants. I will - as soon as he gets up.
Well, it’s only 11.45, and it is the Easter holidays, after all.
Wonder what Amber’s doing right now. Taking a shower maybe. Washing
her hair. Letting the lather dribble down her stomach. Down her back. Over
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those two tiny moles right next to each other, just above her . . . oh fuck. Oh
fuck. Oh fuck.
Quite a bit later . . .
“Hey Dan, what are you doing up at this time? It’s only just past two. Are
you feeling OK?”
“So funny! Insanely humorous! Who said comedy is dead.”
“Look, about your birthday - any little clues you’d like to give me about what
you want?”
“Assuming you and mum aren’t going to give me a genuine World War One
German bayonet?”
“Yeah, assuming that.” What is it with boys and weapons? I’m sure I was
never so obsessed with death and destruction.
“Then it’s gotta be ‘Vortex 24C: Death Match’ It rules!”
“Vortex what?”
“It’s a computer game, ‘dad’. You know, one of those things that’s turning
me into a mindless cretin.”
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“And what did you say it’s called? Vortex . . .”
“. . .24C: Death Match. It’s a PS2 game - they have it in Virgin. £49.95.”
“PS2? Hang on a sec, I’d better write this down.”
“Tell you what. Why don’t you just give me the money, and let me get it.
Just to be on the safe side.”
“OK. As long as you promise not to tell mum.”
“Deal.”
Saturday 6 April
Told Sophie about Vortex 24C: Death Match earlier. Thought she’d be
pleased I’d taken care of D’s birthday. Wrong! Far from ecstatic. Quite
crotchety. Felt game sounded highly inappropriate for boy of 13. Asked
what certificate it was. Unable to answer, since unaware computer games
even had certificates - thought they were all intended for 13 year old boys.
Anyway, after threatening to take it back and exchange it, she eventually
agreed to let him have it. But now she’s gone into town to get him another
more suitable present, in the hope of cancelling out the negative effects of
Vortex 24C etc. That chemistry set, maybe.
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Plus, she’s taken E with her. Which means an entire Saturday afternoon
stretches before me - rolling unpopulated acres of time in which to stroll at
leisure, sniffing the air, stooping to pick a wild flower, heading wherever the
whim of the moment takes me etc etc.
Not much later . . .
Very, very bored. Christ, what did I used to do on a Saturday afternoon?
Watch Grandstand? Flicked it on for five minutes just now, and found it was
crown green bowling from Preston. Strangely untempted to find out what
crown green bowling might be. Tried sitting in garden with book, but driven
indoors by freezing wind. Checked email: none. Had a quick look at
Amazon: searched on “Diary of a Superdad” to see if anything worryingly
similar came up. Lots and lots of diaries, but none fatherhood-related.
Moderately encouraged. Woke up Danny, and asked him if he wanted to go
for a walk. (He did that upward-inflected “no” teenagers use to express
incredulity at the stupidity of the question.) Even tried calling Gid, judging it
time to let bygones be bygones, but no reply. Not even on his mobile, which
doesn’t seem to be working.
Christ, so bored . . .
Sunday 7 April
Diary of a Superdad
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To celebrate becoming a teenager, D slept until lunchtime and would almost
certainly have made it through to supper if Sophie hadn’t woken him in order
to present him with a rather handsome leather jacket, and a filofax (a not
particularly subtle reference to the fact that he needs a little help, to say the
least, with introducing some semblance of order into his life).
Considering he was still half-asleep, and clearly didn’t want either a leather
jacket or a filofax, he did a pretty good job of looking appreciative. But all he
really wanted to do was play Vortex 24C: Death Match.
And that’s all he has done for the rest of the day. We offered to take him out
for a pizza or to see a film, but he preferred to spend an uninterrupted 10
hours or so in front of a screen in a darkened room, motionless but for his
flickering thumbs. And on his birthday, who were we to deny him what he
wanted?
S and I took E for a walk on the Downs. Bright and blustery. Stunt kites
roaring and swooping around our heads. I was planning, when we started, to
talk to Sophie about her career plans; to ask her whether she’d made up her
mind what to do about the MoneyWomb job. To discuss all the issues with
her. To express my views on the subject, certainly; but to do so calmly,
rationally, adult-to-adult.
In the event, though, it just seemed like too much of a faff. And anyway, I
knew it wouldn’t work. I knew I’d just lose my temper. I knew it would end
up with me shouting, and Sophie sighing and shaking her head in longsuffering exasperation.
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So we walked in near silence, broken only by delighted squawks from E who
loved the kites.
Sad, really. I couldn’t help remembering what our walks used to be like,
several thousand years ago, when we first lived in London. We used to walk
everywhere. Sometimes we’d just look at the tube map, pick a station we
liked the sound of - Turnham Green, Gunnersbury, Upminster - and set off to
discover how very much less attractive, in the vast majority of cases, places
are than their names. Or we’d just walk out of the front door of our
ridiculously pokey flat, leaving behind the mysterious musty sweetcorny
smell in the hall, and wander aimlessly until we came to somewhere prettier
than Kilburn (not hard, admittedly). And all the time we’d talk.
Actually, not strictly true. In those days, I did most of the talking. Not, of
course, because I was an egotistical little twat who couldn’t get enough of the
sound of his own voice. But because, in those days, Sophie genuinely
preferred to listen. She loved to hear me witter on interminably about my
work, why the movie we’d seen together the previous day wasn’t a patch on
the director’s earlier work, what Mr Gladstone (or whoever was Prime
Minister in those days) should do in order to be sure of winning the next
election . . . she really did. At least, she said she did. Or maybe she didn’t.
Maybe I just assumed she enjoyed listening to me because I never let her get
a word in edgeways, so she couldn’t tell me otherwise. Maybe that was it.
Ellie went to sleep on the way home. S disappeared upstairs to “catch up with
a few things”. I lay on the sitting room floor with the business section of The
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Observer over my face, wondering how many other things that I’d always
believed to be true actually weren’t.
Happy birthday, Dan.
Monday 8 April
Occurs to me I haven’t heard from Geoff for a long time. Obviously
delighted he isn’t hassling me every five minutes about banner advertising
piece. Means I can focus 100% on DofaS. But nobody likes to feel
forgotten.
Checked email. Nothing from Geoff. Or anyone else, for that matter.
Theo has a new favourite game: woodlouse hop-scotch. He collects them
from all over the garden, and lays them out in neat patterns on the paving
stones. Then he hops heavily from one stone to the next, crushing as many as
he can each time he lands . . .
Any good? Potential for Charlie character to remonstrate wisely, and reflect
on little boys’ unquenchable lust for destruction. But perhaps it makes T
sound like too much of a psycho? Maybe something that doesn’t actually
result in the death of innocent insects would be better - e.g. woodlouse
basketball.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Danny went into town earlier - an event in itself. Came back looking pleased
with himself, and slightly furtive. Something unmistakably concealed under
his hoody. For some reason, I had a fairly strong suspicion that I was
supposed to notice.
“Major drug consignment?” I asked.
He flushed, touchingly, and shook his head.
“Then what is it?”
With a not very convincing show of reluctance, he pulled out something
heavy, wrapped in many layers of tissue, as if it were fragile.
He quickly removed the tissue, eyes shining. Not fragile; lethal.
“Christ, Danny, how did you buy that?”
“Used my birthday money. And the money in my bank account.”
“I meant, how did you persuade anyone to sell a deadly weapon to a 12 year
old boy?”
“Thirteen. Easy. Just told the bloke it was a present for my dad.”
“And he believed you?”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“Or he didn’t give a shit. Anyway, it’s mine now. And it’s not that sharp,” he
added, defensively, as if expecting me to snatch away his prize.
“OK, Dan, but for god’s sake, hide it somewhere where mum won’t see it.
She’d spac out totally if she knew you had it.”
“Thanks, dad,” said Danny - without, for once, as far as I could hear, those
audible quotation marks.
Tuesday 9 April
Yesss! Genuine humorous baby-related incident. Perfect wise, witty
anecdote material. Was just on the point of taking E out for a stroll in her
buggy this morning, when the phone rang. Foolishly agreed to take part in
market research survey, normal disdain for such requests suspended by desire
to oblige husky-voiced young female research executive. E started to grizzle.
Gave her my keys. (Possible DofaS para re: why do all babies, without
exception, prefer playing with keys to anything dreamed up by the toy
industry’s finest and most creative minds?) Eventually finished giving views
on dry cleaning services and unit trusts to new husky-voiced young friend.
Said goodbye. Opened front door. Chilly wind, so decided to get E’s hat
from car - leaving her in warm hallway. Reached car, remembered E had my
keys . . . just as chilly wind blew front door shut. Disaster! Me outside on
doorstep, E inside behind locked door with keys!
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Actually, it turned to be a bit of a non-event. Because, after a few minutes’
panicking and trying not very successfully to make reassuring noises through
the letter-box, it occurred to me that the key I recently hid for Danny under a
rock in the back garden might well still be there. It was. So I didn’t need to
climb in through an upstairs window or call the Fire Brigade or bribe a
passing schoolboy to squeeze through the cat-flap, or do anything humorous
at all. But when I actually write Diary of a Superdad, I can easily fix that.
(NB Since D won’t exist in book, why would I have left a key hidden in the
garden for him?)
Still a bit worried about the parents issue. Rather tempted to kill mum and
bring dad back to life. She’s not mission-critical (as Marcus would say), he
is. Plus, of course, she deserves it.
Wednesday 10 April
Plumbed new depth today. Became stalker. Well, slight exaggeration maybe.
Suppose I might just about be able to convince a court that my motives were
blameless, that nothing untoward actually occurred . . .
“And so, let me put it to you, Mr Fleming, that on the day in question - a
Wednesday, which you knew to be the day when this innocent young lady
was habitually granted an afternoon off by her employers - you did, with
malice aforethought, lurk in your motor vehicle in the hope of seeing her
leave her employers’ house?”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“Objection! I wasn’t lurking, I was - “
“And that when Ms Ferris did eventually leave the residence of Mr and Mrs
Meadows at about 1.45 pm, you had been so lurking for a period of rather
more than an hour - having been uncertain as to what time an ‘afternoon off’
would be likely to commence?”
“I was actually trying to remove a very stubborn stain from the upholstery,
which I think was probably banana -“
“And that as Ms Ferris proceeded to walk along Balmoral Avenue in a south
westerly direction, you did - with grievous and opprobrious stupidity - attempt
to ‘tail’ her, in the aforesaid motor vehicle, a grey K-registered Ford Fiesta?
Did you or did you not do that, Mr Fleming?”
“Of course not. You’d have to be a complete moron to attempt to follow
somebody on foot in a car. You’d overtake them in about 15 seconds. And
then you’d keep having to stop and wait for them to catch up. It just wouldn’t
work.”
“And it didn’t, did it, Mr Fleming? Which is why you find yourself in your
current sad predicament.”
“You have to believe me, I wasn’t trying to tail her. What actually happened
was, I was having a bit of car trouble. . . for some reason, it kept stalling,
every few hundred yards. . .”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Hmm, on second thoughts, maybe I’d struggle to get myself acquitted. But at
least she didn’t see me. I’m pretty sure she didn’t, anyway.
One thing of minor interest to emerge from generally rather regrettable
episode. While I was attempting to clean off the banana stain, Ellie - who was
strapped into her car seat - got very excited about something. Lots of waving
her arms around and hissing, which usually means she’s spotted an animal of
some kind. Looked up and saw big ginger cat just disappearing under a
hedge across the road. Definite resemblance to that bastard Ziggy.
Delighted he’s gone, obviously; but obscurely aggrieved by the idea that he
may simply have left us for a life of greater comfort just around the corner.
Thursday 11 April
Major breakthrough in my relationship with Amber: she’s given me a
nickname. Well, not a nickname exactly, more an abbreviation - she called
me just now and said, quite distinctly, “Hi Chas, it’s Amber.” Or maybe that
should be Chazz. Either way, I think anyone would have to agree it implies a
pretty high degree of intimacy when somebody suddenly starts knocking
syllables off your name. I really think she must like me.
Plus, she’s invited me to a picnic in the park later. Well, again, not strictly
accurate. It was Ellie she was actually inviting. But obviously, I’ll have to
go, too. So it will be just my beloved Amber, me, E and a scrum of Little
Smugs, sitting on the grass (if we can find a couple of square feet free of dog
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
turds), eating peanut butter and mashed banana sandwiches and enjoying
some really rather promising spring sunshine, if the weather holds for another
couple of hours....
Later . . . in agony. Wracked by waves of intolerable pain. Gripped by
overwhelming sense of futility and despair. Can’t possibly write any more,
feeling like this.
Later still . . . god, the never-to-be-satisfied lust of a man just slightly past his
sexual “best before” date is a frightening, frightening thing. Comical, too,
obviously, in the eyes of anyone but the sufferer; but no less awe-inspiring
for that. A couple of hours ago I was swept away by a tsunami of desire so
irresistibly powerful that it felt as if - well, as if what? I suppose it felt as if
my life would no longer be worth living unless I could have what at that
moment I so urgently wanted. Sounds a bit melodramatic, I know, but that’s
how it felt. And yes, there was a sense, too, of being the victim of a terrible
cosmic injustice: how could it possibly be right or fair for a desire so
elemental, so titanic to go unfulfilled? Cruel, cruel world.
Even later. . . what actually happened was that, mid-picnic - everything going
well, sun shining, children happy, conversation flowing between Amber and
me - Zack lost a kind of motorised stegosaurus under the playground
roundabout. Hysterical tears. Hurrying to the rescue, Amber knelt and
started to grope around for the toy, arse thrusting skywards as she wriggled
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
and stretched as far as she could to reach it. The clingy material of her skirt
rode up a little, and moulded itself to her like a second skin. She wasn’t, I’d
be prepared to stake my mortgage on it, wearing under-garments of any kind.
The effect was beyond pornographic.
She found the damn stegosaurus - just in time to prevent me having either an
orgasm or, perhaps more likely, a life-threatening coronary. She stood up and
waved it triumphantly in the air. Zack hurled himself into her arms. The
picnic continued. But my composure, my peace of mind, my equilibrium had
deserted me - for ever, I suspect.
Wonder if she’d do it for money. Wonder what she’d say if I offered her,
say, two hundred quid just to kneel in exactly that same position for 30
seconds or so - I’m sure it wouldn’t take any longer than that. How much of
an ordeal could that be?
Friday 12 April
Can’t believe I wrote that yesterday. Me, Charlie Fleming, semi-seriously
contemplating the possibility of attempting to buy sexual favours from an
innocent girl, young enough - just about, technically - to be my daughter.
Having, the previous day, attempted unsuccessfully to stalk her. How much
lower is it possible for a man to sink?
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Later . . . by way of penance, I just called Jen. She wasn’t in, but the message
on her machine certainly suggested that she’s doing her best to make the most
of her new unencumbered Gid-free lifestyle:
“Hi, you’re talking to Jen’s machine. You know what, she’s not here right
now - probably out partying! But if there’s something on your mind that you
wanna share with the Woman Herself - and believe me, honey, she’s all
woman - well, you know what to do. Wait for the beep, then leave a message,
why doncha?”
“Hello, Jen. It’s me, Charlie. Just rang to find out how you are. Oh yeah,
and to say thanks for all the cake. Yummy. Ellie says hi, too. Well, she
would, if she could. Bye now.”
Toyed briefly this morning with the idea of making Theo autistic. Read an
excellent piece in the paper about the special challenges involved in bringing
up autistic kids. Apparently, they’re pretty much like ordinary kids, only
about a thousand times worse - unpredictable, hard to communicate with,
randomly violent and given to bizarre acts of wanton destruction. The kid in
the article ate daffodils, and stuffed whole toilet rolls down the loo. That kind
of thing. Q. If Theo were autistic, would he get more laughs? A. Almost
certainly; and there would also be a lot more scope for the Charlie character
to demonstrate his endless patience and wry compassion. But two possible
downsides:
1. In the unhappy and not altogether unlikely event of anyone finding out,
post-publication, that Theo doesn’t in fact exist, my having given him a
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
picturesque disability might possibly be held to compound the offence. It
might look a bit cynical. Sales might suffer.
2. If I wanted Theo’s autism to be even slightly believable, I don’t think that
having read one longish newspaper article on the subject would furnish me
with enough material. I’d have to do some pretty serious research. And
frankly, I can’t be arsed.
Jen called back. Invited me and E to lunch next week. Probably hoping for
news of Gid.
Saturday 13 April
Blissfully happy day. Spent long, lazy morning in bed with adored wife.
Baked a sea bream for lunch; enjoyed it with a chilled Sancerre, and much
good conversation. Went fishing with my son; shared manly confidences by
the shimmering water’s edge. Home, as the sun started to sink, in time for a
wonderful barbecue in our beautifully landscaped garden, with 30 or 40 of
our very closest friends. Collapsed into bed, a little merry, towards midnight
and slept, undisturbed, until morning . . .
Hah!
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Sunday 14 April
S has popped into the office. (Hah!) D has taken E to the park. (Rather
sweetly, this seems to have become a part of his Sunday routine.) Time to
think about something I’ve been putting off:
What to do about dad in Diary of a Superdad
Given that some kind of reasonably well developed relationship between the
Charlie-character and his father is essential, I think I basically have three
options:
1. Completely fictional
Well, why not? I’ve already invented Theo, so what’s to stop me creating the
perfect father - i.e. perfect for the purposes of the book? I see him as a larger
than life character; charismatic, but a bit of a bully; lots of fun to be around
but, on closer acquaintance, intensely egotistical, emotionally illiterate, using
bonhomie and bluster as a means of concealing a deep-seated sense of
inadequacy. A man’s man. Bearded. Devoted to outdoor pursuits. A pipesmoker, perhaps. Possessed of a hearty full-throated laugh (think Brian
Blessed). A retired vet? A military man? Or maybe something more
downmarket, so Charlie can be seen to have left his humble origins far behind
- e.g. a porter at Smithfield market, or similar.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Of course, that’s the secret: to create a character alongside which I - Charlie will be seen in the most flattering light possible. Without making it too
obvious. Or making Charlie seem vindictive. If the father is a real monster,
there would need to be a lot of thoughtful and compassionate reflection on
the reasons for this (“Yes, he was a far-from-perfect father to me in my early
years - distant, arbitrary, sometimes cruel. But, as I grew up, I came to
understand how his own childhood experiences, at the hands of uncaring
parents, were being played out again in his hopelessly inadequate fathering of
me. It isn’t everyone who has the largeness of soul to transcend their origins .
. .”)
The real plus about this approach is that I could do anything I want with him.
He could live next door, and always be popping in at unexpected moments.
He could be in sheltered accommodation (provided this doesn’t make C
appear heartless), with lots of amusingly doolally companions. He could be
in the last few months of a terminal disease, which would really help with
hugging opportunities.
Cons? The main one, I suppose, is my passionate concern about authenticity;
would it, perhaps, be compromised by the introduction of another entirely
fictitious character?
2. Semi-fictional
What I have in mind here is to create a character based on my real father,
resembling him in every respect, with the one fairly notable exception of not
being dead. I suppose we might call this the “what if?” option. What if dad
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
hadn’t been felled by a massive stroke on the 12th green of a Spanish golf
course, having allegedly just holed a 30 foot putt, 26 years ago? No, hang on,
27. What would he be like today? Would his dabblings in property
development perhaps have taken off spectacularly in the get-rich-quick
1980s, making him a Thatcher-worshipping multi-millionaire? Would he
have married the heartless strumpet, Tania, and produced a second family?
Or, more likely, might he have ditched her, and set off in pursuit of a
succession of ever younger, ever blonder, ever more unsuitable companions?
Or, bizarre thought, might he have recognised the error of his ways and
returned, chastened, to East Grinstead, hearth, home and the marital bed - in
time to stop mum buggering off with Bill the Bigot?
Nah. Can’t really see any advantage in pursuing that option. If I’m going to
invent a character, I might as well start with a blank sheet of paper.
3. The “real” Phil Fleming
Maybe I should go for the unvarnished truth. Rely on my early memories of
my dad to build up a picture of the kind of man, the kind of father he was.
Juxtapose my insights into what it means to be a “superdad” with
recollections of his inadequacies as a parent. Contrast my range of paternal
accomplishments and exceptional emotional literacy with his antediluvian
attitudes, not least the unshakeable belief that a man who “brings home the
bacon” has thereby discharged all responsibilities towards his children.
Problem is, I can’t remember much about my dad - at least, not about what
kind of father he was. I remember the postcards he used to send after he left.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
And I remember the things mum used to say about him. Oh yes, and I
remember the way he smelled (like a man who transacted a good part of his
daily business in the saloon bar of the pub opposite his office). But I’m not
sure if that’s enough to form the basis of a really compelling portrait . . .
Wonder how much longer D and E are going to be at the park. Might stroll
down and meet them. No need to resolve dad-in-book problem right this very
second. Absolutely sure the right solution will present itself when I actually
start writing Diary of a Superdad.
Monday 15 April
“Hi, Chas, it’s me.”
Me? I almost orgasmed, as Marcus would probably say. Me! Just pause for
a moment and consider the degree of intimacy implied by that. Not “Hello,
Mr Fleming, it’s the Meadows family’s nanny” or even “Hi, Charlie, it’s
Amber” but “Hi, Chas, it’s me.” In my book, that’s virtually pillow talk.
“Hi, Amber. How’re you doing? Good weekend?”
Fluent! Suave, even!
“Pretty good. Paul and Suzie took the kids hill walking in Wales, or
somewhere, so I just kinda chilled.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Hill walking in Wales - what a preposterously smug and perfect way to spend
a weekend! But this nauseating mental picture was rapidly replaced by one of
Amber just kinda chilling, in a scantily clad manner on a vast heart-shaped
bed, strewn with white lilies.
“Sounds . . . er, good,” I stuttered, my fluency now deserting me.
“But look, Chas . . . why I called - need to ask you a favour.”
“All right. Ask.” Ask anything, my darling; ask me to walk bare-foot on
burning coals carrying you in my arms; ask for the head of Des Lynam on a
sharpened stick; ask, ask for anything, my love, and, if it’s in my power, it
will be given.
“OK. Got any plans for tomorrow morning? If you have, you gotta say.”
“No, nothing planned at all.”
“Then maybe you can help me out. See, I’ve screwed things up with a
dentist’s appointment. I thought it was Thursday, when Susannah’s home,
but turns out it’s tomorrow. I always did have shit for brains!”
“I do that kind of thing all the time. So you want me to look after the kids?”
“Only Conor. Zack’s at nursery. I was thinking, I could bring him around,
and he could play with Ellie for a bit?”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
I felt a slight sense of anti-climax. I was hoping it would be a much bigger
favour than that. The kind that would leave her for ever, and to an
incalculable degree, in my debt. Then a bad thought struck me. Danny, who
doesn’t go back to school until Thursday, would be around. True, he’d
probably be asleep; but I didn’t want to take any chances. And I knew that I
didn’t want to pursue my really rather promising relationship with Amber
under his withering gaze.
“Yeah, fine, no problem at all,” I replied, thinking fast. “But tell you what,
why don’t I bring Ellie round to yours? Everything’s in a bit of a state round
here because . . .” Why? Why was everything in a bit of a state?
“. . . because we’ve, er, got the builders in - nothing major, just sorting out a
few things, routine maintenance, generally stopping the house from
collapsing round our heads, which on the whole probably wouldn’t be a good
thing, but y’know, they’re making a terrible mess, dust everywhere, you
wouldn’t believe the state the house is in!”
“Nightmare.”
“Yeah, total nightmare. So the kids would probably be better off round at
your place . . . Paul and Susannah’s . . . where you work.”
“Cool. If you bring Ellie round here about 10.30, we’ll have a coffee, then I
can, y’know, shoot out and leave you in charge?”
“OK, see you then.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“I owe you one, Chas. Bye-ee.”
She owes me one. She owes me one. She owes me one.
Tuesday 16 April
Not an unqualified success. Bit disillusioned, actually. Slight feeling of
having been . . . well, used.
Took E round to “Dunsmuggin” this morning, as arranged. Beautiful day, so
we sat in enormous garden - several hectares of manicured lawn, babbling
trout streams and thunderous waterfalls, formal planting to rival Versailles (I
exaggerate, but not much) - drank coffee, and chatted, only occasionally
being forced to interrupt ourselves to prevent babies eating soil, earthworms,
slug pellets etc. Love, I felt, was on the very point of coalescing in the
crystalline spring air.
Just before it could, Amber glanced at her watch. I did too, noticing how the
tiny golden hairs on her wrist, criss-crossed the black strap.
“OK, Charlie,” she said, finishing her coffee. “That’s me outta here. Sure
you can cope?”
“No worries,” I said, attempting to sound laid-back, and possibly slightly
Australian. “You just go off and enjoy yourself.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“Yeah, right - at the dentist. It’s not exactly my idea of a good time, having
some strange bloke doing stuff inside my mouth - probing around in there
with his . . .” she tailed off, hearing the double-entendre and spluttering with
extremely rude laughter.
I’m reasonably certain I blushed. But she didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh, christ, Chas, just listen to me. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that comes
out of my mouth sometimes. Anyway, gotta fly or I’ll be late. Sure you know
where everything is?”
“Yeah, quite sure. You go. We’ll be fine.”
“OK. The dentist isn’t far - should be back in an hour, tops.”
And she left, blowing a kiss - almost certainly in the direction of the babies.
Humorously, I blew one back.
That was just after 11. At mid-day, she wasn’t back. At 12.15 there was still
no sign of her, and I took the babies into the kitchen because the sun had
disappeared behind clouds, and it was getting colder. At 12.30, I glanced at
the clock on the Aga. It occurred to me that if I’d known she was going to be
so long I would have taken advantage of the opportunity to have a really
thorough snoop around the Smug residence. (Underwear drawers, files
marked “personal”; bank statements, that kind of thing. Hard, admittedly,
while conscientiously discharging childcare responsibilities, but not
Diary of a Superdad
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impossible. I’d left it too late, though.) At 1 pm, I started to feel a bit pissed
off - having fed both babies, cleared up an astonishing amount of ensuing
mess, and changed no fewer than four nappies (three one to Ellie, I’m pleased
to say).
At about five past one, I heard a key in the front door. My indignation melted
away. She was only an hour or so late. Probably some perfectly plausible
explanation. Unavoidable dental delays. Definitely no need to sulk, or give
her a bollocking.
“Hi, Amber!” called a perfectly modulated tenor voice, from the hall. “It’s
only me - just picking up some stuff I need at the office.”
Fuck, Smug-Bastard! How was I going to explain my presence? No time to
consider my options, because at that moment he breezed into the kitchen,
twirling his car keys carelessly around his index finger. He caught them in
his hand. But, that apart, he showed remarkably little sign of being
astonished to see me.
“Charlie?” he enquired, smiling smugly.
“Hello. Er, Amber’s not here - dentist’s appointment. I’m, y’know, holding
the fort.”
He surveyed the scene, missing nothing. Mashed banana on the Aga. Several
metres of soiled kitchen roll, balled, and distributed around the kitchen floor.
Diary of a Superdad
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Two by now rather grizzly babies sitting disconsolately on opposite sides of a
play pen.
“Ah yes, the fort. How incredibly kind of you. I didn’t realise you were....”
He tailed off, for the first time looking a bit uncomfortable.
For some obscure reason, I felt I had to help him out. “It’s no big deal. I was
just chatting to Amber the other day, and she said she had this dentist’s
appointment, and no one to cover for her - so I volunteered. And since we’ve
got the builders in, I said I’d pop over here. So here I am. As you can see.”
“Builders?” he murmured, reflexively. “Nightmare.”
I didn’t want to go down that road. “Too painful to talk about. Beautiful
place you’ve got here. Sorry about the mess.”
He turned on the charm. “For god’s sake, Charlie, no need to apologise.
You’re doing us an enormous favour. I really appreciate it.”
“Like I said, it’s no big deal. It’s actually a scientifically proven fact that
looking after two babies is only about 15% more work than looking after one.
And anyway, it’s been a real pleasure for me being able to spend a bit of time
alone with your beautiful Aga.”
He laughed feebly. And suddenly, I think it dawned on him - as it already had
on me - how exquisitely embarrassing this scene really was. Him, Armani
suited, popping home in his Saab Convertible between power meetings to find
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me - hopeless, haggard and smeared from head to toe in unidentifiable babyrelated gloop - in his beautiful kitchen, caring for the most recent fruit of his
all-to-potent loins. As a favour to his hired help. What kind of man did that
make me? And, more to the point, what possible relationship could there be
between us? I’d swear that for a moment I saw him wondering whether he
should slip me a tenner for my trouble.
And maybe he would have done if, at that moment, the front door hadn’t
opened again . . .
No, I don’t think I need to record the scene that followed. Let’s just say that
the embarrassment level in the Smug-Bastard kitchen didn’t fall appreciably
with Amber’s arrival. She was obviously disconcerted to find her employer
there, and he clearly wasn’t too thrilled with her either - not, I think, because
he was unhappy that she had deserted her post, but because her absence had
landed him in such an awkward spot. And finally, I was distinctly
unimpressed by Amber’s excuse for being late. Something improvisedsounding about remembering, just as she left the dentist’s, that she needed to
send her kid brother a birthday card, but not having any money on her, so
being forced to look for a cash machine, but finding the first two she came
across were both knackered, so having no choice but to pop into her bank,
where her “personal banker” ambushed her and harangued her about the state
of her overdraft etc etc.
Could all have been true, I suppose. But I’m about 99.9% certain that when
we exchanged potted family histories a couple of weeks back, there was no
kid brother. And also, as she showed me and Ellie out of the front door, I was
Diary of a Superdad
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almost sure that instead of her usual intoxicating scent of lemons and honey,
there was the faintest whiff of that unmistakable fragrance, Eau de British
Pub.
I have a pretty strong suspicion, in short, that my beloved was taking the piss.
Wednesday 17 April
Major crisis in my relationship with Amber. Otherwise, how could I possibly
explain the fact that I have fallen in love again? With Madeleine Bunting of
The Guardian. Her piece today on the perils of globalisation was so full of
incisive yet compassionate good sense that, in combination with the picture
byline that makes her look like a raven-haired Botticelli angel, it inspired me
to write my first fan letter - well, email, actually - since 1977. (I was slightly
discouraged back then by the fact that, despite receiving at least a dozen
lengthy communications from me, in a selection of coloured inks, and
including self-composed song lyrics, Paul Weller never did feel compelled to
send me so much as a signed photograph in reply.)
Probably shouldn’t hold me breath waiting for a reply.
Later . . . just back from lunch with Jen. Bit disturbing. Well, quite a lot
disturbing, actually. If I didn’t know her so well, I’d say she was . . . flirting
with me. No, I don’t think that’s too strong a word. Well, maybe it is.
Maybe she wasn’t exactly flirting with me. But she was definitely behaving
Diary of a Superdad
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in a very un-Jen-like manner. For a start, she didn’t look anything like the Jen
I’ve known all these years. She’d done something with her hair, and she was
wearing quite a lot of not every expertly applied make-up. And really rather
tight black jeans. I couldn’t help noticing, as I’m sure as I was meant to, that
her figure is an awful lot better than all those long shapeless swirly dresses
had always led me to believe. (As far, that is, as I had beliefs one way or the
other about the physical attributes of my best friend’s wife.)
But it wasn’t so much her appearance as her whole demeanour that seemed
different. She’s really been working on that Merry-soon-to-be-Divorcee
persona. Lots of sudden loud gusts of girlish laughter. Quite a bit of
prolonged and unflinching eye contact. And not a little laying her hand on
top of mine for emphasis or, indeed, for no apparent reason at all. I asked her
when she’d last heard from Gid.
“Who?”
“OK, Jen. Sorry I mentioned him.”
“No need to be sorry, Charlie. But I’m so over him. I’m so not the little wifie
who allowed that pathetic slug to deposit slime all over her any more!”
I couldn’t help believing her. The old Jen so wouldn’t have resorted to pissed
off teenspeak to express her discontent. She’d have bottled it up, like the
plums from the garden that she’d always preserved each summer, and handed
out to her friends and relations at Christmas. I couldn’t see her doing that
again this year.
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by Lindsay Camp
“I’m really happy for you, Jen. It must be a tough time for you and the kids.
I’m really glad you’re feeling so strong.”
“You bet I am, Charlie. I’m feeling really strong. Diana says that, all these
years, there’s been a strong woman inside me just waiting for a chance to
burst out. And now she’s got her chance!”
Diana? Friend? New lesbian lover? Therapist? I didn’t really want to know,
so I quickly attempted to steer the conversation onto more practical matters.
“That’s fantastic. But seriously, if you need any help, just say the word. You
know, changing fuses, grouting the bathroom, digging the vegetable patch any of those manly chores that, actually, thinking about it, I don’t have a clue
how to do. I’d be happy to try, though.”
“You’re so kind, Charlie,” she said, doing both the maximum eye contact and
hand-on-top-of-my-hand things simultaneously. “But I wouldn’t dream of
making any demands on you. You do so much already.” And she glanced
fondly at Ellie, who was drooling into the telephone mouthpiece.
I honestly wonder if E hadn’t been there what would have happened next.
Disturbing!
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Later . . . just checked email. No reply from M Bunting. Not too
disappointed; feel, after minor blip, I’m ready to commit myself once more to
my relationship with Amber.
Thursday 18 April
Baby-related ethical dilemma! Had a call earlier from Gid - who, incidentally,
started the conversation by addressing me as “shagger” but otherwise made
no reference to the recent hiccup in our relationship, preferring instead to get
straight down to business.
“Look, Charles, no time to fuck about. I just need you to get on a train with
that fucking gorgeous daughter of yours. You could just make the 11.15, be
at Paddington by one. Plenty of time.”
“Er, Gid, any chance you might give me a small clue what you’re talking
about?”
“Mate of mine, Matt, making a commercial, needs a baby - seen about two
thousand, doesn’t like any of them, perfectionist cokehead sod, told him
about Ellie, wants to see her, flying to LA in the morning, so has to be this
afternoon.”
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Presumably, this rapid-fire, pronoun-free, CO-briefing-the-men-beforeaudacious-guerrilla-raid-style delivery was intended to impress upon me the
urgency of the situation. But I wasn’t in any mood to be rushed.
“Gid, how long have you known me? Do you honestly think I’d allow a child
of mine to appear in a TV commercial?”
With hindsight, I realise this wasn’t the most tactful thing to say to Gid, of all
people. His voice, usually so resounding and mellifluous, suddenly choked
with rage.
“You pompous sodding wank-head,” he almost gargled. “You ungrateful
piece of shit. You - ”
Unlike Gid to be lost for words, specially the foul-mouthed abusive kind. I
wondered, fleetingly, whether he was OK. Even before my faux pas, he
certainly hadn’t sounded his usual ebullient, self-adoring self. I tried to
placate him.
“OK, calm down. No offence meant. Of course, I didn’t mean there’s
anything wrong with appearing in TV commercials. Not for you. You’re an
actor. But it’s not the same for a baby. I wouldn’t dream of exploiting her,” I
finished decisively, before rather spoiling the effect by adding, “How much?”
“Christ, I don’t know Charlie. Five? Ten maybe - Matt’s really set his heart
on finding the perfect baby. It’s life insurance so the budget is several
billion.”
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“No, it’s no good. I really appreciate your asking, but I couldn’t square it
with my conscience. And Sophie wouldn’t stand for it.”
I heard him sigh, resignedly. “Your loss, sport, your loss,” he murmured,
before rather abruptly hanging up on me.
And that’s how, half an hour or so ago, we left it. With me, rather admirably,
turning down the opportunity to trouser a very large, though unspecified sum
of money for reasons of scruple; specifically, on the grounds that by allowing
my beautiful baby daughter to frolic and gurgle in front of a TV camera for a
couple of hours - and, subsequently, to be cooed over by half the nation - I
would be committing a breach of parental responsibility so grievous that no
amount of money - not even five, ten or maybe twenty thousand pounds could possibly justify it.
And I stand by that. I do. And so would Sophie, who I know would be
absolutely incandescent with rage if, without consulting her, I took it upon
myself to make such an important decision; if I just bundled up E and her
stuff, called a taxi, and jumped on a train. She’d be fucking furious.
Already missed the 11.15. But could probably make the 12.05 from Parkway.
Fuck, don’t know where I have to go. Better call Gid and grovel big-style.
Hope his mobile’s switched on . . .
Sunday 21 April
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Bizarre and, frankly, upsetting couple of days. Can’t quite explain why I feel
the way I do. True, the Matt Mahon episode was obviously pretty hurtful.
(Arrogant little wanker!) Seeing Gid like that was a bit disconcerting, too.
And, oddly enough, the Marcus career/Carmen situation hardly cheered me
up at all (maybe schadenfreude just isn’t part of the zeitgeist). But Paul
Smug-Bastard Meadows! Mr Perfect! Why do I feel like the ground has
shifted beneath my feet?
No, I don’t get it. So I think the best thing would be just to write down what
happened. An unvarnished account of the last couple of days’ events. Get it
all down on paper and see if it makes any sense. Begin at the beginning, etc
etc.
So . . . I did manage to get hold of Gid, and he gave me the details of Matt
Mahon’s production company. (In Soho, needless to say. Main-Mahon
Movies - pah!) But when I called, Matt was meditating; and a longish while
later, one of his people rang back to say that he’d gone on an “urgent location
recce”, and would be out for the rest of the day.
A further flurry of calls from various of Matt’s people. Matt, I was assured,
was desperate to see Ellie, before leaving for LA. Could I possibly bring her
in at 6.30 the next morning? I said I could - though, actually, I still wasn’t
certain that I wanted to go ahead with this reckless venture.
I admit, the thought of just how pissed off Sophie would be was a fairly major
plus point. But there were still my not insignificant scruples to contend with,
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and I was far from convinced that I should allow them to be brushed aside for
money (at least not until I knew how much). And finally, of course, there was
Diary of a Superdad to consider. On the one hand, I could see that my
readers - especially the Guardian women’s page contingent - would be
unlikely to respond positively to a father prostituting the innocence of his
infant child for his own financial gain and to spite his long-suffering wife.
