The newspaper starts to blot with my tears. Big, dark patches on the off-white paper as I look at a selection of pictures I had left up on Facebook because to remove them meant I possessed some sort of vain streak. Pictures of me looking drained and frazzled with the kids, nights out where I’m swinging from lamp posts, a particularly terrible one where I’ve raised my middle finger at Matt for pointing a camera in my face at 3.30 in the morning. And such horrible words, twisted out of sense and meaning into something incredibly mean. Ben comes and sits next to me as I turn into his shoulder.
‘C’mon, sis. Just, you know, it’ll be tomorrow’s chip paper.’
‘What will be?’
It’s Matt at the door, with Millie and her bed head. My damp cheeks give me away and I hand him the paper. The colour rises in his cheeks to read it as Adam takes Millie away to distract her with the kettle being boiled for teas.
‘Complete and utter fucker. If I ever get hold of this …’
I’m a wreck. Sobbing into Matt’s dressing gown, I’m a complete and utter sleep-deprived wreck. Matt keeps patting me on the back between sentences as he reads on. I hear the kettle steaming into action and watch as the sky changes colour behind his back. Light streaming into the kitchen. But all I see is grey, a little like mouldy meat.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Please tell me that’s not poo.’
Annie looks down at the chair where something brown and foamy is smeared across the seat. I study it hard and give it a sniff. Annie, in a wonderfully luxurious cashmere suit, cranes her head around, studying her backside.
I raise my hands to the air. ‘Nutella! All clear.’
I dust her bum off as Millie looks on from her high-chair, curiously trying to work out our relationship. You’re that woman who sometimes comes round and hugs me relentlessly because you really want a baby. But you always look smarter than Mummy and you have an actual hair style. You also don’t seem too fazed that you nearly sat on some chocolate/poo and ruined your three-hundred-pound suit. Nor does Mummy when you ring her up post-copulation to ask her how many pillows you should put under your bum for the sperm to swim down at the most advantageous angle. Some would call that a friend.
‘So tell me again what Matt did?’
Annie is here this morning in some sort of professional legal friend capacity to lend counsel and listen to how I, Jools Campbell, lowly mother of four, has seemingly got herself involved in the most bizarre celebrity situation ever. She sits there cradling her Bob the Builder mug while entertaining Millie with her burnt orange Kate Spade bag. I look over at my New Look carryall – suffering from a bad case of handbag dermatitis as bits of faux leather peel off to expose the lining.
‘He phoned the paper to get them to print a retraction but they refused so he threatened to sue …’
‘… which resulted in …’
‘Well, nothing. I think the lady may have even laughed.’
Annie shrugs her shoulders as if to say rightly so. That sort of thing would take power, money, time, and more money: something the Campbell collective weren’t really known for.
‘So then he called this woman.’
Luella Bendicks: publicist/media strategist/celebrity agent. Which is the reason Annie is here today: to hold my hand and appear official when Luella comes round this morning to give me the onceover. Not knowing where to go to after being so sorely misrepresented in the Elswood article, we emailed Luella asking for some advice. She got back to us within minutes to tell me to free up Friday morning, she was coming round. It was very direct, very to the point. Matt said maybe that’s who we needed.
So as we await her arrival, I scrape Nutella off chairs and Annie and Millie make their way through the articles plastered to our stained kitchen walls in the same way a serial killer might plot out potential victims. My current bête noire is the magazine that has me in their ‘Circle of Shame’ section, where a big flake of croissant sits nestled on my neck like a huge wart.
‘“Maybe Jools Campbell could fill in for Kerry Katona and her infamous Iceland ads …” That’s a bit harsh, I still go there occasionally to get potato waffles.’
I laugh. She cradles Millie’s little head in her hands.
‘Look at the scraps your mama gets in, eh? Lucky she’s got me on her side.’
