‘I told her it was best not to call here again. I wasn’t sure what to say. And then she started with the sorries and I hung up on her. It was … I don’t know. It’s like, you left me when I was five so I’m gonna hang up on you to get back at you. I don’t know. Maybe I’m crazy. Yes, what a crazy situation. So crazy.’
Ben always has a way of harnessing bitchy humour to change the tone of a situation. I hit him with Millie’s blankie which makes him giggle.
‘Was it awful?’
‘Well, you started a blethering fool but you reined it back in the end. I forget how feisty you can be.’
‘Feisty?’
‘I mean you’ve got chutzpah. You were always standing up for me and Adam when we were little. Remember Wendy Bird in Juniors when she called me a nancy? You cornered her in the toilets and cut off her hair.’
I cringe to think that was once me. I was in my teens and had launched into a vaguely gothy-type persona which meant nothing more than some stripy tights and scowling a lot. Wendy Bird was a blonde princess who said too many things about my family so I accosted her in the school loos and cut off a chunk of her hair. However, I’m ponderous that Ben thinks I would exact my revenge on Kitty McCoy in a similar fashion. He rests his head on my shoulder like he did when we used to watch Rainbow together.
‘Do you think she’ll come and find us?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Because if she does, I might need to prepare myself. Get a monologue prepared.’
I laugh because he knows I have the same plan.
‘You OK?’
‘I’ll be all right. I just … sometimes I think she just royally fucked up some little part of my brain, you know? I don’t know how I feel about her.’
I hold him close and feel his little head sigh with the weight of something a child shouldn’t really feel for a parent. The problem is, I know exactly how he feels.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It’s Sunday today, six days since the This Morning incident and nearly two weeks since Sainsbury’s. This is the sort of action that usually fills a year. It’s quiet in the house for once. Quiet because I’ve plonked the kids in front of the television, still in their pyjamas mid-morning, and Matt is persuading Millie a nap would be a really good idea. Quiet also because someone showed up on our doorstep earlier. She was small, in a velour tracksuit top that matched her Autumn Magic curls, and was here to pinch Matt’s fats and make sure I was still feeding her grandchildren. Gia Campbell is in the building; hence the hush descended over the house, and I suspect most of Surrey. Gia and I have a wonderfully strained relationship – the main feeling that sits between us is ‘You’re never going to be good/Italian/Catholic enough for me’ versus ‘Whatever, you married a tall Scottish Protestant.’ It means we share smiles and half-hearted hugs and M&S two for a tenner Christmas presents, and when she feels like it or when Doug, the other Daddy Campbell, goes fishing, she shows up on our front door unannounced and usually with a waxy cat shopper foaming with basil and other assorted goodies. This time, however, her reasons for visiting are slightly more covert. She keeps giving me looks like she’s read all those articles and is trying to burn scarlet letters into my forehead with her eyes.
‘She can sleep in Hannah’s room. It’ll only be for a bit.’
Matt whispers in the hallway as we hear Gia rustling around in my cupboards, probably rearranging spices and wondering why half of them are past their use by date.
‘Do you think she hates me even more now?’
‘Probably. We might have to have another kid to get her back on an even keel?’
Matt laughs but it gets stuck in the back of his throat when I punch him near the groin area. At least that was one thing I was good for, producing mini Campbells for her to fawn over so she could pay tribute to her son’s strong Italian sperm.
‘Juliet! Juliet!’
I am being summoned. I must admit I do like the way she says my name, like it’s supposed to be said, as Shakespeare would have wanted. Matt ushers me in and goes to sit with the children. I take a big, deep breath.
‘Gia? Is everything all right in here?’
‘You are not having sage?’
Right now? No. I prefer one sugar in my tea. I shake my head.
‘Then good I bring. Come. I bring nice pancetta.’
I look over at my kitchen counters and the usual array of school letters, bills, empty crisp wrappers, and hamster food is replaced with a sleek and shiny work surface. An onion and three cloves of garlic sit on the chopping board awaiting their fate.