But, at the same time, it seemed like too good an opportunity to miss. If, as
I’ve mentioned before, there is one small flaw in the DofaS concept, it’s the
slight concern over whether the international book-buying public may just
find my life a little - well, not dull, but lacking in dramatic incident. And here
I was with the chance to move the action from boring Bristol to exciting
London; to satirise bitingly the fast-paced cocaine-fuelled world of
advertising and soulless metropolitan mores in general; and also, perhaps, to
present myself (the Charlie-character) in a glowingly flattering light. How?
By admitting to weakness (“yes, I was tempted; yes, I can’t deny I fluttered
close to the flame”), but, ultimately, demonstrating the wisdom and insight to
walk away. I could see this episode quite clearly in my mind’s eye. A film
set, upon which the final touches are being applied to Ellie’s hair. The crew
are waiting expectantly, cameras poised. The director shouts “action!” . . .
upon which, I emerge from behind a lighting rig, scoop up my daughter, and
stride purposefully off, cradling her protectively - watched, open-mouthed, by
all.
I decided - almost entirely for the good of the book - to go. I needed the
material. And, after all, what was there to lose by taking E up to London to
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see Matt Mahon? I wouldn’t be committing myself to anything. I could
always turn down the twenty grand.
To make our 6.30 rendezvous in Greek Street a little more feasible, I called
Marcus to ask if we could stay the night with them in Swiss Cottage. Slightly
to my surprise, he was at his desk. I briefly explained the reason for our trip
to London.
“Christ, Charlie, how does Sophie feel about that?”
“Oh, fine.”
“That’d be fine as in blissfully unaware?”
I wasn’t in the mood to be interrogated - especially not by my kid brother.
And I rather resented his implication that I was the kind of man who never
took a decisive step without first clearing it with his wife.
“Look, Marcus, if I’m coming, I need to get myself organised. I’ll tell you all
about it later. If you’re sure it’ll be OK with Carmen.”
Hah! Touché. I knew from experience that Carmen has never been much of
a one for surprise visits, or spontaneity of any kind. (Or, indeed, people
doing anything that might give them pleasure without first making an
appointment.)
“Not a factor. She’s in New York. Or Michigan. Or somewhere.”
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I thought he sounded distinctly bleak.
“OK, thanks, I’ll see you later.”
“Great. I shouldn’t be late home, but I’ll let Fat Liz know you’re coming, in
case I’m not back when you arrive.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to arrive unexpectedly and catch her shooting up,
while your kids eat Pot Noodles in front of Neighbours.”
That joshing tone again. Marcus did a kind of creaking gate, rusty hinge
laugh that, for some reason, we’ve used since childhood to denote an absence
of true merriment - and hung up on me.
But later that evening, over a second bottle of wine - which I knew damn well
was a very, very bad idea in view of the horribly early start I needed to make
next morning - Marcus and I did something almost completely
unprecedented. We talked. Maybe there were still vestiges of our customary
guardedness, the odd reflexive use of irony to deflect feeling, the occasional
lapse into facetious sibling-speak. But, with all three kids finally asleep, Fat
Liz watching something hysterical-sounding on the TV in her room, and
Carmen several thousand miles away, Marcus chose to unburden himself to
me.
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At first, I didn’t notice. I thought we were still doing the usual conversation
by numbers (“How’s work?” “Stressful.” “Tell me about it!”); but something
in his voice alerted me to the fact that we had moved into different territory
altogether. What he said helped, too.
“No, I mean really stressful. As in, career hanging by a thread.”
I can’t deny that a delightful little shiver of anticipation ran down my spine.
My over-achieving little brother, in career difficulties!
“Christ, Marcus, I thought you were a fully paid up Master of the Universe?”
“Mm. A lot of people thought that.”
“So what went wrong?”
“The Singapore project? Denationalised telco - pretty basic restructuring,
with a few quite fiddly market alignment issues. Anyway, guess who failed to
nail down the Ts and Cs? Well, I did, but not belt and braces. So the project
starts to ship water, the client bails out and the firm is left shuffling its feet
and whistling for nine big ones.”
I hadn’t a clue what, in any specific sense, he was talking about; but I thought
perhaps I’d got the gist.
“Nine thousand pounds? They’re not going to fire you for that.”
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“US dollars, actually.”
“Well, that’s even less.”
“Except there were nine hundred thousand of them.”
Marcus gazed disconsolately at his fingertips - ashamed, I guessed, of
admitting failure. I toyed for a moment with the idea of suggesting that this
might be an appropriate occasion to attempt Visioning a Positive Outcome.
“You could offer to pay it back,” I said instead, not much more tactfully.
“Yeah, right. Nine hundred K. Do you have any idea what it costs to live like
this?” We both glanced around the kitchen, which was entirely composed of
black granite and burnished steel. Needless to say, I didn’t.
“I can tell you pretty much exactly: about 12 to 15% more than Carmen and I
jointly earn each year. I currently owe more on my credit cards than you do
on your mortgage.”
“So what’s going to happen? They’re not really going to fire you just because
you fucked up one project, are they?”
“They don’t need to. I’m up for partnership at the end of next month. If I
don’t get it, I’m finished.”
“And you think you won’t get it?”
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“I think I won’t get it.”
For the first time in my life, I felt sorry for him. And I was about to feel even
sorrier.
“So how’s Carmen taking it?”
“She wouldn’t be happy about it,” he said flatly. “She wouldn’t be happy
about it at all. Not hugely tolerant of failure, my wife. Not immensely
supportive when the going gets tough. Not a good person to turn to in your
hour of need.”
He slumped back in his chair, staring into what I took to be a career-less,
Carmen-less future. I blew out my cheeks. I couldn’t help noticing that he
did exactly the same, at almost the same moment. No doubt generations of
Fleming men had blown out their cheeks when they had been unable to think
of anything remotely apt or consoling to say.
“I’m really sorry, Marcus, but I’d better be off to bed. We’ve got a very early
start.”
*
Arrogant little wanker. Loathsome dumb-fuck dwarf. Midget. Fuck-witted
moron. Shit-for-brains tosspot. Sad-haired twat. Self-obsessed cretin. Snotnosed arsehole creep. Dickhead.
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I thought it might be a good idea to get a bit of that out my system before
writing about Ellie’s casting session with the great Matt Mahon. I should say
I knew a little about him in advance, having read god knows how many
hagiographic features on him in the so called creative press - since he
directed that commercial for whatever it was, where the dolphins had taken
over the world and were ruling it wisely and benignly. These fawning profiles
always made much of his wrong-side-of-the-tracks Belfast upbringing,
alleged iconoclasm, unwillingness to suffer fools and adherence to whatever
the latest New Agey fad happened to be that particular fortnight. I was
definitely ready to hate him before we met; and, boy, did he fail to turn my
expectations on their head.
To begin with, he wasn’t there when we arrived, despite the fact that we were
a good 10 minutes late. (This was due to a last minute banana-in-hair crisis.
Ellie’s, not mine. I’d noticed it as we were climbing into the taxi outside
Marcus’s, and rushed her back inside for quite possibly the fastest ever
recorded wash and blow-dry.) We were let in to Main Mahon Movies by a
Naomi Campbell lookalike - only younger, taller and with a slightly better
figure - who introduced herself as Trish, Matt’s PA. She hardly seemed
surprised at all by his non-appearance.
“He loses all track of time when he’s chanting. Y’know, when he stops he’s
like, ‘Where am I? What day is it?’ But it’s cool - he’ll be here. You guys
just make yourselves at home.”
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She indicated a chill-out area to one side of the vast open plan loft-style
office. Everything, I noted glancing around, was present and correct. All the
usual trophies and playthings that a really successful commercials director
could be relied upon to surround himself with. The pool table. The cocktail
bar. Subbuteo, complete with stands and floodlights. The shelf, covered with
awards (including two D&AD pencils). The jukebox. The tropical fish. In
fact, the only non-bog standard touch was one huge wall elaborately
muralised with an 18th century battle scene, and bearing the slogan “No
surrender to the IRA.” But yes, actually, now I came to think about it, those
magazine profiles always made a big deal of the great director’s rabid antiCatholicism. So no big surprise there, really: just another part of the
elaborately confected Matt Mahon persona, no more or less significant than
the New Age bullshit or the stupid hair.
He arrived just after seven. He didn’t apologise. In fact, he didn’t speak to
me at all, except to mutter something that sounded like, “Don’t move, don’t
breathe” as he scurried across the office to one of those tilt-adjustable
drawing-boards, where he started, still standing, to scribble manically on a
lay-out pad. He was dressed from head to toe in the kind of leather so
expensive that it doesn’t look like leather. And I couldn’t help noticing that,
even including the ridiculous crest-cum-quiff, he was only about five foot
two. Ellie, getting bored now, started to squawk quite loudly (what I always
think of as her football supporter shout). The lovely Trish, deeply concerned,
waved both her arms at us, palms to the ground, like an umpire signalling a no
ball - although, in this case, I think the gesture was supposed to signify,
“Silence, genius at work”.
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I did my best to distract E, but I needn’t have bothered. He was so gripped by
his creative frenzy - or, at least, so determined to give that impression - that it
would have taken at least a 7.5 on the Richter Scale to have gained his
attention.
Eventually he tossed his marker pen away, and turned his attention abruptly
on me. I’d never before stood in the path of such an onslaught of charismatic
charm. Or such a torrent of words.
“You know how it is, when you really tap into some positive creative energy.
You just have to go where it takes you, come what may. No matter what.
Whatever the consequences. Anyway, be that as it may, you must be Charlie,
friend and confidant of the godlike and soon to be massively famous Gideon
Farley, my very favourite actor. And this, by a remarkable leap of deductive
logic, is surely the gorgeous Ellie - who, Gid assures me - and I trust his
judgment implicitly - might just be the baby I’ve been waiting for. And
waiting, and waiting. God, you wouldn’t believe, Charlie, just how incredibly
difficult it can be to find a baby. We’ve been swimming in babies. We’ve
had babies coming out of our ears, haven’t we Trish? We’ve been living,
breathing and eating babies (it’s OK, Ellie love, you’re not to take that last bit
literally). We’ve seen tall babies. We’ve seen short babies. Fat babies.
Thin babies. Talking babies. I swear to god, Charlie, we had one in here the
other day - and Trish will confirm this, at least she will if she wants to keep
her job - who looked me right in the eye and said “Choose me, Mr Mahon,
choose me and you won’t regret it!” So she did. No, really, on my mother’s
life. So now, what is it Ellie can do?”
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It took me a longish moment to understand that it was my turn to talk. And
when I did, I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Do? Well, you know, just the usual 10 month old baby stuff. She’s not
walking yet. Pretty good with bricks. Excellent animal noises. Waves her
hands around when she hears music she likes - Teletubbies, The Jam and
opera, oddly enough. What kind of thing did you have in mind?”
“Absolutely nothing. My mind is a blank. A tabula rasa. A pristine sheet of
virgin A4. But you see, Charlie, that’s the way I work. Very Zen. Empty
your head of all conscious thought, banish preconceptions, lay yourself open
to any possibility, and very often - not always, mind you, but in my
experience more often than not - something absolutely amazing will occur.”
I didn’t find this especially helpful. How could I persuade him of Ellie’s
suitability for the role, if I had no idea what it entailed?
“But what does the baby have to do in the commercial?” I asked.
“You mean, what does the script say?” If he’d actually referred to this
document as a worthless bit of toilet paper, his feelings couldn’t have been
more clear. “According to the script, all the baby has to do is look at its dad
and smile.”
“Its dad?” I’d mentally prepared myself for the possibility that E might be
called upon to do that kind of scene. But I don’t mind admitting that this
confirmation of my worst fears shook me up a bit.
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“Did Gid not tell you? Of course, I was hoping I might prevail upon his good
nature to bring the role to life; but sadly, the great Mr Farley is altogether too
grand a personage these days to appear in a telly advert.”
There was a note of real bitterness in his voice; and I thought it best not to
allow him to dwell on my association with the perfidious Gid.
“Well, whoever’s playing her dad,” I said, steeling myself against the ghastly
thought, “Ellie’s very good at smiling.”
We both looked at Ellie, who, uncharacteristically shy, was hiding her head in
my lap.
“OK, let’s see her smile,” said Matt Mahon, sighing slightly as if what he
really wanted to see was Ellie juggling with flaming clubs, or performing a
perfectly executed back-flip.
I plonked Ellie on a bean-bag, and prepared to make my Donald Duck face.
“OK, we’re rolling,” he said. “And . . . action!”
I made my Donald Duck face. For a moment, Ellie looked at me stonily. I
sucked my cheeks in harder, intensifying the rictus. Slowly, a big goofy
smile spread across her face.
“Good girl!” I murmured, hugely relieved.
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“Fuck,” muttered Matt Mahon. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
He put his head in his hands. Trish looked on, distraught.
“What is it?” I asked, mystified by his reaction. How could he not be
enchanted by Ellie’s smile?
He answered in a monotone, without looking up. “No fucking teeth.”
What he said was true. There was no point attempting to deny it. He got up
and walked around the room, like a man trying bravely to come to terms with
a sudden and grievous loss. Finally, he spoke - addressing himself not to me,
but to the middle distance.
“Sorry but the baby I’m looking for has teeth. Trish, could you very kindly
show our visitors out.”
Arrogant little wanker. Loathsome dumb-fuck dwarf. Midget. Fuck-witted
moron. Shit-for-brains tosspot. Sad-haired twat. Self-obsessed cretin.
Snot-nosed arsehole creep. Dickhead.
Afterwards, I’d arranged to meet Gid for breakfast. He was doing an early
voice-over, and had suggested a café near the studio in Covent Garden. To
my astonishment, he was already there when I arrived, staring sightlessly over
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the top of an untouched latte and smoking as if his life depended on it. He
looked - I noticed, as I navigated E’s buggy through the tightly packed tables like a freshly exhumed corpse. Pallid, waxy skinned, hollow-eyed. His hair
was matted, and he obviously hadn’t shaved or changed his clothes for days.
For a moment, I wondered if he was in character; living the life of a homeless
schizophrenic junkie, perhaps, in order to gain insight into a role he would be
soon playing. But, still trembling with rage and humiliation, I wasn’t in the
mood to play along with any of his theatrical bollocks.
“Christ, Gid, what’s the matter with you?” I enquired, briskly.
Registering my presence at last, he shook his head and blinked a couple of
times as if trying to remember who I was, or recognise the language I was
speaking. I sat down opposite him.
“Just a bit of a hang-over,” he whispered, presumably to avoid exposing
himself to excessive decibels. He passed a hand over his eyes, and rubbed his
forehead distractedly. It was all most uncharacteristic. Normally, Gid’s
performance as “Man with Hang-over” would have been a show-stopper.
“Well, aren’t you going to ask how it went?” I asked, unsympathetically.
“What?” His eyes were unfocused. “How what went?”
“Ellie’s casting, with your great mate Matt. Remember?”
“Oh yeah. How did it go?”
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I told him, at considerable outraged length. He blinked quite a lot, and
grunted a few times while I was talking, but otherwise gave no sign of taking
in anything I said - an impression confirmed when I eventually paused for
breath. Still staring into the middle distance, he said flatly, “She kicked me
out. Changed the locks. Just chewed me up and spat me out. And now she’s
fucking that fat Irish cunt Barry O’Donovan. Barry O’fucking Donovan!
Sticking his disgusting wrinkly old Irish dick inside her.”
I assumed he was talking about Janine. But I didn’t want know. Yes, he’s my
oldest - my only - friend; and yes, I could see he was in real distress. But no,
at that particular moment, I wasn’t prepared to play the romantic hero’s
sympathetic best friend. I didn’t want to hear another single self-pitying word
about his pathetic, sordid, goatish, wife-betraying, kid-deserting existence.
“Did you listen to a word I just said, Gid?”
“Barry O’fucking Donovan,” he murmured, glancing at his watch - first
holding it close to his eyes, then moving it away in an attempt to focus.
“Fuck,” he breathed, “should’ve been at the studio 10 minutes ago.”
And, pausing only to take one last heroic drag on his cigarette and wink in
what he presumably imagined was a roguish fashion at Ellie, he swept a little
unsteadily out into the morning.
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In an almost certainly futile attempt to regain a little equilibrium before
heading home, I took E for a quick whizz round the National Gallery.
Slightly consoled by her appreciative arm-waving in front of the Rembrandt
self-portraits. No teeth, but pretty advanced artistic taste.
Arrived at Paddington just in time for the 11.45. I was hurrying along the
platform towards the front of the train, when it happened. It. The momentary
episode that keeps flashing before my eyes. The Thing I Saw Which (For
Reasons I Don’t Really Understand) Changes Absolutely Everything.
A well dressed man and woman were about to board the train up ahead of me.
As I approached, he opened the door of a first class carriage, standing aside
to let her go in front of him. She put her foot onto the step. As she did so, he
– blatantly and quite lengthily - fondled her arse. She glanced round at him,
but not in a way that suggested she was likely to press sexual assault charges.
She was smiling. She was young. She was pretty. And she certainly wasn’t
Susannah Meadows.
He, I saw as they took their seats inside the carriage, was - no less certainly Mrs Smug’s preposterously perfect husband.
So there it is. That’s what happened. And no, as far as I can tell, writing it
down hasn’t helped in the slightest. I still don’t get it. I’m still gripped by an
overwhelming sense that my life is a meaningless charade; that the rules I
thought I was trying to live by no longer apply or, more likely, never existed
in the first place.
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And Ellie’s been miserable since we got back. And Sophie and Danny aren’t
speaking to me (presumably because they’re pissed off with me for dashing
off to London without warning and for no apparent reason). And Amber was
taking the piss. And I think I might just be starting to lose a little bit of faith
in the whole Diary of a Superdad concept.
Monday 22 April
E still very grumpy, but I’m feeling a lot better today. Feel I may have rather
over-reacted to the events of the last few days. Feel, though, that this
perhaps reflects quite well on me. I think I must be a much nicer, kinder,
more generous-spirited person than I’d realised. If anyone had told me a
week ago that my high achieving little brother, my soon-to-be rich and
famous best friend and my preposterously smug neighbour and nemesis
would all very shortly reveal themselves to be squelching messily around on
feet of clay, I’d have expected my reaction to be one of pure, unalloyed, airpunching joy. Yessss! Let failure and humiliation, my constant companions,
seep into the lives of all those who, knowingly or otherwise, have made my
life look slightly crap!
But actually, that isn’t how I’ve reacted at all. No; rather impressively, I
think, finding out that Marcus, Gid and Smug Bastard are all, in their very
different ways, highly fallible human beings facing real and potentially
painful challenges in their personal and professional lives hasn’t brought me
any pleasure at all. On the contrary, I’m genuinely upset by the knowledge.
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Truly sorry to be reminded that even the most seemingly perfect lives contain
their share of suffering and adversity. Deeply saddened by their actual or
potential falls from grace. I have, in short, been feeling their pain.
Later . . . in new spirit of near-saintly generous-heartedness, just wrote
apologetic email to Sophe:
Just to say sorry about my disappearing act last week. Things were getting on top of me
somewhat, and I thought a little fume-rich London air might help to clear my head. Plus, I
wanted to see Marcus to wish him luck before his partnership thing next month. But I
realise it was a little thoughtless of me not to give you and Danny any advance warning.
Forgive me. It won’t happen again. Not for ages, anyway. Honest. C.
Not quite saintly enough to send it, though. Did however both write and send
email to Marcus, thanking him for his hospitality and making generally
supportive noises. Wouldn’t want him to feel he has to go through the slow
disintegration of his career and marriage alone.
I’ve been wondering if there’s any faint chance, any slight possibility,
however remote, that I didn’t in fact see what I thought I saw on platform
four at Paddington on Friday morning. Could it, perhaps, have been a simple
case of mistaken identity? Could that well dressed, intensely smug arsefondler have been not Paul Meadows, but merely somebody with a startling
physical resemblance to him? (A long lost twin?) Or, if it was him - and let’s
face it, it was - could I somehow have misunderstood what I saw taking place
between him and his attractive young companion? Could it be, for example,
that he actually stumbled slightly entering the train, and put out his hand to
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steady himself, accidentally making contact with her? Might she,
conceivably, have asked him to brush, say, a spider off the back of her skirt
for her? Or could it simply have been a figment of my imagination; a sick
and twisted projection onto an innocent third party of my own desire to
fondle the arse of a woman much younger than myself?
The other question, of course, is whether he saw - and recognised - me. I
don’t think he did; his eyes were pretty firmly fixed elsewhere. But I’m not
100% sure. Christ, that would complicate things a bit.
Tuesday 23 April
Barely a wink of sleep last night, thanks to E. No idea what she’s so grouchy
about: no fever; not unduly snotty; no spots; no nappy rash; no vomiting
(projectile or otherwise). Just furiously angry, and incapable of sleeping for
more than about six minutes without waking up and screaming.
Yet, despite gritty-eyed, light-headed sensation resulting from severe sleep
deprivation, am suffused with sense of well-being. Amber called (just after
Sophie left for work, luckily). She sounded uncharacteristically hesitant.
“Charlie, it’s me. I just wanted to - y’know, make sure we’re cool.”
“Cool? Why wouldn’t we be?” I said. Rather coolly.
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“Last week? The dentist? Got a feeling I fucked up big style. Leaving you
with the kids like that. And then Paul coming back and finding you there .....
he wasn’t too happy about that.”
Not too happy? My chance to make myself look more laid back, more
forgiving than Mr Perfect Employer.
“Well, it wasn’t a problem as far as I was concerned.”
“You’re such a nice man, Charlie. Anyway, I’m thinking maybe there’s some
way I can make it up to you?”
Some way she could make it up to me. Visions of writhing flesh shimmered
before my eyes. All the usual physiological phenomena kicked vigorously in.
Fatness of tongue; shortness of breath; inability to think straight.
“No, really,” I murmured, woozily. “There’s no need.”
“I’d be happy to take Ellie for a morning, or whatever - y’know, if you need
to do anything. Or I could pick up any stuff you need from the store. I know
things must be pretty tough for you right now.”
I was still very largely absorbed in the various ways in which Amber might
perhaps be able to make it up to me. But I knew something she’d just said
didn’t quite compute.
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“Tough?” I repeated. “Right now?”
“Yeah, with the builders in. How’re they getting on?”
Fuck, I’d forgotten the builders. Of course, what I should have done was kill
them off right there and then. All I needed to say was, “Just finished, thank
goodness. Glad to see the back of them!” But, in fact, don’t ask me why,
what I said was, “Terrible! You wouldn’t believe the mess. Dust
everywhere! And you know what it’s like with builders - once they’re in the
house, they’re with you for life!”
Actually, I do know why I said it. A particularly ill-designed section of my
cerebral cortex made an instantaneous calculation and came up with the
answer that this was the best way to present myself in the light of one
deserving sympathy, affection and indeed sex.
“So what are they actually doing?” she asked, showing rather more interest
than sympathy or affection.
Christ! My understanding of what builders actually do is roughly on a par
with my knowledge of endocrinology. “Just a bit of repointing,” I
improvised. “And some of the flashings are knackered. You know what
these old houses are like.” This didn’t sound enough. Also, I had a nasty
suspicion that both repointing and repairing knackered flashings might be
exterior jobs, hence unlikely to produce large amounts of bothersome dust.
“Oh yeah,” I went on, “and there’s a supporting wall in the kitchen which is
on its last legs, so they’re . . . battening it with heavy duty . . . er, joists.”
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“RSJs?”
I felt I had no choice but to take a flyer on this. “Yes,” I said, decisively.
“RSJs.”
“Nightmare. Anyway, think about it, Chas. Let me know if there’s anything I
can do. Ciao now!”
Later . . .
Fu - uck! Shi - it! Well, I think that answers the question about whether I
could have misunderstood or misinterpreted that little cameo at Paddington
the other day. Also the one about whether he saw me or not. Just came in
from taking E to Water Babies and found the following message on the
machine:
“Hi Charlie - it’s Paul. Paul Meadows. I’ve been meaning to call you since
you . . . helped us out last week. I felt maybe I was a little ungracious at the
time. Anyway, look, I was wondering if perhaps I could buy you a pint by
way of expressing my appreciation? Maybe this weekend? Let me know.
Cheers now.”
Wednesday 24 April
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Haven’t called him back yet. Putting it off. Definitely don’t want to go to
pub with Smug Bastard, but don’t really see how I can get out of it.
What would we talk about? We have absolutely nothing in common, as far as
I know. So the only conversational topic with any real mileage that I can
think of would be the importance of not grassing up our neighbours to their
wives should we ever inadvertently find ourselves in possession of potentially
damaging information about their personal lives. He can’t seriously think
he’s going to “buy my silence” with a couple of bottles of designer lager, can
he?
Or maybe it wasn’t him at Paddington - or it was, but he didn’t see me - and
he really does just want to thank me for looking after his kids while Amber
was at the dentist. I suppose it’s possible. Which means I’ll have to go along
not knowing whether he knows I know . . . and if I don’t know if he knows I
know, how am I supposed to know how to deal with the situation?
Later . . . just talked to my mate Paul. Thought it was going to be awkward,
but he seemed very relaxed and full of bonhomie. Not even slightly guilty or
embarrassed. Quite charming, actually, in a loathsomely smug way - said he’d
been meaning to suggest we should get together for years, but just hadn’t got
round to it. Arranged to meet at The Oxford for a couple of swift ones (his
repulsive phrase) on Saturday. Hmm.
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Later . . . god, how many more times am I going to embarrass myself with
Amber? (Answer: loads more, you sad old git. Sod off, it was a rhetorical
question.) It happened just after lunch. Ellie, exhausted after another furious
morning, had gone to sleep with her face in a bowl of mashed banana. The
doorbell rang - and there she was on the step, pulsating with light and life.
“Hiya. Just on my way into town. Anything I can do for you?”
I gaped at her. My brain whirred and clanked painfully slowly into action.
Wednesday - Amber’s afternoon off. Hence no Smug spawn. Anything I can
do for you? Ah yes, a reference to her offer the last time we spoke to
perform small tasks for me, by way of compensating me for the dentist’s
appointment episode. Making it up to me, that was the phrase she’d used.
Apart from all the obvious X-certificate stuff, I couldn’t think of anything.
“It’s really nice of you, Amber. But like I said, there’s no need. We’re cool.”
She shrugged. “’Kay. But mates can do each other a favour. Sure there isn’t
anything you need?”
So that’s how she thought of me. As a mate. I wasn’t sure how I felt about
that. I was pretty sure she didn’t mean it in the biological sense.
“Can’t think of anything. But what about - “ . . . a coffee, I was about to say
when a terrible thought struck me. No builders! No evidence whatever of
building work. No dust (well, not more than usual). Absolutely no sign of
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reflashing, pointing or insertion of RSKs, or whatever they’re called, into
kitchen walls. Fuck!
There was nothing for it, as far as I could see, but to behave like a total
imbecile. “ . . . a dance?” I completed the sentence, grabbing Amber and
twirling her round a couple of times on the doorstep, in a vague
approximation to a waltz. Her shoulder, under my right hand, was pleasingly
firm and muscular, I couldn’t help noticing.
Amazingly, she not only refrained from punching me hard in the stomach, but
actually laughed, apparently genuinely amused by my buffoonery. “God,
Chas, I never knew you had it in you! What are you on?”
“Oh nothing much. Just a couple of bottles of wine with luncheon, don’t you
know,” I said, letting go of her reluctantly. I saw that she was looking over
my shoulder into the house.
“So how are they getting on?”
“Don’t ask,” I said, rolling my eyes theatrically.
“That bad?”
“Worse. The dust. The noise. . .” As soon as I’d said this, I felt an urgent
need to explain the fact that the house was, at that particular moment, both
relatively dust-free and completely silent. “When they’re here, I mean.
When they’re good enough to spend the odd hour or two actually doing a bit
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of work. You wouldn’t believe it. They were here this morning, then about
half an hour after they’d arrived, Tim, the foreman, got a call on his mobile,
obviously some kind of building emergency, and off they went. Disappeared,
just like that. Not a word about when they’d be back.”
Christ, I’d invented a foreman named Tim. Whatever had possessed me?
How likely was it that a building foreman would be called Tim? Fortunately,
Amber didn’t seem to spot this. Maybe Tim is a rough and ready, spit and
sawdust, man’s man type of name Down Under.
“Poor Chas!” she laughed. “Anyway, if you’re sure there’s nothing I can do,
I’m outta here. Take care.”
And off she went, leaving me bathed in that warm glow of satisfaction that
only comes from successfully deceiving the barely-post-teenage girl you’ve
fallen piteously in love with into believing that your house is besieged by
improbably named builders.
Nice going, Charlie.
Thursday 25 April
Well, so much for the mystery of E’s grumpiness over the last few days. The
little bastard just took a bloody great bite out my right index finger. With her
teeth. Plural. Two of them.
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We were having a little tussle on the sofa, just after Teletubbies, and I saw
her shoving something shiny into her mouth. I poked my finger in to retrieve
it and . . . snap! Upper gum and razor sharp lower front teeth slammed
together, and refused to part. I honestly thought she might bite the end off.
Amusing little irony, I suppose. Exactly a week too late. I have to admit, I
did - for a millisecond or two - consider calling Main-Mahon Movies to
enquire whether the search for the perfect baby is ongoing. But my
conscience wouldn’t hear of it. Not for a poxy 20 grand. I wouldn’t let that
fuck-headed little twat point his camera at my daughter for 50 grand. Not
even if he crawled across broken glass on his hands and knees to beg me
(though I have to say that doesn’t sound a very plausible scenario).
Email from Geoff at ‘Creative Edge’:
Charlie, just to let you know there’s a really excellent piece on banner advertising in next
month’s issue. Sorry, couldn’t wait. Hope you haven’t spent too much time on it. Do let me
know if you’ve got anything else for us. People are always asking me where you’ve gone.
Geoff
Liar.
Friday 26 April
Woke up feeling sick and panicky, gripped by strong sense of impending
doom. Dreading drink with S-B tomorrow. What am I going to say to him if
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he mentions platform four? “Your secret’s safe with me, mate. Charlie
Fleming may be many things, but a grass he ain’t!” And what if doesn’t say
anything about it? Would it perhaps be tactful for me to make some oblique
reference to the joys of extra-marital arse-fondling, just to put him at his ease
and make clear that - contrary to appearances - I’m every bit as much a man
of the world as he is, and not easily shocked. Or maybe we should just talk
about football. Christ knows.
Embarrassing scene in Waitrose. I was stuck in a longish queue at the checkout, trying to prevent E from getting too pissed off by feeding her Coco-Pops
from the box. Glancing around defensively, in the expectation of
disapproving glares from nutritionally-conscious fellow shoppers, I spotted
Jen, also queuing three or four check-outs away. Our eyes met. She seemed
very pleased to see me.
“Charlie! Darling! How are you?”
Jen had never called me darling before. Also, I have a powerful aversion to
conducting shouted conversations across crowded supermarkets. I grinned
and made a vague thumbs-up gesture, intended to signify “Fine, but I’d rather
not talk about it now”.
Jen took no notice. “Lucky bumping into you, actually. I’ve been meaning
to call you - but I was a bit embarrassed.”
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Embarrassed? If she was embarrassed to say whatever it was on the phone, it
wasn’t immediately apparent why she’d be more comfortable bellowing it
across half the width of Waitrose.
“Don’t laugh, but I’ve been wondering if you’d let me draw you, Charlie.”
I’d reached the front of the queue and was starting to unload my shopping. E
was being very helpful, reaching behind her for various items and dropping
them onto the conveyor belt or, in the case of the more fragile things, the
floor.
I didn’t laugh. Quite a few faces, I saw, were turned in my direction,
awaiting my reply. I raised my eyebrows cartoonishly, and let my jaw drop
open, as if the prospect of being drawn by Jen was so startling that it had
deprived me of the power of speech. But she wasn’t going to let me off so
lightly.
“It’s OK, Charlie, I’ll let you keep your clothes on, if that’s what you’re
worried about!”
Luckily, I don’t blush easily. I decided I had to put an end to this. I nodded
my head vigorously in assent, and mouthed: “How about next Friday?” I
didn’t see how I could get out of it, but I wasn’t keen to make it any sooner
than it had to be.
Twenty or thirty heads turned from me towards Jen, like spectators following
a rally at Wimbledon. She made a bit of a performance of leafing through a
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hefty Filofax. See how packed my schedule has become since I ceased to be
a downtrodden wife!
“Wednesday would be better for me. We’d have the whole morning. About
10, shall we say? I’ll make sure my pencils are sharp!”
I grinned and nodded once more, then busied myself with packing my bags.
Jen cleared her check-out before me and left, pushing her trolley with one
hand while blowing me flamboyant kisses with the other.
Sunday 28 April
Bit of an anti-climax, my Pint with Paul Perfect, actually. Needless to say, he
didn’t clasp me in a beery embrace and beg me to swear, on my mother’s life,
never to divulge our little secret. And, no less predictably, I didn’t take the
opportunity to bring up the subject either.
No, if he knows I know – and I still don’t know if he does – he’s definitely
decided on a charm blitzkrieg as the most effective strategy for neutralising
the threat.
And I have to say - very, very grudgingly - that he is exceptionally charming.
He does that eye contact thing that Jen has been working on, only without the
slightly desperate predatory edge; and when he listens to what you’re saying,
boy, do you feel listened to. Top marks for endearing self-deprecation, too.
Somehow, he succeeded in allowing me to understand that he is currently in
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the process of selecting a buyer for his business, from a number of fiercely
competing suitors, each eager to make him and his two partners richer by £15
million or so, while sounding profoundly modest about his own
accomplishments. To hear him tell it, you’d think he’d built a cutting edge
computer graphics company, employing 90 plus people and coveted by
several of the world’s leading communications conglomerates, by a series of
happy accidents. (“No talent whatsoever, sadly; just a knack of being in the
right place at the right time. Oh yeah, and working with people a thousand
times brighter than me.”)
He handled the whole me-not-currently-having-a-dynamic career thing pretty
well, too. He asked me quite a few questions about life as a stay-at-home dad,
and said that he envied me spending so much time with my kids. More
impressively, he managed to make it sound as if he meant it. Considering the
extreme awkwardness of that encounter in his kitchen just a couple of weeks
ago, it was a bravura performance. He gave the impression of believing,
quite sincerely, that my life-choices were no less valid than his (though, I
couldn’t help reflecting, significantly less likely to make me a multimillionaire any time soon. Unless, of course, Diary of a Superdad becomes a
Major Publishing Sensation.)
God, he was good. Smug, smug bastard.
After two and a half pints (at least a pint more than my usual lunchtime limit),
the charm was beginning to make me feel slightly sick. I glanced at my
watch, and shuffled restlessly in my seat.
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“Well, this has been great, but . . . “
He put a large, well manicured hand on my wrist.
“Charlie! Stay for another. The afternoon is young!”
“I’d love to, but – you know how it is. Onerous tasks to attend to. Tedious
domestic duties to perform.” This came out very slightly, but unmistakably,
slurred. Lunchtime drinking really doesn’t agree with me.
He took his hand off my wrist, as if reluctantly giving me permission to leave,
and smiled. More eye contact.
“OK, Charlie. But let’s do this again – soon. It’s been a real pleasure having
a chance to get to know you.”
“You too,” I felt compelled to reply, getting just a little unsteadily to my feet.
I raised a hand in a kind of half-wave, half-salute. “Anyway, I’m outta here.
Take care now.”
I was half way to the door when he called after me. “Hey, Charlie, almost
forgot. How’s it going with the builders? Amber tells me you’re having a
tough time.”
I mimed blowing my brains out with a revolver. “Don’t ask, Paul! Just don’t
get me started!”
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Paul! I can’t believe I really called him that. Whatever happened to my
integrity?
Monday 29 April
Spent half of the morning going through Yellow Pages, looking for builders
called Tim.
Didn’t find any. But there were two whose names begin with “T”. Spoke to
T Wallace, No Job Too Small, but didn’t feel he sounded like a Tim.
T Gunter, Victorian Property Specialist, on the other hand, was much more
promising – definitely middle class, conceivably minor public school.
Arranged for him to come round and look at the job on Friday. Wonder how
soon he could start. Assuming he turns out to be a Tim, that is.
Tuesday 30 April
“Remember me, Charlie?”
“Remind me?”
“Theo - your fictitious three year old?”
“No. Doesn’t ring any bells.”
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“You bastard! I knew it! You only invented me to give yourself an excuse for
getting to know Nanny Amber.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Or who you are.”
“But she’s not going to fuck you. Not in a million years. Not if you were the
last man on earth, you disgusting lecherous old slug!”
“She might. In the right circumstances.”
“Christ, you’re a pathetic twat, Charlie. And your so-called book - Diary of
a Superdad? I’d laugh if it wasn’t so utterly tragic.”
“You’re dead, Theo. From this moment, you don’t exist.”
“Twat.”
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May
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Wednesday 1 May
Might have been a bit hasty there. About Theo. Killing him off like that.
Pretty sure I’m still going to need him, to make the book work. Not to worry,
though - I can always resurrect him later on. When I actually write DofaS.
Actually, one alternative does occur to me. Making myself a single father. I
think with all the extra toil and tribulations that would involve - and
consequent opportunities for wise, insightful and admirably un-self-pitying
humour - I could probably get by without a semi-psychotic three year old.
And, given the amount of time Sophie is currently spending at home, it would
be a fairly minor distortion of the truth. Sometimes I do feel like I’m pluckily
bringing up E (and D obviously) all by myself. Though it must be said S’s
salary makes it a little easier.
Must make entries pithier. Urgently need more one-liners. More nuggets.
More days when two or three lines, and maybe a sentence or two of sharply
observed dialogue, bring this superdad’s whole world to life.
