offer an explanation. It isn’t until Lucy is on to her second chocolate shake and I’ve taken Charlotte to the loo twice (unaided) that it crosses my mind to check my mobile messages. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten to call Fi or Bale. It’s not as though I’m having a good time. I mean, I’m not shopping or clubbing. Normally I check my messages every twenty-five minutes when I’m out of the studio.
I’ve had six calls.
Hi, Cas. It’s Fi. I reviewed the files through the night and have a shortlist of three possible scenarios for next week’s show. Should I interview them? If so, you’ll need to release more budget. Call me.
Hi, Cas, it’s Josh. Issie told me that you are chasing some bloke halfway up the country. What’s the angle? Is he a transvestite? Now that would make a good show. Well, call me when you get a mo.
Cas. It’s Fi again. Er, I haven’t heard back from you so I had to make the decision to go ahead with the interviews. I think I’ve found a substitute. Hope this is OK. But I didn’t really have a choice. What with the timetable being so tight. Can you call me? Er, say hi to Darren for me. Tell him I was the one in baby-blue cashmere. No, scrub that.
Cas, it’s Issie. Weeeellllllll? How goes it with Mr Northern Hunk?
Jocasta, it’s your mother. I do hate these things. Can you hear me?
Cas. Bale. Call in.
So nothing urgent. I switch the phone back to the message facility.
By the time we drop the kids back with Sarah, I am exhausted and barely have the energy to turn down the offer of staying for supper. Which under normal circumstances I’d turn down with extreme force.
‘Stay – we’re having lasagne and Mam and Dad are down the pub, Richard’s at Shelly’s, Linda’s here. There will be no one at home. You’ll be rattling around an empty house.’
Hearing this, I get another surge of dynamism and almost wrench Darren’s arm out of its socket as I pull him from their kitchen and bundle him into the car. Laughing, he turns the ignition.
‘Had enough of kids for one day?’
I feel a twinge of guilt. Perhaps he wanted to stay and was too polite to contradict me; after all, he probably doesn’t get to see his family much, being based in London. But my arms are aching with playing ‘one, two, three, swwiiinnnng’. I smell of baby puke, my mind is fried with coming up with answers to the perpetual ‘why’ question (nearly all of which had come from Darren). Most importantly, I haven’t reapplied my make-up since leaving the swimming pool.
‘To be honest, yes. I’m not used to kids. No nieces or nephews.’
‘Some of your friends must have children, though,’ he comments.
I think about it. No, not really. Women in TV rarely nod towards their reproductive capacity and my friends in other lines of work seem to disappear once they have babies. I suppose it’s because we keep very different hours.
‘No.’ I smile at Darren and decide to confess, ‘In fact, until today I don’t think I’ve ever held a child, or dressed one, brushed its hair, taken it to the loo, changed a nappy or fed it.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ I confirm.
I’m slightly shamefaced and don’t know how Darren will take this. He obviously values these motherly skills in his women. Indeed all men like to see a woman behave perfectly with kids. Most women like to think they have a natural ability to be patient, entertaining and loving. Not me. I’m not bothered. Well, I was keen to put the shoes on the right feet but that was because I hate to be inadequate at anything. As a kid myself, I didn’t like anyone else winning musical chairs. Second place is nowhere. If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well. That’s always been my motto. It has nothing to do with impressing Darren. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I sneak a look at him to check his reaction to my confession. Richard’s car is so tiny that Darren is almost folded double. He’s concentrating on the curling roads. He puts on the long beam lights and the windscreen wipers are valiantly trying to clear the pouring rain. I fear it’s a losing battle. Without taking his eyes off the road, he mumbles, ‘You’re amazing.’
I’m amazing! I’m floating on air. My bum is absolutely refusing to stay in the car seat.