‘I think you help me cook. Come, come. This I teach. We chop.’
I take five seconds to process the sentence. I get the word chop, so stand there to attention and approach the board. Before I pick up the knife, she grabs a shoulder. I smile back hesitantly.
‘What are we cooking, Gia?’
‘Something great. Simple risotto. Nice pancetta, onion, and we roast the butternut squash. The children like this one.’
Only too well. When she cooks this, well, when she cooks anything, from bolognaise to zabaglione to the simplest tomato sauces, the children always lick their bowls clean like feral cats. I stop for a moment to take it in. You want us to partake in an activity together? OK. I see her take some of my stock cubes and hold them to her nose, sniffing them strangely. I start to peel at the onion and chop it in the manner I’ve become accustomed, like the way a chimp might use a rock to break something open. Gia looks at me curiously.
‘I no like this McCoy.’
I stand there and nod. That’s probably the first and only thing we have in common.
‘I no like how he go on the television and he cook Italian when he no Italian. He think he go there on holiday and then he teach people how to cook my food. He is wanker.’
I freeze to hear her curse. My onion is a jumble of small squares, bits, and slithers. Gia eyes it up, grabs the knife from my hand, and dices it further.
‘Rock the knife from side to side, you try.’
I take over as she stands next to me examining my work.
‘You are well, Juliet?’
I nod curiously at this sudden enquiry into my wellbeing as I watch her stare at my bottles of olive oil, shake her head, and go into her bag for her own.
‘I thought I should be coming down. I read so much in papers and I know it must be very hard.’
A large lump forges itself in my throat, waiting for the knife in my hands to end up in my jugular, especially if she read about one Richie Colman.
‘I … I don’t know what to say, Gia. I am sorry such lies were printed. It really means nothing.’
Gia purses her lips. I feel duped. What was once a bonding exercise was just a cover for discussing other matters. Not so clever when there are sharp objects in the area.
‘I know. I just always worry. I … I also read about your mama. I am sorry.’
I fish around in my drawers looking for a garlic press. I find it full of Plasticine and pick all the crusty bits out, trying not to look her in the eye.
‘I was not knowing before why you have no mother. Matteo no speak of this. But now I read the papers …’
‘The papers were not very accurate, Gia.’
‘Oh, nononono. Matteo explain. But I feel like now I know.’
I can feel tears in my eyes. Onion tears, not mother tears, but Gia looks up and perceives them to be the latter. I wipe my eyes on my shoulder and look at Gia. There’s a look on her face. One I’m not sure I’ve seen before. She pats me on the shoulder and nods. I feel like she might think we are bonding, that this is a key breakthrough moment, perhaps. I will share a recipe with you because it is obvious that my shortcomings as a temptress harlot and non-Italian mother may not be my fault at all. There is silence for about five seconds. Hell, for her to believe that is good enough for me if it means she teaches me some closely guarded recipe and I go up in her estimations a bit. She puts a velour arm around me and squeezes lightly, in the sam
e way I’ve seen her pinch ciabattas to check they’re still fresh.
‘Jesus Christ, Millie.’ It’s something I hear every night. Matt’s voice through the ceiling as he changes a nappy and acts like it’s the first time he’s seen how much a small infant can actually poo. ‘It’s all over your frigging back.’ I hear swearing at the wipes, the new pack of nappies, and all the while, Millie chuckling her little heart out. At the front of the house, I hear the kids with Gia and the faint mutters of pirates, curtains, and walking the plank. To her credit, the kids love Gia, her Italian glamour and pockets full of fudge help, but despite any disdain we have for each other, we’re both mature enough to realise the relationship she has with the little Campbells is important, mainly as she’s the only granny they’ve got.