Thursday 2 May
Went to Jen’s yesterday. She drew me. Not bad, actually. She’s quite
talented - at least, until she got outside three quarters of a bottle of
Chardonnay, when all the lines started to get a bit smudgy.
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Jen: “Charlie, why is it the good guys are always about as sexy as genital
warts? Present company excepted, of course.”
Friday 3 May
Bugger. T Gunter, Victorian Property Specialist, turned out to be called
Turville. Turville! Before he came, I was thinking it might be quite tricky
finding out his first name; but I needn’t have worried. He just breezed in,
glanced around the hall, stuck out a hand and said, “Groovy cornice! Hi,
Turville Gunter.”
Actually, the name thing didn’t really matter, because I knew before he
opened his mouth that even if he was a Tim, he wouldn’t do. Nothing like
builder-y enough. Late 20s, deeply tanned, shirt unbuttoned half way down,
weedy little blond dreadlocks. A rich kid playing at being a horny-handed
artisan for a year or two, before packing his bags and heading for Thailand.
Or opening a club. Couldn’t think of a way of telling him he wasn’t the right
man for the job, so had to waste about three quarters of an hour discussing
projected building works. My total inability to describe what the job might
entail, other than the necessity that it should create a fairly large amount of
dust and disruption in the kitchen, obviously disconcerted him; but not much,
since his only real interest was in persuading me that I urgently needed to
replace the “totally yucky” 1930s fireplace in the sitting room, and do
something radical with my dado rails. We didn’t get on. And when he left,
suggesting that I should call him when I was “y’know, like a bit more sorted”,
I don’t think he was really expecting to hear from me.
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Anyway, I’ve had a bit of a rethink about the whole building plan. I don’t see
why I shouldn’t just get any builder in - and then, if Amber should ask, tell
her that Tim walked out on the job, letting everyone down rather badly, as
builders are wont to do. No, I definitely don’t think a foreman called Tim is
a sine qua non.
*
Mum’s birthday tomorrow. Can’t decide whether to send her a card. Part of
me, I suppose, feels that after all this time - what is it now, nearly three years?
- a small magnanimous gesture wouldn’t be out of order. If not an olive
branch, then at least a twig. But another part thinks dammit, she started it; if
the silly bitch wants to kiss and make up, she knows where to find me.
Later . . . the perfect compromise solution, I think. Went to the corner shop
and bought a really horrible card; on the front, an unbelievably cheesy
illustration of a kitten in a wheelbarrow, and inside the following heartwarming lines:
For a very special Mum
On a very special Day
It’s my very special Wish
That Every Very Special Thing should come your Way!
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And underneath, I scrawled: “Happy birthday, love, Charlie. PS We’re all
well. Ellie’s 10 months now - doesn’t time fly.” This last a not particularly
subtle reminder of the grandparental pleasures that, by her despicable
behaviour nearly three ago and her refusal to show any sign of remorse since,
she has chosen to forgo. (Reminds me, I must get in touch with Chrissie. All
this righteous indignation on her behalf, yet I haven’t actually seen or spoken
to her for god knows how long.)
Finally, my master stroke, I used a second class stamp. So at least it should
arrive some time before her next birthday.
Monday 6 May
Bank Holiday. Sunny and warm, so spent large part of morning planning
family outing. Not v successful. Somewhat hampered by the fact that S and I
still aren’t speaking directly to each other, and were therefore only able to
communicate via E. (Me: Hey, Ellie, what about Slimbridge, where all the big
quacky ducks live? You’d like to go there, wouldn’t you? Unless mum’s got
a better idea. . . Sophie: Do you have any idea what the M5 will be like on a
sunny Bank Holiday, Ellie-flower? Do you? Do you? Do you, you little
pumpkin?” Me: I wonder if you’ve ever heard of something called the A38,
Ellie? Some silly people don’t even know it exists – which is why the
motorway gets so crowded. Lots and lots of very stupid people, all following
each other like sheep. And what do sheep say? That’s right, clever girl!
Baaaaaaaaaa!!!”)
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The other problem, needless to say, was Danny. By the time we managed to
get him out of bed, quite a bit of the impetus for planning an expedition was
already spent. And then we made the textbook mistake of asking him where
he wanted to go. I suppose a small part of me was hoping he might suggest a
ramble in the Wye Valley or kite flying in Ashton Court, but only a very, very
small part. Predictably, the position he actually took was that he didn’t want
to go anywhere with us; and would, in fact, only consent to taking part in any
kind of outing if it included a trip to the Virgin Megastore in Broadmead to
buy a replacement for Vortex 24C: Death Match, which, he gave us to
understand, he’s recently “finished”. (I’m not at all clear how you finish a
game. “Fancy a game of Scrabble?” “No, thanks, I finished it last week.”)
Of course, at this point I should have admitted defeat and walked away. But
for some reason, I felt a powerful need to compel Danny, by sheer weight of
rational argument, to reconsider; to think coolly and calmly about the
advisability of making such outrageous demands on his exceptionally kindhearted and tolerant parents; to ask himself, in short, some very searching
questions about his attitude to authority, his unwillingness to play a positive
part in family life and his pathetic and potentially very damaging addiction to
computer games.
Afterwards, when he’d run upstairs and slammed the door of his room behind
him, S wouldn’t speak to me at all, not even via a third party. So that was the
end of the expedition.
Later, Sophie went out into the back garden and started hacking bits angrily
off some of the more overgrown plants. Obviously, I couldn’t allow her to
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get away with this. If she was going to waste a warm Bank Holiday afternoon
long-sufferingly performing pointless chores, so was I.
I strode out into the garden and, sighing loudly, picked up a trowel. We
worked in silence, side by side, almost certainly doing more harm than good
from a horticultural point of view, until E got fed up with eating handfuls of
soil and pulling the tops off flowers.
Later . . . still worried about how to handle my relationship with S in DofaS.
A certain amount of friction is fine: my readers will certainly identify with
that. In fact, they’d be more likely to rebel if I made the opposite mistake of
showing a loving couple happily sharing the task of raising children while
maintaining a rich, fulfilling and mutually supportive relationship as man and
woman. But all the same, I’m pretty sure the unedifying sight of me and S
locked in resentful silence for months on end wouldn’t do anything much for
sales.
Damn. Was planning to talk to S about kitchen renovations today. Don’t see
how I can get the builders in without mentioning it to her first.
Tuesday 7 May
“Charlie. Hi. Paul.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
You see, for me that’s smug. Anyone else would have said, “Hi, Charlie, it’s
Paul” or even “Is that Charlie? Hi, it’s Paul”. But not him. Much too busy
and important to waste time with a couple of unnecessary syllables.
“Hello, ‘Paul’.” I tried to insert those audible quotation marks that D puts
around ‘dad’.
“Just wondering how you’re fixed for lunch?”
Fixed? For lunch? Like “How would you like the best blow-job of your
life?” this was a question I’d had no cause to consider for quite some time.
“Uh . . . nice thought, but I’m afraid I have plans.”
“OK. How about tomorrow?” He sounded faintly amused, I thought, as if
the idea that I - with my sad, stay-at-home, career-free life - might have
commitments that prevented me from accepting his invitation rather tickled
his fancy.
I picked up an old French exercise book of D’s that was on the kitchen table,
and riffled through it as loudly as I could. “Just looking in my book.....
Wednesday, the eighth . . . no, sorry.”
“Cripes, you’re a hard man to pin down. But Paul Meadows doesn’t give up
easily. Go on, name a day. Any day that suits you.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Charlie Fleming has always hated people who refer to themselves in the third
person. Especially if they also think it’s witty to say cripes. But it was
difficult for him to see any way out of this.
“Look, Paul, I really appreciate the offer,” I said awkwardly. “But you know
what it’s like with babies . . . they just don’t do lunch. Anti-social little
bastards. Rubbish at polite chit-chat. Complete crap in the vast majority of
social situations, actually.”
He was thoughtful for a moment. It obviously hadn’t occurred to him that a
full time stay-at-home dad might be encumbered by childcare responsibilities.
But he quickly came up with the perfect solution. I thought I heard him snap
his fingers.
“Yeah. Got it! Leave the little one with your friend Amber.”
“But, I don’t - “
“No, she’d be thrilled. She owes you a favour, doesn’t she? Tell you what,
I’ll just pop you on hold a tick, and call her now . . .”
A surprisingly few bars of non-descript classical lite later, he was back:
“Done and dusted! She’s good as gold, that one. Thursday. If you take the
little one round to our place about 12.30, I’ll pick you up from there. OK?”
“OK,” I said weakly.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“Really looking forward to it. I meant what I said about wanting to get to
know you better, Charlie. Take care now.”
And he was gone. Leaving me 99.99% convinced that he knows I know.
Although I suppose there is just that .01% possibility that he finds me such an
entertaining and empathetic companion that he wants to spend more time with
me.
And what did he mean, “my friend Amber”? What was he trying to imply by
that?
Wednesday 8 May
Sophe left at god-knows-what-hour this morning, for strategy seminar in
Manchester. Woke me from an incredibly intense dream about A. We were
having sex, obviously. But oddly, and disturbingly, it wasn’t especially
pornographic. No, the main distinguishing feature of the carnal acts
occurring in my fevered sub-conscious was not their top-shelf raunchiness,
but their extreme tenderness. It felt as if I were being ministered to by some
corporeal species of angel. It felt more like being healed than fucked.
It was one of those occasions when the pain of losing what your dream-self
possessed buggers up your whole day.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Thursday 9 May
Christ, he really meant lunch. In the old-fashioned sense. What I had been
picturing as a quick half of lager and a stilton ploughman’s turned out to be
three courses and two bottles of Sancerre at River Station. Only a powerful
sense that by getting horribly drunk I would, in some sense, be vacating the
moral high ground enabled me to resist the dessert wine and brandy which he
also tried quite hard to pour down my throat.
He, on the other hand, clearly felt no such restraint. And I have to say that
the more he drank, the less overpoweringly smug he seemed. Or maybe it
was more to do with the fact that I haven’t drunk a whole bottle of wine at
lunchtime since about 1986. In any case, by the time coffee arrived, I was
feeling more warmly towards him than I would ever have imagined possible.
There was something artless about him that made you want to tousle his hair.
There was a doggy eagerness to please. And, above all, there was his
unconcealed - and frankly, bizarre - admiration for me:
“I know it may sound strange, Charlie, but I’ve always looked up to you.”
This made me splutter into my espresso.
“No, really. You’ve got a beautiful wife. Lovely kids. And I really envy the
house-husband thing. I’d do it myself, like a shot. Jump at the chance. I’d
bloody love it. Just staying at home. Being there for them. Watching them
grow up. Sharing their triumphs and disasters. Putting little notes in their
packed lunches. Fan-bloody-tastic!”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“Yeah, well, it definitely has its pluses. But actually Danny has school
dinners and Ellie only eats bananas really, so I don’t - “
“Plus, Charlie,” he went on, more interested in his fantasy version of my life
than the reality, “plus, you’re not thick like me. You’re a writer!”
“Not really. I’m just - “
“A writer! You know, that’s what I always wanted to be when I was a kid. A
writer! Sitting there all day long, dreaming up all kinds of weird and
wonderful stuff! Creating worlds of my own! Just letting my imagination run
riot!”
“Yeah, but that’s not really the kind of writing I do. I’m a journalist.”
“And a bloody excellent one. I love your stuff, Charlie. Always read your
pieces in Creative Edge. Absolutely bang-on about the interface between
creativity and commerce. Never miss them.”
I must admit I was quite flattered by this. And I didn’t feel it necessary to
point out that my last piece in Creative Edge appeared nearly a year ago, and
was in fact a fearless investigation into the reading habits of London’s
creative directors (lad mags and football programmes, basically, with Captain
Corelli’s Mandolin by some distance the most intellectually taxing work
mentioned).
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“If I could write like you, I’d be a happy man. But sadly, I’m dyslexic.
Which used to be spelt t-h-i-c-k, when I was at school!”
He raised his glass, and clinked it against my coffee cup. “Anyway. This has
been great, Charlie. Sure you won’t have a brandy?”
When the bill came, I did a bit of token pocket patting. But there was never
really any doubt that lunch was on him - the only uncertainty being which of
the vast clutch of gold and platinum cards he unsheathed would be chosen to
pay for it.
Afterwards, he wanted me to go back to his office, for a tour of the CGI
studio. I quite fancied it, actually; but it was well after three by now, and I
hadn’t drunk quite enough to make me forget that I had a baby to collect.
“Thanks, Paul, but I’d better get back. Amber will be wondering where I’ve
got to.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’ll call her, and say you’ll be back in an hour.”
“No, really. I don’t want to impose on her.”
“You wouldn’t be. She wouldn’t mind at all. Loves looking after kids - the
more, the better. Specially if one of them’s yours. She thinks you’re a fair
dinkum cobber, mate!”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Needless to say, I feverishly wanted to cross-examine him about this last
statement. On what evidence was it based? What, precisely, were the words
she’d used that had led him to draw this conclusion? On how many occasions
had she given him reason to believe that such was her opinion of me? But,
just clear-headed enough to realise that revealing the extent of my hopeless
passion for a member of his domestic staff would put me at a disadvantage in
my dealings with him, I managed to restrain myself.
Instead, I made my excuses, thanked him at length, and grabbed a cab back to
Balmoral Avenue - where all was well. E was sitting in a high chair doing
something messy at the kitchen table. The Smuglets were all racing around
the house, roaring and hitting things with sticks. And A, though slightly food
and paint splattered, was looking more beautiful than I’d ever seen her.
My dream came flooding back. My power of speech ebbed away. I stood
gaping.
Amber laughed. “Christ, Chas, how much did he make you drink?”
I managed to pull myself together slightly. “Not that much. But more than
I’m used to at lunchtime, I admit.”
And after that, a soft haze falls over my recollection of what else she may
have said to me, and whether or not she offered me a cup of tea or a strong
black coffee, and how long I may have lingered in the Smug kitchen,
attempting to inhale as many particles of her as possible, before taking my
leave and returning with Ellie to a cold and empty house.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
But I do remember vividly the green of her eyes and the gold of her skin.
Friday 10 May
Post card from mum. View of St Alban’s cathedral. Elegant copperplate.
Olive twig resolutely ungrasped:
“Dear Charlie, thank you for the nice card. I had a lovely birthday. Bob
brought me breakfast in bed! Love to all, Mum.”
If she was the slightest bit interested in patching things up, she wouldn’t have
mentioned Bob the Daily Mail-reading, Jaguar-driving, apartheid-justifying
Bigot, would she?
Email to S:
Hi Sophe - I wonder if we need to get the builders in? That fireplace in the sitting
room is pretty yucky, and there’s something not quite right about the kitchen,
though I can’t quite put my finger on it. Your thoughts? C
I’ve been thinking that our young friend Turville Gunter may have potential
as a DofaS character: amusingly unstereotypical builder.
*
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Something that’s been nagging at me since my lunch with Paul Perfect: his
admiration for my think-pieces in Creative Edge. I suppose it’s just about
plausible that, in his line of business, he might read the magazine. But, of
course, there is another possibility. That he’s been reading up on me. A bit
of Googling maybe.
Reply from S:
????? Let’s talk about this over the weekend. S.
Saturday 11 May
Up early with E. Watching Tweenies, gritty-eyed, when letter-box banged at least an hour before post or paper normally arrive. Envelope on mat,
addressed to me in smug handwriting (though this may be with benefit of
hindsight).
Note inside: “We’re off for the weekend, so I can’t use these. Any good to
you? All the best, Paul.”
Enclosed: two tickets for what I take to be a rugby match tomorrow afternoon
between Bristol and Gloucester.
Cripes!
Later . . .
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“Hey, Danny, fancy going to a rugby match with me tomorrow?”
“No?” (That upward-inflected you-must-be-mad-to-ask negative of his.)
“OK. Only asking. Just happened to have free tickets.”
“Dad, can I have a TV in my room?”
“No?”
Hah! Walked straight into that one, Dan!
Sunday 12 May
Major family clothes shopping trip to The Mall at Cribb’s Causeway. All the
usual misanthropic reflections about the spiritual poverty of a society in
which what used to be a day of rest and renewal is now no more than another
opportunity to wander, blank-eyed and slack-jawed, among the tawdry
temptations of the modern retail industry. Spent several thousand quid on
clothes for S and E. My only purchase: a pair of Gap khakis, 34” waist. Bit
tight, but the day I buy trousers with a 36” inch waist is the day I wobble to
the top of a very high cliff and heave my vast lardy bulk over the edge onto
the cruel rocks below. (Probably bounce back up again.)
In the car on the way back, Sophie asked me about the builders. Given that
I’ve never, in the 17 and half years we’ve lived together, taken the slightest
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
interest in such matters, her air of weary bemusement was, I suppose, fairly
well justified. But it put me on the defensive.
“I just thought it might be, you know, nice to . . . freshen things up a little.
Give the old place a bit of a face-lift. Especially the kitchen.”
“Freshen things up a little?” she repeated, incredulously.
“Yeah. Well, we haven’t really done anything to the house since we moved
in.”
“God, Charlie, what happened to you?” She took her eyes off the road rather
alarmingly, in order to give me a long appraising stare. “It’s like the real you
was abducted by aliens and replaced by a new interior design-conscious
model.”
I didn’t think this was funny. But she didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. “Or
maybe you’ve just been watching too many of those makeover programmes
on TV. Charlie Llewellyn Bowen!”
“Yeah. Well, you wouldn’t know what I’ve been watching on TV since
you’re never back before Newsnight. And maybe, just maybe, the fact that
you don’t seem to give a shit about our home reflects the fact that you only
spend about six hours a week there, whereas I spend my whole bloody life
there looking after our children!”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
After that, the conversation took on a rather less constructive and mutually
supportive tone, so I don’t think I’ll bother to record it any further. Except to
note that no agreement was reached on the proposed building works.
Sunday 12 May
Didn’t go to rugby match. Nobody to go with. Plus, of course, not even
slightly interested in rugby. But feel bad about having to tell PM I didn’t use
his tickets. Absurd, really. No earthly reason why I shouldn’t just thank him
for the kind thought, but say I had other plans. (“Such a shame because I
love a good rugger match; but sadly, Sophe and I were hosting an Amnesty
International tea party/running a half-marathon/playing chamber music with
friends on Sunday.”)
Actually, thinking about it, it’s a bit of a bloody cheek the way he assumed
that I’d have nothing better to do. Or that if I did have plans, I’d change them
at such short notice, just to go to some stupid rugby match. Smug bastard!
Fantastic wise, insightful and eminently plagiarisable baby article in The
Observer. Mostly about childbirth, so not relevant to current stage in E’s
development; but sure I could write a scene reminiscing about my feelings the
first time I cradled her in my arms in the maternity ward, using some or all of
the following:
 Buddha-like, inscrutable, scrunched (appearance of baby)
 buttery, bready, yeasty, cakey (smell of baby)
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
 nuzzle, snuffle, truffle, snuggle (key verbs for main newborn baby
activities)
 elation, exaltation, transcendent, suffused, atavistic (all good for various
aspects of heightened emotional state experienced by new parents)
Hmm, Sunday papers have raised another problem: what to do in DofaS about
news/current affairs?
Feel a bit of vigorous Blair-bashing might work in my favour. After all,
everybody hates the slippery, sanctimonious little turd. Plus, I feel there is
definitely a need for the book to have, in the broadest sense, a political
dimension; some trenchant but not too controversial views on how caring and
responsible parents can raise their children in comfortable suburbs, driving
them to violin lessons in large and thirsty people-carriers, without showing a
careless disregard for those with fewer advantages and for the environment.
Otherwise, the critics will give me a good kicking. (NB Theo would be good
for this kind of stuff - e.g. the Third World debt mung beans thing.)
On the other hand, I very much want the book to be a timeless classic. Not to
be rooted in the quotidian events and concerns of a particular time and place,
but to be intensely real - here and now - for every parent, wherever they may
be and whatever language they may be reading in.
So, on balance, an absolute minimum of references to Big Brother, the
Beckham baby or bombing the shit out of Iraq, I think.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Monday 13 May
“Hi Charlie. Just wondered if you managed to use the tickets? Short notice, I
know. You probably had better things to do? ”
For some reason, as soon as I’d heard the phone, I’d known it would be him.
So naturally, I’d grabbed the newspaper, and started leafing through to the
sports pages.
“Yeah. Thanks a lot. It was really kind of you.”
Oh fuck, why was I putting myself through this? I’d found the match report
by now, and was frantically speed-reading . . .
“Great! It sounded like a pretty exciting match?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t have been tighter . . . Bristol were well on top . . . with
Evans providing an incisive urgency to their midfield play that the visitors
could rarely match . . . until they were swept away by a late surge from an
increasingly rampant Gloucester pack . . . ”
“Pity. They really needed the points. But I’m glad it was a good match.”
“Mm . . . but surely now Phil Backhouse, after another towering performance,
must come into the reckoning for the England back row?”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
This was probably going further than I needed to. He sounded a bit surprised
by this. “I didn’t realise you were such a big rugby fan, Charlie?”
“I’m not really. But you can’t help getting swept up by the excitement of a
match like that. Thanks again for the tickets, Paul.”
“Sure. But look, that wasn’t why I rang. I wondered if you fancied doing that
tour of the studio some time this week? Tomorrow maybe, or Wednesday.”
We arranged it for Wednesday afternoon. He said it was fine to bring E.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck is going on? What the fuck is he playing at?
*
Bugger. New khakis too tight - had to change into track suit bottoms after
lunch. Lardy bastard.
Tuesday 14 May
Wrote to Chrissie earlier. Only a short letter. Keeping in touch would be so
much easier if she had a phone, or email. I worry about her sometimes –
down there a million miles from anywhere, all by herself. But I guess she
must like it, or she wouldn’t have stayed after Spaz (or whatever he was
called) buggered off. Or maybe she thinks that if she went back to London,
and got a job – and a nice flat, and a phone, and membership of a health club
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
– Mum would have been proved right. And I can quite see why she wouldn’t
be able to bear the thought of that.
Spent entire morning resisting urge to ring up A. Can’t ask her round here
because of non-existent builders. Can’t invite myself round there. Could, I
suppose, suggest taking babies to park – but pissing down with rain.
Called T Gunter instead:
“Turville.” God, I hate people who answer the phone like that.
“Hello, it’s Charlie Fleming. Remember, you came round and looked at my
house the other day?”
“Ghastly fireplace?” In his languid way, he definitely sounded surprised to
hear from me.
“That’s the one. Look, I know this may seem a bit sudden, but I was
wondering when you could start?”
“Start what?”
I’d been afraid he would ask that. So I had an answer ready.
“Well, I thought we could begin with the dado rails, and then kind of play it
by ear. You know, once you’re here. We could talk about the fireplace.
Explore the options. And of course there’s also the kitchen.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“Yuh. You were a bit vague about that.”
“Much clearer now. Much clearer. But I’d prefer to talk it through face to
face. When you start.”
I thought I heard him sigh. “OK, look, I’m not exactly working my tits off, so
why don’t we say I’ll swing by first thing Monday, and we’ll take it from
there?”
Monday? I wasn’t sure I could wait that long.
“Is that the soonest you can do?”
“Blimey! I can see you’re going to be one of those clients who makes my life
a living hell. Yuh, Monday’s my best offer. Take it or leave it.”
I took it. I suppose, looking on the upside, it gives me the weekend to square
it with Sophie.
Later . . . rain stopped, so called A to suggest park. No reply. Disconsolately
went ahead and took E anyway. A already there with Conor and Zack.
Suffused with transcendent and quite possibly atavistic exaltation.
Even later . . .
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“Dad, can I have a drum-kit?”
“No?”
Hah! I’m getting good at this.
Wednesday 15 May
I think I’ve put my finger on it. Why I feel so . . . perplexed by my recent
dealings with Paul Perfect. It’s just such an incredibly long time since anyone
has been so nice to me. In fact, I can’t remember when anyone ever was.
Buying me expensive meals. Saying kind things about my work. Even giving
me (admittedly unwanted) rugby tickets. No, looking back over the last 30
years or so, I can safely say that nobody has treated me like this before.
(Idea for new character. Amusing Comedy Psychotherapist: So, Charlie, this
man takes an interest in you. He praises your achievements. He buys you
things. I wonder if it feels a bit like finally meeting the father you always
wished for? Charlie: No?)
Of course, I’m perfectly well aware that he has an agenda. I’m perfectly clear
in my own mind that he is using his considerable charm - cynically,
calculatingly and oh so smugly - to neutralise the threat I represent to his cosy
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
extra-marital arse-fondling Saab convertible-driving lifestyle. I know that he
thinks I’m just some pathetic, banana-encrusted loser that he can wrap round
his little finger . . . and yet . . . and yet, there’s still a tiny little part of me - that
.01% - that goes on wondering if I could have got it wrong, and if maybe he
really does just like me. Why shouldn’t somebody - even somebody like him
- just want to be my friend?
Later . . . well, that settles that, then. That last remaining .01% of doubt over
what I saw on platform four at Paddington, and why Smug Bastard wants to
be my bestest buddy, has been definitively dispelled.
Went for studio tour as planned. Very impressive. SB showed me (and E)
around. Summarized company history. (Had the good grace to appear
slightly embarrassed by the company name: Ikonnixx). Explained function of
various machines. Introduced project team working on dinosaur sequence for
major new Discovery Channel series. Showed me rough-cut of new
commercial for some disgusting yoghurt drink, featuring tap dancing
enzymes.
Then he took us into an edit suite where two people were huddled intently
over a computer console. One of them, I knew the moment we entered the
small airless room, was the Arse-Fondlee.
Hard to explain why it was so blindingly obvious. Well, not that hard; if
sexual tension were electricity, the nation’s power stations could have taken
the afternoon off. The semi-darkness hummed and crackled with it. We were
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by Lindsay Camp
only in there for about 30 seconds, but the nature of their relationship could
hardly have been any clearer if he’d simply announced, “Charlie, this is the
young woman I’m currently shagging at every available opportunity. Bit of a
cracker, isn’t she?”
What he actually said, was: “Sam, Lizzie . . .this is Charlie - my friend and
neighbour - and the lovely Ellie. Just giving them the guided tour.”
Sam, clearly a social retard, didn’t look up from the screen. Lizzie, eyes
locked on PM’s, gave me an absent-minded half-wave, and murmured “hi”.
E started to wriggle on my shoulder, and made a few tentative seagull noises.
I returned the greeting (needlessly, since I was clearly invisible) and edged
towards the door. Mr Perfect-Husband was having trouble uncoupling his
gaze from the face of his lovely young mistress.
“Mustn’t disturb you,” he cooed. “Don’t want you to be hard at it all night . .
. again.”
Oh, please. Unable to stand any more, I backed out of the room. A few
moments later, he emerged – bright-eyed and buzzing, as if he’d just ingested
something expensively illegal off a mirror.
“Incredibly talented young animators, those two,” he said, looking at me
hopefully, I thought, as if I were supposed to respond to this. But if so, I
disappointed him.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“Sorry, Paul. Just realised what time it is. Said I’d pick up Danny on the way
back. Thanks very much for the tour. Very impressive.”
And with that, E and I were out of there – just in time to pick up a rather
bemused D from school for the first time in months.
Is there, I wonder, any spectacle on earth more truly repulsive and hateful
than the preening self-satisfaction of a middle aged man whose lust has
recently been slaked – and stands every chance of being so again – on the
smooth-skinned and willing body of a highly attractive woman many years his
junior? I really don’t think so.
Thursday 16 May
Absurd, really, but feeling quite disillusioned about Smug, Smug Bastard.
It’s not as if I even had any illusions about him. Or hardly any. But
somehow, the stone cold, cast iron certainty that he’s a successful, soon-tobe-rich arse-fondler who thinks he can get away with treating me like a halfwit has come as a painful blow to my self-esteem. Feel like I’ve been
mugged. Or maybe that should be smugged.
Bit depressed about DofaS, too. Already noted mild concerns over lack of
dramatic baby-related incident. Also slight shortfall in wisdom and insight
department. But now, thinking about it, I’m definitely getting worried that the
book will be – well, a little under-populated.
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by Lindsay Camp
Current status of prospective DofaS characters

The Charlie character – basically fine, but work needed to ensure maximum
audience sympathy. Definite danger of coming across as pathetic lecherous old slug
– or useless stay-at-home parasite, living off earnings of hard working wife.
V important to emphasise character’s essential integrity, compassion, goodheartedness

Sophie – not much of a presence, so far. When she does appear, mustn’t make her
too snappy: makes Charlie look wet. Probably need to give her a few more likeable
characteristics (which, after all, she does have). Quite like the Gawain + Green
Knight thing early on: could play it up a bit.

Ellie – top quality baby. But urgently need more tender/humorous descriptions of
things she does/says. Not a major worry at this stage though: can easily nick that
kind of stuff when I write the book.

Danny – no, I stand by my decision. He doesn’t exist. (Although the drum-kit thing
did make me reconsider briefly – a hormone-crazed teenager hammering hell out of
his tom-toms has definite comic potential.)

Theo – still dead. Status to be reviewed periodically.

Gid – great; lots of laughs; but only a fairly minor character. Maybe play up what a
crap father he is compared to C?

Jen – OK. Biggest plus: opportunities for C to look caring and compassionate; also,
possible humour in new drunken devil-may-care persona. Important that C doesn’t
realise that J has inappropriate interest in him. NB Should probably try to spend
more time with her.
Diary of a Superdad
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
Amber - Big problem. How 2 make C’s feelings for her seem touching/amusing?
Christ knows. Might have to leave her out. (Forgive me, beloved.)

‘Paul’ - ?????????????????

Marcus - like Gid, good for contrast with C. A father who not only wasn’t in the
delivery room when his first child was born, but wasn’t even in the same continent.
Plus, if his life continues to go pear-shaped: another opportunity for C to be
supportive.

Bill and Eileen - a couple of cameo appearances, at best.

Dad - still need to resolve this.

Mum - Wicked Grandmother might be fun, I suppose, but real danger that it could
backfire: family feuds tend to make all parties look bad

Chrissie - no chance of her actually appearing in the book (unless we take a holiday
in Cornwall), but no harm in introducing her: wronged sister - seduced by ne’er-dowell member of lower orders, carried off to rural seclusion, rejected by family,
abandoned - but supported and consoled by kind-hearted and non-judgemental elder
brother.

Turville Gunter - possibly. I’ll have to see how he shapes up on Monday. Slight
nagging doubt that comedy builders - even amusingly unstereotypical ones - may be
a bit passé.
It’s not great, is it? Dan’s a definite no; and if I do decide to write out Theo,
Amber, Dad, Mum - and therefore also Chrissie - well, it doesn’t leave me a
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lot to work with. Hardly a rich, pulsating, Dickensian-style human stew for
my readers to savour. Hmmm.
Friday 17 May
Fuck, what was I thinking? Thank christ, I realised the danger before it was
too late. It just came to me in a flash when I was mashing E’s third breakfast
banana: Turville Gunter, comedy builder, may have humorous potential as a
DofaS character, but he’s also a good 10 years younger than me, lithe and
bronzed of body, chiselled of jawline, and altogether, as far as I can judge,
which, admittedly, isn’t very far at all, a total stud-muffin. Just imagine him
working in my kitchen, stripped to the waist, fetchingly powdered with
building dust, when Amber came round. Disaster! How likely is it that she
would find him just a teensy-weensy bit more attractive (and eligible) than
me? (Charlie: Amber, this is Turville, Tim’s replacement. Turville: Hi, good
to know you. Amber: Phwooar!)
Fuck, I can’t believe I missed that. Just shows how stupid intelligent people
can be when they allow their endocrines to stop them thinking straight.
Rang Turville, and cancelled Monday. Told him the bank are foreclosing on
my mortgage, and throwing me and my family out on the street, so dado rails
no longer a high priority. He didn’t sound too upset.
Huge, huge sigh of relief. Disaster very narrowly averted.
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Later . . . just called Jen. Thought she sounded a bit down. Not quite as
frantically vivacious as she has been recently. But still pretty happy to hear
from me - specially when I asked her round for coffee on Monday morning.
Damn. Just thought - afternoon would be better. J much more likely to
behave in entertainingly uninhibited manner after lunch. Damn. Should have
thought of that.
*
Well, that’s settled that then. Sophie’s career plans, about which she hasn’t
uttered a word for god knows how many weeks (though, admittedly, I haven’t
exactly pressed her on the subject) are no longer a secret.
Not because she told me. And certainly not because I asked. But because
she came home early from work in a brand new metallic purple Audi TT 2.7
GTi Sprint (one of those crap retro sports cars conceived by marketing men
and designed by computers for the kind of overpaid cretins who care which
brand of bottled water they drink).
Danny, who had raced out into the street when she tooted her horn in
greeting, rushed back in to find me.
For once, there wasn’t a trace of dead-eyed slacker cynicism in his
demeanour. “Hey, dad, come and see mum’s new car. It’s utterly blinding!”
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I followed him outside, though with no great urgency. S was still sitting
behind the wheel, with the window down, looking pleased with herself. D had
jumped in next to her.
“Nice car,” I said flatly.
“I like it,” she said. “In fact, I love it more passionately than I’ve ever loved
anything in my life. I told Mario I’d leave with Evan if he didn’t let me have
it . . . so he did!” She was humming and glowing with triumphant,
automotively validated self-esteem. I hated to see her like that.
“So, you’re staying,” I said. “Not going off to Clerkenwell in pursuit of your
brilliant career?”
“No, I decided it would make you too unhappy.”
“Great. So now you can blame me for preventing you from fulfilling your
destiny.”
“That’s not fair, Charlie.”
Maybe I’d taken just a little of the metallic purple shine off her moment of
triumph. But she still looked pretty happy, caressing the horrible leather and
wood-effect steering wheel.
“Nice car,” I said again, much more nastily this time, before going back
inside.
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She and D must have stayed out there chattering excitedly and running their
hands over the damn thing for at least three quarters of an hour.
Saturday 18 May
Went for early morning jog. In no way connected to button bursting off 34”
inch waist Gap khakis yesterday. Just did it for pleasure.
Sank to my knees and vomited in Cadogan Avenue.
Sunday 19 May
Hard to know when S and I aren’t speaking these days. Angry punitive
silence surprisingly difficult to tell from customary absence of verbal
communication. But pretty sure we’ve been “not speaking” since the car
episode on Friday. She’s taken D and E out for drive. Didn’t ask if I wanted
to go. Not altogether surprising, perhaps.
Nothing much to do. Could perform various tedious chores, to make S feel
guilty when she gets back. Can’t be arsed. Bored.
Car advertising: the end of the road?
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Ask any advertising creative to describe his (still - shamefully - nearly always his, not
her) idea of heaven, and the picture is almost guaranteed to be as follows. Pneumatic
and fun-loving PA; pool table and well stocked fridge in office; car account to work on.
For agencies and the people who work in them, car advertising has always been the
pinnacle of their profession; not just the most prestigious product category to be
working in, but also a rich source of opportunities to produce high profile and jawdroppingly expensive commercials of the kind most likely to get talked about in the
Soho watering holes where people talk about that kind of thing.
But oh dear, what went wrong? Judging from the evidence of recent viewing, the great
days of car advertising - the mould-shattering VW work of the 50s and 60s, CDP’s
spectacular spots for Fiat in the 70s, David Abbott’s quietly impassioned advocacy of
boring old Volvo in the 80s, even Audi’s zeitgeisty Vorsprung Durch Technik campaign
of the early 90s - are well and truly over.
These days, one car commercial tail-ends the next, barely making a dent in our
consciousness. The wit and inventiveness of yesteryear are nowhere to be seen. In their
place? Glaringly implausible claims about the “loveability” of small blob-like cars
indistinguishable from dozens of other small blob-like cars. Increasingly desperate
attempts to convince the punters that, contrary to all their actual first-hand knowledge of
the M25 in rush-hour, purchasing this or that particular GTi will enable them to
rediscover the pure, unfettered joy of bowling along deserted highways. Barely coded
exhortations to those with sociopathic tendencies to drive in an ever more lifethreatening manner.
What’s behind this dramatic decline? Frankly, who gives a flying fuck. If answering
that pathetic rhetorical question was really the most worthwhile way available to me of
spending the next few hours - even the next five minutes - of my life, I’d kill myself. No,
really, I would. I’d pick up the bread knife from right here, next to me, on the kitchen
table and I’d stab it into the side of my head. Again and again, until I was dead. I’d
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rather be FUCKING DEAD THAN WASTE MY FUCKING LIFE WRITING
THIS FUCKING SHIT. . .
*
They came back looking all breathless and exhilarated - as if they’d been on a
family hang-gliding exhibition, not tootling around on crowded A-roads
packed with Sunday shoppers on their way to Homebase. Since I didn’t ask
where they’d been and S didn’t volunteer the information, I think it’s safe to
say we’re not speaking.
D’s taken E to the park. Might try another jog . . . but maybe go a bit easier,
this time.
Much later . . . went for jog. Didn’t vomit. Success! But after I’d got back,
showered, sewn a button on the Gap khakis, tried again (unsuccessfully) to do
them up, I realised that Danny and Ellie still weren’t back from the park.
I didn’t exactly panic. They’d only been gone an hour and a half. But I did
find myself glancing at my watch every five minutes. And when they still
weren’t back half an hour later, I started to feel worried. Not hysterical
tabloid-style Stranger Danger worry, obviously; but rational, intelligently
concerned “there are an awful lot of idiots on the roads” and “accidents do
happen even in playgrounds with that bouncy stuff under the swings” worry.
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So I went to the park to make sure they were OK. They were. D had taken
off his Megadeth hoodie and spread it on the grass. E was sitting on it,
wearing a daisy chain crown on her wispy curls; and D, I could see from her
delighted head-waggling and arm-waving, was singing to her.
I couldn’t hear what. And by the time I was close enough, he’d seen me and
stopped, embarrassed.
