‘In all my years of teaching, I have never met a more malicious and small-minded woman. I will just about tolerate your tattle-mongering but you have just sat through a play about diversity and come out with language like that. You owe Mr Hartley an apology.’
‘Never.’
I’m not sure exactly what to do. Even Millie has paused to absorb all the drama. You can see it in Jen Tyrrell’s eyes. Get out of my way. Ben looks to the floor in shame. Gia’s eyes pop out from behind the curtains.
‘How dare you! I will be talking to the school governors about this on Monday.’
Her eyes are all demonic at this point, so much so I can’t bear to look at her.
‘Please do. Alice Whittaker. Do you want me to spell that for you?’
‘This is a disgrace.’
‘What? Your behaviour? I couldn’t agree more. Now leave.’
Jen stares her down before finally caving and dragging her sorry entourage out of the room. Everyone breathes again as they leave. Children run into parental arms. My mouth is still open, crumbs of custard cream all over my bottom lip and in my hair. Matt looks at me and over at Mrs Whittaker, whose glasses have fogged up, her face still pink, massaging her liver-spotted hands as Mr Pringle drapes his arms over her, embracing her tight.
‘Alice, you shouldn’t have said …’
‘I know. But that wench has had it coming. I’m sorry, Mr Hartley, that you had to hear that in our school. And I’m sorry, Mrs Campbell, that I couldn’t do more to step in earlier.’
I shake my head. She did enough. Enough to have given the conversation some finality. Ben, on the other hand, tips his head to one side. I know he’d never be offended by an offhand insult from someone he didn’t even know. But I know what he’s thinking. That was bloody awesome! Best graduation present ever! When do I usually have the chance to accost and publicly harass middle-aged harpies? When do I have the chance to have such an attentive audience? Can I come again next year? Then he looks over at me and gives me one of those big, colourful Ben smiles, the sort I like, the sort that makes it impossible for me to hate him, or at least think there was something in the middle of all of that that was meant just for me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWo
‘Daddy! We need more of a smile. Lu, can we get Daddy to relax?’
I’m looking over at Matt perched on the end of the sofa, mouth curled up like he might be passing wind or trying not to swear in front of the children. Darius, the photographer, head to toe in black with strange, studded trainers stands there with his hip out and a glazed look in his eyes. This isn’t high fashion with Kate Moss nor über cool David Bailey portraiture, this is a family photo with two boys who can’t keep their tongues in their mouths. Foundation runs slick down my face as I try to garner some Campbell family spirit.
‘C’mon, guys. Just one photo. Let’s do this and then we can all get ice cream.’
The children freeze. Matt doesn’t look convinced. I’m trying to think if I have any ice cream. Luella keeps gesturing over at Matt, who looks a bit Wallace and Gromit. Then for a split second, we all turn to the camera, we are all still. C’mon you wanky Shoreditch twat, take the sodding photo. Snap. Breathe. The children launch themselves off to the kitchen. Darius bobs his head around as he previews the image.
‘Yeah, we might have something, Lu. Guess it’s better than nothing.’
Matt looks like he wants to stamp on his camera in a Jude Law style frenzy. I put an arm around him.
‘Think of the money.’
It’s not six figures. It’s not four figures, but even I can see in Matt’s face that nothing is worth this embarrassment. He rolls his eyes about and I try to catch his gaze as people scurry about us. Look at me, please. Things with Matt still remain at this big juncture where we don’t talk about the important, key points of our relationship but just keep calm and carry on. Richie Colman was a hiccup in the greater scheme of things, chased out of our lives by Gia, but deep down, I think we both know we still have to take the time to sit down and lay ourselves bare, to validate our relationship to ourselves. But now is not the time or the place. I just watch as he gets up to leave, following the children into the kitchen as I hear the scraping of the freezer drawers in search of ice cream that isn’t there.
