Souper Mum

by Kristen Bailey

  ‘I’ll do it later. Anyways, I’ve decided that’s my cooking style. Neat and tidy does not a great cook make. You have to throw some love and wild abandon in there.’

  ‘Not sure you can have wild abandon with two countertops the size of ironing boards. You need to clear up as you go along. You don’t see Nigella cooking in this sort of pigsty.’

  ‘No, you see her cooking in a kitchen that’s not even hers.’

  ‘Still, she’d put things in the bloody bin.’

  He pushes ends bits of squash and onion peelings into a plastic bag. I’d love to see Nigella cooking in here – not sure she’d survive without her freestanding cake mixer and mezzaluna, having to make do with my IKEA scissor selection and scratched non-stick pans.

  ‘You don’t need a whole countertop to spoon out some yoghurt.’

  He gives me another scowl, piling dishes by the sink and balancing crusty pans next to them using talents he’s probably accrued from many a night playing endless rounds of Jenga with the kids.

  ‘And don’t leave this to “soak”, I don’t want to have to deal with soggy bits of rice in the morning.’

  Preachy Matt! I give him the eye from my folder. If we’re starting on pet hates, then please could he not throw the dirty tea towels in with the baby clothes nor leave an inch of juice in the carton. This little exchange is quite indicative of how we fight: serious Matt vs sarky Jools. It’s petty – I’m usually defending the way I do things, he’d preach how he’d do things differently. Then we compare stress levels when it comes to our work. Juggling four children and a house vs commuting/audits. He tells me he’d gladly trade places with me, I tell him he ruined my earning potential when he impregnated me. And then my humour is completely lost on him. That’s the one thing about his earnest sensibility – it does not sit well with scatty tomfoolery.

  ‘I think I’ve got a name for your brand then: the scummy mummy. Or the crumby mummy. Forking hell, she’s loose in the kitchen again!’

  I cast him a look to let him know he’s hitting a nerve. He stops what he’s doing. I can just about handle preachy Matt but there are times when it borders on the cruel and I have no humour left to combat it with.

  ‘Too much?’

  ‘Just the bit about me being rubbish at my job. Always a winner, Matt. Proper confidence booster.’

  He comes to the table with a bowl of perfectly cut strawberries for us to share. ‘I was attempting to be funny. You know I think you do a perfectly good job. It’s just this celebrity thing, it’s going to be a full-time gig and you’re going to have to get your shit together before you run off and do this …’

  As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows he’s worded it completely wrong. I already know as much but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t cut the silence with a big fat knife. It was that bit on the end about running off. Away, out of here like someone we know. He pauses, not knowing what to say next or whether to broach the subject at all. The problem with the situation with my mother is that it’s never brought up between the two of us. I leave it to swim in the darkest recesses of my mind, he never probes the issue – it just sits there like the Coco Pop-sized mole on his lower back, the credit card bills, the strange sound the car makes – because if we were to talk about it, it might lead to a whole ball of madness. Emotion makes my chest swell slightly. Matt returns to the counter, even the double cream that he’s been whipping seems to droop slightly.

  ‘I mean, I know you’re not going to run off but …’

  I can’t seem to answer him.

  ‘Jools, I just …’

  ‘I know. You’ve never been totally keen about me doing this …’

  Matt waves his hands about, backtracking with impressive speed.

  ‘Shite, Jools. I was just saying you needed to keep the kitchen in order. Don’t start.’

  Again, indicative of how we do things – when mundane and petty gets picked at to mean more that it is. He stares at me for longer than he needs to. Don’t do this when my mother’s in the next room.

  ‘But you haven’t even told me if you think this is the right thing to do. You said before you thought that Guardian article should have been the end point. But then it snowballed … I don’t know. We didn’t even make this decision together. Should I be home more?’

  ‘Jools, when have I ever tied you to the kitchen sink? You’re free to do what you want.’

  ‘But don’t run off like my mother?’