I told them it was time to go home.
Monday 20 May
Called Jen early, to try to postpone her until after lunch, but only got her
machine. The message was markedly different in tone from last time.
“You’re through to Jen,” she announced brusquely. “If you want to leave a
message, you know the drill. If you’re hoping to reach Gordon “Gideon”
Farley . . . well, best of luck, buster. Please note, however, that he can no
longer be contacted on this number.”
Guessing that I’d left it too late, and she was already on her way, I didn’t
leave a message. And I was right: she appeared on the doorstep 20 minutes
or so later, bearing a sun-dried tomato loaf and, rather oddly, a plastic bag
containing a large head of broccoli. Much better, however, than her usual
stodgy offerings from the point of view of Operation Gap Khakis. I thanked
her effusively.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
It pretty soon became clear that, on this occasion at least – and whether or not
because of the early hour - Jen wasn’t going to contribute much to DofaS in
terms of entertainment value. Work on the Merry Divorcee persona was
clearly very much on the back burner. After a couple of minutes’ rather
perfunctory cooing over E – barely enough to be polite – she was ready to
unload quite a hefty cargo of Gid-related grievances.
“The bastard’s just disappeared off the face of the earth. Not an effing word
out of him.” How very Jen, not – even in her current situation – to allow
herself the f-word.
“Not that I give a damn where he is,” she went on. “But the kids just keep on
asking when they’re going to see him. And what am I supposed to say?”
Luckily, since I had nothing to suggest, she didn’t wait for an answer.
“It just isn’t fair on them. Milo’s started wetting the bed again. And Sadie well, to be honest, Charlie, she’s just completely out of control. God knows,
what she gets up to. I certainly don’t. I’m nearly out of my mind with worry.
Plus . . . plus . . . plus . . .”
Whatever it was, additionally, that was coming next, it had temporarily taken
away the power of speech. Her chin wobbled, and her shoulders tensed, as
she struggled to regain control. I put out an ineffectual consoling hand.
Diary of a Superdad
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“No, I’m all right, Charlie.” She stopped and took a few short panting
breaths, of the kind recommended for women in childbirth, then went on
more collectedly. “I am. I’m all right. But you really won’t be able to believe
this. He’s left us to starve. He’s cleaned out the joint account - left me with
two kids to feed and clothe, a whopping great mortgage, and not a bean to my
name. Bastard.”
This was quite hard to believe, actually. For all his faults, Gid has always
been pretty good about money. Whatever other impact his past escapades
may have had on Jen and the kids, their material well-being has never really
suffered. He’s one of those men - a bit like Dad - who believes that as long as
he’s a good provider, he can get away with murder. Well, shagging anything
with a pulse, anyway.
I made shocked faces. I wondered, nervously, if Jen was about to ask me for
a loan. “So what have you done about it?” I asked. “I guess you’ve tried to
contact him through all the usual channels?”
“Yes. But his mobile’s been disconnected. And the studio say he hasn’t been
in for weeks. And I can’t get anything out of that bitch Audrey.”
“His agent?”
“She’s never liked me. Always treated me like I was some little provincial
wifey, bothering “her artiste” with trivial domestic matters. Now she won’t
even talk to me. The first couple of times I called, she said she’d pass on a
message next time she spoke to him. Now she’s always in a meeting.”
Diary of a Superdad
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There was no avoiding it. I took a deep breath, and croaked: “Look, Jen, if
you need money . . . “
We were sitting side by side at the kitchen table. She swivelled in her seat to
look me fully in the eyes. “Oh Charlie,” she gasped. “You’re so kind.
You’re such a good, kind man. You’re so . . . so . . . so. . .”
Huge, wracking sobs overwhelmed her, and she collapsed sideways into me,
so that I had no choice but to put my arms around her and cradle her, while
she wept. Slowly, her head slid down my chest, until it reached the springy
mound of my mid-section, which, fortunately, arrested its downward
progress. She raised a hand to dash away tears and snot, then let it drop. It
landed in my lap, with her fingers spread across my inner thigh. We must
have sat like that for a good 10 minutes. Her sobbing, me hoping she
wouldn’t notice that - despite her abject state, despite my never having even
remotely fancied her, despite her being my best friend’s wife, despite my
being in love with another woman, despite every fucking thing - I had the
most tumultuously raging hard-on.
Unbelievably, I don’t think she did.
Still, the good news is, she didn’t want to borrow money. Turns out she’s got
50 grand her granny left her, sitting in a building society account. So Gid’s
only left her and the kids to starve metaphorically.
Diary of a Superdad
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Unlike the way in which I’d like to take a nail-studded baseball bat to his
ridiculous, over-sized Easter Island head and pound it to a pulp.
Later . . . went stalking again after Jen left. But not Amber this time. Put
Ellie in her buggy and walked down to the Ikonnixx building, then hung
around outside the car park. The Smug-mobile was there, but “Paul” didn’t
come out. And neither, I’m pretty sure, did the Arse-Fondlee. E woke up and
started to get restless, so didn’t stay long. Not much more than an hour.
Totally unable to explain why, but there is still an infinitesimally tiny area in
my brain where the notion that Paul Smug Bastard Meadows Might Just
Possibly Be Innocent refuses to be dislodged. Maybe I could have overinterpreted that scene in the edit suite the other day. Maybe that could have
been a perfectly legitimate exchange between a kindly and charismatic
employer and a valued member of staff? Maybe all that crackling sexual
tension was actually inside my head.
I think I owe it to Paul to be 100% sure of my ground on this one. I think
anyone would agree that, in my position, there is an absolute necessity to
know for certain whether they’re slipping off for a lunchtime quickie.
Tuesday 21 May
Woke v early. Lousy night. Tossed and turned, tortured by feverish fleshfilled dreams. A night-long spectator at a bacchanalian orgy of entwined
Diary of a Superdad
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limbs, thrusting pelvises, and bobbing bottoms - the only recognisable faces sweaty, seamy, satyr-like - belonging to Gid and Smug Bastard. Look but
don’t touch, Charlie Fleming! Watch while we the Conscience-Free Shag
Elite shag until our bollocks explode and our eyeballs pop out of our heads!
Came down, in the dawn half-light, to make coffee. Trod, bare-footed, on
something warm and squelchy. Freshly killed mouse. Just inside the kitchen
door - exactly where that ginger bastard Ziggy used to leave such offerings.
No sign of the killer, though. Strange.
Later . . . Amber called. Did E and I fancy joining her and the two younger
Smuglets on a trip to the zoo? Incredibly, I actually hesitated for a moment,
because I’d been planning to trot down to Ikonnixx for a spot of continued
lunchtime quickie surveillance. Decided though that, on balance, E would
probably prefer to spend a couple of hours marvelling at some of the more
exotic members of the animal kingdom than hanging around in a car park.
Plus, of course, I was aching to see my beloved A. Since the start of the
Fictitious Builder Fiasco, I’ve been starved of her company. My own fault, of
course, but none the less heart-rendingly painful for that.
For a sunny afternoon in early summer, the zoo was amazingly deserted.
The odd dodder of senior citizens, dozing on benches or nosing round the
herbaceous borders. One or two giggling gaggles of nannies, pushing buggies
weighed down with bulging bags containing all the paraphernalia of the
modern childcare professional. And just a very few middle class mothers
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with pre-school kids, delivering those over-loud, unembarrassed lectures
designed to remind everyone in ear-shot that dedicating yourself full time to
bringing up children is a challenging task and by no means a soft option
compared to pursuing a career (“That thing like a bag is the daddy zebra’s
scrotum, Toby!”). Not a single coach party.
We wandered. We gawped, and pointed things out to our young charges. We
laughed at the amusing antics of the penguins and seals. Then we bought ice
cream and sat on the lawn to eat it. Amber was looking especially heartbreaking in a halter neck top that revealed to me, for the first time, the almost
unnecessary perfection of her shoulders. For a few brief minutes, all three
children were simultaneously absorbed in smearing ice cream around their
faces and upper bodies, and we had a chance to talk. She turned that allseeing green gaze on me.
“So, it’s good to see you Chas. I thought you were avoiding me.”
This felt like a definite opening. A chance to say something gallant, mildly
flirtatious even. But, faced by an open goal, I could only shoot tamely
straight at the keeper.
“Avoiding you? God, no.”
“So what’ve you been up to? Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know,” I faltered. “Nowhere much. Here and there. Round and
about.”
Diary of a Superdad
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She laughed. “Charlie Fleming - international man of mystery!”
I rather liked the intimately piss-taking tone of this. But it was a bit
dangerous, too. If she continued to press me, how could I account for my
recent elusiveness - without mentioning the damn builders? In a blinding
flash of clarity, it came to me that the time had come to bury the builders,
once and for all.
“Actually, it’s not a mystery at all. I’ve been busy - finishing off the work in
the kitchen. Had to fire the builders in the end, because they were such
complete crap.”
What the fuck made me say that? Bone-headed bravado, I suppose. A desire
to impress Amber with my multi-facetedness. See, my heart’s desire, how I
can turn my hand to anything, when necessity dictates! And, as far as it went,
I’d obviously been quite successful, because A was looking pretty impressed.
“Jeez, Chas, is there no end to your talents?”
I shrugged modestly. “Well, you know what they say: if you want a job doing
well, do it yourself.”
“But putting in RSJs, wasn’t it? That’s hard core building. I didn’t know you
had it in you!”
Diary of a Superdad
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“Neither did I, actually. But it’s amazing what you can do if you really put
your mind to it. Found all the how-to stuff on the internet.”
There was no doubt about it, she was looking at me differently. Appraisingly.
Almost as if she was seeing me for the first time.
“So talk me though it. When you fired . . . was it Tim? . . . and his mob, how
much was there still to do?”
A way out! I seized gratefully upon it. “Well, to be honest, they’d nearly
finished. The RSJs were actually in - well, almost.”
“Almost? Christ, how can an RSJ be almost in? That’s like being . . . I
dunno, almost a virgin.”
“What I meant,” I stammered, “was that, although they were actually in y’know, fully inserted - there was still quite a bit of work to do, securing
them. Tying them in. Making good.”
I was reasonably confident that these last phrases were authentic builderspeak. But I couldn’t help noticing that Amber was looking rather less
impressed now. Quizzical, maybe. As if she might have follow-up questions.
So I was immensely relieved to observe Zack Meadows - ice cream now
finished - disappearing into the distance, in the direction of the monkey
house. Amber noticed at the same moment.
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I leapt, boyishly, to my feet. “It’s OK, I’ll get him,” I said. “I’ve bored you
about my building hell for long enough, anyway. Let’s agree never to talk
about it again. Ever.” And with that, I set off in pursuit of Smug Bastard’s
middle spawn at what I hoped was a loose-limbed, athletic lope.
Later . . . S home early, so I jogged down to Ikonnixx. Didn’t vomit. But not
fast enough: no sign of the Smug-mobile. They were probably back at her
bachelor girl flat by now, fucking away like weasels among the cute soft toys
who spend their days dozing on her duvet - he, at least, with one eye on the
bedside alarm clock ticking away the minutes until he needed to be back in
the bosom of his family.
Got taxi home. Many jests by driver on the subject of joggers who prefer to
travel in comfort - e.g. would I care to book him now for the London
Marathon?
Wednesday 22 May
Slightly disturbing phone call earlier - from Gid’s agent. Audrey. I met her
once decades ago when G and I used to go drinking together in fashionable
Covent Garden watering holes. (Hah! Another life!) And apparently, she
had my number on file because G was round here once when she was waiting
to hear about a part he was up for - back in those far off pre-Cornish
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Detective days when a two minute cameo as a bloke about to fall off a roof in
Casualty represented a pinnacle in his television acting career.
Anyway, she wanted to know if I’d heard from him recently. Stupidly, I
didn’t ask why she wanted to know. I just told her that I hadn’t spoken to him
for ages. As soon as she heard that, she couldn’t get off the phone fast
enough . . . oh well, no harm in asking, nothing to worry about, you know how
unreliable these artistic types can be, absolutely no cause for concern, ha-ha,
sorry to have bothered you, have a nice day.
Hmm. Wonder what’s going on there?
Lunchtime Shag Watch latest: PM emerged about 1.15 - with a woman.
Momentary excitement. Not the A-F, however. She went left, he right. I
followed - but only to the sandwich place on Queen Square, where I suspect
he may have ordered pastrami, jarlsberg and sun-dried tomato on ciabatta.
(Surprisingly hard tailing someone who knows you when you’re pushing a
buggy.) Followed him back to the office, but no further sightings. Beginning
to think I’m not going to get results this way.
Or, of course, there is that other micro-possibility. That .00000000000000000000000000000000000001% chance that Paul Family Man Meadows
really is the perfect husband and father. Oh yes, and friend.
Thursday 23 May
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Postcard from Chrissie:
Thanks for the letter, Charlie. All cool in C’wall. Re Mum and BtheB: time to let
the anger go, I think! All love and warm vibes to S, D and E. C. xxxxxxxx
I wonder why I bother sometimes. I try to act the supportive big brother,
ready to nail my colours to the mast, pick up the cudgels, put my neck on the
block etc . . . and she tells me it’s time to let the anger go. Very hippy-dippy,
I’m sure.
Also, can’t help feeling mildly concerned about Gid. Bearing in mind how
utterly crap he looked last time I saw him, his apparent disappearance is
slightly worrying. Don’t suppose the big-headed bastard is really
decomposing in a motel room, or wandering the Scottish Highlands in an
amnesiac haze, but still, I’d be happier if I knew.
Later . . . fuck, just did incredibly embarrassing thing. Called Amber. No
reason, really - just wanted to hear her voice. Made up something about
possibly having left E’s sun-hat in Conor’s changing bag. Chatted for a bit,
quite successfully. But allowed my mind to wander, lustfully, and when we
eventually wrapped the call up, my final words, spoken softly, yearningly, but
quite distinctly were, “Bye darling.”
Darling! I can’t believe I let that slip out. Fuck. Stupid, stupid sod.
“Pathetic twat!”
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“You’re still dead, Theo. Until I tell you otherwise.”
“Tragic old fart.”
Friday 24 May
Hardly slept. Too embarrassed - about “darling” incident. Kept replaying it
in my mind, all night. Christ, what must she have thought? Absolutely
nothing I can do about it now, though. The genie is well and truly out of the
bottle. Hmm. Unless . . .
“Hiya?”
“Hello, darling, it’s me!”
“Charlie?”
“Oh . . . sorry. Yes, it’s Charlie. I really must stop calling everybody darling!
It’s a bad habit I’ve picked up from my friend Gid, who’s an actor - a bit of a
luvvy.”
“Is that Gideon Farley? Paul told me he’s a mate of yours.”
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“Yeah, that’s right. Gid and I go way back. But look, darling - oh, sorry, there
I go again . . . I just called to ask you to bring Conor round maybe Monday or
Tuesday? Ellie could really use some stimulating company.”
“Yeah, Monday’s cool. About 11?”
“Great.”
“I can’t believe you’re mates with Gideon Farley, Charlie. I think he’s
terrific. Did you see him in Dangerous Precedent?”
“Mm. He was pretty good in that - in a Gid-ish kind of way. Anyway, gotta
fly. See you on Monday . . . my love. Bye now.”
Phew! Think I got away with that. Just about plausible that some of Gid’s
luvvy-isms might, temporarily, have rubbed off on me. I really think, on
balance, that she probably did buy it. Result. Not so thrilled by her girlish
admiration for Gid, however. Better make bloody sure they never meet (if he
ever reappears, that is).
And why can’t she believe I’m mates with him? What’s so surprising about
that? Why shouldn’t Charlie Fleming - award winning journalist, prospective
best selling author and superdad - be friends with Gideon Farley, jobbing
actor?
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Later . . . fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Toe-curling embarrassment
heaped upon self-esteem-annihilating humiliation. Just bumped into PM in
Ikonnixx car park.
Total, total fuck-up. The most basic surveillance error in the book: I assumed
the subject was in the building, when in fact he was out and about. I guess I
just got sloppy. But I can’t believe I didn’t notice that the Smug-mobile
wasn’t there. So one minute I’m sitting in my usual spot - on the low wall
under the tree on the far side of the car park, opposite the entrance - and the
next minute the Managing Director of Ikonnix Limited is easing his gleaming
slab of Swedish metal into a space about 10 metres away, waving and smiling
all over his face.
No, I can’t bear to write what happened next. It’s no good, I can’t. Let’s just
say he did a pretty good job of looking pleased to see me there - rather than
baffled, bemused or even alarmed, as he might well have been. And if he
didn’t believe my hastily improvised and frankly not-at-all plausible story
about why Ellie and I were lurking in the company car park (something to do
with needing a discreet spot for an urgent nappy change, just as we happened
to be passing his office), he had the good grace not to say so.
Saturday 25 May
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Most first time authors have long lists of those to whom they feel thanks and appreciation
are due. Everyone from the agent who secured the six figure advance to the au pair who
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kept the kids quiet while the magnum opus took shape is duly rewarded with the small thrill
of seeing their name in print.
Frankly, I don’t see the point. I wrote the damn book; it was my blood, my sweat, my tears
that brought it into being; and I also did the childcare. Everyone else just did what they
were paid - handsomely, in most cases - to do. Designed the cover, sold the TV rights, made
stupid and irrelevant suggestions about how it could be improved - whatever.
I do, however, owe an incalculable debt to my beloved family. Without them, this book
could never have been written. Without them, this mild mannered Clark Kent among
fathers could never have discovered the Superdad within.
Hmm, bit churlish maybe. But I quite like the Clark Kent line - as long as it
doesn’t make me sound smug.
Bugger. Writing that brought it all flooding back. That excruciating scene in
the car park. Smug-Bastard looking at me with that quizzical half-smile on
his finely chiselled lips. As if he couldn’t quite decide whether I was mad or
stupid or engaged in some bizarre and inexplicable form of underhand
activity. As if, whatever it was I might be doing, he was a little disappointed
in me, but prepared to give me the benefit of the doubt.
How did that happen? How did things swing around so that I suddenly feel
that I’m the one who’s behaving reprehensibly; that I - good old stay-at-home
hands-on dad and all-round nice guy Charlie Fleming, in my snot-and-pukeencrusted trackie bottoms - am somehow betraying his trust; letting him
down?
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
No, I just don’t get it. But then, that seems to be a fairly familiar situation for
me to find myself in these days; something happening, me not getting it.
Sunday 26 May
Sophie worked all day. Apparently, the relaunch is now only a couple of
weeks away. What relaunch? She hasn’t told me anything about a relaunch.
In fact, I’m not even sure I knew there had been a launch.
Quite sad about this, actually. Used to know everything that was going on in
S’s life. Even little things, like when her next dentist’s appointment was due.
Used to know what was going on inside her head, too. How she’d respond in
any situation. Whether she’d like or dislike the person we’d just been
introduced to. What she’d choose from any menu.
Now? I wouldn’t have a clue. These days, I feel I know her about as well as
Camilla Parker Bowles or that rather sexy woman with the dyed blonde hair
in the dry cleaner’s. I feel like I’m living with an increasingly remote - and
glamorous - stranger. I don’t understand how this has happened. (Though I
suspect it must be something to do with me being a v bad person who always
assumed, for at least the first 10 years I knew her, that S’s greatest interest
and highest aspiration in life were to provide me with care and comfort, while
basking in the reflected glory provided by my glittering achievements.)
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Later . . . S took D and E for drive in “Felix”. (Can’t believe I’m married to
someone who has given her car a name.) Didn’t ask me if I wanted to go.
But would have said no, anyway.
Went for jog instead. Felt v. ill, but didn’t throw up. On way back, overtaken
by large, brand new people carrier packed with Smugs and Smuglets - all
happy, smiling, inter-relating, like Perfect Family.
Smug Bastard saw me, and waved - a cheery, self-satisfied, look-at-me-outwith-my-Perfect-Family-on-a-Sunday-afternoon-before-making-somepathetic-excuse-and-popping-round-to-see-my-beautiful-young-mistress-laterfor-a-bit-of-extra-marital-arse-fondling kind of wave.
At least, that’s the kind of wave it looked like to me.
Monday 27 May
Amber came round with Conor. Called her “darling” three times, and
“sweetheart” twice. Didn’t let her go in the kitchen. Told her I’d just cleaned
the floor, and it was still wet. Didn’t want her inspecting my RSJs.
About 10 minutes after she’d arrived, C got into difficulties with a sponge
finger, and she knelt in order to retrieve several impressively large fragments
expelled through his nose. She was wearing low cut jeans that, as she
stretched forward to reach under the sofa, rode down still further to reveal at
least an inch and a half of creamy upper buttock, separated from the digestive
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
biscuit brown of her lower back by a narrow buffer zone the colour of milky
coffee. . . and, in that instant, the rest of my day was utterly, utterly ruined.
Actually, it felt like the rest of my life.
I wonder what, at that moment, I would have given? Seriously. If an unseen
hand had presented me with a ballpoint pen and a contract, agreeing to grant
me one wish in returning for relinquishing in perpetuity my rights to all my
worldly wealth (hah!), my pension (hah! hah!), my Paul Weller-autographed
copy of Eton Rifles, my wife, my eyesight, my children . . .
Yup, I’m pretty certain I would have signed. God forgive me.
Later . . . needless to say, after Friday debacle, have suspended Lunchtime
Shag Watch. Bet they slipped out for a quick one today.
Even later . . .
“Is that Janine.”
“Speaking.”
“You don’t know me - my name’s Charlie Fleming. I’m a friend of Gid’s.”
“So?”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Christ, she sounded even younger than I expected. Barely legal.
“So I was wondering if you’d seen or heard from him lately?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Why should I?”
“Well, I suppose because, last thing I heard, you were his soul mate, the love
of his life, the only person of either gender who’d ever really understood him,
the woman he’d deserted his wife of 15 years and two really rather wonderful
children for. So I suppose I felt, stupidly, that maybe you might possibly be
in touch with him.”
I heard her sigh.
“That ended. I haven’t seen him for weeks. You could try his agent - she
normally keeps pretty close tabs on him.”
“I already did. She hasn’t heard from him either.”
“Sorry. No other suggestions.”
Click. She’d hung up on me.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Tuesday 28 May
Checked email for first time in weeks. Inbox overflowing. Not one, but two
items awaiting my attention.
Email 1:
Hibigbro - Just to let you know that, as predicted, I didn’t get it. No surprise, but still a bit
of a smack in the mouth. Carmen not at all happy. So maybe just as well I’m now on tour
of Far East - Macau, Taipei, HK - for next month or so. Project Rebuild Career and
Marriage from Scratch to commence on my return. Hope all well on home front. Duck and
cover, M.
Ashamed to say, it took me a minute to interpret this. Didn’t immediately get
what it was he didn’t get. To be absolutely honest, I hadn’t given a single
thought to my younger brother’s career and consequent marital difficulties
for weeks. Suppose I’ve been a bit preoccupied with my own concerns.
Anyway, sorry to hear he didn’t get his partnership, obviously. Sent a short,
sympathetic reply - though not entirely sure, in fact, that after so many years
gorging himself on success, a small helping of adversity might not turn out to
be exactly what he needs.
Email 2:
Anything for me, Charlie? Just say if you’d prefer me to stop bothering you. Cheers, Geoff.
Sent him the first few paras of the car advertising piece I started the other
day. Can’t think why. I’d rather disembowel myself with the end of a biro
than finish it.
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by Lindsay Camp
Important baby stuff: think E is about to take first steps. She’s been doing
that unfortunately named cruising thing for ages. But these last few days
she’s been spending a lot of time hanging onto chairs etc, swaying, squinting
across the room - like a drunk plucking up the courage to stagger to the next
lamp-post.
Top quality baby: according to Dr M, walking at under 11 months would put
her in the top 15% of British infants in terms of physical development. (NB
Also absolutely outstanding manual dexterity, demonstrated by ability to
empty largish bowl of Rice Krispies, one at a time, onto the floor in under
five minutes - before demanding banana.)
Key consideration: how 2 make sure first steps occur before weekend, so S
won’t be around to witness them?
Later . . . Jen called by at lunchtime, with bunch of bananas for E and feta and
roasted peppers on French bread for me. Couldn’t face tears, recriminations
etc, plus still feeling quite uncomfortable about (mercifully undetected) hardon incident, so sent her away rather brutally, claiming urgent paperwork to do
before E woke from mid-day nap.
Still no word from Gid, apparently.
Wednesday 29 May
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Final, final proof. Good in a way, I suppose. No more uncertainty. No more
confusion over motives. No more hanging around in car parks. Just a plain,
stark, undeniable fact.
Ironic really, the way I stumbled upon it. Just when I’d decided to abandon
the surveillance operation. Woke very early this morning, went for a jog.
Definite improvement - half way to park before I started to feel seriously
nauseous. But, pounding back up Bayswater Drive, I knew I wasn’t going to
make it to the top. About 30 yards short, I ground to a halt and sank to my
haunches. As I did so, a car pulled up at the junction just ahead - one of those
stupid, bloated looking new Minis. Gasping and wheezing - though not,
impressively, vomiting - I registered the fact that the driver, a woman, was
kissing her passenger, a man. Once, twice, three times. He opened the door
and made to get out, before thinking better of it, and returning to her embrace
for several more lingering kisses. (How lingering can be judged by the fact
that by this time my breathing had pretty much returned to normal, though I
remained crouching, out of sight.)
Of course, I knew it was him before he eventually got out. But one thing did
shock me. His expensive and highly professional looking jogging gear. With
one final blown kiss, as the Mini sped away, he cantered smugly away in the
direction of Balmoral Avenue.
I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. Not the Lunchtime Quickie, but the PreBreakfast Jog/Shag.
Thursday 30 May
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Too depressed to write.
J came round at lunchtime again. Guessed it was her (nobody else ever turns
up on my doorstep unannounced), so didn’t answer bell. Sneaked up to D’s
room, and watched her trail away down Arundel Road, carrying something
delicious in a box.
Friday 31 May
Email from Geoff:
Good to hear from you, Charlie. And thanks a lot for the intro to the car ad piece.
Promising, but bit jaundiced maybe? Any chance you could inject a more upbeat note?
Let me know what you think. G
Upbeat? Pah!
Small bright spot to end week/month: E’s first steps. Five of them! From
sofa to me - completed at 6.22 pm, less than half an hour before S got home
from work. Yessss!
(Wise reflections on symbolic significance of child’s first steps needed here.)
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
June
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Monday 3 June
Bank Holiday. Nation united in celebrating 50 years of wood-faced, pursedlipped, hands-clasped-behind-back, arse-clenched, joy-drained New
Elizabethanism. Vast adoring crowds in Mall. Treacly tributes, taking all
kinds of grotesque and unexpected forms - the skilfully embalmed corpse of
Sir Cliff duetting with a former Spice Girl; the Poet Laureate declaiming from
a mist-shrouded mountain top; Norman St John-Stevas competing with John
Major to make the most ludicrously exaggerated claim on behalf of Her Maj
(“a truly formidable intellect, a mind like a steel trap”; “incredible, almost
telepathic political insight”; “a marvellous sense of humour - I always felt she
would have made a great comedienne, somewhat in the Joyce Grenfell
mould”.)
Filled with misanthropic loathing, and bloody republican fantasies. Visions
of Princes Andrew and Edward impaled on adjacent stakes in Hyde Park.
Philip dragged by his heels behind one of those stupid horse-drawn carriages
he drives. Charles pursued, bleeding and breathless, across Gloucestershire
by the baying hounds and Uzi-toting pimps and drug pushers of the newly
democratised Beaufort Hunt. (NB No good for Diary of a Superdad - a]
because of desire for book to achieve timeless universal classic status and b]
because hate-fuelled anti-monarchism unlikely to have positive effect on
sales.)
Filled, too - inexplicably, really - with bitter hatred for that smug, smug
horizontal jogging bastard.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Tuesday 4 June - Bank Holiday
Christ, I’d missed that somehow. Suppose I’ve been a bit pre-occupied.
Apparently, it’s decreed that manifestations of fervent monarchistic cretinism
should continue for another 24 hours. Let slack-jawed toadying be ongoing
and unconfined!
God, how unutterably depressing. D asleep (it’s only 1.45, after all). S and E
out in Felix. Nothing to do. Except reflect on astonishing capacity of human
nature to live down to one’s lowest expectations.
Later . . . feeling a bit better. Went for run. Definitely getting slightly fitter.
Also, faith in human nature somewhat restored by total absence of street
parties in immediate neighbourhood. Weedy bit of bunting strung across
Burnside Road, and a few kids with Union Jack painted faces playing in the
park. But otherwise, no sign whatever of rampant long-to-reign-over-us
royalism. Might yet live to see President Branson (pah!) move into the
palace.
Ran past the Smug house. Half expected to see him emerge in jogging gear,
ready for a Bank Holiday marathon (“I’ll probably be at least a couple of
hours, love - don’t worry if I’m late. . . ”). But there was no sign of life.
They’re probably off paragliding in Anglesey, or something. Or maybe she
suspects, and has dragged him off out of harm’s way, for a long weekend
with her parents.
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by Lindsay Camp
Actually, I hadn’t thought of that. I wonder if the fragrant Susannah does
have any inkling that her perfect husband is a bit less perfect than everybody
in the entire world seems to think? And if so, does he know that she
suspects? Or does he, smugly, believe he’s getting away with it? (I can just
imagine him, looking at himself in the mirror when he’s shaving, winking
knowingly - “You old rogue, Paul Meadows, your secret’s safe with me!”)
Or, of course, there is another possibility: that it’s just starting to nag at him
slightly; the faintest suspicion that maybe she’s onto him; that those sensitive
female antennae of hers are beginning to quiver; the first glimmer of intuition
that his perfect life could be just on the point of getting very, very messy. I
rather like that thought.
I think I’m going to make the bastard sweat.
Wednesday 5 June
“Yeah?”
“Paul. Hi. Charlie.” Hah! See how you like it!
“Charlie! How nice. I’ve been meaning to call you, since - “
“Look, Paul, sorry, but I’m in a rush . . .” I wasn’t, but there was no way I
was going to let him remind me of the car park incident, if I could possibly
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by Lindsay Camp
avoid it. “Just wondered if you fancied a run some time? I saw you out early
the other day.”
I left this hanging for a moment. He didn’t respond immediately. I let the
awkward silence continue for a couple of seconds.
“I didn’t realise you were a fellow jogger,” I went on, innocently, “or I’d have
suggested it sooner. I thought we could, y’know, pace each other.”
“Yeah. That’d be great. I’d love to.” He’d had time to recover by now.
“Always more enjoyable running with a partner. When were you thinking?”
“Well, early mornings are good for me - and that seems to be your preferred
time for a bit of . . exercise.”
“OK. I’m in London tomorrow. How about Friday?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll come by your place at seven.”
“Look forward to it, Paul. I’m really looking forward to it.”
Later . . . E walked from sitting room door to safety gate at bottom of stairs.
Quite a bit of drunken swaying and staggering, but pretty impressive. At this
rate of progress, she’ll be competing in the Olympic 400 metre hurdles by her
third birthday.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Thursday 6 June
Oh shit. I suppose, if I’m honest, I knew this was going to happen. Well, if
not “this” exactly, then something like it. But I was hoping against hope that
it might not. That somehow I could prevent it. Or that something might
happen that would make her realise what a very, very bad idea it would be.
But I couldn’t. And it didn’t. Shit.
She called, first thing.
“Charlie, I need to talk to you.”
“OK, Jen, I’m listening.”
“Not on the phone. Would it be OK if I called round later? I’m going to see
my solicitor, and I could pop in on the way back - lunchtime-ish.”
My heart sank. The last thing I felt like was an update on the dissolution of
the Farley marriage - complete, no doubt, with much weeping and many a
bitter recrimination. But what could I say? (Especially after the Inexcusable
Hard-on Episode.)
“OK, Jen. That would be fine.”
“You sure, Charlie? I’m not imposing?”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
“You’re not imposing. See you then.”
So basically, I walked straight into it. She arrived at about 12.45, shortly
after Ellie - as Jen had no doubt calculated - had gone to sleep. As soon as I
opened the door, I noticed three things. First, that she had clearly been
drinking. (Presumably not with her solicitor. I don’t think they offer clients a
glass of sherry these days - let alone an entire bottle.) Second, that, despite
the very pleasant weather, she was wearing a raincoat, buttoned to the knee.
And third - and most striking of all - she was empty handed. No cake tin, no
sandwich bag, no basket of fresh-picked produce from her garden. Nothing.
And that’s when I knew, beyond doubt, what she was going to offer me.
“Ellie asleep?” she asked, as I closed the front door behind her.
“Just off,” I replied, seized by a sense of powerless dread. Other than
feigning a heart attack, what could I have done?
“Good.”
And, there in the hall, she unbuttoned her coat and shrugged it off, to reveal what, of course, I already knew - that she was wearing very, very little
underneath. Definitely not enough to keep out the cold.
“So, Charlie. I think the time has come.”
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by Lindsay Camp
This, I’m almost sure, was a rehearsed line - delivered with a fair amount of
sultry eyelash-fluttering conviction. But after that, she seemed uncertain how
to move things forward.
“Oh shit.” I stood paralysed.
She took quite a tentative step towards me. I looked at her body. It was a
nice body. Large breasts; impressively firm looking. A rather pleasing
birthmark just above the curve of her left hip. But - and I’m not proud of this
- it was her stomach that saved me.
It wasn’t that it was repulsive. Just that it had such a . . . vulnerable quality.
The slightly glassy sheen of the skin, the almost invisible mesh of ultrafine
white lines, the yielding lack of tautness - all, somehow, spoke of love,
commitment, pain.
Well, perhaps that’s what her stomach spoke of. But, by some mysterious
translation process, the message my lust-befuddled brain actually received
was, “Don’t do it, Charlie. Don’t fuck this drunk and desperate woman.
Don’t fuck your best friend’s wife, while your infant child sleeps upstairs and
your wife toils to support you. Don’t fuck her doggy style on the stairs,
Charlie. Don’t fuck her at all. Don’t lay a finger on her. Just don’t.”
And I didn’t.
“No, Jen.” I said, as gently as I could, “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. But
I really can’t. Really. I just can’t.”
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Her face crumpled. She started to cry, standing there almost naked just inside
my front door. I didn’t trust myself to put my arms round her. Keeping my
eyes firmly on her face, I bent and reached past her to pick up her coat, quite
a complex manoeuvre in the narrow hallway. I wrapped it round her
shoulders, and she collapsed - yet again - into my arms.
“Oh Charlie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry.
I’m sorry,” she repeated, like a mantra, through her sobs.
I stroked her hair. “It’s OK, Jen,” I murmured, leading her into the kitchen.
“I’m going to drive you home. Just wait there a tick while I get Ellie.”
I left her weeping - head bowed, arms by her sides - at the kitchen table. E
wasn’t happy at being woken 15 minutes into her lunchtime nap, and howled
all the way to J’s house, making conversation all but impossible. Almost
certainly a good thing.
When we arrived, I wasn’t sure if I should offer to see her safely inside. She
sensed my hesitation. “I’m OK, Charlie. Really.” She opened her door, then
leant over and kissed me briefly on the cheek. “Thanks, Charlie. Thank you
so much. And I’m so, so sorry.”
She got out of the car. And still apologising over her shoulder, she made her
way - a little unsteadily - towards her front door, where she fumbled with her
keys. I waited until she was safely inside, then drove away with E still
bellowing furiously behind me.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Oh shit.
Later . . . Amber called while I was out. Left friendly message on machine –
did I fancy getting together some time next week? Thrilled to hear her voice,
obviously. But somehow strangely lacking in desire to participate in sad,
would-be flirtatious banter.
Why can’t it be the other way round? Why can’t Jen be the one who wants to
be my mate, and Amber the one who takes off her clothes as soon as I close
the front door behind her? Not too much to ask, surely.
Didn’t call her back.
Friday 7 June
As soon as I saw him there on the doorstep, running smugly on the spot, I
knew I’d made a slight miscalculation. What I had pictured was roughly this:
the two of us jogging sedately side by side, while I, picador-like, teased and
goaded him with subtle barbs relating to his arse-fondling proclivities.
Nothing too direct; just a series of pointed remarks that would leave him
perfectly clear as to my knowledge of his foul lechery, but wrigglingly
uncertain about what, if anything, I intended to do about it. I wanted, as I
think I mentioned earlier, to see him squirm.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
But, of course, what I had failed to take into account was our relative fitness
levels: Himalayan to Snowdonian, basically - in his favour, needless to say.
By the end of Arundel Road, I was struggling to keep up; and by the time, we
reached the park I was trailing by a good 30 or 40 metres, and gasping like a
grampus. Realising how far behind I was, he slowed to a stationary trot, to
allow me to catch up.
“You go on ahead,” I grunted - aware that spiky Noel Coward-style dialogue
was now well beyond me.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. It’s great having company.” The bastard wasn’t even
slightly out of breath. “Come on - you’ll get your second wind soon.”
And off he went again, like a Nike-clad whippet, sprinting in short spurts,
then jogging on the spot until I caught up. It was a total fucking nightmare.
And by the time we’d done a couple of laps of the park, I was finished. I
slowed to a halt (not much slowing required, admittedly) and collapsed on a
bench, head between knees, trying not to throw up.
He ran over and stood in front of me, bouncing up and down on the balls of
his feet.
“Christ, Charlie, you don’t look so good.” He sounded amused.
“M’OK . . . just had . . . bit of a cold . . . so not much energy . . . “ I felt like I
was going to die.
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“I thought maybe you were just pushing yourself a bit too hard. After all,
you’re carrying a few more pounds than you should.”
The last fucking straw - here I was quite possibly on the point of death, and
the bastard was calling me fat.
“Really, I’m OK,” I gasped, making a superhuman effort to bring my
breathing under control. “Tell you what I need . . . a nice lady to give me a
lift home . . . in her brand new blue Mini.”