Today is the day I finally allowed photographers into my house instead of having them jump out of bushes at me. The cooking showdown looms in one and a half weeks and now, Luella says, is the time to up the ante. Even more now since the appearance of Tommy’s nine page spread in Hello! of him and the McCoy collective curled up looking smiley and glowing in their second home in Cornwall. But it’s OK! Quite literally. Because Luella has bargained us a deal with the other side. It will make me come across better to the public, she reckons, instead of having my photos nestled against photos of polo matches and Pippa Middleton. However, given my house is not some bio-degradable, greenhouse gas friendly Skandium furnished lighthouse in the middle of Cornwall, Luella’s had to give the house a slight cosmetic makeover, hence the fluffy purple pillows and luxury throws. Never mind the kids, who are Monsoon-tastic. I watch as Millie sits on the throw and rolls her fingers over it. What is this material? This is not polyester? She drools in admiration, leaving a mark that makes me think we won’t be able to return it to Heals tomorrow.
‘So Jools, this is Polly from OK! and she’ll be doing the interview segment. Will Matt be joining us?’
I can hear him next door, also frustrated by the lack of creamy frozen goodness. He’s trying to placate the children with fruit. This will never work. I also hear Gia’s voice in the background telling the children she has gum in her handbag. The kids have started a mutiny.
‘Maybe later?’
Luella senses discord and quickly covers up any blemishes.
‘Sure. I mean, you guys don’t have nannies to help you out so they might need to juggle. Hope that’s OK, Polly.’
She shrugs and sits down. I nearly sit on Millie. Luella scoops her up in time and expertly places her on my lap. I laugh. I’m not sure why. Luella looks from behind Polly’s shoulder like I need to take this more seriously or not laugh like I’m a giggly drunk.
‘So thanks for inviting us to your home and giving us the chance to meet your family. You’ve kept them out of everything so far, is there a reason for this?’
What I should say: Well, yeah, they’re kids. I’m their mother, not their pimp. To whore them out for my own purposes would be bordering on exploitation. It’s what McCoy does all the time and to be honest, I find it disgusting.
‘Ummm, this little media circus that’s erupted around us is a little intimidating and a lot of stuff that’s been written has been quite harsh. I want to protect them from that. As for my husband, he’s a little shy and private and I respect that he’s not asked for any of this.’
Luella does a mini thumbs up.
‘So why involve them today?’
Because Luella told me to?
‘I guess people are interested in my family, so to have a candid peek at what my house is like can’t hurt. Rather they’re photographed in the comfort of their own home as opposed to in the street or outside school.’
Polly seems fine with this answer. I look at her curiously. She’s all tulip skirt and Victoriana blouse with men’s brogues. She’s making me, in my comfy leggings and big jumper, look a little unfashionable and shapeless.
‘I respect that. So tell me about your house. How long have you lived here for?’
I pause for a moment. This was not in the list of anticipated questions that Luella had prepared for me. I am wondering what she wants to know, my interior designer preferences? The year of building? Why, yes, I believe this corner feature is inspired by the famous Swedish designer, Johannes Ikea – your classic Billy bookcase.
‘We’ve been here for seven years now, since we moved back to London after university and it’s, well, a little cosy for six but it’s home.’
Millie smiles at this point, which warms
me to think she approves of this little hobbit hole we’ve decided to raise her in. Not sure she’ll be as accommodating in five years when we realise we don’t have a bedroom for her and she’ll have to sleep in the hallway.
‘Any reason you decided to live south? You went to uni in Leeds, right? And your hubby is Scottish.’
I feel ambushed again in a Kitty McCoy kind of way. I wanted to live near my dad? At the time, I was scared of Matt’s mother? A voice interrupts.
‘It was a work thing. Kept us down here, plus having grown up in Edinburgh, I’m not sure I wanted to expose my children to the cold just yet.’
Polly smiles. Was that rude to Edinburgh? Matt has in his hands a multipack of Cornettos that was either hiding in the icy depths of my freezer or bought by Gia down the petrol station on the corner. He offers them around and Luella looks slightly worried, like we should be offering the fancy reporter type espresso as opposed to a strawberry ice cream cone. Polly doesn’t seem too fazed.
‘Oooh, haven’t had a Cornetto in ages. Yes, please. How retro.’
Cornettos are retro? I always thought that was the job of the Feast. Matt smiles and comes to sit down next to me, offering Millie a little bit of cone and chocolate sauce. Millie, being Millie and a Campbell, doesn’t refuse. I wonder if this will make its way into the article.
‘So, Matt? What are your thoughts on your wife’s sudden rise in the celebrity world?’
Matt looks over at me thoughtfully.
