‘Did you think up that game show with the nice Mr Tyrant? The one that makes people very rich?’ asks Mrs Smith.
‘Or Cold Feet?’ asks Linda hopefully.
‘No, not my channel,’ I add apologetically. Clearly I’ve failed to impress anyone.
‘Oh. Well, what did you think of?’ asks Sarah.
Mercifully the doorbell rings and this causes such concern that everyone, other than Darren and Lucy, leaves the kitchen.
‘No one ever rings the door bell,’ he explains. They all come round the back. It must be a delivery.’
I nod as though this outlandish behaviour was second nature to me, rather than the extraordinary adventure it is.
‘Why didn’t you tell them the name of your show?’ he asks.
I stare at him sulkily. ‘I guess I didn’t think it was their cup of tea,’ I mutter.
‘Oh, you took a guess that they weren’t part of your 8.9 million. Very astute.’
I glare at him.
He is so smug. He is so cocksure. He is so sexy.
I think it’s the mouth.
10
I am unsure how I got myself into this predicament. I can’t remember the point when I actually agreed to accompany Darren, Charlotte, Lucy and baby Ben to the swimming baths. The noise and confusion that reign in the Smith household are so extreme that it is possible I didn’t agree at all but simply was unable to resist their collective force.
I don’t do public baths. I do health spas and private gyms. I can feel the foot diseases waiting in the cracks of the tiles and despite the gallons of chlorine that the local council has tipped into the pool, I am sure that I am about to swim in neat child’s wee. To add insult, I catch a glimpse of myself in the steamy mirror. It’s bad. I didn’t bring a costume with me and therefore I’ve been forced into borrowing Sarah’s. Although there is evidence that Sarah has been a very attractive woman in her time, she has had three babies and has let her figure go somewhat. I get the feeling sartorial elegance is not the top of her list of priorities. The bathing suit is high street rather than high fashion. I did explain to Sarah and Shelly that I only ever wear black. They smiled and handed me this monstrosity. I think that initially it was a mass of fluorescent flowers, which thankfully have faded. The cut is all wrong. Damn, why didn’t I bring my Calvin Klein costume? It’s cut to maximize the length of the leg and minimize the waist. It’s padded at the breast, creating a look that is undisputedly flattering. The floral number is baggy at the crotch and hips, plus the straps keep sliding off my shoulders. As if the possibility that I might fall out of the suit altogether isn’t terrifying enough, suddenly I find that I’m alone in the changing rooms with two small people.
The panic rises. Not just because I haven’t shaved my legs in over a week, but because Charlotte and Lucy are both looking up at me with expectancy in their eyes. It appears that everyone – Darren, his mum, Sarah, Shelly and these kids – all seem to think I am in charge.
And that I’m capable of it.
Which, I am, of course. I mean, I run a show that pulls in millions of viewers per week, for God’s sake. I control budgets of hundreds of thousands of pounds, create revenues of millions. I can undress two small children and dress them again in suitable attire.
Surely.
They don’t stand still. They slither and slide all over the place. They don’t want to wear costumes anyway, much less their armbands, which I abandon altogether. It seems that no sooner have I got the appropriate limb in the appropriate hole than they take it out again. I do manage to get the costumes on but one is inside-out and the other is back-to-front. I realize that above all else, I must remain calm. Like any confrontation it is important not to let the adversary know that you feel menaced or panicked. I can outstare four-and six-year-olds – definitely. If only they would stay still.
‘Charlotte, don’t run. The floor’s slippery. You might hurt yourself.’ I try to make this sound like advice or a warning. It comes out sounding like I’m threatened or threatening. ‘Lucy, we didn’t bring your pink costume. You have