Annie was my saving grace at university. When other friends found out about the pregnancy, there was mostly pity and platitude and people who claimed to be friends but skulked away into the shadows of the pubs and £1 a pint clubs thinking it was far less damaging to hide away and not be around this big rotund reminder of alternative realities and how skewed one’s life can become. Annie was not one of those people. She helped Matt and I find somewhere to live, she chose us a cot, she was there in the waiting room at the hospital. And she has been there ever since, a sobering reminder of what my life could have been (young professional; going on city breaks; proper skincare regime) but championing my family every moment she can. She goes on to start reading the printouts Matt has made of the Mumsnet boards; some of the people on there have really got their jute knickers in a twist over me, using it as a chance to have a bragathon over who is the most organic person in the land.
‘How’s Matt been in all of this?’
The one thing about Annie is that she knows all too well the circumstances under which Matt and I got together and the precarious state of our foundations. I secretly think she’s not entirely sure how that came about or how we’ve lasted this long.
‘You know. He’s Matt – he’s just been there. He’s been sorting my shit out.’
She nods. That sentence defines Matt and I down to a tee. It’s never been fireworks or raging passion – just a sweet man who’s stuck around and got me through the everyday. She knows I could have it a lot worse. I could have a liar or a cheat or a wife beater. But once when we were drunk, she asked me if I’d settled for him. I was indignant at the time, exclaiming my love and how I was lucky to have such a wonderful man in my life. But she said what I guess everyone had been thinking: did I marry him because that was the right thing to do as opposed to what I really wanted? I’d lie to say I don’t think about that now, but when you have a family everything becomes counter-weighted against the children, and their opinions on relationships, life, and beyond being forged by this paragon of marriage belonging to their parents. All I knew was that abandonment had the capacity to tear big holes into some part of your brain, making it one of the worst things you could do to anyone. It had always left me where I am.
The doorbell rings and I go to answer it, seeing a fuzzy image of someone with hair like lacquer in the glass. A shiny, short-fringed bob, the sort you see on Lego men or medieval serfs. I open the door and it’s almost as if she’s attached to the letterbox with how quickly she seems to get through into my house.
‘Luella Bendicks. You must be Jools. A real pleasure.’
The handshake reverbs through my arm and into my spine as she gives me the once over. I’m braving some black jeans and a vest top, along with trainers and a cardigan. I’m feeling very Fearne Cotton with a baby pouch, minus the eyeliner and rainbow manicure. Luella is bedecked in a printed wrap dress along with black tights, ankle boots, and a black military trench. The accessories are very vintage, the bag is most definitely very expensive. I pray she doesn’t put it in a Nutella patch. I invite her through to my kitchen and introduce her to Annie. There’s a bit of territorial eyeing up as Annie stands, looking superior and important in cashmere.
‘Annie’s a good friend of mine. After the whole Johnno Elswood debacle, I thought I needed someone here I could trust.’
I hope that doesn’t make me sound cynical and cagey. Luella doesn’t seem to mind as she starts to rant.
‘Hmmm, don’t get me started on that wanker, Johnno. The bloke is an arsehole. Don’t worry, we’ll get him back. Is this the Millie from the clip?’
Millie’s been staring at her since she entered the room. I think it’s the shiny hair and
the accessories. She doesn’t see those too often.
‘Yes.’
‘And the others?’
‘They’re in school.’
‘Of course.’
Annie shrugs her shoulders at me as Luella dives in her bag, making herself comfortable. She pulls out a couple of folders decorated with Post-it notes and scrapbook cuttings.
‘Can I get you a …’
‘Tea. Green if you have it, if not then just black, no sugar.’
I nod as Annie opens her eyes widely at me.
‘So I’ll get down to business. Bar the Johnno Elswood thing, have you spoken to anyone else?’
I shake my head. I’m wondering if she’s meaning literally because I have spoken to other people in terms of not being completely mute.