And then he did something truly horrible. He twisted his face into a ghastly,
mirthless, preening yet ingratiating grin; an utterly despicable facial
expression that somehow brought Noel Edmonds to mind - intended,
presumably, to communicate . . . well, god knows what it was intended to
communicate.
But the effect it had on me was immediate and dramatic. I vomited copiously
on the ground in front of me - sadly, missing his box-fresh trainers - all but a
few pinkish flecks of gastric juices - by a good six inches.
For maybe 10 seconds, he stood staring at me in horrified, open-mouthed
silence. I started to feel better immediately. Strangely, I felt that, with the
sudden and unexpected emptying of my stomach, the balance of power
between us had shifted perceptibly.
“It’s OK - you go,” I said, my breathing almost back to normal. “Don’t want
to make you late for work. I’ll be fine now. Really.”
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And without another word, he turned and ran.
Saturday 8 June
Goddamit, he’s good. You really have to hand it to him. He may be one of
the more despicable specimens of our not altogether admirable species, but
you have to admit he’s good.
The phone rang just after lunch. I was reading the paper in the garden, so S
answered. She came out to find me a few minutes later, looking pleased. I’d
almost forgotten what she looks like smiling.
“It was your friend Paul. Inviting for us to lunch - tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Rather short notice.”
“Well, he said they’d been meaning to ask us for ages, but not getting round
to it. So they decided to be spontaneous.”
“What did you say?”
“What do you mean, what did I say? I said yes, we’d love to.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
So tomorrow the Fleming family is having lunch with the Meadows family.
Nice. Or, to put it another way, he’s calling my bluff. That’s what the
bastard is doing, isn’t it? He’s saying, “OK, Charlie, time to make up your
mind: are you my friend, or my enemy? Come to my lovely home; bring your
family; sit down with me, my wife and children; break bread with us. And
then decide, you insignificant little piece of shit, if you really have the balls to
try and make life difficult for me.”
Lunch! Bastard.
Sunday 9 June
Excellent lunch with Smugs. Really wonderful. I’m talking about the food,
of course: rack of lamb, cooked to melt-in-the-mouth perfection. Delicious
apricot tart with mascarpone. Ice cream (three different flavours) for the
kids. Carefully chosen wines. A long table in the shade of an oak tree,
penetrated by the odd shaft of dappled sunlight. All the scene lacked was a
mellifluous voice-over from Gid (“The Meadows Family Lifestyle: now
available from only £150,000 per year.”)
As a social occasion, it was less successful. Paul played the role of jovially
attentive host with dazzling insincerity. Susannah, though perfectly friendly,
seemed a bit puzzled by our presence, as if she couldn’t quite fathom what
advantage could possibly accrue to her husband from entertaining us so
lavishly. Sophie burbled and gushed rather - presumably to compensate for
my jumpy awkwardness and Danny’s glowering and (but for the odd grunt)
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total taciturnity. The Smuglets were boisterous-verging-on-manic, though
impressively quick to moderate their behaviour when rebuked by their father.
Just about the only upside from my point of view - though it was also a
crushing disappointment - was the fact that Amber was away for the
weekend, which meant that at least I didn’t have to worry about making a twat
of myself in front of Sophie and the Smugs.
The wine flowed, but not the conversation (on my part, at least, because the
only thing I really felt like saying was, “So, Suzie. Your husband’s torrid
affair with an attractive young employee - how does that make you feel?”)
We chatted disjointedly about all the usual incredibly tedious things discussed
on such occasions - interest rates, schools, minor child-related mishaps, the
iniquitous rates charged by local tradespeople. And Sophie and I listened
while our host and hostess outlined their plans to buy a little place in South
West France where one day they would share a golden sun-kissed retirement.
God, how I wished I’d thrown up all over his running shoes.
By the time we left, he was glowing with self-satisfaction. Practically
hugging himself. Obviously convinced that, for the time being at least, he’d
disarmed any potential threat from my direction. Smugly certain that we’d
looked each other in the eye, and I’d been the first to blink.
Well, we’ll see about that.
Monday 10 June
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Bit surprised I haven’t heard from Jen. I was half-expecting a note and, at the
very least, a large box of home-made shortbread on Friday. But nothing.
Suppose she must be feeling pretty embarrassed. Hard to know what to say
when you’ve just tried unsuccessfully to seduce your husband’s best friend.
Even if your husband is a lying, cheating, absconding scum-bag. Maybe I’d
better call her. Probably should. Will. Later.
Email to PM at work:
Hi Paul. Just to say thanks for an excellent lunch. We all had a great time. What a
wonderfully warm and loving family you have - you must be so proud. Charlie.
Email from Sophie:
Just to let you know I’ll be late on Friday. There’s a leaving do that I really can’t miss somebody I’ve worked with closely. Have you thanked Paul and Susannah, or shall I?
Replied:
Hope you have a nice time. (Although I can’t really see why we need to have this
conversation by email.) And yes, I have. C
Almost instant reply from S-B:
Glad you enjoyed it. We did too. I think we need to talk, Charlie. How about a beer
tomorrow evening? Paul
Replied:
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
A beer would be great. But can’t do tomorrow or Wednesday. Let me know if Thursday is
good for you. C.
Make him sweat.
Later. . . Paul just called. Thursday is fine for him. We’re meeting in the
Oxford at 8.30. Gives me a couple of days to plan what I’m going to say.
Hmm.
Haven’t talked to Jen. Bit late now - she’ll be picking up kids from school
etc. Call her tomorrow.
Tuesday 11 June
Wonder what he’s going to say? Wonder what he thinks I’m going to say?
Wonder what I am going to say?
Can’t help wondering if, to an impartial outsider, it might seem that I’m
behaving in a slightly odd/obsessive/pathetic way in relation to S-B?
“You’re behaving like a complete twat.”
“Sod off, Theo. You’re hardly an impartial outsider. Plus, you’re still
dead.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Still haven’t called Jen. Feel I should. But also feel, I suppose, that the onus
is on her. After all, she did put me in a fairly awkward situation - which, if I
say so myself, I handled with some tact and aplomb. If anyone owes anything
to anybody it must be her, an apology, to me.
Called A. No reply. Left a message – apologising for not getting back to her
sooner. Called her darling twice. Paranoid maybe, but had a strong sense she
was listening, but not picking up.
Later . . . just back from W-B with E. She seemed to enjoy it. Nothing
amusing happened. (At least, nothing new - did all the obvious stuff about
standing around up to your waist in baby wee months ago.)
Email to Venue (hopefully) in time for next issue’s print deadline:
I saw you at Paddington station a few weeks back. Was that your perfect wife’s perfect
backside you were fondling Perfect Paul? I don’t think so!
Put “backside” instead of “arse” in case of classified advertising censorship
policy. Hope he reads Venue.
Wednesday 12 June
I called Jen. Didn’t really want to, but felt I should. Not should as in feeling
morally obliged to, but as in feeling sorry for a friend - and recognising that
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the longer that elapses until the next time we see each other, the more
excruciating embarrassing it will probably be.
Anyway, I called. But there was no reply, and - feeling I’d rather have this
particular conversation at a time of my choosing - I didn’t leave a message.
As soon as I put the phone down, it rang. I guessed, of course, that it would
be Jen, having one-four-seven-oned my call. But to my considerable surprise,
it was her husband.
“Charlie, it’s me.”
“Christ, Gid. Where are you? Where’ve you been?”
“Near Baignac. France. Dordogne. Old pal’s place. Beautiful, actually.”
He sounded - well, what did he sound? Far away. Remote. Not completely
out of it, but rather as if he’d narrowly survived some disaster - walked away
from the wreckage of a plane in which everyone else had died, perhaps - and
was, as a result, finding ordinary life rather too trivial to engage his full
attention.
“Where have you been?” I repeated.
“Long story, Charlie. Too long. But it did occur to me that you might be
wondering what had become of me. Hence the call, my sweetest boy . . .” he
tailed off. “Hence the call.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Obviously, I was extremely pissed off with him. But I must admit, my overriding emotion was relief - almost to the point of feeling a bit weepy at
hearing his voice. I can only assume I’ve been a lot more anxious about his
well-being over the past few weeks than I’ve admitted to myself.
“Gid, you bastard! What the fuck are you doing in France? What happened
to the Singing Cornish Detective? Weren’t you supposed to be shooting that
all summer?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“What was it called . . . Pencarrick.”
“Yes, I do vaguely remember some piece of dog-shit of that name which
threatened briefly to make a mess of my career. But I’m happy and relieved
to say that I successfully managed to avoid stepping in it. From now on, it’s
the real work or nothing.”
The real work! That sounded like the old Gid - if he was up to spouting that
kind of bollocks, there couldn’t be too much wrong with him. Though I have
to say I was at a loss to explain his apparent willingness to forgo the TV
superstardom which just weeks ago he seemed to regard as his life’s
crowning achievement. There were a lot of questions I wanted to ask him.
“So Gid, what - “
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“Charlie, there’s another reason I called.” As ever, he had not the slightest
difficulty stopping me dead in my conversational tracks. “It’s the angelic
Jennifer. I’m just a tad concerned about her. I must have called her several
thousand times these last few days, but she never picks up. Probably just
screening her calls. Nevertheless, Charles, I have been experiencing a few
pangs of disquiet. And, since I won’t be in the neighbourhood for a while, I
was wondering if you might just possibly take it upon yourself to - “
“You’re joking, Gid.” For the first time in over 20 years, I cut him off - and I
didn’t even have to raise my voice. It was pure venom that did it. “You are
joking, aren’t you - about whatever it was you were wondering if I might
possibly be willing to take it upon myself to do? Because if you were on fire,
Gid, I wouldn’t even be willing to take it upon myself to piss on you to save
your worthless life.”
And I put the phone down before he could reply.
Thursday 13 June
Woke up feeling tense about pub encounter later with PM. Also slightly
anxious about Jen. Gid may be the last person on earth entitled to express
concern for her welfare, but forced to admit he had some grounds.
Called her as soon as S left for work. No reply. Decided to go round. Rang
bell - tempted to peer, social worker style, through letter box, but glad I didn’t
because the door opened almost immediately.
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by Lindsay Camp
I gaped at Jen for a moment, wondering what had happened to her - before
realising that the somewhat shrunken, softer focus, more heavily creased
version of J in front of me was, in fact, her mother.
She recognised me - or, more likely E - immediately, so the moment of
confusion quickly passed. And we talked, in hushed tones, there on the
doorstep. Jen was asleep upstairs. She’s OK. According to her mother, it
definitely wasn’t an overdose. She just drank a bit too much on Saturday
night, then took a few more sleeping pills than she should. But she’s going to
be fine.
So that’s OK.
I went along Gloucester Road, and bought an enormous, ridiculously
expensive bunch of lilies. Then I scrawled a note, and left them on the
doorstep. The last thing I wanted to do was disturb J’s restorative sleep, by
ringing the bell again.
Friday 14 June
Well, that definitely didn’t go according to plan. Actually, it couldn’t have
done, since I didn’t really have one. As on most of the key occasions in my
life, I judged it best just to turn up and hope that everything would work out
OK.
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Paul, on the other hand - I sensed immediately - had a very clear idea in his
mind of what he wanted from the evening. He was there when I arrived,
sitting at a withdrawn corner table, with two beers and two large brandies in
front of him - and his charm turned up to maximum mega-wattage.
“Charlie! I hope you’re not driving? I feel that getting absolutely rat-arsed
would be entirely appropriate.”
Since I’d been half-expecting his opening gambit to be confrontational in
tone, I was immediately on the back foot. And that’s where he clearly wanted
to keep me. As soon as I was installed opposite him, he raised his beer glass
for a toast.
“To clearing the air . . . and a new beginning.”
We clinked glasses, and drank. Then he raised his brandy glass, and we
repeated the process. Far from clear what his toast implied, I was wondering
how I should respond. He raised his hand - unnecessarily, since I was still
some seconds from resolving this puzzle - to silence me.
“No, Charlie, let me shoot first. I know I haven’t been totally straight with
you. And I regret it, I really do. You know what I’m talking about.”
There was nothing interrogative in his tone, but he looked me in the eye in a
way that seemed to demand a response. I looked back at him, levelly, over
my beer, and raised my eyebrows slightly - but didn’t say anything.
Diary of a Superdad
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“Paddington,” he said, with a rueful grin. “I knew you’d seen us. At least, I
was damn-near certain you had.”
This time, I felt obliged to answer his non-question. I nodded.
“Of course you had, Charlie. Of course you’d seen us. I knew you had. But
for some reason, there was still this insistent little voice inside my head
saying, ‘Maybe you got away with it, Paul. Maybe your little secret is still a
secret. Don’t give anything away until you’re absolutely sure.’ So that was
when I called you, the first time we came here.”
He blew out his cheeks and smiled, in what was presumably meant to be an
endearing manner - then continued, faux-reluctantly, as if I was winkling
more out of him.
“You see, I was hoping that I’d be able to tell, just by talking to you over a
beer. Whether you knew, I mean. But, boy oh boy, Charlie, you were hard to
read. You weren’t giving anything away!”
He leant across and punched me on the arm, in a manner that seemed to
suggest rueful admiration for my inscrutability.
“And that’s when I really cocked things up. Because that’s when I should
have been straight with you, Charlie. Talked to you man to man. Had it out
with you, there and then. ‘Charlie, I’ve been playing away. I know it, you
know it, but I don’t want anyone else to know it. Can I rely on your
discretion? Then let’s shake hands and say no more about it.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
He held out his hand, as if asking me for this pledge in the present, rather
than castigating himself for not having done so several weeks previously.
“Yeah,” I said, ignoring his hand. “Maybe that’s what you should have said.”
“And believe me, I wish I had. But you were such a tough nut, Charlie, and I
have to admit, you had me a bit rattled. Plus - and this is the really important
part of what I wanted to say this evening - by that time, I was starting to
realise how much I liked you, Charlie. Really. I wanted to be your friend.
And you came over as such an upright citizen, such a straight arrow, such a
home-and-family kind of guy that I thought you might, y’know, despise me if
I started washing my dirty linen in front of you. Really, really dumb of me, I
know - but then I told you I was thick, didn’t I?”
So that was his pitch. It was all my fault, for being too nice. He’d never
wanted to treat me like a half-wit cretin, but he’d been compelled to do so by
his desire to win my friendship.
I couldn’t help half-believing it. He was looking at me now, obviously waiting
for me to respond. I didn’t know what to say. But he sensed, I’m sure, that I
was wavering; that one more gale force gust of charm might be enough to
blow me over the edge. He bought more drinks. We drank them.
He steered the conversation into neutral waters - films Sophie and I really
should see (hah!); the sale of his business (proceeding nicely); our shared
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passion for rugby. I drank steadily. He was doing almost all the talking,
watching me closely, monitoring my reactions.
Bringing yet more drinks back from the bar, he fixed me intensely with his
warm brown gaze as he settled back into his seat. “So, Charlie, tell me what’s
on your mind.”
I know it sounds ridiculous, but out of all the things that might have caused
me to hate and mistrust him, the one that bubbled up to the surface of my
alcohol-blurred brain at that moment was the thought of him checking me out
on Google. (“What’s this insignificant little toe-rag ever done that I could
turn to my advantage?”)
“My stuff in Creative Edge. The think-pieces - the ones you said you’d
read?” God, until I’d spoken, I hadn’t realised how drunk I was.
“Brilliant. Love ‘em to death.”
“Really? You’re not just saying that?”
He put his hand on mine.
“They’re the only reason I buy the magazine, Charlie.”
So that settled that, then. He really did love my stuff. I sat back in my seat,
my eyes unfocused. I think I may have blinked back a tear. Sensing that an
important turning-point had been passed, he pressed on.
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“I bloody love her, Charlie. That’s the problem.”
“She’s a very attractive girl.”
“I mean Susannah. I love Suzie. Always have, always will. But you know
what it’s like, Charlie . . .” He looked at me pleadingly, in a way that brought
Gid’s spaniel-eyed look to mind. “Work. Kids. Responsibilities. Worries.
Where does the bloody magic go?”
I shrugged helplessly. I did have a very vague recollection of magic, but no
clue as to its current whereabouts. In any case, I had a feeling he was going
to tell me.
“It just seeps through the cracks, mate. Disappears down the plughole. But I
tell you what the problem is, mate. We can’t live without it. Us men. We
need magic!”
Even in my semi-stupefied state, I felt he was overdoing the “mate” bit. He
was beginning to sound like Gid on one of his most proletarian days. But as
for the magic, it seemed to me he undoubtedly had a point.
“You’re right,” I nodded decisively. “We need it. We can’t live without it . . .
mate,” I added as an after-thought.
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“And that’s what it’s all about with Claire. Rediscovering the magic. And I
don’t just mean the sex. I mean . . . every little thing she does. Total, total
magic.”
He sat back in his seat, eyes unfocused, energy spent. (Also drunk.) Magical
scenes were clearly being played out in the theatre of his mind. They were in
mine, too, though with a different cast, of course.
Eventually, he got to his feet and bought more drinks. I don’t remember
much after that, except the very last thing he said to me, as we parted outside
his house, “You know, Charlie, I think you could do with a bit of magic in
your life.” He put his hand on my shoulder as he said this, and glanced
meaningfully towards one of the upstairs windows. Amber’s room. His grip
tightened on my shoulder.
“And if I was you, mate, I know where I’d look for it.”
So that’s how our evening ended. With unanimous agreement that we – us
men – need and indeed deserve magic in our lives. And an interesting
proposal from Mr Meadows as to how Mr Fleming might go about pursuing
it.
Oh god what’s going on. Oh christ my head.
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Later . . . here’s what I don’t understand. How it’s possible to find yourself
in a situation where everything, absolutely bloody everything, is both
dazzlingly clear and impenetrably obscure, at the same time.
Even later . . . had forgotten, in hungover haze, that Venue came out today.
Just ran down to corner shop, and bought copy. The ad is there – bang in the
middle of the I Saw Yous. What are the chances that he’ll see it?
Vanishingly remote, I guess. But I know it’s there. That’s the important
thing. Paul Perfect’s little imperfection exposed (admittedly, in slightly
cryptic form) to the public gaze.
Can’t decide whether I want to cut out the ad and send it to him, or race
round every newsagent’s in Bristol buying every copy of Venue, to prevent it
falling into his hands.
Very, very much later . . . S not home yet. Hope she’s enjoying her leaving
do. No really, I hope she is. How does her letting her hair down with her
colleagues hurt me? It doesn’t. Not at all.
Oh Amber. Doesn’t a man who’s been as good as I have deserve a little
magic?
Saturday 15 June
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Sophie didn’t come home. She didn’t call to let me know. She just stayed out
– and trailed in this morning at about 10.30, looking dishevelled, bleary-eyed,
but faintly pleased with herself. Apparently, she’d mentioned to me that Evan
was booking rooms for everyone, and that it would have been rude to refuse
such a generous gesture. At least, she was pretty sure she’d mentioned it.
I was pretty sure – as in 101% stone cold certain – that she hadn’t. (I didn’t
even know it was Evan’s leaving do.) But, somewhat to my surprise, I found
I didn’t really care. OK, so in one of the darker corners of my mind, there
was a picture of my wife giving her charismatic young boss a rather warmer,
more personal send-off than the etiquette of such occasions strictly demands.
But mostly, I just felt relieved that she’d given me a perfect excuse not to talk
to her this weekend.
There’s such a lot I don’t want to talk to her about.
Sunday 16 June
Father’s Day. Apparently. Only made aware of this by poster in window of
Zetland Road hardware shop. (Something about making father’s day by
giving the poor sap a set of screwdrivers.) Occasion resolutely unmarked by
Fleming family. Not bitter about this.
(Occurs to me, though, that this will need careful handling in DofaS. V.
important to strike the right note. Essential that the Charlie-character’s
family should take the opportunity to show their warm appreciation of his
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outstanding parenting skills - breakfast in bed, hand-picked posy of wild
flowers, home made card etc. But it mustn’t be overdone. C must come over
as modest, self-deprecating, almost baffled by it all . . . “what need for these
special tokens of gratitude and love, when for this fortunate Superdad, life is
filled with privileges and emotional riches; when every day is father’s day?”
Bit over the top, maybe. But that kind of thing.)
Later . . . S and D (assisted by E) outside, lavishing love and care on Felix.
Hoovering his spotless leather interior. Polishing his already gleaming
chrome. Removing invisible specks of dirt from his hub-caps with
toothbrushes.
Found old container of Castrol GTX in understairs cupboard. Put it on tray
with crisp white cloth. Picked assorted flowers from garden. Scattered them
around tray. Carried it outside and laid it - very gently - on Felix’s bonnet. S
and D watched me, mystified. My satirical point was clearly lost on them.
No one spoke. I went back indoors.
Lay on sofa and reflected at length on how urgently I need a little magic in
my life.
Later . . . hope Jen’s OK. Been thinking maybe I should have shagged her.
Don’t really see how it could have made things any worse.
Monday 17 June
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Email from S:
Just thought: what are we doing about E’s birthday? I could take Friday off for party. Or
we could do it at w/end. Let me know what you think. S
P.S. Must decide soon, because I need to let M and D know.
Obviously hadn’t forgotten only daughter’s first birthday on Friday.
Temporarily slipped mind, that’s all. Must admit, though, hadn’t really
thought about party. Can’t imagine what happens at a one year old’s party.
Bit young for pass the parcel, postman’s knock etc. As for polite social chitchat, that’s clearly a total non-starter with a bunch of babies. (“So, breast or
bottle?” “I’m a Tinky-Winky person myself. You?”)
Plus, who to invite? E isn’t exactly the centre of a vibrant social circle. Her
friends include the two younger Smuglets and . . . er, that’s it.
Christ, that’s a thought: if the party is on Friday, Amber would presumably
bring them. Not at all sure if I could cope with that. Too weird. A and S in
same room. (“Sophie, I don’t think you’ve met Amber, the young woman
whose golden skin and green eyes haunt my every waking and sleeping
hour?”)
On the other hand, if it’s at the weekend, I suppose Paul or Susannah would
come - which, in the current climate, might also be a bit uncomfortable.
Especially if bloody Bill and Eileen are planning to provide the party
entertainment.
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
The phrase no-win situation comes to mind. Hmm, need to think about this.
Reply later.
“You can’t be serious, Charlie.”
“Why not? She might.”
“Yeah right.”
“Fuck off, Theo. Why shouldn’t she?”
“Why should she, more like. What’s in it for her?”
“What’s in it for her?” God, what a depressing view of human
relationships.”
“Yeah, yeah. But seriously, Charlie, what could she possibly hope to gain by
shagging you? You’re not exactly sugar-daddy material, are you?”
“No, but - “
“And let’s face it, you’re not George Clooney.”
“But - “
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“And you wear tracksuit bottoms. Oh yes, and you’re old and married and
fat. From her point of view, at least.”
“Yeah, but I make her laugh.”
“Tee-hee. Take me Charlie, take me, take me!”
“And you heard what Paul said. He thinks she really likes me. He definitely
thinks she would . . . y’know, be interested.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me, Charlie.”
“Fuck off, Theo.”
“No, I’m serious. If your mate Paul reckons you’re on for a shag with nanny
Amber - well, I think that settles the matter. Crack out the king size box of
condoms!”
“Hmm. You’ve got a point there, actually. About the condoms.”
“God,Charlie, you’re pathetic.”
“Probably buy a small packet, though. To begin with. Don’t want to
intimidate her.”
“Twat.”
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Later . . . bought condoms. First time for years. Surprisingly easy, actually,
accompanied by baby. None of those knowing looks from sales assistants
(“So who are you planning to have hot sex with?”). Just a gently solicitous
smile (“Looks like you’ve got your hands full already, without another little
stranger arriving!”). Packet of three. Hid them inside old sports socks, at
back of drawer.
Tried VPO. Not v successful. Struggled to get past minor logistical
difficulties like where and when we’d do it, given that we never see each
other without a minimum of two babies being present - plus, usually, a
hyperactive toddler. Also the problem of what would be “in it” for Amber.
Not in a cynical, mercenary sense, of course. But what if she was only doing
it in the hope that there might be some kind of future in it? That I might leave
S and the kids and go back to Australia with her? God, I’d hate to deceive
her. I’d be no better than Gid or that smug, smug bastard. (Actually, I’d be
worse than Gid, because he genuinely means it, at least at the time.)
Hmm. Probably jumping the gun a bit there. Cross that bridge when I come
to it. No point putting the cart before the horse.
Desperately need some magic.
Later . . . email from S:
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Sorry, couldn’t wait. E’s party on Friday pm. (Turns out M and D need to be in London
on Saturday.) Hope that’s OK with you. S.
Bugger, forgot about that. God, it’ll be weird introducing A to S. Oh well.
Replied:
Friday afternoon’s fine - if you’re sure you can afford the time off work. C
I remember when I used to call her three times a day, just to hear her voice.
Tuesday 18 June
First really hot day. Rang A to invite Smuglets to E’s party. Invitation
accepted - plus one in return:
“Hey, Charlie, you wanna bring Ellie round? I’m just filling the pool. We
don’t want the little tinkers overheating.”
“Great. I’ll just grab the Factor 25 and we’ll be round.”
As soon as we arrived at the Smug House, I knew that all was lost. Well, I
suppose I already knew that. But the sight of Amber in a tiny vest and bikini
bottoms filling up an Olympic-sized paddling pool with a hosepipe provided
any final confirmation that might still have been needed: my life would
remain an empty charade, a meaningless sequence of pointless occurrences,
without the magic which she, if she chose, could so easily supply.
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“God, Amber,” I gurgled, “how do you stay so brown?”
She laughed. “Christ knows, in this climate. Guess all that good old Oz
sunshine takes a while to wear off.”
And after that, conversationally speaking, I’m afraid it was all downhill. The
kids splashed and squealed, providing a certain amount of distraction. And,
considering how little help I provided, A did a pretty good job of maintaining
the flow of inconsequential banter. But all I could think about was what a
Gid, or a Smug Bastard for that matter, would say or do in this kind of
situation.
Shameless flattery? (“Has anyone ever told you that you have the body of a
supermodel?”) Carry On film style innuendo? (“Cor blimey, luv, I think I’m
going to have a stroke!”) Or maybe a weepy declaration? (I’m so sorry, I’ve
fought this as long as I could, but now it has to come out . . . “)
Nothing that came to mind seemed remotely possible to say. The pool was
getting fuller now. And judging that the water was deep enough to imperil the
life of a baby, Amber hopped in and sat down between Ellie and Conor. Zack
immediately leapt on top of her. Oh god, any minute now she’d be wearing a
wet T-shirt.
“Wanna come in, Chas? There’s plenty of room. And I’ve seen blokes in their
Y-fronts a couple of times before.”
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“No,” I replied primly, as if turning down a lewd proposal. “We have to go.
I’d love to but . . . we have to be somewhere.” And on that unconvincing
note, I snatched up E and bundled her in a towel.
Despairingly, I dressed her. What was the matter with me? A chance to romp
semi-naked with the most desirable woman I have ever laid eyes on, and what
was I doing? Why, fleeing, of course - as fast as my funny white legs would
carry me.
As we took our leave, I made one last attempt to salvage something from the
situation. “Look, Amber, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to come over
for lunch some time - maybe on a Wednesday when you have the afternoon
off? I’d love a chat without so many little interruptions.”
Christ, did this sound as lame and/or creepy to her as it did to me?
Apparently not.
“Yeah, I’d like that. Tomorrow any good?”
“Yes, fantastic. Great. Brilliant.”
“No red meat, though.”
“Absolutely not. Not even a smidgeon. Or indeed a pigeon.” I was
blathering now. “About one-ish?”
“See you then.”
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“Can’t wait . . . darling.”
Wednesday 19 June
The bastard. The smug, scheming bastard. He set me up. I know he fucking
well did.
Amber came. Ellie slept. I did something quite successful with chicken and
yoghurt. We ate. We drank wine. I made her laugh. And then I put my hand
on hers.
“Amber, look, there’s something I need to say to you.”
She gave me that direct green-eyed gaze. The one that reduced me to a semisentient puddle in the park all those months ago.
“Trust me, Charlie, there isn’t.”
“But I . . .“
“Really. There’s nothing at all you need to say to me.”
“But how do you know what - “
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“Call it instinct.” She smiled at me with what looked like real fondness.
“You’re a nice guy, Charlie. A really nice guy. I love you to bits.
But . . . . ” She looked down at herself, then up at me, before shaking her
head very slightly. “I don’t think so.”
“What did I tell you? Twat!”
She removed her hand, gently, from under mine, and started to clear the table.
I sat there for a moment, as the prospect of a magic-free future became a
certainty.
“God, I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry, Amber.”
“S’OK. Don’t beat yourself up. We all make dicks of ourselves once in a
while. No big deal.”
And she came over and put her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek.
“Mates,” she said softly. I could hardly believe she was being so nice about
it.
Just then, as if on cue, E started squawking upstairs.
“I’d better go up,” I said, sheepishly, getting to my feet.
“Yeah. And I gotta run. See you Friday.”
“Friday?”
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“Ellie’s party. Remember?”
“Oh yeah. See you then. And I’m really, really sorry.”
She went. I stood looking at the space she had inhabited, listening to E
getting crosser.
Mates!
“So your best buddy Paul was wrong, then.”
“Fuck off Theo.”
“Or maybe he was just taking the piss?”
BASTARD.
Later . . . tore I Saw You page out of Venue. Ringed ad in red. Put in
envelope. Wrote address left-handed. Posted it.
Thursday 20 June
God, what have I done? Hardly slept at all. Kept waking up every 10
minutes, hoping that yesterday didn’t really happen; that the pictures which
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kept dancing before my eyes were just part of a deeply disturbing dream.
Amber’s green gaze and the red ink round the ad. The way she smiled at me
and kissed my cheek. Mates! The left-handed scrawl on the envelope, as it
disappeared into the postbox, with E waving it goodbye.
Christ, what will he do when he gets it? Wonder what time he arrives at work.
Early, I’d guess. Unless, of course, he’s gone for a pre-work jog. How’s he
going to react when he opens the envelope? Panic? Homicidal fury?
Suppose it’s possible he won’t realise it was me that sent it. Suppose it’s not
totally inconceivable that somebody else - a disgruntled member of the
Ikonnixx workforce, maybe - could have seen the ad, put two and two
together, and decided to make life uncomfortable for the boss. Quite likely,
in fact.
Hmm. Think I might unplug the phone and take E out for long walk.
Later . . . half expected to find front windows broken when we got back. Or
PM lurking in the front garden with a tyre iron. Nothing. All quiet. No
response of any kind. Too quiet.
Later . . . D, back from school, came in carrying a cake tin, which he’d found
on the doorstep. Inside, a beautifully iced cake complete with birthday
greetings, single candle and sugar Teletubbies. Also, a note:
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I expect you’ve already made her a cake, Charlie. Oh well, it will just have to be a
two cake party! Much love to you and the birthday girl, Jen. PS All well with me
now. Hope I’m forgiven.
Called her immediately. Not there. Left message on machine thanking her,
and inviting her to the party. Felt I had no choice. Can’t make it very much
weirder having the woman who tried to kill herself because I wouldn’t shag
her in the same room as the woman I’d die to shag, my wife, children and
parents-in-law.
Think PM must have been out of the office today. Only explanation I can
think of for non-response. Christ, what was I thinking? Can’t believe I did
something so spontaneous/stupid.
Still, thank god I didn’t send it to Susannah. I bloody nearly did. That would
really have made things interesting.
Friday 21 June
A delightful day filled with love, chocolate and children’s laughter! Ellie
woke early, as if knowing it was her special day, and I dressed her in the
adorable little hand-embroidered suit that has occupied my every spare
minute for the past goodness knows how many weeks. Before the party
guests arrived, Sophie and I opened a bottle of champagne and drank a toast
to our first, blissfully happy - though challenging and sometimes downright
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stressful - year as parents. And then the doorbell rang, the first of E’s many
friends appeared, and the fun began! If you have never heard the sound of a
couple of dozen one year olds having the time of their life - fuelled by
chocolate, jelly, ice cream, more chocolate, twiglets and yet more chocolate well, let’s just say you can’t imagine quite how loud it can be. But the joy on
their little faces more than compensated for any damage our eardrums may
have sustained. It may well be that, in later life, E will have no conscious
recollection of her first birthday, but I’m certain this has been day that will
live with her - at some level - for the rest of her life. I know her father will
never forget it.
(Or that kind of thing. Followed by wise reflections here about the incredible
speed with which her first year has passed, and the way that parenthood
changes your perspective on the passage of time. NB Not sure about handembroidered suit bit. Maybe makes me sound a bit of a wuss?)
So much for the DofaS version. As for the reality, well, all I can say is poor
Ellie. If this doesn’t turn out to have been the worst, least adequately
celebrated birthday of her life, then I can only think that some ghastly
catastrophe - the outbreak of nuclear war, for example, or even the election of
a Conservative government - is due to occur on some forthcoming 21 June.
Briefly (very briefly, because it will depress the shit out of me writing about
it), it went like this. Sophie announced first thing, to my total nonastonishment, that she needed to pop into the office, but would be back in
plenty of time to greet her parents, who were due to arrive at lunchtime. She
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wasn’t. There was no sign of her when they appeared just after one - Bill,
face shrivelled with disapproval, as if he’d spent the morning being force-fed
lemons by lesbian BBC programme controllers; Eileen zinging with malicious
bonhomie (“Oh just ignore him, Charlie! He’s been in a bit of a grouch since
. . . well, since about 1967, as far as I can remember!”)
Jen arrived early, having perhaps had difficulty interpreting the somewhat
garbled message I left on her machine. At first, I thought she was drunk. But
it soon became clear that her glassy-eyed, zombie-like demeanour was more
to do with the after-effects of her recent traumatic experiences than with
alcohol in her bloodstream. She was wearing a black velvety top done up to
the throat; and with her hair brutally scraped back, not a trace of make-up and
a faint, benevolent smile flickering around her lips, there was something of
the dazed nun about her as she sat at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee
growing cold in front of her. Bill evidently disapproved of her; so inevitably,
Eileen tried to draw her out with a barrage of sympathetically probing
questions - to which Jen’s replies were, at best, monosyllabic. For an
excruciating half hour, time appeared to stand still.
Then, just after three, the doorbell rang again. Relief! Eileen made as if to
answer it; but, leaping to my feet, I managed to get out of the kitchen before
her. Opening the front door, though, I was totally disorientated to find myself
confronted by Amber, the two smallest Smugs . . . and Sophie, who by chance
had just returned from the office, as they arrived.
Even if I wanted to, which I most emphatically do not, I wouldn’t be able to
convey the complex dynamics of the little scene that played itself out over the
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next minute or so there in the doorway - Amber eyeing Sophie with
unconcealed curiosity as I blunderingly introduced them; Sophie presumably
a little embarrassed about arriving late for her own daughter’s party; me
furious with her, while simultaneously gripped with guilt, shame, heartbroken
misery, wounded amour propre and sheer stomach-churning, scalp-tingling
confusion, to name but a few of the emotions inspired in my by seeing A in
those particular circumstances (i.e. standing next to S).
God, it was terrible. And the next couple of hours were hardly any better.
With the exception of Amber - who looked a bit bemused, but was otherwise
pretty much her usual sweet unaffected self - everybody behaved
disgracefully, not least the children. Single Most Heinous Act undoubtedly
went to Zack Meadows who, high on a lethal cocktail of artificial colourings
and preservatives, somehow managed to insert a Twiglet into his younger
brother’s nose - and then snap it off, in such a way that the remaining
fragment became inextricably lodged. Though hardly life-threatening, this
caused quite a bit of consternation. Conor himself was visibly distressed,
pawing ineffectually at his nose and howling loudly. Sophie, Eileen and
Amber looked on in concern. Bill glowered: in his day, children didn’t choke
to death on party foodstuffs - or if they did, they knew better than to make
such a fearful racket. I wondered, briefly, if the party might be about to end
with one of the guests being rushed into A&E.
Only Jen seemed completely unperturbed by this episode. In fact, she
seemed unaware of it - until suddenly, somehow, she had taken charge of the
situation. I still don’t quite know how she did it; but one minute, she was
gazing distractedly out of the kitchen window, while the rest of us faffed
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around ineffectually, the next, Conor was suspended over her shoulder,
coughing a bit, but otherwise clearly restored to full nasal health.
“There,” murmured Jen, before adding by way of explanation, “Milo was
always shoving things up his nose. Baked beans. Olives. Even managed a
Malteser once.”
“Thanks Jen,” said Amber. “You were brilliant.”
“It’s just a knack,” said Jen, modestly, before lapsing back into unfocused
staring.
She left soon afterwards. Sophie and I thanked her extravagantly for the cake
(which was, needless to say, delicious). As the door closed behind her, S shot
me a bewildered interrogative glance; but I didn’t feel any pressing need to
enlighten her as to the cause of Jen’s perplexing behaviour. I’m perfectly
happy for her to interpret it any way she wants.
Amber and the Smuglets didn’t stay long (though one mystery solved before
she went: turns out S-B is in the States on business, not back until the end of
next week). So soon, we were left alone with Bill and Eileen, and at least
another five hours to fill before anyone could decently go to bed.
The longest day, appropriately enough.
Saturday 22 June
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Bill and Eileen left after lunch.
S: Did they seem all right to you? I didn’t think they were in very good form especially Daddy.
C: Really? Can’t say I noticed anything out of the ordinary myself.
Sunday 23 June
S: I thought Jen seemed a bit . . . out of it on Friday. Like there was
something on her mind, maybe?
C: Really? Can’t say I noticed anything out of the ordinary myself.
Later . . .
S: She seems a nice girl, the Meadows au pair . . . Candy, is it?
C: (refusing to be drawn) Here name’s Amber.
S: Oh yeah, Amber. Really nice.
C: (non-committal) Mm.
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Even later . . .
S: Did Mummy mention Scotland to you?
C: No.
I’m not absolutely sure, but I suspect that’s probably the most dialogue S and
I have engaged in during the course of a weekend since E was born.