  ‘No. Just … this has nothing to do with that. If you think this is the right thing to do, then go ahead, you’re just going to have to multitask, that’s all.’

  I raise my eyebrows at him, insulted by the further condescension; even more so that he thinks I don’t multitask every hour of every day, it’s all I do.

  ‘So you don’t think I’m capable of handling both? You think I shouldn’t do this?’

  He throws his hands up at me, his voice slightly raised.

  ‘Christ, Jools. I am never going to tell you what to do with your life but if this works out, you’re going to be a working mum now. You’ll have a lot to fit in.’

  I sit there, confused at how this conversation has evolved but also at what he’s trying to tell me. I can’t do this? If I do this, that’s fine but it’s not changing my life – off you go?

  ‘I mean, I am doing this for you guys too. Luella says if we get momentum behind this, it could get somewhere. That could mean a lot for us.’

  Matt looks confused and pulls up a chair next to me.

  ‘Well, that’s a load of shit.’

  I sit there, indignant. There are a lot of reasons to do this: to get back at McCoy, to stand up for the everyday mother, but he can’t deny the financial rewards that the situation might bring have a lot to do with this as well.

  ‘Matt, this could be us paying off a bit of the mortgage, putting money aside for the kids. This is important.’

  He looks a little angry. Matt gets angry in scales (1 – someone, usually me, leaving the garage door open; 10 – paint on garage floors) – this is about a six and a half. He looks a little hurt at the suggestion that his financial contribution to our household needs topping up.

  ‘Sod the money. This is more than that. You need to do this for yourself, I get it.’

  And this is where I pause because to say it out loud – I want to do this for myself – sounds so completely selfish, almost neglectful of my family’s needs, their emotions. There needs to be another reason why. Because it’s what my mother did – listened to some instinct greater than being a mother and a wife, decreeing that this just wasn’t good enough for her and she needed more. I refuse to say that out loud. Matt looks over at me.

  ‘But I just can’t understand why you want to do this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All of this, with the telly and the papers, it just feels hard, it feels like a lot of work and a lot of tears. You’ve let that TV idiot come into our lives, our kids’ lives and tell us we’re not good enough – that our lives are not good enough.’

  ‘I’ve let him …’

  ‘Well, this could be over. But it’s not. I was all for one with you standing up to him and having that moment to speak up for yourself but you’re drawing this out. Into what? Into being some half-arse celeb … the sort we used to take the piss out of all the time. You have a degree … you’re smart. You could do so much more.’

  ‘Like what?’ Matt shrugs his shoulders. ‘Seriously, Matt … tell me what I should be doing with my life?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know … just maybe not this …’

  His voice is slightly raised, almost trembling, but he stops. He steadies his hands on the countertops and finds three little teaspoons to put into three plastic IKEA bowls and walks out of the room.

  R: Hey, Jools. Did we get cut off the other night?

  J: Ummm, yeah. I didn’t like the direction of the conversation.

  R: Sincere and apologetic?

  J: Hmmm, I gauged it mor
e as deceitful and trite.

  R: Well, take from it what you will. I am sincerely sorry. I’ve complained to the papers. They are printing a retraction on page 4 of tomorrow’s paper.

  J: Taken out a full-page apology? Really? How sweet.

  R: You were never this sarcastic.

  J: I’ve changed, Mr Colman.

  R: I can see that. You were always funny, not sarky – never cruel.

  J: No, you were the cruel one.

  R: Harsh.

  J: True.

  R: So I’m supposed to apologise for dumping you when we were 19? I’m sorry. Can I blame being young and foolish?

  J: You can blame the fumes from all that hair wax you used to use.

  R: She’s back in the room.

  J: That funny girl you used to know?

  R: What happened to you?

  J: I had babies. Lots of babies.

  R: Was that always the plan? I knew you wanted a family but going into uni, I always thought you wanted to do something else.

  J: Well, yes. I write my doctorate at the weekends. Evenings, I run a small business empire from my kitchen table.

  R: Selling what?

  J: Car bumper stickers and iPhone covers.