‘Well, then let me lay it all down for you. The Elswood thing was a big fucking mess. The bloke wanted to drag your name through the mud to sell a few copies of the paper. I suspect though – actually I know – that Tommy McCoy and him have a history. I wouldn’t be surprised if he paid him to dish the dirt.’
Annie and I nod to keep up. Millie’s still staring at her hair.
‘But put that to one side, this thing has drawn out quite the debate. Everyone’s got something to say about it. Look at this.’
She pulls out something that looks like a pie chart with my name on.
‘You were the eighth most talked about person in the newspapers last week. That’s not bad.’
I turn to study the chart. I beat a TOWIE pregnancy and the fact that Primark have started selling high heels for toddlers. I’m not sure what to say – surely the idea would be for no one to be talking about me at all, to have this disappear into thin air. I feel my reaction is not as animated as she’d like. She pulls out several articles that I haven’t seen before.
‘The thing is, you are quite a big fly in the McCoy camp and he’s come back fighting, even got the wife on his side.’
She puts a picture of the perfect waif that is Kitty McCoy out in front of me, cradling a watermelon like she might have given birth to it. Her hair is beauty queen, her teeth sparkle like nuggets of chewing gum. I wonder how she housed those four children inside that body. I skim the article and, when asked about me, she says that it’s a shame I ‘flew off the handle like that; my husband was only trying to help.’
‘Condescending little vixen, eh? Don’t worry, if we want, I have early modelling shots of Kitty back from when she used to pose in cheap cotton nighties for the covers of romantic fiction. Some of it looks like porn.’
My mouth flies open at the thought.
‘They don’t want anyone telling them their brand of healthy living bullshit is just that. So Tommy has upped his game as well. The whole incident increased his media presence threefold so he’s taking advantage. We’ve got chat show appearances, recipe corners, and next week …’
She dives in to get flyers.
‘The signing of his new book in Covent Garden while he tries to break the world record for pancake tossing. You are a big problem to them and their type of brand management.’
I cock my head to one side to get to grips with being this big a problem to their food empire.
‘McCoy is everywhere. Newspapers, TV, books, and radio; he has his hand in everything and it’s all fricking press manipulation. It’s like subliminal advertising, the more you see his face in the press, the more you’re reminded you want to eat his sauce and buy his book.’
But not for me. The sight of his face now provokes a response not unlike nausea.
‘So when someone like you comes along and says different, that his brand is bogus, it snaps people out of their McCoy love fest and makes them question their brand loyalty. Which is why I fricking … love you.’
Luella is a hurricane of information. I am at a loss for words but must admit to feeling quite impressed by her wealth of knowledge on the matter. Yet I’m not sure what her intention is. Something in her tone and behind her eyes speaks that she wants to ruin the McCoys in painful and intrusive ways. I just want to let people know that my kids eat all right, my daughter’s name is Millie, and that Johnno Elswood is a prick who deserves to get a bad case of genital warts.
‘Errrm, so what do we do from now?’
‘Well, first up, I’ve got you an interview with Jill Robertson over at The Guardian. She’s the Family editor. And that trumps Johnno and his shit journalism and tabloid crappery. We can get your story across and print the truth.’
This makes my whole body lighten a little as the stress, worry, and fatigue of the last few days seems to evaporate off me. This is what I want. Yet The Guardian is a little highbrow. I’ll have to get my thesaurus out, work out how far left I really am. Luella is flicking through papers while Annie keeps her distance, studying her every move.
‘So, first things first. I need to know about you. Can you cook?’
‘Well, I can throw meals together but I’m no Raymond Blanc.’
Luella laughs. Not really laughing, kind of like a big horsey chuckle. I’m slightly offended.
‘Oh, I didn’t think you were that for a second but on a scale of one to ten.’
