padded at the breast, creating a look that is undisputedly flattering. The floral number is baggy at the crotch and hips, plus the straps keep sliding off my shoulders. As if the possibility that I might fall out of the suit altogether isn’t terrifying enough, suddenly I find that I’m alone in the changing rooms with two small people.
The panic rises. Not just because I haven’t shaved my legs in over a week, but because Charlotte and Lucy are both looking up at me with expectancy in their eyes. It appears that everyone – Darren, his mum, Sarah, Shelly and these kids – all seem to think I am in charge.
And that I’m capable of it.
Which, I am, of course. I mean, I run a show that pulls in millions of viewers per week, for God’s sake. I control budgets of hundreds of thousands of pounds, create revenues of millions. I can undress two small children and dress them again in suitable attire.
Surely.
They don’t stand still. They slither and slide all over the place. They don’t want to wear costumes anyway, much less their armbands, which I abandon altogether. It seems that no sooner have I got the appropriate limb in the appropriate hole than they take it out again. I do manage to get the costumes on but one is inside-out and the other is back-to-front. I realize that above all else, I must remain calm. Like any confrontation it is important not to let the adversary know that you feel menaced or panicked. I can outstare four-and six-year-olds – definitely. If only they would stay still.
‘Charlotte, don’t run. The floor’s slippery. You might hurt yourself.’ I try to make this sound like advice or a warning. It comes out sounding like I’m threatened or threatening. ‘Lucy, we didn’t bring your pink costume. You have to put this blue one on. Now please, stop crying. Just one more arm. Please.’ Both the girls are crying (although I suspect Charlotte’s are crocodile tears) and I am closer to tears than I’ve been in twenty-five years, when another mother offers to help.
They’re not yours, are they, pet?’
‘No.’ I’m irritated and relieved all at once. They aren’t hers either, are they? But, in a blink of an eye, she has managed to get them both into their costumes, the right way out, and facing the right direction. Why couldn’t I? Can it be that there is a mother gene that makes this stuff easier once you are a mum? Not that I ever want to be a mother, not in my wildest dreams. In fact, it’s close to my worst nightmare. But I do like to be able to do things properly. I don’t like to fail.
I bribe the girls into not telling Uncle Darren that the nice lady had to help with dressing them. I offer them each a pound but Charlotte informs me that the going rate is a new outfit for her Barbie doll and a trip to McDonald’s. I would be annoyed but actually I admire her business acumen and I’m sure that she’ll go far.
Darren doesn’t comment that we’ve been in the dressing-room for forty-five minutes but waves cheerfully from the baby pool, where he is confidently handling a happy, gurgling Ben.
I lower myself into the pool and try not to think of the wee. I hand him the armbands for the girls. Making it clear that it’s his turn.
‘Will you hold Ben?’ I nod, as I don’t want to open my mouth for fear of what will go in it. Darren grins and hands him over. I’m relieved that he doesn’t start to cry. I smile winningly at him and hope that my legendary way with men works on someone so young. Darren hoists himself out of the pool.
He is divine.
He must work out. His muscles are taut and developed. He’s lean and tanned. I watch the pool water glisten as it clings to his shoulders and legs. I’d glisten too if I was clinging to that Adonis. I’m thrilled to note that his strong chest and legs are hairy but his back is clean. My nipples harden and chafe against the costume. Bloody cheap thing, no lining.
Darren puts the armbands on the girls and lowers them into the pool with me. He sits on the side, dangling his legs in the water. He drags his feet unselfconsciously through the water, bending and straightening his knees. My knees have turned to Play-Doh. My entire body is on fire. I cannot drag my gaze from him. He is utterly, utterly stunning. From his tanned feet, with neat square nails – rather than the yellow, curled nails that most men choose to sport – to his long, tight, muscular legs, to his neat, flat stomach. Six pack, forget it – this is an entire shelf at the off-licence. I want to entangle my fingers in his chest hair. Lose them there and never ever find them again. His shoulders are as rigid as they are broad. They look almost polished. He’s staring out at the children and not aware that I’m studying every little droplet of chlorine that’s clinging to him. His glossy hair curls rebelliously at the nape of his neck and I’m envious. I want to be that lock of hair; I want to be the drops of chlorine, pool water and pee.
Since he’s occupied watching the children splash and bob, I risk taking a look at his swimwear.
WHHHOOOAAA-HHHOOO.
Hello, Big Boy.
‘Should I take Ben now?’
‘Erm?’
I nearly drop the baby with the embarrassment. Why did he have to choose that moment to start up a conversation? I avoid his eye as I pass the baby to him. I feel like a kid caught with her hand in the biscuit jar. I force myself to look at Darren and he’s grinning again. Well, I’m pleased to be so amusing! Irritated and flustered, I sulkily pull myself on to the side of the pool as he climbs in. He tries to make conversation but I won’t be mollified. It isn’t until I catch him furtively checking out my tits that I start to brighten up. In fact, I feel considerably happier.
When we leave the pool we go to McDonald’s. Darren is blatantly a bit surprised by my choice of dining venue. I smile and don’t offer an explanation. It isn’t until Lucy is on to her second chocolate shake and I’ve taken Charlotte to the loo twice (unaided) that it crosses my mind to check my mobile messages. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten to call Fi or Bale. It’s not as though I’m having a good time. I mean, I’m not shopping or clubbing. Normally I check my messages every twenty-five minutes when I’m out of the studio.
I’ve had six calls.
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