  R: :D But you’re happy?

  J: Of course.

  R: You sound so resolute.

  J: Why wouldn’t I be? I have a heavily mortgaged house, my health, my kids AND all my own teeth.

  R: Humour aside, are you happy? Really?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Mrs Campbell. Half an hour until you’re needed on set. Do you need anything?’

  A stiff drink, a hug, and a second pair of knickers, maybe. The boy stares at me, hair styled into a quiff like Tintin with a clipboard and moon boot trainers. When did men start wearing old hi-tops and getting away with it? I just shake my head and smile.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘OK. Oh, and someone left these for you at the front desk.’

  He enters the room with a big bunch of flowers and a padded envelope. Given I never get flowers, I squeal a little, which confuses Tintin a bit as he closes the door slowly behind him. Then a thought goes through my head – anthrax? I stare at the envelope before opening it gingerly with my forefinger. Inside is a drawing of me whereI seem to have no neck and I have giant cupcakes in each hand. Or are those my boobs? I delve my hand in again and feel a rectangular object and pull it out slowly. It’s a black and white framed print of me in a birthing pool holding Millie for the first time. I look a mess of hair, placenta, and sweat but ecstatically happy. Behind me is Hannah, who missed the main event but made it downstairs to meet her sister within the first few minutes of her life. She’s in her spotty pyjamas and has a hand up waving at her. The boys slept through the whole thing. They assumed she came down the chimney in the same way Santa does. Millie’s all wrinkly and placid. We stayed in that pool for ages. Given there were now six people in that house, it was the most peaceful it’s ever been. A card is stuck to the back:

  ‘Mummy! You baked us all for nine months. We came out OK! xxxx’

  I feel my eyes mist up. Firstly, to see myself topless for the first time in history. When did my boobs turn into flaccid water balloons? But secondly, to think what I really should be doing. I should be in my pyjamas, dodging my children who trampoline around my bed, wrestling them for cuddles and away from the television, wondering what to do for the rest of the weekend, an arm draped over a half sleeping, disapproving husband. Matt. That’s what Saturdays used to be for. Now they’re spent in Saturday Kitchens.

  A knock on the door and Luella parades in holding a big pile of newspapers and coffee, with her phone tucked under her neck.

  ‘The coast is clear. Unless they have hidden him under the kitchen counters, McCoy is definitely not in the building.’

  To avoid a This Morning style ambush, Luella has been on a mission today, confirmed as she is a vision in khaki green with big black military boots.

  ‘You just get to go on, cook, do your own thing. It’ll be fab. Now tell me how many times have we practiced this risotto?’

  ‘Enough.’

  Nine to be precise. My freezer is now rammed full of the stuff, next to my fish fingers, baby food cubes, and some peas. Even though I can reel off the recipe in part Italian, part English and have been seen to be muttering about crispy pancetta in my sleep, I still think Luella’s plan to have me cook this on national television is bordering on the absurd. I wanted to do something a tad easier perhaps; something involving mince, something I could do with my eyes closed. Sausages, they’re easy enough to lay in a pan and serve with some mash. But Luella said I needed to cook something with a bit of flair, something that didn’t involve meat and two veg and sounds harder than it is. So she told the producers risotto. Great. Saturday Kitchen is a big deal though. Apparently, appearing on hangover television will connect me with the hungover 18-25 demographic and bolster my campaign to be taken seriously as a housewife cooking domestic type as opposed to a tabloid headline. According to Luella this morning, we also need to boost our media presence given McCoy and company are going for the big guns. She opens the newspapers for me at a picture of Kitty McCoy in a leopard skin cut-out swimming costume. ‘I’M A JUNGLE KITTY! GET ME OUT OF HERE!’ No stretch marks and boobs as nature intended. Luella snarls in the same way she always does when she sees Kitty’s picture.

  ‘Thing is, this might work in our favour. Nobody likes the mums who go in and abandon their kids. Plus the ones who always pose in the waterfalls never win.’