I think for a moment. Being asked to rate your skills as a chef is almost like asking someone to assess their skills in bed. Surely you need to ask the other person involved? I mean, even when the food/sex is average at best, it’s still there and it’s still edible/pleasurable. I have flourishes of good cooking – I can whip up macaroni cheese with my eyes closed. I have flourishes of days when the meatballs could break holes in the windows. Again, like sex, it ends up being very experimental, it sometimes doesn’t work, and sometimes I’m too lazy to do it properly.
‘I’d say a safe six.’
She furrows her brow.
‘And a half? I did Home Economics at school. I got an A for my fruit scones.’
Annie interrupts. ‘She’s selling herself short. The girl’s got some skills. You do that nice cake with the stuff.’
Annie grips my hand while I sit there trying to work out which stuff cake she’s referring to. Luella scribbles something down.
‘I mean, could you win MasterChef?’
‘Ummm, no.’
Luella twists her face around, looking a little disappointed.
‘But that’s not how I cook. I don’t do fancy molecular gastronomy restaurant food. To be honest, being in the middle of a crowded kitchen while a balding, middle-aged man shouts at me is not my idea of fun.’
She laughs a little under her breath, seeming a bit more interested by me.
‘But you like food?’
‘Well, yeah. Not sure if it always likes me though.’
I pat my thighs at this point. Luella smiles.
‘And do you have a food ethos?’
I scrunch my forehead. Ethos? ‘Not sure if there’s a niche for “5 a day with a little of what you fancy and not too much crap.”’
She laughs again. I may be winning her over.
‘I mean, it’s trying to be healthy. But we indulge in stuff we shouldn’t and I cheat and it’s not macrobiotic and organic but somewhere in the middle.’
She scribbles this down. My upside down reading skills scan ‘needs definition.’ I hope that’s not a reference to my thighs. The fact is, I’m somewhere between Nigella and Delia, I reckon. I don’t dangle baby courgettes pornographically in my mouth nor have a larder full of imported ingredients but it’s sensible, reliable cooking replacing the twinsets with something a bit funkier. Again, not sure if there is a niche for that.
‘And I don’t know enough about your husband. Matt, isn’t it?’
I nod tentatively.
‘And what does he do?’
‘He’s training to be an accountant.’
Luella’s shoulders drop an inch. I think she was expecting something more glamorous, more edgy. I think Matt was too.
‘Well, one thing is that he’s all right-looking. We can use him, the kids too. I like this one here. The hair is
brilliant. Personally, I think McCoy’s kids look a little inbred but that’s what will happen if you just give your kids pulses and nuts.’
A bit of Annie’s coffee seeps through her nose. Millie smiles, knowing that her hair is pretty special and she’s glad it’s been noticed.
‘But for now, my advice to you is to get your story out there properly. Say what you want and don’t let the McCoys attack your lifestyle and your family to try and prove their point.’
I nod. This is rational, sane. This is how to make my life normal again.
‘And then after that, the ball’s in your court. I quite like you. I think you’re personable, young … we could work on the cooking bit but this has the potential to be quite big. Nearly one million hits on YouTube, it’s got over to the US, we could get you some chat show appearances, guest spot on Saturday Kitchen. Think you could do television?’
I look at Annie, who suddenly seems very interested.
‘You mean there’s further mileage with this?’
‘Hon, I’m the best in the business. I can get you a makeover in Closer by next week, a cookbook deal by Christmas. Hell, if you wanted I could get you on Strictly this time next year. Tommy McCoy is coming to the end of his fifteen minutes, love. The backlash is starting and there’s enough people out there who’d love to see someone like you steal his thunder.’
‘But I have nothing against him per se. I mean I do … but …’
‘C’mon. Who doesn’t want to see someone like that, with all his preachiness, all his money, all his highfalutin’ thoughts on the world, brought down a peg or two? And you? I think you might be the girl who can do it. The public wants someone like them, they’re sick of these two a penny skinny minnies and jumped-up TV chefs. They want proper housewives, women in the trenches. I’ve been in this business for a long time. I don’t back horses that don’t win.’
Souper Mum Page 8