I am in the kitchen, (the only room I ever seem to frequent any more) and am busily writing down recipes into my file (provided by Luella). This is all part of Luella’s master plan for me: get all my cooking knowledge down on paper and try and get my skills out there. So she’s planned for me to cook on Saturday Kitchen, like in front of proper adults instead of the four wailing banshees that are usually hanging by my ankles, telling me they’re starving and they may die if dinner doesn’t make an appearance soon. Butternut squash and pancetta risotto, I print in my best writing. I stare at the empty bowls piled by the kitchen sink smeared in clementine-coloured goo – the risotto was a success, something to add to my cooking repertoire, even though all I feasibly did was chop an onion, some garlic, and stir the pan, learning things about steam and stirring. I scribble down Gia’s wise words: a risotto should be all’onda and ripple in the plate like a delicate stream. It shouldn’t land like old porridge. I continue to doodle in my folder, getting my head around writing and forming actual sentences, then finish the recipe with a flourish and try to annotate it with pictures.
‘What are you doing? Why are you drawing a giant penis next to my mother’s recipe?’
Matt peers over my shoulder curiously.
‘It’s a butternut squash.’
‘Seriously, I have never seen poo that colour. It’s like we solely feed her mushy peas.’
I nod, grimacing, always pleasant to hear Matt’s descriptions of stools as food. At least it wasn’t korma.
‘Now the others want pudding. I’ll whip something up.’
He heads over to the fridge, rooting through the drawers to find some fruit, yoghurt, and assorted goodies, then starts assembling mini trifle/parfait desserts for them with a snap of his hairy wrist. I look over and scowl a little. Although I hate to admit it, Matt’s always been the better cook; he thinks on his feet, he doesn’t need scales, he knows the magic formula when it comes to seasoning. I’m at a loss why Luella hasn’t thought he’d be a far more worthy adversary for McCoy. I remember when Hannah was starting to wean he was the one who’d be whizzing up purees, and even now the one who on a Sunday when energy is lacking is still chopping and making soups from the remnants of the roast. That’s not to say my skills are lacking but when the honour of cooking three meals a day, five days a week is forced upon you, it is easy to fall out of love with the process.
‘So what else has Mum planned?’
Yes, it seems she’s not only here to teach me about risotto. She has decided to lend me her services as cooking guru so that maybe, just maybe some of her genius may impart itself into my blood, pretty much like it has with her son. I look over now as he’s hulling strawberries and cutting them into star shapes. I might hate him, just a little bit.
‘Well, she wants to teach me her chicken cacciatore, her gnocchi, and how to make tortellini. Hearty Italian fare. She says McCoy may be able to cook restaurant food but he lacks spontaneity. He’s not a cook like she is.’
Matt nods as I lose his face in the fridge again.
‘She half has a point. Mums are different breeds of cooks, you’re more instinctive, spontaneous – you have to think on your feet more. Is this granola?’
He holds up an old Tupperware.
‘Hamster food.’
He puts it back in the fridge and I watch his denim backside as he bends down, a slice of fraying underwear peeking up over the top. I scribble down a bit of what he just said about being spontaneous. Hell, I like that. Many a night has been spent with three potatoes, a tub of Philadelphia, and a carrot, wondering how this could feasibly be turned into an evening meal.
‘Hey, is my shepherd’s pie worth writing home about?’
Matt shimmies his head about. Yeah, thanks for that.
‘But you do a decent chicken pie.’
I scribble things down.
‘Is this for that Saturday Kitchen thing?’
I nod frantically.
‘Do the pie.’
‘But I always buy the pastry in.’
‘And? I don’t know anyone who makes their own puff pastry. That could be your cooking niche. Jools Campbell Does Pies.’
‘It sounds like really bad porn.’
I see his body shaking with laughter. ‘Free DVD with every cookbook.’ I look up from my folder and stare at my husband as he continues to root through the fridge, finding half a furry cucumber. I pretend I’m too busy to notice. He returns from the bottom shelf with some marshmallows and a jam jar then heads over to the counter and rolls his sleeves up, lining everything up on the counter.
‘How about … Jools Campbell: the Mother Forker …’
I fake smile.
‘Chez Jools? The Sort of Yummy Mummy?’