  ‘And it’s been scientifically proven that watching anyone in leopard skin can induce the gagging reflex.’

  Luella laughs. She likes having someone to bitch about Kitty with. I have a feeling her phone bill might be dedicated to voting Kitty through to all the Bushtucker trials in the next few weeks. She pulls out another paper.

  ‘This is their pièce de résistance though. Piers Morgan’s Life Stories. Take a gander at this, makes me want to rip my eyes out.’

  ‘I WANT TO CHANGE THE WORLD!’ screams the headline, below stills of him in an imposing empty studio, glassy-eyed and blowing his nose. ‘MY FATHER WAS EVERYTHING TO ME …’

  It’s primetime viewing tonight and Luella is not happy.

  ‘Please. Number one, changing the world, my arse. The only thing he wants to do is change the size of his bank balance so he can be famous and live next door to the Gallaghers on Primrose Hill. Number two, he hated his father. They hadn’t talked in years and even then Kitty used to send him jars of humbugs every Christmas just to rub it in. Poor codger was diabetic and everything.’

  I look at his swollen, damp face in the pictures, feeling a little remiss to be talking about his father’s passing so casually but wondering if like Luella suggests it’s all staged to garner the public’s affections. I’m also curious as to how she knows McCoy’s dad is diabetic. Surely that goes above and beyond the duties of a publicist.

  ‘Nice bloke as well. Not sure what he makes of all this tripe.’

  I swivel a bit in my chair again. She knows his dad? She notices and smiles.

  ‘I bet you’re wondering …’

  ‘Well, kind of. You know Tommy’s father?’

  She nods. ‘Promise this won’t throw you off kilter?’

  I’m not sure much can. Given the tumultuous turns my life has taken of late, I’m pretty sure I could withstand any curve balls she threw at me.

  ‘Tommy and I were once an item.’

  A heavy sigh makes her chest sink into itself like a fallen soufflé. I, on the other hand, am floored, completely off guard.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Yep, dated for three years if you can believe it.’

  I sit there agape, a few dozen mutterations falling out of my mouth. Her and him? Together? I’m suddenly confused. Is this why she’s been helping me all along? Because she had some sort of vendetta against the man?

  ‘Oh, it was a lifetime ago. I won’t bore you with the
details but he was an up and coming chef and we’d been going out since college. Then everything started going well and his publicity machine got hold of him. They persuaded him an opinionated brunette wasn’t going to sit particularly well with his brand and I was laid to rest as it were.’

  She pirouettes a pen around her fingers as she talks. The way a woman talks of a past love, all misty-eyed and doleful yet with enough hatred to know if he walked into that room right now, she could probably skewer one of his testicles. I hold her hand and nod to take it all in.

  ‘I’m sorry. No wonder you …’

  ‘Tommy never even stood up for me or thought about our relationship. All the time I had sacrificed so he could follow his dream, all the support I gave him. Anyway, ten months later and he’s engaged to blonde and skinny and three months later, Basil Brush was born.’

  Her fingers have now started drumming the table, every inch of her seizing up to have to recount the details. I’m not sure what to do but hand her the bottle of wine that’s been sitting on my dressing table. Hell, it’s before midday but the information I’ve just been made party to deserves to be absorbed with alcohol. I open the bottle badly and pour her a plastic cupful.

  ‘So you see, I know his story. I know everything with him is a crock of shit. It’s brand management at its very best, it’s selling a myth to people who suck it in and believe it. So when I see a person like you being shat on by him, I feel compelled to help.’

  She glugs the wine like Ribena and puts the glass down, her hands picking bits off her tongue that I suspect are cork. Yet she doesn’t seem to mind. I study her face, trying to read the sincerity.

  ‘So, I have to ask, is that the only reason you’re here? To get back at him in some way.’

  She smiles.

  ‘God, no. Of course, I’m all about exposing him for the fraud he is, but I liked your style. I thought you were someone worth supporting, someone quite endearing. And that is water under bridges that flowed past many years ago.’