Scotland - what the fuck is that about?
Monday 24 June
“Ikonnixx, good morning!”
“Hello, can I speak to Claire, please?”
“I’m afraid she’s not in. Do you want her voicemail?”
“Yes please.”
Click, beep.
“Hi, this is Claire. I’m away until Monday the first of July. Leave a message
and I’ll get back to you then.”
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Hah! Just as I thought. The bastard’s taken her with him on his “business
trip”.
Later. . . spent afternoon watching Wimbledon, with curtains drawn. Oddly
comforting. Changeless, I suppose. Exactly the same as it was when I
watched it as a kid. A cosy, ordered little world in which, for a fortnight, the
only unpredictable thing is the weather. (And Sue Barker’s unfailingly
bizarre dress sense, obviously.) Shadows on Centre Court. That muppet-like
duchess whose name I can never remember, nodding and waving in the royal
box. Plucky Brits crashing out. Nobody shagging anyone they shouldn’t be
shagging. Nobody shagging anyone at all.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Susannah. It’s Charlie . . . Charlie Fleming. We haven’t spoken since
that wonderful lunch you gave us.”
“Oh, hello. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. Just wondered if I could have a quick word with Paul.”
“I’m afraid he’s not here. He’s in New York this week.”
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“Very nice. Business or pleasure? Silly question - if it was pleasure, I’m
sure he’d have taken you.”
“Yeah. Anyway, can I take a message? He’ll be back on Friday - though
probably a bit jet-lagged.”
“No, it’s OK. Nothing urgent. It’ll keep.”
Inconclusive, really. She definitely sounded a bit pissed off. But it could
perfectly well have been “he’s in New York and I’m stuck at home with the
kids” pissed off, rather than “the bastard’s buggered off with his beautiful
young mistress, I’ll stab him repeatedly in the abdomen with an 11 inch
Sabatier when he gets home” pissed off. Hard to say.
Tuesday 25 June
Keep thinking about Paul Perfect and the lovely Claire jumping in and out of
yellow taxis. Walking hand in hand down 5th Avenue. Sharing a pastrami on
rye on a bench in Central Park . . . right now, this very minute, while I’m
about to load the breakfast things into the dishwasher, before getting E
dressed, then quite possibly walking down Gloucester Road to Boot’s, to pick
up a few urgently needed baby supplies.
Well, obviously not right this very minute, because New York is about five
hours behind. So they must still be in bed. Right now. That’s where they’ll
be. Bed.
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Later . . . I’ve been re-running that scene with Amber, over lunch, in my mind
all day. Can’t help feeling I didn’t really give it my best shot. Didn’t stick to
my guns. Didn’t come right out and put my cards on the table. Just waved
the white flag as soon as I ran into a bit of resistance. Bottled it slightly.
Faint heart never won fair maid - that’s what Gid would say.
“Tw-“
“Just shut the fuck up, Theo!”
Wednesday 26 June
Definite decision: need to try more direct approach with A. Much too British
first time round. Think it’s quite possible she didn’t even understand what I
was trying to say. All that Hugh Grant-style umming and erring - wouldn’t be
at all surprising if she got hold of the wrong end of the stick.
Next time, must make absolutely sure there’s no room for any
misunderstanding.
“Next time? I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“You’re not, Theo. You’re not hearing anything, because you’re dead.”
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“Does the expression glutton for punishment mean anything to you,
Charlie?”
“Can’t hear you. Dead.”
“She said you were making a dick of yourself. Which part of that are you
finding difficult to understand?”
“So dead.”
Later . . . email from Marcus.
Hibigbro - Thought you might be interested to see the attached. Received it yesterday. I’m
still in HK for a couple of days - but not tempted to hurry home after this! Take care, M
Following this, he’d forwarded an email from Carmen.
Hi Marcus - Hope this won’t seem brutal, but wanted to make my thinking as clear as
possible. Lots to discuss when you get back. Love, Carmen
I clicked on the PowerPoint document attached to her message:
(PowerPoint presentation here)
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Christ. I always knew she was an evil yuppie witch - but even so, I never
suspected she might be capable of something like this.
Sent brief sympathetic reply. What do you say to a man whose wife of X
years has just dumped him by email?
Thursday 27 June
PM back tomorrow. Though possible, I suppose, that he won’t go into the
office, if he’s just flown back from the States. Might need to catch up on his
sleep.
Excellent performance by Tim Henman today: saved two match points to
come back and beat Paraguayan ranked 368th in the world. Proud day for
British tennis. Could this be Tim’s year. Hah!
Friday 28 June
Took E to Bath on train. Didn’t want to hang around house waiting for phone
to ring. Wandered round shops. Lunch in pub. Interesting visit to Assembly
Rooms and Costume Museum. Also Roman baths. Read newspaper in park,
while E ate daisies (slight superficial resemblance to bananas). Train home . .
. no messages on machine. One-four-seven-oned: no calls all day.
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Hmm. Beginning to wish he’d just open the bloody thing. Not sure how
much more of this suspense I can stand.
Sunday 30 June
No word from PM. Must have stayed home on Friday. Might well have
popped into office over weekend; but if so, can’t have opened post. Will,
presumably, first thing tomorrow . . .
*
Last day of June: half way through Diary of a Superdad. Well, obviously not
half way through the book itself - just the material-gathering exercise.
Marks out of 10 so far? Think six might be a bit generous. Maybe five and a
half. Definitely need to do better in the second half of the year if DofaS is
going to be the massive international best-seller which I’ve always believed it
has the potential to become. Feel I may have rather taken my eye off the ball
over the last couple of months. Slightly lost sight, perhaps, of the original
concept. Allowed minor characters to spend too much time centre stage.
Not a major problem. Just need to refocus a bit. Zoom in on tighter on the
heart-warming relationship between E and the Charlie-character.
Demonstrate more wisdom and insight. Write less about shagging.
Wonder if I should start putting out feelers to publishers at this stage?
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July
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Monday 1 July
He wept. He actually wept. There, sitting at my kitchen table, with his head
in his hands. Paul Perfect, crying like a big girl. Well, coughing and
snuffling and choking back a manly tear, anyway.
God, it was fantastic. Snivelling Bastard.
Tuesday 2 July
Couldn’t write any more yesterday - wasn’t thinking straight. Probably still
not thinking straight. But better try to record what happened, while it’s still
fresh.
Halfway through Pingu, the doorbell rang. I nearly jumped off the sofa, I was
so tense waiting for something to happen. E, presumably picking up on the
semi-hysterical vibrations I was giving off, started to cry. I hauled her onto
my shoulder, and went to open the door. Since there’s only one person who
ever calls on me unannounced, I was half-expecting to see Jen there – quite
possibly dressed in nothing but fishnets, and smeared all over with fromage
frais. But it was him. As ever, he was beautifully dressed and immaculately
groomed, but there was something wrong with the way he looked. Ah yes, I
put my finger on it: for the first time since I’ve known him, there wasn’t a
smug, ingratiating grin on his face.
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He didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of a good opening line either. Ellie
started to wriggle, so I put her down. He walked straight past me into the
house, as if I wasn’t there, marched into the kitchen, and sat down. He
rummaged in a pocket, and brought out a piece of paper which he put down
on the table in front of him, smoothing it out deliberately.
“OK, Charlie, we need to talk.”
“What about?”
“Don’t fuck about with me,” he snapped. And he slammed his hand down on
the torn out page from Venue. Quite hard.
For a moment, I was definitely alarmed. Ellie, too. She started to whimper,
and I had to pick her up again – as I did so, glancing around the kitchen, for
impromptu weapons. Even in my state of incipient panic, I was sufficiently in
control of myself to recognise that the bread knife would be an over-reaction.
The pepper mill perhaps? It’s a pretty big one; certainly heavy enough to
stun a would-be assailant. Or maybe, this being Wimbledon fortnight, a
forehand with the frying pan?
But before I had time to make a decision on how best to defend myself and E,
the mood changed dramatically. His head drooped, and he breathed deeply
for a few seconds. Then he looked up slowly, and fixed me with one of those
“I’m disappointed with you, Fleming, there’s no point pretending otherwise”
smiles that were such a feature of my school days.
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“Charlie, I thought we’d dealt with this,” he said, waving a hand at the ad. “I
thought we understood each other.”
E had calmed down by now. She was losing interest in our visitor. She
pointed out several times, quite insistently, that he was a man (new word),
before toddling off into the sitting room, back to Pingu.
Playing for time, I picked up the ad and read it, wondering how he would
react if I denied all knowledge of it. But I never found out, because that’s
when it happened – his lower lip started to quiver, a large well manicured
hand covered his eyes and mouth, and some quite funny strangulated snorting
noises started to emerge from underneath it.
My reaction? Quite complicated, actually. Yes, of course, I was hugging
myself - enjoying every moment of his mental agony. But, at the same time,
it seemed all wrong. Incongruous. Disconcerting. Suddenly, I felt a bit like a
little boy who’d shot a dove with a catapult. Part of me, I was hazily aware,
needs Paul Meadows to be perfect.
I picked up the kitchen roll, and put it next to him on the table.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Anything stronger?”
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Only a half-empty bottle of Jacob’s Creek Shiraz. Conscious that, in the
Smug House, there would probably be a choice of several 12 year old single
malt whiskeys, I poured him a glass. He drank. And then he talked.
Basically, it was that old familiar story I’ve heard from Gid on so many
occasions, though with one slight twist. For Paul, this is the first time. But
otherwise, all the usual key plot and character points were present and
correct. Above all, what he wanted me to understand, was the degree to which
events were beyond his control. He’d never planned this; never wanted it.
He was, if I could understand this, a man quite literally swept away by a tidal
wave of ungovernable emotion. Claire’s entry into his life had been like a
vast fusty curtain being swept aside to reveal a widescreen panorama of
passion, intimacy, feeling. It was as if, until that revelation, he’d been living
his life in black and white. And since then, he’d never, for a single moment,
felt as if he had any more choice about where his life was heading than a
single autumn leaf whisked from the branch by a tornado.
He’d been telling this to his hands, clasped around the glass on the table in
front of him. But now, he looked up at me, and said, “But now what? Now
what am I going to do, Charlie?”
I shrugged, not very sympathetically. Not my problem, you Snivelling ArseFondler.
“You see, I’m totally torn,” he went on, unperturbed by - or, more likely,
unaware of - my reaction. “I could never leave Suzie and the kids. You know
how much I love them. You’ve seen. But I can’t give Claire up. It’d be like .
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. . “ He cast around, for a moment, searching for an appropriate simile.
Words failed him. Despairingly, he made a saw of his right hand and mimed
cutting off his left arm. But, clearly feeling this to be an inadequate
representation of the unbearable loss he was trying to convey, he broke off in
mid-mime, and waved his hand vigorously in the air, as if to say “No, cancel
that.”
Suddenly, verbal inspiration struck. “OK, imagine this, Charlie. Imagine
you’re some punk kid, living rough, on the street. Sleeping in doorways.
Begging. No friends - just a mangy dog. Then some kind stranger comes
along and says, hey kid, come and live with me in my big mansion in the
country. Sleep on silk sheets. Swim in the pool. Let my servants take care of
you. So you go and live in the mansion, and it’s fantastic. You’re happier
than you’ve ever been in your life. Happier than you ever imagined it was
possible to be. Then after a while, maybe six months, the kind stranger says
to you, sorry time’s up. Shoo! Back to the streets with you. And suddenly,
you’re back in your cardboard box, sleeping in doorways, asking people for
change. Can you imagine that, Charlie?”
I looked blankly at him. I probably could have imagined it, but I didn’t really
see why I should.
“That’s what it would be like for me,” he went on. “If I was forced to give up
Claire. But there’s no way I’m bailing out on Susannah and the kids. No way
at all. Paul Meadows would never do that. Ever. So that’s me fucked,
basically.”
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Even before he did that nauseating third person thing, I wasn’t feeling
especially moved by his plight. Gid used up all my small supply of
sympathetic understanding for pathetic, self-obsessed bastards with
hyperactive penises, years ago. And now, I just wanted to get him out of my
house as quickly as possible - before he turned nasty again. But how?
He reached for the bottle, and refilled his glass. There was an uncomfortable
silence. It was clearly my turn to say something - but I couldn’t, for the life
of me, think what. Next door, E was singing along, in her inimitable fashion,
with the Tweenies. The silence lengthened.
“So Susannah doesn’t know?” I eventually blurted.
“God no,” he shuddered. “If she ever found out, she’d - “ As he spoke, his
eye landed on the I Saw You page in front of him, and once again, his tone
changed abruptly. “Is that a threat, Charlie?”
“A threat?”
“I need to know. So don’t fuck about. If you’re threatening me, I need you
to tell me right now.”
“Of course I’m not threatening you,” I said, in the kind of voice a social
worker might use to a knife-wielding care in the community case. I nodded at
the ad. There was no way I was going to get rid of him without giving some
kind of explanation for it. “That was just - well, I don’t know, call it an
aberration. A moment of madness. A cry for help, if you like.”
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He seemed, bizarrely, to be satisfied with this.
“Thank god for that,” he sighed. “I couldn’t bear it if you turned against me,
Charlie. You wouldn’t believe what a nightmare these last few months have
been for me. And your friendship has been just about the only little ray of
sunlight.”
Now I was completely lost for words. What possible response was there to
that? None that I could think of. And luckily, he didn’t appear to need one feeling, presumably, that he’d successfully transacted the business that had
brought him to my door.
He left soon afterwards, promising to call me later in the week.
So, what the fuck am I supposed to make of that? Christ knows, really. But it
was great seeing him suffer. Assuming the tears were real, of course.
Later . . . almost forgot. Just after S-B left, E came into the kitchen and said
“Man gone.” Two words! Longest ever consecutive utterance! Gives above
scene (very slight) DofaS potential.
Later . . .
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“Dad, can I get a tattoo?”
“No?”
“Oh, please. Josh has got one. And Will Hawley.”
“So two of your friends are disfigured for life. Funnily enough, Danny, that
doesn’t make me want the same for you.”
“I’m gonna get one as soon as I’m 18, anyway. So what difference does it
make?”
“No difference at all. The answer’s still no.”
“Oh, da - “
“Read my lips, Dan. N. O. And there’s no point asking mum - she agrees with
me.”
“How’d you know? You never speak to each other.”
Good observation, Dan. Hmm. Hadn’t realised it was quite so obvious.
Wednesday 3 July
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Can’t quite believe that I’m really going to write this. Barely credible that the
thought could enter my head. Totally, mind-bogglingly out of character for
me to contemplate - even in the most speculative, hypothetical terms - such an
extraordinary course of action. Not sure if I can even bring myself to type
the letters . . .
Blackmail.
Seems I can. True, my hands are shaking on the keyboard. But that didn’t
stop me writing it. Blackmail. There, it was easier that time. Blackmail,
blackmail, blackmail. Piece of piss.
Suppose doing it might be a bit harder, though.
Thursday 4 July
Very, very early . . . totally unable to sleep. Urgently need to think this thing
through. Calmly and rationally. Carry out rigorous risk/benefit analysis.
Weigh up pros and cons.
OK, let’s try.
Pros
1. He’s asking for it, basically. Not because he’s a secret arse-fondler, but because
he’s such a smug, sanctimonious, hypocritical bastard. It’s simply unacceptable to
make other people’s lives look crap when your own is built on lies, duplicity,
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concealment and pretending to go jogging at 6.30 am in order to facilitate a prebreakfast shag.
2. He virtually suggested it himself. The “b” word really hadn’t entered my mind
until he started on about me “threatening” him. No, really. Till then, I genuinely
hadn’t seen it in that light. (Deep thought: maybe, at some level, he wants me to
wreck things for him; to bring it all crashing down around his head? Not totally
implausible, actually.)
3. He deserves to suffer. And I, Charlie Fleming, have a duty to inflict suffering
upon him, on behalf of all decent, right-thinking people with crap lives everywhere.
Cons
1. It would be wrong. Very wrong.
2. It would be illegal. I could end up in jail.
3. Not at all sure I’m cut out for it. Not least because it would be bound to make him
very pissed off with me. Very, very pissed off. And I suspect that when he’s very,
very pissed off with someone, he’s capable of being very, very nasty to them.
4. Lack of experience. Absolutely no track record in blackmail, extortion, or other
related malfeasance. I wouldn’t know where to start. Too big a jump from next
worst thing I’ve ever done: stealing Simon Barlow’s Kit-kat on school trip to
Natural History Museum, c.1978.
5. Lack of plausible motive. What would I hope to gain by it? Yes, of course, there
would be the exquisite pleasure of watching him suffer some more. But that
wouldn’t be enough, surely, to justify such a very extreme course of action. I think
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I’d need to get something more . . . concrete out of it. Definitely not money, though.
If I made him hand over bundles of cash, I’d be giving up the moral high ground.
I’d be no more than a common criminal; not a fearless avenger, loved by the good,
feared by the Smug. But if I don’t ask for money, how does it work? The whole
intellectual basis of what I’m considering is a quid pro quo: “If you don’t give me
what I want, I will do something that you would strongly prefer me not to do.” But
what is it I want?
Hmm. There is, of course, only one thing I really, really, desperately want.
And sadly, it’s something which even the great Paul Meadows is not in a
position to deliver.
Maybe it’s time I tried again. After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained. If
at first you don’t succeed, etc etc.
Later . . .
“Amber darling, look, I really - “
“No you don’t.”
“But I don’t think you . . . “
“Sure I do.”
“ . . understand what I’m trying to - “
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“Jeez, Chas. I’ll say one thing for you Pommie blokes - you don’t give up!
But no means no.”
“OK. Sorry. Forget it.”
“Forget what?”
“What I was just . . . oh, I see what you mean. Stupid of me. Sorry.”
“You know, I really think you’re getting somewhere now, Charlie. You just
need to be persistent. She’s definitely starting to weaken.”
“You really think so?”
“Nice one, Charlie. Every time I think you couldn’t possibly be a bigger
twat, you prove me wrong.”
Later . . . just sent the following email:
Good to see you the other day, Paul. Though sorry you find yourself in such a jam.
I’m sure you’ll find a way of resolving the situation, eventually.
Meanwhile, one other completely unrelated thing. That enormous TV in your
sitting room - I’m planning to get one like it. Could you let me have the details make, model, price, etc? Or maybe, if Susannah’s working at home, it would be
easier if I just popped round and had a word with her? Let me know, Charlie.
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Well, it’s not money, is it? It’s not even blackmail - unless anyone chooses to
put that interpretation on it. I’m pretty sure a jury wouldn’t.
Friday 5 July
Oh fuck. What have I done? 9.35 am and I have just taken delivery of a
Panasonic Megaplex Digimaster9000 with Surround-Sound and “parallel
port” dual DVD drives. Oh shit. This can’t be happening. Not to me. What
am I going to do? Think, Charlie, think . . .
A bit later . . . just called him. Not there. Left voicemail:
“Paul, it’s Charlie. Look . . . what can I say? The TV? I’m really sorry, I
think you must have misunderstood what I . . . I swear, my email, I wasn’t
saying what I think you must have thought I was . . . Look, I’m really, really
sorry, if you were, y’know, under the impression that I was - I didn’t mean
that. On my mother’s life. Christ, Paul, I’m so embarrassed . . . Anyway,
look, can you get someone to come and pick it up? Or do you want me to
take it back to wherever it came from? Let me know. And god, I’m so sorry .
..“
Couldn’t see any other option. Can’t possibly keep it. Apart from anything
else (e.g. the fact that it would constitute evidence that I was guilty of a
serious criminal act), how would I explain it to Sophie?
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Later . . . he called back. Very laid back. Unruffled. Silky. A bit puzzled by
my message - not at all sure what it was that I’d thought he had thought. But,
in any case, he very much hoped I would accept his small gift in the spirit in
which it was intended. As a token of his appreciation of my support during a
difficult period in his life. He’d really be quite hurt if I didn’t . . .
Well, what could I say? The TV stays. Crime does, apparently, pay. Wonder
if crap daytime shows look any better the size of a double decker bus?
Later . . . at least Dan is happy. Haven’t seen him so animated since S
brought Felix home. He hooked up the Playstation as soon as he got back
from school, and he’s been slaughtering gargantuan mutant aliens ever since.
Told him I’d won TV in competition, which he seemed perfectly willing to
believe. Hope S will be, too.
Saturday 6 July
Woke early, and went downstairs half-expecting to find that TV episode was
some kind of bizarre daydream or hallucination. But there it was in the sitting
room; a vast looming monolith, towering over every other item of furniture,
blocking out the sun.
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Strange atmosphere between S and me. Can’t quite put my finger on it.
Slightly disconcerted, I suppose, by the fact that she has spoken to me unprompted and quite unnecessarily - on three separate occasions so far
today. Just casual remarks of a mundane nature; but not snappy or sarcastic
in any way. Neutral to moderately friendly, in fact. And no probing
questions about my “competition win”.
Later . . . apparently, we’re going to Scotland with Sophie’s parents. Very
soon. They were going with Adam and Kate, but they’ve just backed out
(some implausible excuse about Adam needing to stay in town to secure a
long awaited promotion), so there was a last minute vacancy. Eileen asked
and, since we don’t have any other holiday plans, S said we’d love to. So
we’ll be spending 10 days in a damp cottage, with no TV or dishwasher, 15
miles from the nearest pub, in the life-enhancing company of my beloved
parents-in-law.
At least now I understand why S was being so nice.
Sunday 7 July
Utterly bizarre experience. Well, I would have said that a few months, or
even weeks ago. But now my life seems to be made up almost entirely of
mystifying occurrences and people behaving inexplicably.
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Mid-afternoon, S was working upstairs, D had taken E to the park - the first
time he’d strayed more than a few feet from the monstrous new TV since
Friday evening. I was taking advantage of the opportunity to watch the
Wimbledon final. (Huge, but boring. Basically two very fit young blokes
thrashing ball backwards and forwards until, after 30 or 40 shots, one them
hit it into the net. Where the finesse of a McEnroe? Where the amusing
antics of a Nastase?)
The phone rang.
“Hi, Charlie. Watching the tennis?”
“Yeah, I was actually.”
“Look good? On the new TV?”
“Mm.”
“Pleased to hear it. I was just wondering if you fancied a knock-up?”
“A knock-up?”
“Yeah. You and me. I’ve got a court booked at six, and no one to play with.”
“Um . . . OK.”
“Great. Got a racket? Or shall I bring a spare?”
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“No, I think I’ve got one somewhere.”
“OK. I’ll pick you up - just before six.”
And so we played tennis. Me and him. Criminal and adulterer. Hopeless
hacker and polished baseliner. And yes, it was as weird as it sounds - a
sweaty, grunting hour and a half, with a fevered, nightmarish quality to it. We
hardly spoke. On my part, this was mostly due to lack of breath; but his nearsilence was harder to interpret. It wasn’t unfriendly - at least, I’m pretty sure
it wasn’t. It was more trance-like; as if he were 100% focused on the job in
hand; annihilating an outclassed opponent. He seemed calm, contented,
almost elated. In the zone, the professionals call it. Weird.
Afterwards, he suggested we should go for a drink. I politely declined. In the
car on the way back, he lowered the hood and slid in a Fleetwood Mac CD
(best of, naturally) - which he played loud enough to make conversation
virtually impossible.
“I enjoyed that,” he said, as I climbed painfully out. “Let’s do it again soon.”
And with a squeal of tyres he was gone.
Result: Meadows bt Fleming 6-0, 6-0, 3-0 (Fleming ret) Oh well, it didn’t
turn out to be Tim’s year either.
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Monday 8 July
God, I ache. I ache in places I didn’t know it was possible to ache. If aching
could be conceptual art, I’d be a certainty for the Turner prize.
And that’s just my body. My brain feels worse, if anything. Bastard.
Later . . . strange coincidence. Lying immobile on sofa just after lunch. E
had the remote and was channel surfing. Phone rang. Unable to move, so
left machine to answer. Suddenly, I could hear two Gids:
Gid 1: (velvety, reassuring)
into balance. And enabling you to
As we grow older, we all
live life to the full.
sometimes find that the “going”
New Laxamed. Say pooh to
gets a little tough. Don’t let it!
constipation!
Loosen up with new Laxamed the natural alternative to the misery
Gid 2: (slightly unhinged)
of constipation. Based on the
Charlie - you there? If you are,
gentle healing power of traditional
pick up for fuck’s sake . . . .
herbal remedies,
Charlie? Charlie? Answer
new Laxamed works with your
me, Charlie. Anybody. Is there
body, bringing your system back
anybody out there? I just want to
hear another human voice.
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Please somebody talk to me! OK
feel. Fuck you, Charlie Fleming,
then, fuck you, if that’s how you
you sanctimonious prick!
Still alive, then. And still working (though I guess the ad could have been
recorded months ago). Mildly curious about why he called. But not very.
For some reason, playing a bit part in the drama of Gideon Farley’s life no
longer seems quite such a privilege as it once did.
Tuesday 9 July
Still in agony. But some movement now returning to limbs. Still utterly
perplexed, though, about what actually happened on Sunday (apart from the
undeniable fact that I was heavily beaten at tennis).
Why did he suggest it? What was he trying to prove? How was I supposed to
react? (“Hmm, now I know that Paul is a much better tennis player than me,
I’ll stop blackmailing him, and be his best friend instead.”)
From now on, to save typing, the phrase “What The Fuck Is Going On?” will
be abbreviated thus: WTFIGO?
Wednesday 10 July
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Rather depressed. Well, gripped by black despair, actually. I keep seeing the
expression on his face as he whipped those inch-perfect topspin lobs over my
head.
What kind of world is it where someone like him can do something like that to
someone like me?
Thursday 11 July
Poor E. She’s obviously worried about me. Bit sad, actually. She keeps
touching my face (unshaven since god knows when), and saying something
like “Da-down” - a reference to the fact that I’ve hardly stirred from a
recumbent posture in front of the Megaplex Digimaster for the last four days.
Even S has noticed that something’s up. Before she left for work this
morning, she asked me if everything was OK. Everything? OK? Big question
to be faced with at 7.30 am. I didn’t have an answer. Only questions of my
own. Why wouldn’t it be? Why wouldn’t “everything” be “OK”? And if it
wasn’t, if everything in my world was profoundly not OK - in fact, so far
from OK that being OK had become an unimaginably desirable state, a farfetched fantasy, the emotional equivalent of winning a roll-over jackpot on
the National Lottery - why would that be of the slightest interest to her? And
what was she proposing to do about it?
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I muttered.
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“OK,” she sighed. “Only asking. See you later.”
Later . . . S not home yet. Email from Marcus:
Hi Charlie. Just back from Far East tour - outlook not good. Picture a man hanging onto
the window ledge of a burning building by his finger-nails. I’ll keep you posted. M
PS It would be good to see you soon - looks like I’ll be having a lot more time to spend with
what remains of my family.
Didn’t reply. Broadly sympathetic to his situation (though still feel he’ll be
better off without Carmen). But enough problems of my own right now.
Friday 12 July
Amber called. Didn’t pick up.
“Hi Chas, it’s me. Just called to say hi. So here goes . . . Hi Charlie! Hi
Ellie! Anyway, hope everything’s OK. Call me.”
Nice of her, really. She didn’t need to call. In fact, she’d be perfectly entitled
never to speak to me again. I definitely wouldn’t have anything to do with
me, if I was her. Disgusting, lecherous old geezer.
Didn’t call her back.
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Saturday 13 July
Watched TV. Absolutely vast. Nothing on.
Sunday 14 July
Holiday plans confirmed. Bill and Eileen are going up next Saturday, we’re
joining them the following Wednesday because Sophie has meetings she can’t
miss early in the week.
Maybe a break will do me good. Hah!
Monday 15 July
Must pull self together. Urgently need to get life back on track. Make fresh
start. Reconnect with my real priorities. Intend to. Starting now.
No, really, I’m serious. When I think back over the last couple of months and the last week or two, in particular - I’m actually pretty ashamed of
myself. What came over me? Why did I ever imagine that Paul Meadows’s
extra-marital arse-fondling was any concern of mine? How could I ever have
done - well, just about any of the incredibly mad and stupid things I’ve been
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deluding would-be lothario, it makes me cringe just thinking about it. You
sad, pathetic man, Charlie Fleming, just STOP. NOW.
I really must. And the main reason why I must is that it isn’t fair on E. I’ve
been so totally pre-occupied with shagging, and revenge, and blackmail that
my parenting abilities have inevitably suffered. Superdad? Barely Adequate
Dad would be pushing it.
Which of course is another reason why I need to get my act together: the
book. DofaS just ain’t going to happen unless, for the rest of the year, I focus
110% on gathering the kind of material I’m going to need. And that
absolutely does not include loads of stuff about people having sex with
people they shouldn’t be having sex with, and me not having sex with anyone
at all.
Plus, if I’m honest, I’ve been feeling - well, not frightened exactly, but
conscious, shall we say, that I might be getting out of my depth. That I might
have bitten off more than I can chew. That the situation I’ve created is not
entirely in my control, and has the potential to end badly. Really quite badly.
So, no more fucking about with S-B. No more harassing poor Amber. No
more behaving like a lust-crazed, psychopathic dickhead. All finished. Now.
Later . . . took E to park. Pushed her on swing for hour and a half. Pointed
out birds in trees and aeroplanes in sky, in lively, engaged, informative
manner (“Look, Ellie, a BAe Airbus 310, probably bound for Malaga, which
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is in southern Spain!”) Came home, sat on floor, made huge tower with
bricks. Did finger painting on kitchen table. Poached pears with cinnamon
for E’s pudding. Cleared poached pear up from kitchen floor. Peeled
banana. Mashed it with mascarpone. Played with finger puppets. Did
comical voices. Bathed E, put her to bed. Didn’t think about licking banana
and mascarpone mixture off Amber’s stomach. Well, only for a fleeting
moment.
Must go to bed. Had forgotten how exhausting top quality parenting can be.
Tuesday 16 July
Raining, so took E to museum. She loved the stuffed animals. Less delighted
with my attempt to explain formation of fossils in language appropriate to one
year old.
Home, then W-B in afternoon. Didn’t drag her, screaming, from the pool, as
I usually do. Let her stay in as long as she wanted.
Watched children’s TV with her, commenting on action, instead of reading
Guardian.
V rewarding day.
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Wednesday 17 July
Bugger. Just when everything was going so well. Mid-afternoon. Putting E
in buggy to go to for long educational walk, when the doorbell rang. Jen?
Not her time of day (plus I think she’s given up on me now). PM? No
particular reason why it should be, though I’ve given up trying to predict his
behaviour lately.
It was Amber. Clearly in distress.
“Christ, Amber. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, Charlie,” she said. “Why the fuck did this have to happen?”
E squawked happily in her buggy. She loves A.
“What?” I asked, gently. “What happened?”
She bit her lip, as if pondering how to reply. Or fending off tears. I held a
hand out uncertainly towards her. She took this as a signal to throw herself,
weeping, into my arms. I stroked her hair, and made soothing noises. It felt
very different from when I did the same for Jen. Her smell made me feel
weak and floppy all over. After quite a short time, she started sniffing and
fumbling for a tissue. She didn’t have one. Neither did I. So, unwillingly, I
let her go, and went to fetch some kitchen roll.
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She blew her nose with noisy abandon a couple of times. I unstrapped E, and
we went into the sitting room, where A admired the TV (“Christ, Chas, didn’t
they have a bigger one?”). And then she told me what had happened.
It was her afternoon off. She’d left Conor and Zack with Susannah, and
headed into town. At some point, she’d realised that she had left her purse at
home. She went back to fetch it. Susannah’s car was gone, so she assumed
the house was empty. It wasn’t. She walked in on her boss and her boss’s
attractive young lady friend. In the kitchen. Well, more on the kitchen table,
actually.
Naturally enough, she’d turned and fled. But she didn’t get very far before he
caught up with her (still buttoning his flies, presumably). She went on
walking. Reliving the scene, her voice started to wobble again.
“He grabbed my shoulder. Hard. It was pretty scary, Charlie.”
“He grabbed you?”
“Yeah. He’d really lost it. I’ve never seen him like that before. Then he
stuck his face in mine and was like . . .”
At this point, she was momentarily overcome. She was unable to tell me what
he had been like. I wondered if more hugging and hair-stroking might be in
order. But too late, she was rapidly regaining her composure.
“What did he say?”
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“He said if I breathed a word to anyone I was dead.”
“Dead? He threatened to kill you?”
“Yeah, well, I suppose he didn’t mean it literally. But it was definitely scary.
Like he was out of control.”
“Fuck. So what did you do?”
“What d’you think I did? Told him I wasn’t going to say anything to
anybody. Then got out of there as fast as I could.”
“And you came straight here.”
“Yeah. Hope that was OK?”
“Of course it was. What are mates for?”
“I just needed to talk to someone. Y’know, tell someone about it. And you’re
so - “
Sexually attractive? Good at listening? I never found out how she was about
to characterise me, because at that moment the tears started again. And more
hugging and hair stroking were indeed required - as were several restorative
cups of tea, and a couple of paracetamol (to counter-act a “stressy headache”
which she felt coming on).
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She looked agonisingly gorgeous sitting on the sofa taking small sips from
D’s Slipknot mug, trembling very slightly. Like some fine-boned exotic bird
grounded by a storm.
When she’d started to recover slightly, I asked her what she was intending to
do.
“Do? You mean, now?”
“Mm. You can’t go back there.”
“Where else am I going to go?”
“There must be somewhere you could stay. Not family, obviously. But you
must have a friend who’d put you up?”
“Guess so. But I can’t, Charlie. I can’t just walk out on them. Wouldn’t be
fair on Susannah - or the kids.”
“But he threatened you, Amber.”
“Nah. He didn’t mean it. He just lost it for a moment - me walking in on him
with his spotty arse in the air like that.”
She smiled faintly at the recollection. I tried very hard not to picture it. I
really felt she was under-estimating the gravity of the situation.
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“What if he ‘just loses it’ again when you go back?”
“He won’t. I reckon he’ll be on his best behaviour. He’ll be terrified of
Susannah finding out. She’s really been on his case lately. As long as I keep
quiet, he won’t bother me.”
Suddenly, unexpectedly, she laughed. “I could blackmail him! A million
quid, or I spill the beans!” She noticed that I wasn’t laughing. “It’s OK,
Charlie, I’ll share it with you!”
“Yeah. That’d be great,” I said, making an effort. “We could go off round
the world together, and never come back.”
She left not long after that - still a bit shaky, but largely restored. She thanked
me and told me what I lovely bloke I am. She kissed me. I can still feel her
lips on my cheek.
Later . . . hope she’s OK. Wish I shared her confidence in S-B’s capacity to
behave in a reasonable and non-psychopathic manner. Interested,
incidentally, to hear Susannah has been “on his case” lately. Presumably
means she’s onto him.
Can’t quite put my finger on it, but there was something different about A
today. (Other than the fact that, like most people I know these days, she was
weeping in my arms.) Think maybe she’s done something new with her hair.
Beautiful, beautiful girl.
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Bugger. Another day completely wasted vis-a-vis DofaS. But what else
could I have done? Turned her away? Or made her act out her story with
finger puppets, maybe?
Thursday 18 July
“Hello?”
“Oh, hello . . . Susannah. It’s Charlie. I was hoping to have a word with
Amber. We were planning an outing with the kids.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’ve missed her.”
“Missed her?”
“Yup, she’s gone. Left us. Rather suddenly. Some kind of family crisis.”
“Back in Australia you mean?”
“I guess so. She didn’t say. Anyway, she left this morning.”
“OK. Uh, sorry to have bothered you.”
Later . . .
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“Hi, Chas, it’s me.”
“Amber! Where are you?”
“You heard, then?”
“Only that you left. What happened? Are you OK?”
“Nothing happened. I’m fine. It was just too weird - the way he kept looking
at me. I felt like I was going to spac out if I stayed any longer. So I made up
some story about a problem back home, and got the hell out of there.”
“Christ. You’re sure you’re OK?”
“Yeah, I’m OK. Feel bad about letting down Susannah, and the kids. But it
felt like I didn’t have any choice.”
“You didn’t. You did the right thing. You had to get out of there. Where are
you?”
“With a mate. Gonna stay here a couple of days while I figure out what to do
next.”
“Look, Amber, if there’s anything I can do?”
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“Yeah, thanks Charlie. Sweet. Look, I gotta run. Just wanted to let you know
I’m OK. I’ll call you.”
Goodbye, my love. Goodbye.
Friday 19 July
Suppose I’ll never see her again. Don’t even know where she is - stupidly,
didn’t think of 1471-ing until it was too late. Could be anywhere. Pretty sure
she won’t call me, despite what she said. Can’t see any reason why she
would. I’ve served whatever minor purpose I ever had in her life.
But god, I’m going to miss her. Well, actually, that’s probably not quite true.
I suppose what I’m really going to miss is the idea of her; what she’s
represented for me these last few months - i.e. all those things like hope,
happiness and human warmth that seem to have gone missing from my life
recently. Oh yes, and the possibility, however remote, of what that smug
bastard calls “magic”.
And it’s his bloody fault she’s gone. Bastard. Frightening the shit out of her
like that. I’ll never forgive him for that. Never.
Saturday 20 July
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S went to garden centre to buy pot plants to sell at Arundel Road street party
which (apparently) is taking place tomorrow. Then spent ages marking them
with ridiculously low prices. Refrained from pointing out lack of financial
logic in buying plant for £3.50, selling it for £1.25, and donating the proceeds
to Amnesty International.
Fat bloke I’ve never seen before came round to inform me I’m needed to play
for “north side versus south side” street cricket match. Should be a bit of
needle, I imagine, since we northerners deeply resent the fact that the
identical houses opposite ours are worth about £50,000 more on account of
the day long sunshine enjoyed by their back gardens. Quite looking forward
to it, actually. Used, several thousand years ago, to enjoy a game of cricket.
“Dad, have I got to go to Scotland with you?”
“Why? Don’t you want to?”