He laughs at his own joke. I don’t. I doodle a little pie in my file with stars all around it but squint and notice they all look like flies. I then look over at kitchen rat Matt, doing what he does best, which is to line up all his utensils and pick out bits of something from a ‘clean’ mixing bowl that wasn’t washed up properly. He then stalks around the kitchen, sticks a tea towel in his waistband, and this is when I know I’ve lost him. He’s playing chef. Like when he puts on his B&Q tool belt to screw in a lightbulb, I am doing serious things that deserve my attention and I shall not be disturbed in these endeavours. I, of course, sometimes feel the need to poke fun at his surly alpha male ways, which often results in a scrap of sorts but deep down, I think that’s what I’ve always liked about him. He gets on with things in his own pensive, sensible ways. He never says much unless needed and then when he does it’s sometimes still incomprehensible, but always earnest. Even the Matt I met at university was so annoyingly honest and straight down the line. After our second one-night stand, I remember he woke me up fully clothed and with a cup of tea, his fluffy hair was poking out of his beanie, his duffle coat had shades of the Paddington about it. I assumed he was leaving so didn’t think much of it. It had been a lovely night, he was sweet and considerate. But this was drunken, incognito sex that was, in a way, fuelled by a need to get back at Richie bloody Colman. I remembered him looking at me with fuzzy eyes.
‘Ummm, I have to go. I volunteered to do some stuff at the Union.’
I was intrigued by his excuses and smiled.
‘Anything interesting?’
‘I’m collecting signatures for a petition for the release of some Thai prisoners in Cambodia.’
I remember not saying too much as I thought this was either the most elaborate excuse I’d ever heard in my life or the actual truth. When I realised such, I remember being quiet, knowing I knew sod all about the geography nor the politics of the situation. He launched into explanations, yet not in that preachy way I’d come to expect from bohemian sorts who’d accost you outside the supermarket with pictures of drowned cats. He was sad and wistful, his eyes looking as if he knew what he was doing could probably lend very little to any outcome but he was at least going to try. I pulled the duvet back to try and locate my knickers.
‘But I mean if it’s all right, I was thinking of coming back? I’ll be about two hours and then maybe I could bring back some food? We could have some tea together. Ummm, that’s if you want to.’
I just smiled and
nodded, pretending to cover my mouth to mask the smell of stale cider, and went back to lying against my pillow as he got himself ready. I noticed little things about him, the sort of things that stick in the mind because they’re novel and exciting, and the things I refer back to now when he’s left skid marks in the loo or wet towels on the bed. A slice of midriff when he stretched his arms above his head, tatty little holes in his T-shirt, a dimple on his left cheek, eyes that went the size of large almonds when he smiled.
‘So this is a little embarrassing but it’s Jools, right? Not Julie, or Julia?’
That may have taken away the romance of the situation a bit but the fact was up to that point I thought his name was Toby.
‘Well, it’s usually Jools. Or Juliet if you’re my grandma.’
He said my name out loud to himself a couple of times as he smiled.
‘Then I’m Matt. Or Matteo if you’re my mother.’
I smiled. There was something slightly exotic about his name that made me swoon a bit more. I mumbled the name to myself.
‘So Matt, what time can I expect to see you back?’
‘Say three o’clock?’
And with that we had a cheeky snog and I went back to sleep, thinking he might not return because my morning breath had been particularly bad. But he did. Three minutes past three. And with him a bag of iced buns.
I’m still daydreaming about that incident when I’m disturbed by Matt swearing at the kitchen.
‘Jesus … Jools, this kitchen is a fucking tip.’
My immediate daydreams evaporate into nothing as I watch the scowl, the look about him which says this is my responsibility. Yet with his mother upstairs and within earshot, I feel reticent to draw this out into an argument. Maybe I can blame her? But I can’t. At the end of the day, this is how I cook. It involves soiled tea towels, every teaspoon in the kitchen being used, and kitchen tiles splattered in sauce. I look around. Matt tuts and starts piling things up by the sink.
Souper Mum Page 13