“No?”
“Well, I’m sorry, Dan, but you don’t have any choice. We’re not going to
leave you here by yourself.”
“Josh said I could stay with him. Then I wouldn’t have to miss any school.”
“Nice to hear you sounding so concerned about your education. But tough,
I’m afraid. You’re coming with us.”
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“But I don’t want to. It’ll be lame.”
“Sorry you feel that way. If you gave it a chance, you might enjoy it.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You never know. You might.”
“I’m not going unless I can take my Playstation.”
“Well, you can take it. But one slight problem: no TV to plug it into.”
“No TV? Why don’t you just shoot me now. I’d rather be dead.”
“Still. At least there’s the street party to look forward to.”
“I hope I die before I start to hear myself saying things like that.”
Monday 22 July
Yesterday was incredible. Quite, quite incredible. In the absolutely literal
sense. If it wasn’t for the pain - the dull, pounding throb from my grotesquely
swollen left eye, the sharp stabbing from my poor damaged ribs with every
deeper than average breath, the nausea-inducing pangs from my bruised left
testicle - nothing in the world would induce me to believe that nightmarish
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sequence of events could actually have occurred. I suppose it’s just possible
that writing it down might have some mild analgesic effect . . .
No need to dwell on the early stages of the festivities, which went deceptively
well. Sun shining, Arundel Road residents out in force, massed barbecues
incinerating many an innocent sausage, wine and beer flowing freely. Small
kids racing up and down the middle of the road on tricycles and bikes with
stabilisers. Brisk trade at all the many stalls - not least Sophie’s, where
several of our neighbours proved so eager to show their support for prisoners
of conscience worldwide that stocks were exhausted within about 15 minutes.
A toddlers’ 20 yard dash, in which E - largely by virtue of remaining on her
feet, while all around her opponents went down like sniper victims - came a
creditable fourth. Altogether a charming scene.
Then the cricket match, and the mood started to change perceptibly. Real
rivalry was in the air, heightened by the fact that most of the adult participants
(myself included) had drunk quite a bit by this time. It was getting seriously
hot, too, and the street was becoming crowded, as more and more nonresident gatecrashers arrived to join in the fun. The fat bloke who recruited
me for the North team was behaving as if we were about to play a Test match,
exhorting us to stay 100% focused, do the simple things well, and indeed to
“kick some southern ass”. Several of my team-mates actually whooped at
this.
The South’s first innings got underway. But it very soon became clear that,
as a serious contest, the match was a non-starter. For one thing, there was
simply too wide a gulf between the abilities and aspirations of the various
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players (when a six year old bowls to a useful club cricketer, eager to
demonstrate his skill to his neighbours, the outcome is unlikely to be really
satisfying for either party). Also, there were far too many obstructions on the
pitch - knots of increasingly rowdy adult drinkers, skateboarding teenagers,
kids on bikes, over-excited dogs. Fielding at deep mid-on, a little woozy from
sun and red wine, I was conscious that my attention was wandering. I was, at
best, about 35% focused.
So I suppose it must have been the other 65% that spotted him, just around
the boundary from me at deep mid-wicket. He was wearing a pale green linen
suit, and looking impossibly lean and tanned. Surrounded by an admiring
group of my mostly not very prepossessing neighbours, defiantly drab in the
way that only members of the caring professions can carry off, he looked like
a member of a different species. A predator among herbivores. I hadn’t
realised until that moment quite how big a chasm divides (Windsor Drive)
and Arundel Road. Susannah, I realised, was with him, standing in his
shadow, holding his hand in a way that suggested either that she couldn’t bear
to be physically separated from him or that she wasn’t prepared to let him out
of her sight.
He caught my eye, and smirked. Look at me, Charlie. Look at me in my
lovely clothes, with my beautiful wife, talking to your dowdy neighbours.
Look at me with my fantastic car, my superb kids, and my smooth-skinned
young mistress waiting for me in her flat on the other side of town. Look at
my life - any aspect of it - compared with yours.
I felt a jolt of hatred that left me, momentarily, breathless and trembling.
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“Catch!” yelled the fat bloke. And then, “Yours, Charlie!”
I looked up. The ball was sailing lazily skywards, its trajectory clearly taking
it some distance to the right of me - towards deep mid-wicket, in fact.
Nevertheless, the fat bloke was right: if it was going to be anyone’s, it would
have to be mine. Time seemed to have slowed down. The ball still hadn’t
reached the apex of its flight. I could easily cover the dozen or so yards that
would take me to the perfect position to make the catch.
“Mine!” I called, my voice sounding surprisingly clear and confident. And I
started to move to my right, with a cat-like grace reminiscent of the great
Clive Lloyd, I felt. My eyes were locked, in the textbook approved fashion,
on the now descending ball; but suddenly, I knew beyond any possibility of
doubt that he was watching me, willing me to drop the catch. And somehow,
I knew that if I did, if once again his will prevailed effortlessly over mine, it
would be all over for me. The utter uselessness of my life, the emptiness of
my hopes, the futility of my dreams would be exposed, finally and for all to
see. (Man drops ball, life shatters.)
I had to make that catch. And to make matters worse, according to the
complex trigonometrical calculations my brain was carrying out, I would have
to do it right under his nose. I was closing on the noisy group of drinkers
surrounding him with every stride.
The ball was still falling extraordinarily slowly, as if the laws of gravity had
been suspended. I was going to catch it easily. At least, I thought I was until
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I sensed rather than saw him detach himself from the group, and step directly
into my path.
Keeping my eye on the ball, I tried to veer around him. He shied away, as if
suddenly realising the danger of being trampled underfoot by a rampaging
cricketer, raising his arms protectively as he did so. I reached out over his
head towards the ball. As my fingers closed around it, his left elbow lashed
backwards, connecting hard with my right eye-socket.
I went down like a sack of cement. “God, Charlie, I’m so sorry!” I heard him
say, through the astonishing, searing pain. “But well caught!”
I couldn’t move. The sun hammered down, half-blinding my one good eye.
Indistinct shapes loomed over me, concerned voices buzzed. The road
beneath me was tilting and yawing sickeningly, and I thought was going to be
sick. Then someone stooped down close to my battered head, and hissed in
my ear, “And believe me, there’s plenty more where that came from, mate.”
I turned my head in the direction of the voice, and started to paw at the
ground, like a boxer trying despairingly to beat the count. But at that moment,
a new shape appeared over me, blocking out the sun; a shape fizzing with
energy and violent intent; a shape possessed of a mighty, theatrically trained
voice, which boomed: “YOU - FUCKED - MY - WIFE - YOU - FUCKING FUCK” - each word accompanying a kick to my chest, abdomen and groin.
Thank christ Gid was wearing trainers, and that after the first half dozen kicks
had landed, one or two of more socially conscious neighbours decided they
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had better pull him off. Otherwise, I’d probably be dead. Even so, the pain
was more than I could bear.
“Et tu, Charlie! I thought you were my friend!” I heard him howl before I lost
consciousness.
Yes, I know it sounds implausible. That Gid should just happen to appear at
that precise moment, bent on avenging the supposed infidelity of his wife
with his hitherto best friend. But he did; and, actually, rather than attempting
to explain it away as some bizarre coincidence, I’m more inclined to see the
conjunction of events as something pre-ordained; the calamitous moment of
synchronicity towards which my recent life had been inevitably leading. The
universe putting that insignificant little twat Charlie Meadows very firmly and
painfully in his place.
I can’t help feeling aggrieved, though, about getting a kicking for doing
something I not only didn’t do, but rather heroically resisted the temptation to
do.
Anyway, somehow - despite talk of calling an ambulance - I got myself home.
S was there already with E. I walked through the front door, which was open,
and lay down in the hall. I curled myself up into a ball. Hearing me, E came
to investigate.
“Dadown.” she said.
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“Christ, Charlie, what happened to you?” said Sophie, following her from the
kitchen.
“Little accident, playing cricket,” I muttered. “Ran into a lamp-post. Stupid.”
Since my only visible injury was to my eye, I suppose it wasn’t bizarre that
she seemed willing to believe this.
“How much have you drunk?” she asked.
“Fair bit,” I replied, feeling it would be pointless to lie.
“Well, I suppose you’d better go to bed,” she said, with hardly a trace of
sympathy.
So I did. And, remarkably, I slept. And when I woke a few hours later, I
knew that, although my life was broken beyond repair, my body would heal; I
wasn’t going to die. Not quite yet, anyway.
Unless that Psychopathic Bastard has different ideas, of course.
Thank christ we’re going away tomorrow. Maybe by the time we get back the
Arundel Road Street Party Incident will have been forgotten. Hah!
Later . . . Jen called. She just wanted to let me know how sorry she was to
hear about Gid’s little outburst. She most definitely hadn’t told him that we’d
been having an affair, but somehow, inexplicably, he had formed that
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mistaken impression. She hoped I wasn’t badly hurt? Oh yes, and I needn’t
worry about Sophie, because she, Jen, had already spoken to her and
reassured her that there was absolutely no truth in what Gid had said about
me and her.
Thanks, Jen. Thanks very much for that.
Later . . . Amber called. She was at the Meadows place, picking up some
stuff, before heading up to London. Would it be OK if she popped in to say
goodbye? I hesitated, not wanting her to see me like this, but only for a millisecond or two. Come, my darling, come and let my one good eye caress
every inch of you one final time.
She came. Her mouth dropped open when she saw me. I tried, I swear, to
laugh it off; to entertain her with the story of a hapless sap, old enough to
know better, showing off at the street party and learning a very painful lesson
about the inadvisability of colliding with street furniture. But I couldn’t do it.
It was too hard. Not with her looking at me like that, her eyes full of kindness
and concern. And there at the kitchen table - where half the population of
Bristol seems to have sobbed its heart out in recent months - I broke down
and cried.
“Oh Charlie,” she said. “You silly boy.” And the next thing I knew she was
standing by me, stroking my hair, just as I did hers the other day; exactly the
same scene with the roles reversed.
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It was an extraordinarily pure feeling. I cried like a baby. She held me quite
hard against her, but not a lascivious thought entered my head. I only wanted
her to comfort me. And she did.
I started to recover. She made coffee, and I told her - without going into
unnecessary detail - what had happened. Her natural irreverence returning,
she listened to my version of events half way between outraged sympathy and
barely concealed amusement. Despite the pain, I could see the funny side
myself.
As I reached “Et tu, Charlie!”, she couldn’t contain a snort of laughter.
“I’m sorry, Chas,” she said. “But you gotta admit, it’s kind of a ridiculous
scene!”
I tried to smile, but the movement of my facial muscles was too painful, and it
turned into a wince. Amber was sitting across the kitchen table from me now.
She reached out a hand in sympathy. “Oh Charlie,” she breathed. “I’m so
sorry.”
Why was she sorry? There was no reason for her to be. What had I done to
deserve her sympathy? What had I ever done for her - or for anyone else for
that matter - that wasn’t calculated, solely and exclusively, to further my own
interests?
I hung my head. There was a short silence. Hearing her sigh, I looked up and
saw that her face was clouded, as if she were searching for the answer to
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something that had been puzzling her, or trying to remember where she’d left
her keys. Whatever it was, a definitive answer seemed to elude her. She
shook her head very slightly and shrugged, in the manner, perhaps, of
someone deciding to back a hunch. Then she said: “Listen, Charlie. This is
strictly a one time only offer. I’m about to shoot off, and you’ve been a real
mate to me. So, seeing as how it’s goodbye . . . “
I gaped at her. Was she really saying what I thought she was saying? No.
Obviously not. Impossible. But, in that case, what was she driving at? I
peered at her through my functioning eye, still blurry with tears, hoping that
her facial expression might help.
She laughed. “Look, I know how you feel. About me. You haven’t exactly
hidden it. So I’m thinking . . . well, why not? You’re a lovely bloke - and
where I come from it’s no big deal.”
No. It was no good, I still wasn’t receiving her. I could understand the
individual words; even get the gist of the sentences. But the message whatever it was she was attempting to convey - remained hopelessly
scrambled. I blinked a couple of times, and shook my head as if trying to
clear the relevant neural pathways.
“Jeez, Chas, what’s a girl gotta do to get fucked round here?”
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August
Diary of a Superdad
by Lindsay Camp
Thursday 15 August
Not sure why I’m writing, really. Haven’t wanted to since we got back from
Scotland. No point. Hate to admit it, but last remaining vestiges of faith in
Diary of a Superdad concept now pretty much evaporated. Or, at least, my
ability to execute concept successfully. Totally unsuited to task in hand.
Simply not possible for member of sad, resentment-filled, dysfunctional
family to write wise, insightful book about heart-warming parent/child
relationships. Hard to think of anyone less well qualified than me, in fact.
Except possibly Duke of Edinburgh.
No, can’t be arsed. Complete waste of time.
Friday 16 August
Just wish I’d said no to Scotland. Then maybe DofaS wouldn’t be floating
face down in the water. But those few days really were the final nail in the
coffin, I think.
God, it was a nightmare. So much so that already - just a couple of weeks
after our premature return - my recollection of it has started to take on a
woozy, almost hallucinatory quality (an effect possibly somewhat enhanced
by the handfuls of painkillers I was gulping down for the first few days).
When I picture the house, for example, I see it almost submerged beneath
huge ranks of looming pines, and permanently shrouded in heavy black rain
clouds. Whereas I see from the snaps which Eileen has sent us that, in fact,
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the forest ended a good 30 metres from the front door, and that there was at
least one moment when a watery shaft of sunlight forced its way through a
bank of not especially threatening high cloud.
Weather apart, there were just a few minor things that prevented it being the
holiday of a lifetime. In no particular order, these included:
1. The total and, who knows, possibly irreparable breakdown of my
relationship with S, who refused to address a single word directly to me the
entire time we were there. No way of finding out, obviously, since she still
isn’t speaking to me; but I’m guessing this may have been connected to that
phone call from Jen - the one when she assured S that she and I weren’t
having an affair. Somehow, I suspect that S didn’t entirely believe her. And I
suppose I can’t really blame her: I don’t think many wives would find it
especially reassuring to receive a call out of the blue from someone saying,
“Whatever you’ve heard about me and your husband, it isn’t true. Honestly,
we’re not shagging like stoats, I swear we’re not.” In any case, the silence
between us - crackling with unvoiced accusations, fizzing with barely
repressed fury - hardly contributed to a relaxed holiday mood.
2. My father-in-law announcing over supper on the day we arrived that he has
prostate cancer, which may well have spread, and that this would therefore
almost certainly be his last holiday with us, and indeed quite possibly the last
time he would see us before slipping into an agonising and - if his was brain
was affected, which he thought it probably would be - demented terminal
decline. Put a bit of a damper on things, that.
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3. Speaking of which, did I mention the rain?
4. Poor Danny’s performance as World’s Most Miserable and Misunderstood
Teenager. It was heartbreaking to watch, really. Well, heartbreaking in a
way that made you want to grab him by the front of his Anthrax hoody, shake
him hard, and scream in his face, “FOR FUCK’S SAKE CHEER UP AND
REMEMBER THERE ARE KIDS YOUR AGE ALL OVER THE WORLD
LIVING IN SHANTY TOWNS, WORKING AS RENT-BOYS, BEING
FORCED TO SMUGGLE DRUGS CONCEALED IN THEIR ANUSES COMPARED WITH WHICH SPENDING A FEW DAYS IN SCOTLAND
WITH YOUR FAMILY REALLY ISN’T SO FUCKING TERRIBLE, YOU
UNGRATEFUL, SELF-OBSESSED LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT! But I didn’t,
obviously. Or not in so many words. Although I was bloody tempted to after
he disappeared like that, and had us all searching the woods for his body.
5. E wasn’t too chirpy either - quite possibly affected by her beloved
brother’s unconcealed, near-suicidal misery. Loads of non-cause-specific
howling.
6. Scottish food. The shelves of the nearest supermarket (a mere 12 miles as
the crow flew) were stocked almost exclusively with Mr Kipling cakes, sliced
white bread and family-sized packs of lard. My polite enquiry at the village
post office about where I might be able to buy locally landed fish was met
with blank comprehension. God knows how many days’ travel we were from
the nearest sun-dried tomato.
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And then, of course, there was the cocktail of rage, shame, grief and
bewilderment throbbing relentlessly through my veins, poisoning any
possibility of pleasure in the present, constantly compelling my mind’s eye to
revisualise those two scenes which, in their different ways, seemed to signal
the end of - well, of everything really. Or, to be more slightly more specific,
of all the pitiful illusions and self-deluding hopes that this sad little man, this
pathetic excuse for an emotionally mature grown-up, had allowed himself to
cherish, despite the overwhelming weight of evidence piled up against him.
Over and over again, the sweet-spot of Paul Meadows’s right elbow made
perfect contact with my left eye socket; and, over and over again, he knelt,
with apparent solicitude, to whisper in my ear that there was plenty more
where that came from; plenty, plenty more, a whole world of sudden,
unexpected pain.
And, with even more terrible, repetitive frequency, I saw myself sitting at the
kitchen table, Amber cradling my head in her arms, while I assured her
through a blizzard of sobs and snot that I really, really wanted to, that I’d
wanted nothing more desperately in all my life, but that I couldn’t, I was
sorry, but I just couldn’t, because . . because . . . because . . .
Well, why couldn’t I? Why didn’t I? If I live to be 150, and come to be
universally revered as the wisest man on earth, I’m pretty sure I’ll never find
a satisfactory answer to that question.
Saturday 17 August
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So, anyway, we came home on the Wednesday, the day after Dan’s
disappearing act - and three days earlier than we intended. Hard to explain
how this change of plan was agreed without benefit of verbal communication;
but somehow, we just knew. Straight after breakfast, S and I started - silently
- to pack; and when I carried our big case out to the car, D was already
strapped in, headphones securely clamped over ears, ready to go. We drove
450 miles in eight hours, with one short stop, and not a single word spoken except, obviously, by E who maintained a steady stream of chatter,
identifying every farm animal we passed both by name and noise (and,
controversially perhaps, informing us that the Angel of the North was, in her
view, “a big chicken”).
And since we came back, I think it’s fair to say my life has sunk to a new alltime low. S has been working 14 hour days - either because there’s so much
she needs to catch up with, or because she wants to spend as little time as
possible under the same roof as me. D stays in bed all day, and spends half
the night locked in a passionate thumb to control-pad embrace with his
beloved PlayStation (from which he has clearly vowed never again to be
separated). And I’ve been staying right here, not going anywhere, hardly
leaving the house at all, except very occasionally, by car, to buy food and
baby supplies. Been watching a lot of daytime TV. Really a lot. Loads.
Skulking. That’s what I’ve been doing. Not showing my face - not until the
last trace of bruising has gone. Can’t bear the thought of the neighbours
nudging each other and saying, “Look, there’s the poor man who got such a
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terrible kicking at the street party.” And, “It really wasn’t his day, was it?
He’d just hurt himself quite badly bumping into that nice Paul Meadows!”
Also, must admit, don’t fancy bumping into PM again. Don’t fancy it at all.
Wednesday 21 August
Still skulking. V depressed. Haven’t left the house since brief trip to
supermarket on Sunday. (Went to Sainsbury’s in Bedminster to avoid seeing
anyone I knew.)
Haven’t seen S since weekend either. She didn’t come home last night. She
was in London, “things got crazy”, so she stayed. At least, that’s what D said
she said.
Thursday 22 August
Can’t go on like this. Ridiculous. Pathetic. Unmanly. Behaving like big
girl’s blouse.
Wonder how much it costs to hire a contract killer? Also, where to find one?
Nothing in Yellow Pages. (Unless they advertise under euphemistic heading,
like Waste Disposal Consultants or Pest Control.)
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Friday 23 August
I knew this reminded me of something, but I’ve only just realised what: the
Jason Parrot incident.
He was a new kid who joined the class in my last year at primary school, just
after Dad buggered off, I guess. He was short, slight, fair, unremarkable. I
can’t even remember what led up to the incident now - some minor
playground altercation. I suspect that, as one of the bigger fish in that tiny
pond, I felt this insignificant newcomer wasn’t treating me with quite the
deference I deserved. I probably said something intended to impress upon
him the difference in status between us. He punched me once, very
efficiently, on the nose.
It hurt. And my nose bled quite a lot. But the really upsetting thing was the
matter of fact calmness with which he did it. I suppose he must have been
mildly irritated by whatever it was I’d said. But there was no malice, no real
heat in his action. It was just what, in Jason Parrot’s world, you did if
somebody started to get on your nerves a bit. Smacked them in the face.
It frightened the shit out of me. Not so much the pain or the prospect of
getting hit again, but the cold, remorseless logic of it; the unanswerable
simplicity of violence. (Yes, I’ve listened to your arguments with interest.
Now I’m going to hurt you. . .) It really shook me up. And, of course, it
dragged me, at a vertiginous rate, down the school pecking order. Not many
people, as I recall, had witnessed the incident. But word soon got around.
Nobody said anything, but I heard whispering. I knew that everyone was
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waiting to see how I would respond. And with every day that passed without
me confronting Jason Parrot - lying in wait for him after school behind the
coal bunkers; passing a note to him in class, naming the time and place; or
simply walking up to him in the playground and head-butting him - my
standing sank a little lower. I did nothing. And pretty soon, Wormy Wilson
was the only member of the class still indisputably rated lower than me. One
day I came into school and found that someone had scrawled on my desk,
“CHARLIE FLEMING SHITED IT!”
Shited it then, still shiting it now.
Later . . . Marcus called. In a hurry, so we didn’t chat. But he’s coming to
Bristol for a meeting next week, so we can catch up then. Sounded OK-ish,
considering, I thought.
Sunday 25 August
Sophie spoke to me today. But only to inform me that she’s going away next
weekend, and won’t be back until the following Wednesday. Something to do
with being invited to give a “key note address” at some big industry
conference in Amsterdam. Fantastic honour, apparently. Once in a career
opportunity. Impossible to refuse.
Don’t know whether she’s forgotten that next Monday is my birthday, or just
doesn’t care.
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Monday 26 August
Bank Holiday. S has gone to the office. She needed to make a start on her
Amsterdam presentation, but she’s definitely not going to be late.
At least, that’s what she told E before she left.
Wonder where Amber is. Probably gone back to Australia by now. 12,00
miles away. Beautiful, beautiful girl. What was I thinking?
Tuesday 27 August
Doorbell rang this morning. First time for ages. Nearly jumped out of my
skin. Opened door on chain. Wasn’t him. Just a bloke wanting to read the
meter. Pathetic, really.
Wonder if Gid still wants to kill me, too? Funny how much less frightening
that thought is. Gideon Farley as Second Homicidal Maniac - no, somehow
it’s just not a role he’s cut out to play. Too prone to soliloquy to be really
dangerous. If I hadn’t already been down and incapacitated, that kicking
would never have happened. (Plus, I can’t help thinking, in retrospect, that it
owed something to Gid’s mastery of Stage Fighting Techniques. The bruises
certainly faded an awful lot faster than the one inflicted by PM’s elbow.)
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I wish he was dead. PM I mean, not G.
Wednesday 28 August
Marcus arrived earlier. Turned out he had a meeting in Cardiff earlier, then
one in Bristol tomorrow a.m. - so he’s staying over.
Seems fine. Maybe a bit manic. Slightly swivel-eyed. Keeps telling me how
much happier he is since he got fired and Carmen threw him out. He’s
staying with one of his young hotshot consultant buddies, sleeping on the
floor (almost certainly a futon, actually), and they go out drinking and
clubbing together every night. Apparently, there’s loads of short-term
contract work around for a man with Marcus’s specialist expertise - i.e. the
ability to state the blindingly obvious in a way that makes it sound like
dazzling insight - so this slight career hiccup doesn’t condemn him to eating
Pot Noodles in front of daytime TV, or having his house repossessed, for that
matter.
He hasn’t asked me a single question about myself since he arrived. Probably
just as well. Can’t think what I’d tell him. (“What have I been up to? Oh, you
know, the usual - dabbling in blackmail, becoming obsessed with a
neighbour’s private life, almost shagging my best friend’s wife, fantasising
about a girl half my age while my family falls to pieces . . .”)
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He’s doing what he nauseatingly calls “prep” for his meeting tomorrow, but
he wants to go out later. But I’ve told him we can’t unless S gets home at a
reasonable time. So it looks like being an evening in . . .
Thursday 29 August
Christ, what have I done? (How many times have I written that over the last
couple of months?)
Sod’s Law, S came home early last night. So, childcare in place, Marcus
insisted on going out. Someone had told him about a cool new bar on a boat
in the docks, which, needless to say, I’d never heard of. It was one of those
heavy August evenings when every breath tastes thick and soupy, so we sat
on deck. M was buzzy and full of schemes (and even buzzier and fuller of
schemes after a prolonged visit to the toilet, I noticed). An internet publishing
venture; an holistic retreat in need of backers; a musical set in prehistoric
times (“Neanderthal!”). I felt disorientated, dizzy and slightly sick. Exactly
as you would expect to feel, in fact, if you’d spent the last month bouncing
around inside the same four walls with only a baby for company, then
suddenly found yourself on board ship, surrounded by several hundred of
Bristol’s hippest and most happening, intent on drinking and drugging
themselves stupid.
“Shall we go somewhere a bit quieter?” I suggested, as Marcus finished his
third or fourth beer.
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“God, Charlie, you’re beginning to sound like Mum,” he sneered. “I’m just
starting to like this place. It’s cool. In a sort of trying-so-hard-to-be-cool-italmost-is way.”
“OK,” I sighed. “Same again?”
Inside, as far as I could see through the fashionable murk, the place was
heaving. I started trying, ineffectually, to edge my way towards the bar. I
spotted a small gap, and squeezed through it. Then, it happened. Just as I
was drawing in my breath in order to bellow my beverage requirements, an
unseen hand delivered a firm pat to my bottom. A double pat, actually. And
so firm - almost lingering - that there was absolutely no possibility of it being
accidental. Someone had patted my bum. Twice. Pat, pat. My nerves already
twangling, I reacted as if several thousand volts had just passed through me leaping into the air and whirling round, in one fluid Crouching Tiger-style
motion.
At least, that’s what I attempted to do; but a tide of expensively clad humanity
had washed in behind me, dramatically reducing my manoeuvrability. I was
wedged tight. And by the time I succeeded in turning through 180, all I saw
was a sea of unfamiliar faces, raised as in religious supplication, trying to
catch the attention of the two under-dressed and overworked young women
behind the bar. My assailant was nowhere to be seen.
But, of course, I knew it was him. And sure enough, when I’d finally secured
our drinks and disengaged myself from the melee, there he was in the corner,
at the centre of a large crowd of what looked like drunken 12 year olds
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(presumably some of his younger employees). He caught my eye, and
grinned. Not a friendly grin. More a “fuck with me again, and I’ll do more
than smack you in the eye with my elbow, you pathetic lardy-arsed loser”
grin, I felt.
I can’t explain why, but I honestly felt at that moment that there was nothing
he wouldn’t do; no limit to the danger he represented. It was definitely a
Jason Parrot moment.
I made Marcus finish his drink quickly, and we came back here. I knew he
wanted to talk. While we’d been out, we’d pretty much skirted around the
subject of his marriage, and I calculated that he had a good couple of hours’
worth of grief and grievances all ready to unload on me. I hardly listened, but
he didn’t seem to notice. Eventually, he started to lose steam; he didn’t seem
able to think of any more new ways of impressing upon me just what a
wicked and calculating woman he’d married, and how blameless he’d been in
the breakdown of their relationship. Seizing the opportunity, I interrupted,
gently suggesting - in view of his early meeting - that he should go to bed.
When he’d gone upstairs, I pottered around for a while, switching off lights,
putting out milk bottles and so on. I waited a few minutes more. Then, when
I was fairly sure that he was safely tucked up, I crept out of the front door,
closing it very quietly behind me.
I walked along Arundel Road, and turned left into Windsor Drive. Good. He
was back. At least, his car was there, parked outside. I looked both ways; the
street was deserted. I took my keys from my pocket, and ran them hard along
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the gleaming paintwork, from front to back. I stabbed them through the
raised hood, puncturing it in several pieces. I picked up a bloody great rock
from the beautifully landscaped front garden, and chucked it as hard as I
could - football throw-in style - onto the windscreen, which shattered very
satisfactorily.
Then I ran.
Friday 30 August
Frightened. Dreamt of burning buildings, with children’s faces inside,
pressed up against the windows, mouthing silently. Knew they were asking
me a question, but couldn’t hear what it was. Woke, shaking. Went back to
sleep, and the dream continued. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe the waking up
was only part of the dream. Maybe this is, too.
Or maybe this whole thing has been a bad dream. Good thought, but what do
I mean by “this whole thing”? How far back would I have to go back to reach
a time when I’d be happy to wake up - before my life starting to feel scary
and out of control? About 1971, I’d guess.
Later . . . phone rang mid-afternoon. Didn’t answer, and whoever it was
didn’t leave a message. Dialled 1471: the caller withheld their number.
Could have been him, I suppose. Trying to frighten me. But I have to say I
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was expecting something more direct. He must have known it was me that
trashed his car. So why doesn’t he retaliate?
Much later . . . S not home yet. Not 100% sure, but think someone might
have been watching the house earlier. Gone now.
Saturday 31 August
Very early. More bad dreams (or dreams within dreams). Sitting here, trying
to understand why I feel like this. Hands shaking, mouth dry, pulse about
250.
It can’t really be because I think Paul Meadows is going to hurt me, can it?
Wish S wasn’t going away. She’s driving to London later, then flying to
Amsterdam tomorrow (don’t ask me why). Really wish she didn’t have to go.
Later . . . Sophie’s gone. Before she left, I went upstairs. She was in our
room, packing. She’d just washed her hair, and without her make-up, she
looked about 19. As she folded things and put them in her bag, there was a
sense of pleasurable anticipation about her movements. She was obviously
looking forward to her trip. But when she became aware of me watching her
from the landing, her mouth hardened.
“Don’t go,” I said.
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She didn’t reply. She didn’t even look up. It was as if I wasn’t there.
“Sophie, please don’t go.”
Now she did look at me. But all she did was shake her head, as if to suggest
the impossibility of responding verbally to such a manifestly ridiculous
request.
“Please,” I repeated. “Please stay. I know your trip is important, but . . .”
But what? But I need you to protect me from Paul Meadows? But I can’t
cope for four days by myself? But I can’t stand the loneliness of living like
this any longer? But I’ll kill myself if you go?
“ . . . it’s my birthday.” God knows what made me say that. Sad man.
“For god’s sake, Charlie,” she snapped. “This isn’t fair. You know I have to
go. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t just cancel this now.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . are you serious? ‘Hi, this is Sophie Fleming. Sorry I won’t be
able to do the key note address on Monday because my husband would rather
I stayed at home for his birthday.’ Yeah, that would be good for my
reputation in the industry. Don’t be stupid, Charlie.”
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“Mm, I can see it might not be brilliant for your career. And we can’t have
that, can we? We can’t allow any trivial little things, like your husband’s
feelings or the well-being of your family, to damage your reputation in the
industry.”
“No, we can’t Charlie. Not if you’re intending to spend the rest of your life
as a useless nonentity, moping around the house all day, while I go out to
work in order to support this family.”
Useless nonentity? I stared at her, aghast, for a moment. Was that what she
felt about me? Just then, her phone warbled faintly, under a pile of
underwear laid out ready for packing on the bed.
She hesitated briefly, then answered, presumably glad of the interruption.
“Hi. Yeah, still at home - but I’ll be leaving in half an hour or so. Should be
there about 7.30. See you later.”
She tossed the phone carelessly back on the bed.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Nobody. Just Veronica - I’m staying with her tonight.”
It couldn’t have been more obvious that she was lying if a neon sign had
flashed on over her head. I made a grab for the phone, and started pressing
buttons.
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“OK, let’s call her back. The useless nonentity would like a word with his
sister-in-law. Haven’t spoken to her for ages.”
“Give me that,” she said, snatching at the phone. I held it high above her
head, and for a moment I thought she was going to fight me for it.
“God, Charlie, you’re pathetic. It was Evan.”
“Evan?”
“You heard me.”
“Your ex-boss?”
“Yeah. I’m meeting him later, to go over my presentation - just to make sure I
haven’t missed anything.”
“So he’ll be at the conference? Watching you do your performance?”
“Of course he will. Everybody in the industry will be. Everyone who
counts.”
So, at last, it all made sense. She has been shagging Mr Charisma. I always
suspected it. And now she was admitting it. Almost bragging about it.
“You fucking little slut,” I hissed at her. “How stupid do you think I am?
Expecting me to believe that? Conference, my arse.”
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She was starting to get rattled now. Defensive. “Charlie, I’ve got my ticket
right here - I’ll show it to you.”
“Yeah right, like that would really prove anything. I’ve bought a ticket on a
flight to Amsterdam, so I couldn’t possibly be going off to London to spend a
few days sucking my boyfriend’s dick! I know you think I’m stupid, Sophie,
but I’m not that fucking stupid.”
“You’re crazy, Charlie. I’m not having an affair with Evan. And even if I
was, so what? What about you and Jen? At least, I’m not doing it with my
best friend’s wife!”
And that’s when I lost it. I shoved my face into hers, and I screamed, “I’m
not fucking Jen. I’ve never fucked Jen. And if you fuck off to London now
and leave me here all by myself with your fucking children while you shag
your new boyfriend, don’t ever come back! Because if you do, I’LL
FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING LITTLE WHORE!”
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December
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Early December
I still can’t believe I really said that. “Whore”, I mean. It just isn’t a word I’d
ever use. It’s the kind of thing you only hear in Jacobean tragedy - like
“sirrah”or “gadzooks”. I’m pretty sure I’d never uttered it until that moment.
But then, I suppose that’s madness for you: it makes you do and say things
you wouldn’t normally do or say. And, to be fair, for a couple of weeks back
then, it did feel rather as if I was living in a Jacobean tragedy.
Bizarre to think of it now, obviously; but I suspect that’s another feature of
madness. You can never remember it. Well, not quite true. You can
remember experiencing it; but, as with pain, you can never recall the precise
quality of it; what it actually felt like at the time. Presumably, it’s your
memory nanny-ishly censoring itself to save you being mad or hurt all over
again.
Anyway, this much I do recollect: in my madness, I called my beloved wife a
whore and threatened to kill her; and then, after a few seconds of shocked,
thrumming silence in which we stared at each other in horror and revulsion each waiting, I guess, for the other to find a way of unfreezing the action, to
think of something, anything, to say that would make it possible for
something resembling normal life to resume - I slunk away downstairs,
leaving Sophie to continue her packing.
In the sitting room, Danny was sitting on the sofa watching Teletubbies with
Ellie. The volume was up as high as it would go. He had his arm around her,
and she was squealing with delight. His face was white, and he was chewing
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his lower lip. As soon as I entered, he leapt up and fled. I heard his bedroom
door slam. Ellie started to cry. And, instead of scooping her up and kissing
away her tears, so did I: the self-styled superdad, slumped on the sitting room
floor, holding his head in his hands, wondering if this might just possibly be
rock bottom.
It wasn’t, of course. Sophie left soon afterwards. And a little later, when
Ellie was finally asleep, I crept up to Danny’s room, and knocked gently on
the door. There was no reply. I knocked a little louder. Still nothing. I
opened the door a crack, and peered in. He was asleep on his bed, still fully
clothed, his old dog-eared copy of ‘The Borrowers’ - always his favourite
comfort-read - open face down on his chest (almost obscuring the Megadeth
logo on his sweatshirt) and his even older and more battered blue rabbit
cradled in the crook of his arm. Smoothed out by sleep, his face looked
unbearably young. Beautiful, too. I wanted to go in, and pull the duvet over
him, and kiss his cheek, and whisper to him how much I loved him and how
proud I felt to be his father, and that everything was going to be all right.
I couldn’t, for obvious reasons. So instead, I went downstairs to check the
locks on the doors and windows - which, at that particular moment, seemed
like the only defence I had against the forces which I knew would sooner or
later break into my life and destroy everything. And then I grabbed a couple
of blankets and lay down on the sofa, where I spent the night.
I don’t really want to write about the following day. But I think I probably
should, on the grounds that a lifelong policy of refusing to face up to things
that I’d prefer not to think about hasn’t really paid major dividends for me
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over the past 20 years or so. Rather the reverse, in fact. So yes, however
reluctant I may feel, I’m sure it would be good for me to record what
happened that Sunday.
I woke early, with a feeling of unbearable pressure building inside my head.
Not a headache; more like the sensation of a balloon filled with noxious gas
being slowly inflated within my skull. Ellie slept late, for her; but, even more
uncharacteristically, Danny was up by about 9.30 - a good three hours before
his earliest appearance on a Sunday in the last couple of years. Presumably
the crazy-waves emanating from me and pinging around the house, bouncing
off the walls and furniture, had made sleeping difficult.
I did make some attempt that morning at maintaining a semblance of
normality. But, to be honest, I’m not sure how far I succeeded. I think, for
example, that I asked Danny if he wanted any breakfast; but I have absolutely
no recollection how he answered, or whether he got what he requested.
(Probably not. I’m pretty certain that boiling an egg would have been beyond
me.) I do remember that I did a lot of pacing; and also that I called Sophie’s
mobile a number of times, I think with the intention of raining down further
anachronistic insults upon her head (“Jezebel! Harlot! Saucy minx!”). But I
only got through to her answering service; and, in its befuddled state, my
brain wasn’t capable of dealing with that. After maybe the fourth or fifth
unsuccessful attempt, I hurled the phone across the room, with a Lear-like
howl of rage and frustration.
What I really can’t recall, thank god, is what was going on inside my head.
Not in any detail, at least. I have just the vaguest sense that there was a
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continuous loop playing in there, an endlessly repeating sequence of scenes
depicting angry sex and casual, matter of fact violence; my recent past,
rewritten as a porno/snuff movie; a parade of body parts - Amber’s stomach,
Jen’s breasts, Sophie’s legs wrapped around a bobbing male bottom - in the
throes of having unbearable pain or pleasure, impossible to tell which, visited
upon them.
At some point during the morning, Dan must have asked if he could take Ellie
to the park. I don’t remember. But I do remember wondering why the house
was empty, then remembering where they were. Then I suppose I must have
returned to the mad stuff. I have a feeling I may have spent a little time in the
understairs cupboard. The next thing I recall clearly is a jolt of unfocused
panic; a sudden conviction that something - over and above all the obvious
things - was badly wrong. But what? What was it? I paced some more. I
started to patrol the house, at a frantic lope, going in and out of each room
repeatedly, searching for any sign of danger, impending or immediate broken glass, leaking gas, leaping flames, a man wielding a bloodied axe, I
didn’t know what. And then something about the angle of the sun slanting in
through the kitchen window struck me as wrong, very wrong. I looked at the
clock. It was about 3.15. A little clarity returned: Danny and Ellie had been
gone for hours. I wasn’t sure how many, but I knew they must have left well
before noon. Usually, their Sunday trips to the park lasted 90 minutes, tops.
I ran as fast as I could (which, in my shambling disoriented state, wasn’t
very). But I already knew they wouldn’t be there; and, of course, I was right when I arrived, gasping and ready to throw up, there was no sign of them.
Just a legion of unfamiliar kids swinging and sliding, watched miserably by
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their parents, hunched against a surprisingly chilly wind, and counting the
minutes until they could decently say it was time to go.
For what seemed like a long time, my brain wouldn’t allow me to believe what
my eyes were telling me. I walked around the playground distractedly,
scrutinising each child in turn, on the off chance that closer inspection might
reveal one of them to be Ellie. One or two haggard looking parents interposed
their bodies between me and their offspring, clearly taking me for a browsing
paedophile. But soon, I could postpone acknowledging the truth no longer:
my children weren’t in the park.
And so we come to the part of that day’s events that is going to be really
difficult to explain. What I did next. Well, actually, we’re not quite there yet:
what I did immediately after discovering that Danny and Ellie weren’t there,
was fairly rational. I ran back home to see if somehow our paths might have
crossed, as they returned from the park. But the house was empty.
I suppose, at that point - even allowing for a parent’s understandable concern
at having mislaid his children - I should have inhaled deeply a few times, then
sat down and taken stock. I should have noted the time (it must have been
about four), and worked out how long overdue they were. I should probably
have returned to the park with recent photographs of them, and asked the
other parents there if they had seen them. I should certainly have called
Danny’s friends, in case he’d taken Ellie visiting with him. And, even more
obviously, I should have brought to mind the fact that, just weeks previously,
Dan had gone missing in protest about what he saw as gross parental
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violations of his human rights. And, having exhausted all these possibilities, I
should then presumably have called the police.
But none of that happened. Because, at that moment, I didn’t need to take
stock or weigh up different options or dither over the appropriateness of
various alternative courses of action. That bubble inside my head had
exploded, showering my cerebellum with a great cloud of magnesium-bright
sparks that united to illuminate every neurological impulse, every conscious
thought process. And, for the first time in my adult life, I saw with dazzling
clarity what was going on, and knew with absolute certainty what I should do
next. It was, as far as I can remember, a god-like feeling.
I went upstairs to Danny’s room. I rummaged through his wardrobe, and his
chest of drawers. Nothing. Then, as if divinely guided, I stood on a chair and
lifted down the box containing his old Brio train set from the highest storage
shelf. It wasn’t even hidden. It was just lying there on top of the wooden
rails; tarnished, unostentatious, yet radiating that lethal fitness for purpose
peculiar to weapons. I touched the blade. Not especially sharp; but I wasn’t
intending to slice tomatoes with it. And the point looked very well suited to
what I had in mind.
I picked it up - heavier than I expected - and carried it quite carefully
downstairs. But by the time I left the house, I’d got used to the heft of it, and
I held it hanging down comfortably by my side. I walked along Balmoral
Road, gradually quickening my pace as I approached the junction with
Windsor Drive. I felt anticipation, but no fear. At last, after so many years of
getting everything hopelessly wrong - doing what I thought was expected of
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me rather than what I wanted, reacting rather than taking the initiative,
wanting to be liked rather than respected, and always, always, at whatever
cost, trying to be good - I was finally doing the right thing.
I was going to rescue my children from the vicious psychopathic scumbag
who had abducted them, and for that and his many other unforgiveable
crimes against me, I was going to stab him to death with a not especially
sharp German World War One bayonet.
And I would have done, I really think I would, if these events had unfolded
just an hour or so earlier. But I was too late. As soon as I turned into
Windsor Drive, it was apparent that its sylvan tranquillity had been disturbed.
Two police cars, lights flashing, were pulled up on the kerb outside the
Meadows house, in a manner that suggested they had been parked in a hurry.
A small knot of neighbours was standing at a little distance, talking in low
excited voices, and clearly trying hard not to look like the kind of people who
stop and gawp at a motorway pile-up. I tucked the bayonet up the sleeve of
my sweatshirt, and edged closer.
The front door of the Meadows house was open but I couldn’t see anything
inside. Noticing me, one of the neighbours - a self-satisfied corporate lawyer
I’d exchanged a few words with at the street party - gestured with his head for
me to join them. I did.
“What’s going on?” I asked, attempting that hushed voice reserved for
enquiries into others’ misfortune.
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“What our friends in blue call ‘a bit of a domestic’, apparently,” the lawyer
informed me, with barely concealed relish.
“It’s not funny, Chris,” a botoxed-looking blonde admonished him.
“Susannah could be badly hurt.”
“Susannah? Hurt?” I repeated, unable at this point to make any sense of the
words.
And, needing no more prompting, they filled me in on the afternoon’s events;
undoubtedly the most deliciously scandalous occurrence to take place in
Windsor Drive within living memory. My lawyer friend had heard sounds of
discord emerging from No 16 earlier in the afternoon, while out walking his
dog. A little later, the three police cars had arrived - apparently summoned by
a 999 call made by young Harrison Meadows, under the impression this his
dad was trying to kill his mum. Paul Meadows, looking dishevelled, had left
the house under police escort half an hour or so earlier; and soon afterwards,
Susannah Meadows had been been carried out on a stretcher to a waiting
ambulance. The children were now at a neighbour’s house (whence some of
these details had been obtained) awaiting the arrival of Susannah’s sister, who
was on her way from Stroud, and would be looking after them in their
mother’s absence.
And that was as much as my informants knew. They were, however,
perfectly willing to speculate further; and naturally enough, their speculation
led them directly to a supposition of marital infidelity, though there was some
disagreement about which partner was the culprit.
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“It must’ve been her, I reckon,” said my new friend. “Otherwise, why would
he have piled into her like that?”
“God, Chris,” said the blonde, “that’s a bit simplistic. Maybe she accused
him, and he gave her a slap to shut her up.”
Chris seemed impressed by this. So did the other neighbours - except one of
them, an advertising-y type wearing stupid spectacles, who said: “Yeah, but I
can’t believe Paul would do that. He always seemed such a lovely bloke.”
A couple of people grunted in agreement, but nobody said anything. There
was a bit of foot shuffling. It looked as if the group - unable to make any
sense of Paul Meadows’s actions, or this sudden eruption of ugliness in their
agreeable Aga-owning, German-car-driving, Habitat-furnished midst - was
about to break up. Nobody wanted to catch anyone else’s eye. I edged away,
unnoticed.
How did I feel at that moment? The short answer is: less mad. In fact, hardly
mad at all. I know it sounds incredible, but my delusions - at least, the more
obvious ones - had evaporated almost instantaneously. And I can pinpoint
the exact moment it happened: when the bloke in the stupid spectacles said
“he always seemed such a lovely bloke”. Seemed! Past tense! I can’t explain
how much that meant to me; the sense that, at last, the Paul Meadows Mr
Perfect myth was being exploded; that I was no longer the only person on
earth who could see him for what he was; that never again would he be able
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to make me look like a crap person, a crap husband, a crap father, leading a
crap life. It was like the most gigantic weight being lifted off my shoulders.
And yes, it did, at a stroke, make me a lot less mad. I knew straight away, for
example, that my children hadn’t been tortured or held hostage by Paul
Meadows; in the new post-Mr Perfect world, that version of reality no longer
made sense. (It sounds paradoxical, I know, but somehow, now that
everyone was starting to see that Paul Meadows was a psychopathic bastard, I
stopped thinking of him as my own personal psychopathic bastard - bent
single-mindedly on destroying me and my family. Crazy, but true.) And I
remember, as I walked slowly back along Arundel Road, being genuinely
surprised and puzzled to find Danny’s bayonet in my hand. Whatever was I
doing with that?
It was, in some ways, like waking from a nightmare. But, of course, the relief
was short-lived. Because, as the clouds of delusion abruptly lifted, so the
reality of the situation was revealed. Back home, there was still no sign of
Danny and Ellie; and now I was gripped by a different kind of fear - intense,
consuming, real. No pantomime villain bogey-men in Saab covertibles; just
the stark fact that my children had disappeared. No raging, demented fury;
just a hollow stomach, loosened bowels, sweating hands.
I tried, belatedly, to do all those sensible things I should have done as soon as
I got back from the park. I searched Danny’s room for phone numbers, but
couldn’t find any. (I remembered he had a friend call Josh, but since I didn’t
know his surname, this wasn’t much help.) I found a photo of Danny holding
Ellie on his lap, and ran back to the park with it; but it was starting to rain,
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and the place was deserted. I walked slowly back home, hoping that if I took
long enough to get there, I might find they had returned in my absence. They
hadn’t. I called the police, and reported that my children were missing.
I waited. I couldn’t sit still. I roamed around the house, up and down the
stairs, in and out of their rooms, with my arms wrapped tightly around myself,
straitjacket-style. I tried, without success, to rationalise my panic away; to
remind myself how statistically unlikely it was that they could have fallen
victim to one of the tiny handful of random child abductions that take place
each year. I tried to banish from my head the thought that I had somehow
brought this on myself; that my pathetic delusions, my sad fantasies about
being a “superdad”, my pitiful inability to behave like a grown-up inhabitant
of the real world, had directly resulted in my children - my real, living,
breathing, beloved children - disappearing from under my nose. But it was no
good, I couldn’t.
The police came - a boy and a girl, neither of whom looked much older than
Danny. They were kind and polite and gently reassuring. Of course they
understood how concerned I must be, but in the vast majority of such cases,
they told me in their soothing voices, everything turned out fine. They asked
quite a few questions, which I answered mechanically. I gave them the photo
of the children. They left, assuring me that they would report back a little
later, when they had made a few enquiries.
I called Sophie’s mobile, but it went straight through to the answer machine.
“It’s me,” I said. “The children have disappeared. I’ve just been talking to
the police. Call me.”
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And then - because I couldn’t do nothing, and I couldn’t think of anything
else to do - I went out and walked the streets, criss-crossing the
neighbourhood, peering down alley-ways and under hedges, searching for my
lost children, calling their names over and over and over again, until I was
hoarse. “Danny! Where are you? Ellie! Come back! Danny! Ellie! Please,
please come back!”
Eventually, exhausted, I went home. They weren’t there. I checked the
answering maching to see if Sophie had called me back. The light was
flashing, so I pressed play.
“Charlie, it’s me, Chrissie. The kids are here with me. Poor Dan’s pretty
upset, but they’re both fine. Ellie’s asleep. He brought all her stuff - even
bananas. He’s a brilliant kid, Charlie. Anyway, look, I think it’s best if
everyone gets a good night’s sleep. I’ll call you first thing, so we can talk
about what to do.”
I won’t even try to describe the shattering surge of relief that swept through
me. Or my incomprehending bafflement as to the exact significance of
Chrissie’s message. (How could the children be with her? How could they
possibly have got to Cornwall? Was she, perhaps, not calling from Cornwall?
But if not, where was she? What, in short, was going on?) But, by way of
penance, I will just briefly call to mind the shock of remorse I felt when she
said that thing about Danny being a brilliant kid; the implicit rebuke to me, his
father, for failing to recognise my own son’s shining qualities, was many,
many times more painful than a well aimed elbow to the eye-socket.
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I dialled 1471, but the number it gave me was a pay-phone. Chrissie was still
fighting the onward march of technology. I called the police-boy on the
mobile number he’d given me, and told him to call off the search. He
sounded genuinely pleased for me, and told me, when I started to blather
about how sorry I was for wasting valuable police time, that it had been no
problem at all, no problem at all.
Moments after I’d put the phone down, it started to ring. My hand was
shaking so much that I briefly fumbled it, before getting it to my ear. It was
Sophie, sounding terror-stricken.
“God, Charlie, what’s happened.”
“It’s all right, it’s all right. They’re OK. They’re fine. They’re with
Chrissie.”
“With Chrissie?” Understandably, this obviously made no more sense to
Sophie than if I’d told her they were at Battersea Dogs’ Home or on board a
space probe bound for Jupiter.
“In Cornwall. Look, Sophie, they’re absolutely fine. I haven’t heard the full
story yet. But she’s going to call me first thing in - “
“I’m on my way back.”
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“No. Really. There’s no need. Everything’s going to be OK. We can
manage until you . . .”
I trailed off. Vast subterranean sobs welled up and overwhelmed me. I
covered the mouthpiece with my hand. The line started to crackle and distort.
“I’m on my way,” Sophie repeated. “Look, I just want you to know - “
But I never found out what it was she wanted me to know, because at that
moment, the line went dead.
I drank every drop of alcohol in the house. (Two bottles of Tiger beer and
about two thirds of a bottle of sherry which I found in a corner of a kitchen
cupboard, where it must have been for upwards of two years.) I went to
sleep, in my clothes, on the sofa. Sophie returned in the small hours. But I
didn’t wake up until the phone rang, at about eight o’clock the next morning.
It was Chrissie. She wished me happy birthday, and then she gave me a
slightly more detailed account of the previous day’s events. It didn’t take
long. Danny had packed a bag for himself and Ellie, caught a bus to Temple
Meads, taken a train to Camborne, and then a taxi to Chrissie’s front door.
Nobody, apparently, had take any notice of a teenage boy travelling alone
with a 16 month old toddler. How had he bought the tickets and paid for the
taxi? With money that he’d saved (some of it, I later found out, acquired
through the sale of several of his PlayStation games). Motivation? He’d
unburdened himself to Chrissie at some length; but, in essence, his
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explanation was that he couldn’t stand living with his parents any longer, or
bear the thought of leaving his baby sister in their hopelessly inadequate care.
A little later, Sophie and I left to drive to Cornwall and fetch our children. As
we sped westward down the M5, we hardly spoke. But this silence was
different in quality from those of recent months. Shocked. Sober.
Reverberating with a sense of disaster narrowly - and perhaps only
temporarily - averted; and the knowledge, forced on us by our 13 year old
son, that things really had to change.
*
They have. Things really have changed. Not enough yet; not as much as they
need to. But overall, taking everything into account, and bearing in mind that
three months is nowhere near long enough to rebuild a knackered family from
scratch, we’ve definitely made some progress. The Danny Fleming Crap
Parents Protest has achieved some positive results.
Firstly and most obviously, I have - very largely - stopped being such a
dickhead. Or, to put it another way, I’ve returned to the real world after a
nine month vacation in Sad Ageing Bloke Fantasy Land. No more imaginary
toddlers. No more crazy obsessive behaviour. No more delusions about
starting a new life in Australia, or becoming a best-selling author. (Which, of
course, raises the question, why - if I’m no longer gathering material for a
book - am I writing this? I suppose it must be for the same reason as anyone
else who keeps a diary that isn’t intended for publication, though god knows
what that is.)
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All this and more, I repeat, I owe to Danny’s wise counsel. Not that he
actually said anything much. In fact, on the way back from Cornwall, he
wouldn’t speak to me or Sophie at all. And even when we held a formal
“clear the air” session the following day, we could hardly get anything out of
him. Sophie and I fed him line after line about our shortcomings as parents
and as people, and all the many ways in which we needed to clean up our act,
but we only received the occasional grunt by way of agreement. He was
much too nice to criticise us to our faces. But by his actions, he’d already
told us everything we really needed to know.
Next, I suppose I must, somewhat grudgingly, give a bit of credit to “couple
counselling”. More as a mark of how serious we were about starting a new
chapter than because we actually believed it would do any good, Sophie and I
went to Relate. At the end of our preliminary assessment interview, our
counsellor - a drab school-teacherly type called Sandra - told us that her
preliminary assessment was that we urgently needed counselling, but that we
would have to wait 10 to 12 weeks for our first appointment. As we were
leaving, down-hearted, she pressed a card into Sophie’s hand, and murmured
that, in her “solo” capacity as a relationship therapist, she had a few
vacancies for new clients. She charged a little more than Relate, but perhaps,
if we were keen to start working on our relationship sooner rather than later . .
. We went to her house for our first session a couple of days later.
Over the next five or six weeks, our relationship definitely turned a corner though no thanks, really, to Sandra’s wisdom or skill. On the contrary, the
main value of the sessions was that they united Sophie and myself in the
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hilarity and scorn aroused in both of us by much of the therapy-bollocks to
which we were subjected. We learned to laugh together again. In fact, the
main problem we had was trying not to, for fear of hurting Sandra’s feelings.
(I remember, for example, one very intense session when I was jiggling my
foot furiously, as I do when under extreme pressure. “So, Charlie,” Sandra
challenged me, “what is that foot trying to say. If it could speak, what would
it say to Sophie, right now?” Talking feet! I knew that if I caught Sophie’s
eye, all would be lost.)
Also, I have to say that some of the blindingly obvious stuff Sandra said
about how to build and maintain a healthy relationship - communicate,
negotiate, express feelings etc etc - probably did need saying. It’s amazing
how easy it is to lose sight of the blindingly obvious in the heat of battle; a
recognition, incidentally, that has caused me to reassess somewhat the value
of the service provided by people like Marcus. Sometimes, I suppose, it may
actually be worth paying two thousand quid a day to be told what any idiot
should be able to see at a glance. For Sophie and me, it was certainly worth
paying £35 an hour.
Oh yes, another thing Sandra told us was not to have sex because we weren’t
ready for it, and wouldn’t be any time soon - which, since we hadn’t laid a
finger on each other for about two years, didn’t present too much of a
problem.
Anyway, whether despite or because of Sandra’s best efforts, we started to
talk. Or, if I’m honest, I suppose what really happened is that I started to
listen to Sophie. I never had before. Yes, of course, there had been moments
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over the preceding 18 years when I’d run out of witty and fascinating things
to say, and given her the opportunity to speak. But I’d never allowed myself
to hear - really hear - what she was saying.
I practised listening in the pub after our counselling sessions. I would put two
beers on the table in front of us, then make a point of not saying anything at
all - beyond the odd interrogative grunt - until Sophie had finished hers. At
first, it was a strange and rather disconcerting experience, finding out that my
wife had feelings, views, ideas, plans, a whole inner life, of which I had no
knowledge. It was a bit like opening the fridge one day and discovering that it
was hot inside - and had, in fact, always been an oven. And quite a bit of
what I learned wasn’t especially comfortable. I was shocked, for example, to
find out the extent to which Sophie had written me off - as a burnt-out case,
one of the walking wounded, a has-been (or maybe a never-was) - over the
past couple of years. She’d felt, she told me with more candour than I really
felt necessary, that she was on her own; that I was, henceforth, just another
burden for her to shoulder. I remember, as I listened to this, gripping my
glass so tightly that it could well have shattered.
But there were real gains, too. Most notably, remembering, or maybe
discovering for the first time, how much I liked her. How interesting, and
clever and funny she was.
In the pub after our final session with Sandra (Sophie and I had just looked at
each other as we were arranging next week’s appointment, and known that we
wouldn’t be there) she told me that she’d been offered a job. I asked her to
tell me about it. She did. It was broadly in the same field as her present job,
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but with the great advantage of giving her much greater flexibility. She could
work four or even three days a week, a good part of which time she could
spend at home. The company was prestigious, and financially stable. The
money was good - quite a bit better, pro rata, than her current salary. But
what it made such an exciting prospect, she explained in a voice tremulous
with emotion, was the possibility that she could combine it with writing that
thesis on Sir Gawain. She felt it was about time she did; after all, 650 odd
years, and still no one had really nailed that elusive purity theme. Altogether,
it sounded perfect.
Except that this fantasy-job was with MoneyWomb. The offer, and the
invitation to dictate her own terms, had been made by Evan. Who knows,
quite possibly by way of pillow-talk.
I have to say, that was a problem for me. I wanted, quite urgently, to
challenge her; to ask for details of how, when and why this wonderful career
opportunity had been presented to her. Was it a lover’s gift? Or perhaps a
pay-off from an appreciative former lover? Just tell me, did you shag him to
get the job? That’s what I wanted to say. But I didn’t. And I think that
deciding not to - deciding to leave all that for another time - was probably one
of the most difficult and grown-up things I’ve ever done. I told her I thought
she should accept the job immediately.
Of course, another, lesser problem posed by this development was financial.
Could we afford to maintain our not wildly luxurious lifestyle on Sophie’s
reduced earnings - especially if her academic interests started to encroach
seriously upon her day-job?
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Eerily, bang on cue, a solution presented itself. On the very day that Sophie
handed in her notice, I received a phone call from a hyper-actively fasttalking young guy called Jamie, who explained that he’d been given my name
by Geoff Sinclair at Creative Edge. It seemed Jamie was running a small
stable of youth-oriented publications, based in Bath. He had a young “zappy”
team, who were doing a great job, but who were, he felt, perhaps a little short
of “journalistic nous”. Would I be interested in getting together for a natter
about how I might be able to supply this defiency? What he had in mind was
some kind of “editorial consultant-y” role.
It all sounded a bit flakey, but there was nothing to lose by meeting him. I
went. We talked. He showed me round the (quite impressive) offices, and
introduced me to his team Very young, very zappy. I wasn’t at all clear
about what Jamie actually wanted me to do; but, as far as I could gather, my
main function - as the only person over the age of 25 in the building - would
be to add ballast to the operation. To lend an air of calm, relaxed
professionalism to an office in which it was quite normal to ride around on a
mountain bike, smoking a giant spliff. I think, rather touchingly, they just
wanted a grown-up around the place, so that they could get a real thrill out of
behaving like naughty children. Oh yes, they also seemed very impressed by
my ability to use apostrophes correctly.
Anyway, after an excellent lunch, Jamie told me that he very much wanted
me on board. And when I hummed and hahed a bit about needing time for
my other commitments, and wanting to know more about what the job would
entail, he made it clear that I - like Sophie with her new job - could pretty
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much name my terms. Maybe I’d just to like spend the odd day in the office
for the next few weeks, and play things by ear?
And that’s what I’ve done. I’m still not a great deal clearer about what it is
I’m being paid for, but they seem to like having me there. And I must say
I’ve enjoyed it so far. Who wouldn’t enjoy sitting around drinking coffee,
surrounded by attractive young people, who occasionally ask for your opinion
or professional guidance, then listen respectfully while you deliver it? It’s
true, of course, that I know less than nothing about computer games, extreme
sports and street fashion; but I know more than all of them put together about
magazine journalism. My big toe-nail knows more than all of them put
together about magazine journalism. As a result, I’m already - after just five
days in the office - acquiring in-house guru status. Which I rather like.
And, almost too good to be true, they pay. Jamie suggested that I should
“whack in” a monthly invoice, which I did at the end of November. Three
days later, cheque in the post. I really must drop Geoff an email thanking him
for the recommendation. Time we put the banner advertising piece debacle
behind us.
What difference has all this made to daily life at 45 Arundel Road? On the
surface, not a huge amount yet. Sophie doesn’t start her new job until the
New Year; and my occasional days in Bath haven’t had a huge impact. (So
far I’ve only gone on days when Sophie had work she could do at home; but
when she starts spending a couple of days a week in London, we may need
extra help, so we’ve been looking into nurseries, childminders etc.) But the
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atmosphere in the house, the emotional climate, the mood of the Fleming
family have all changed pretty dramatically.
For Danny, I guess it’s still early days. Understandably, he probably doesn’t
yet trust us not to slip back into our old, mad, dysfunctional ways. A few
weeks of relative stability are hardly enough to wipe out the memory of all
that turmoil and insecurity we put him through. But I think I can safely say
he won’t be doing a runner again any time soon. I can tell he’s happier at
home, and not just because he spends less time locked in his room
obliterating his brain cells with death metal. He looks happier. His whole face
seems to have relaxed, and broadened. He smiles occasionally. And I’m
pretty sure that when he calls me Dad, those audible quotes have now
disappeared altogether. (Which reminds me, for some reason, that I never did
solve the problem of how to deal with my father in DofaS. Thank god, I no
longer have to worry about that.)
Outside the home, too, his life seems to be improving. A couple of nights
ago, we went to see him in the school play - a rather over-ambitious
production of Guys and Dolls. He only had a small part, but boy, did he make
the most of it. He sang, he danced, he glowed under the lights. The audience
loved him. (Pray god we don’t have another Gid on our hands.)
Afterwards, we took him - still zinging with adrenalin - for a pizza. While I
was in the loo, he confided to Sophie that one of the girls in the chorus was
rumoured to be, in his words, hot for him - and that the cast party on the last
night of the run would be his chance to put this to the test. Go on Dan, my
son!
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Ellie? The same as ever. Still a perfectly standard, in no way exceptional
representative of her age group. Unusually fond of bananas. Possibly a little
more advanced than average in terms of her language skills. Nothing special
about her, though. Not significantly different from any other 19 month old.
But so, so beautiful and beloved.
*
Mid-December
Extraordinary news. Ziggy has returned. I came down this morning and
found him curled up on the kitchen table, where he always used to sleep. God
knows where he’s been for the last six months. But wherever it was, they
certainly fed him well. The ginger bastard is fatter than ever.
*
I saw Susannah yesterday, in Waitrose. Despite a few close shaves - notably
a near-collision in the dairy aisle - we managed to avoid catching each other’s
eye. But I thought she looked remarkably well, considering. Yet more proof
of the human body’s incredible recuperative powers. According to my
corporate lawyer friend, who collared me in the park the other day, she had
quite a badly broken jaw and several cracked ribs. Apparently, though, she
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declined to press charges, preferring to seek retribution, and attempt to inflict
maximum pain, in the divorce court. From the same source, I also learned
something quite interesting about the motive for her perfect husband’s
ferocious assault. It seems the word on Windsor Drive is that it was, at least
in part, a business disagreement. Susannah, on learning of Paul’s extramarital arse-fondling activities, retaliated, so the rumour goes, by moving to
block the multi-million dollar sale of Ikonnixx Limited - which, as a major
shareholder and board director, she might have succeeded in doing.
Aggrieved at this prospect, he beat the shit out of her, while their children
looked on.
Obviously, I have no way of knowing if this version of events is true. But it
has a plausible ring to it - at least for anyone, like me, willing to believe the
worst of Paul Meadows. One day, I suppose, it will be necessary for me to do
some serious thinking about my brief relationship with him; to ask myself
some hard questions about what it was in him that triggered such an extreme
response in me; why, in short, he drove me nuts. But not yet. For now, I
think I would prefer simply to contemplate him as he must be now - cast off
by his wife and separated from his kids; discredited in his personal and
business life; shacked up, presumably, with a girl half his age, who will either
tire of him or start to get on his nerves any time now.
Yessss!
Speaking of the perils of shacking up with minors, I hear Gid is back. I
haven’t seen or spoken to him, but Sophie had a kiss-and-make-up drink with
Jen the other day. Actually, when I say a drink, I mean a fair-sized bucket of
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Chardonnay each - enough, anyway, to enable Jen to convince Sophie that
there had never been anything untoward about our relationship. (Though,
judging by the state of her when she came home, Sophie would have been
equally willing to believe that Jeffrey Archer was in line for the Nobel Prize
for literature.)
Warm, sisterly feeling thus restored, Jen spent the rest of the evening trying
to explain why she had taken Gid back. Pity mixed fairly equally with a
desire to gloat, basically. It sounds as if he’s pretty much a broken man - his
confidence shattered by his treatment at the hands of the lovely Janine, and
his professional credibility in tatters following the Cornish detective fiasco.
But the real disaster - or so Jen told Sophie - is that his voice has “gone”. I’m
not clear whether this is supposed to be a physiological or psychosomatic
condition, but either way, what a tragedy for the nation - for that thrillingly
flexible organ no longer to be capable of delighting us with its limitless range
of tones and inflections. How will the advertising industry manage without
him?
I suppose I should be more sympathetic. But somehow with Gid, it’s hard to
take misfortune seriously. You just feel that if his house burned down, and
his wife and kids were incinerated by the blaze, he would be left in the
smouldering ruins giving the performance of his life as Slightly Charred
Survivor. Maybe I’ll give him a call. I noticed Bentall’s were still advertising
for an in-store Santa in yesterday’s Evening Post.
*
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Postcard from Marcus: sun-kissed olive groves of Andalucia.
Why oh why oh why oh why oh why didn’t I do this 10 years earlier? Missing the kids, but
absolutely nothing else about my former life. Might head south for a North African
Christmas. On the other hand, might not. Hang loose, bigbro. M.
I wonder if he’s keeping a diary? I think the adventures of a management
consultant turned bare-foot hippy, busking his way with his guitar through
southern Europe and beyond, might have real international best-seller
potential.
I might suggest it to him. On the other hand, I might not. I think I prefer
Marcus poor but happy.
*
Only a week until Christmas, and since I seem to be tying up loose ends, I
suppose I really should mention my recent encounter with “Amber”.
Not that recent, actually. It happened a while ago - not long after Cornwall. I
bumped into her in Park Street. Literally. I was reversing the buggy out of
Blackwell’s, and, deep in conversation, she walked straight into me. For a
moment, we were nose to nose. There was absolutely no possibility of
pretending we hadn’t seen each other. I gaped. As ever, she’d deprived me of
the power of speech. She gestured to the group of studenty-looking types she
was with to go on without her, and said “Charlie!” - quite warmly, but with
just a hint of “Oh shit, how am I going to get out of this?”
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“You’re back!” I gasped.
“Mm. Kind of.”
What did she mean by that? And what was it that was different about her?
Her hair, maybe. She was exchanging pleasantries with Ellie now - playing
for time, I thought. The ball, conversationally speaking, seemed to be in my
court.
“Great to see you, Amber. But what about ‘uni’ - haven’t you started yet?”
She didn’t reply immediately. And when she did, she’d obviously decided to
set the record straight.
“Look, Charlie - I’m really sorry, but I knew this was going to happen, sooner
or later. That we’d bump into each other like this. So I made up my mind that
when we did, I’d tell you the truth . . .”
And she did. Or, at least, I think she did, unless her new story was another
elaborately concocted fabrication. And the truth is, she isn’t Amber from
Adelaide, but Rachel from Billericay. And she isn’t a psychology
postgraduate, but a first year at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School. She
wants to be an actor (which, incidentally, explains why she was interested in
my friendship with Gid). Why the fictional persona? Two reasons. First,
she’d heard that Aussie nannies were so highly sought after that they
command premium rates of pay. And second . . . she squirmed a bit telling
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me this . . . it was kind of an acting challenge. Could she stay in character 24
hours a day, for eight and a half months, without anybody rumbling her?
She looked pleased when I told her that I hadn’t suspected for a moment; that
I’d believed 100% in “Amber”. What I didn’t say - because I didn’t realise it
until after we’d said our somewhat goodbyes - was that it had been “Amber”
that I was so agonisingly in love with; that direct, all-seeing, essentially
Antipodean green gaze of hers.
I didn’t - interestingly, I suppose - feel a thing for Rachel.
*
Mum called today - the first time we’d spoken on the phone (or at all, for that
matter) for nearly four years, I reckon. She was sorry she hadn’t responded
sooner to the note I sent her over three weeks ago; but yes, she and Bob
would like to get together over the Christmas break - if we could still manage
it, at such short notice. I said we could. They’re coming for lunch on Boxing
Day. Nice. I wonder if I could persuade Chrissie to come too?
Sadly, Bill and Eileen won’t be joining us. They’re off on a world cruise Bill apparently wanting to disapprove of as many new places as possible in
the time remaining to him. (Though I have to say that last time we saw them,
when they came down for Danny’s play, he seemed in remarkably good
health for a dying man.)
*
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Last night, after the children were asleep, Sophie and I did something we used
to do, but haven’t done for years. We made Christmas cards. Well, actually,
Sophie made them and I cut out bits of silver foil, and held the glue, and tried
to think of a different witty thing to write inside each one.
Then, when we’d finished, there on the sitting room floor, surrounded
by Christmas card debris, we did something else we used to do, but haven’t
done for years.
I’m not quite clear whether Sandra’s ban was still in force.
January
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Monday 6 January
Funny to think how much has changed since this time last year. Well, more
bizarre and slightly disturbing, really. (Disturbing because, I suppose, if your
life can spin through 360 in 12 months once, it can do it again. Who knows,
maybe I’ll be starting next year as a trappist monk or recovering from gender
reassignment surgery.)
Anyway, for once the new year really does feel like a fresh start - not least
because I’m alone in the house. Sophie has gone off to London for her first
two days in her new job. She’s staying with Veronica tonight, then coming
back here tomorrow evening. The fact that she will be working very closely
with Evan doesn’t concern me at all. Not in the slightest. We trust each
other. On Wednesday, she’ll be working here, while I spend the day with the
Bath Posse. Then on Thursday and Friday, she’s going to start work on
planning her thesis.
Danny went back to school today. Unprecedentedly - for any Monday, but
especially the first day of term - he was up, showered, dressed and
rucksacked in plenty of time. And he actually left at about 8.15, the time he
usually starts to contemplate hauling himself out of bed. No way of knowing,
obviously, but a powerful instinct tells me that he might have been meeting
someone at the bus-stop, or something of the sort. Maybe I’ll ask him - in an
unembarrassing, non-intrusive way, naturally - when he comes home.
Ellie, meanwhile, is spending an experimental first morning with a
childminder, called Sukie - who seems very nice, despite being named after a
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cat. She looks after three others of roughly Ellie’s age, so if it goes OK this
could become a regular arrangement. She certainly seemed very much at
home there. When I left her, she was helping one of the other little monsters
to re-organise the contents of the fridge.
Christmas was good; in fact, almost Wonderful Life-esque. (Man loses it,
allows life to spin out of control, reaches rock bottom - but, in the nick of
time, is given second chance, regains it, gets life back under control, finds
sense of purpose, rediscovers the happiness to be had from hearth and home
and family, sings carols.) At least, I had quite a powerful sense of having
been reprieved; and not just excused for my many and heinous
misdemeanours, but undeservedly rewarded.
I was going to say that, with just the four of us, Christmas day was quiet. Not
true, in terms of decibels, however. The drum-kit we gave Danny saw to that.
He woke us at about 6.30, beating hell out of it in the sitting room where
Sophie and I had set it up (all those years assembling flat pack furniture
finally paying off).
I went down to remonstrate with him. But when I saw him there, perched on
his stool in just a pair of boxer shorts, attempting to twirl the sticks Spinal
Tap-fashion before launching into another assault on his cymbals, I relented.
“Happy Christmas, Dan,” I said. “Good present?”
“Totally sick!” he replied - which I deduced from his facial expression must
mean something like, “I should jolly well say so!”
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I went into the kitchen to make coffee. As I reached to switch on the light, I
heard a low contented yowl from Ziggy. But he wasn’t in his usual place on
the table. He was stretched out full length on the floor, over by the radiator.
For a moment, I thought he might be hurt. And when I looked more closely,
there seemed to be some strange protuberance attached to - or perhaps
emerging from - his belly. Still bleary-eyed and sleep-befuddled, I must have
stared at him for a good 30 seconds before I was able to make any sense of
what I was seeing. Then I yelled to Danny in the sitting room, “Come and see
this, Dan! You won’t believe what Ziggy has done.”
Danny came, still holding his drum-sticks. He crouched next to me, to look at
Ziggy.
“Cool, he’s had kittens!”
“Five of them,” I counted.
Just then Sophie appeared, carrying Ellie - who, unbelievably, had only just
woken, half an hour so into her brother’s pre-dawn drum serenade. And the
four of us watched in gob-smacked wonder as Ziggy proudly suckled his
kittens.
Afterwards, Danny took Ellie into the sitting room, to help her open the
presents waiting for her under the tree. And Sophie and retired to bed, where
we drank our coffee, and once again showed scant regard for Sandra’s wise
advice.
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The next day, Mum and Bob came for lunch. Chrissie couldn’t make it, but
she did call - from a neighbour’s house - and we passed the phone around so
that everyone could talk to her, as fond families do when they can’t be
together on special occasion. Mum was fine, really. And though Bob told us
a great deal more than we wanted to know about why the XJ6 was, beyond
compare, the finest car ever built by Jaguar, we were largely successful in
steering him away from topics such as what he would do with asylum seekers,
what Norman Tebbit said to him at a Rotary lunch, and why Nelson Mandela
should still be incarcerated. We did invite them to stay, but sadly, they had a
social engagement in Boreham Wood that evening, and had to leave straight
after tea.
So that was our Christmas - complete with in-house miraculous birth. And
yes, I do realise that things are going to get a lot tougher in the months ahead;
that the “phew, our family isn’t about to disintegrate” euphoria will soon wear
off; that Sophie and I are going to have to work very, very hard at behaving
like grown-ups if we don’t want to find ourselves back where we were a year
ago - or just four months ago, for that matter. I’m not under any illusions at
all.
Speaking of which, I really can’t see any good reason to continue writing this.
It’s a pity about Diary of a Superdad. I still think it was a brilliant concept; an
idea with genuine international best-seller potential. But I realise now that I
was never the right man for the job. It seems bizarre that I ever thought I
might be.
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But I can’t help wondering - purely hypothetically, of course - if there might
be a market for a novel about a bloke who stays at home looking after a baby,
and doesn’t notice that he’s slowly going mad?
Nah. Maybe not.
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