‘Well, it’s been a bit of a shock but I think she’s handled herself very well in the press.’
I look over at him and grab his ice cream free hand. Polly notes this down. Suddenly, three extra children descend on the room, ice creams in hand and around mouths. Luckily, this might keep them quiet but I see Luella’s eyes go to the soft furnishings, especially with Ted who brandishes his ice cream like a sword.
‘You don’t mind, do you? I can get them back in the kitchen.’
I am all too aware I’ve made my children sound like a pack of dogs but Polly laughs and shakes her head.
‘Oh no! Actually, I have some questions for them if that’s OK?’
Hannah sits to attention. The twins twist their noses up like they’ve been asked to recite their spellings.
‘So, tell me. What do you think of Mummy’s cooking?’
The room freezes for a moment. The twins look thoughtful like this might be a trick question. Matt grabs my thigh. Millie drools into her father’s lap. Hannah is the only one to speak.
‘I like her spaghetti carbonara.’
Matt swizzles his head around. I look into space, thinking about all the dishes in the world. Hannah has never professed a liking for that one.
‘I like spaghetti with creamy sauces and she does that one well and it’s not from a jar.’
Polly laughs. The twins still seem to be registering what they like to eat. Please don’t say baked beans, please don’t say toast.
‘Mummy makes good mashed potatoes,’ says Ted.
‘… and the best scrambled eggs,’ adds Jake.
That could have been better, that could have been worse.
‘Well, tell me what you had for dinner tonight.’
The boys realise this is more straightforward and Ted sticks his chest out, knowing he has the answer.
‘We had fruity chicken with couscous.’
Polly nods her head, almost impressed, and looks my way.
‘So do the children eat a lot of international cuisine?’
Again, I am ambushed. It’s couscous, it’s hardly a tagine cooked over a wood fire. I cook couscous because it’s my friend – damn that I didn’t think to cook that against McCoy: pour hot stock over it, it’s done, and the kids like it. Though it’d be good if they could keep it on their forks, I can see a big clump of it on the bottom of Matt’s sock and some in Millie’s hair. I wonder if Polly will write how my kids had big, fat, couscous-shaped nits.
‘I try.’
Though again, the chicken part is only half Moroccan because I put a pinch of cumin in it and some chopped-up apricots. In my house, international extends to Greek (feta and black olives), French (brie and a whole head of garlic), and Hawaiian (a tin of pineapple rings).
‘Well, we certainly have a lot of Italian with my background but Jools does a good stir fry, fajitas, and we’ve tried the kids with mild curries and things like satay and sushi.’
Yes, indeed we have. Matt is being so diplomatic given the sushi was fresh from the supermarket and the curries were ignored with the children opting for the poppadums and mango chutney. I’m wondering why I can’t remember anything. Luella looks mightily pleased with herself and the way the interview is going.
‘But the sushi tasted like the sea. It wasn’t so great,’ pipes Jake.
Hannah elbows him in the ribs. Polly leans in close to him.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not a fan either.’
Jake laughs and pulls a face at Hannah.
‘And what do you guys think about Mummy cooking on the television against Mr McCoy?’
The room goes silent again. We haven’t told the children that much about what’s been happening, trying to keep things as normal and stress-free for them as possible. Hannah looks over at me.
‘That man from the supermarket? You’re cooking against him? Like a competition?’
The children raise their eyebrows at me. Even they know what a completely deranged idea it is.
‘Who?’ asks Ted.
Hannah whispers into his ear and Ted realises who she’s speaking about.
‘Him? I hope you beat him, Mummy. He wasn’t very nice to you. And he has silly hair.’
Polly smiles. Jake starts to laugh deep from inside his nostrils.
‘Yeah, I hope you get to cook like a ninja and take him down.’
Now it’s Matt’s turn to giggle. Yes, why didn’t I think of that? We could cook in ninja pyjamas. There could be knife throwing involved. Jake has his hands out ready to karate chop. Polly shows Ted an article about McCoy in her folder, talking about how all the pork in his restaurants have regular massages in cherry brandy and walk in lush green pastures with dandelions and views of the sea. He turns his nose up to see McCoy’s face. I love you, Ted.
‘So Mummy, what do you win at the end?’
It’s a very good question. My self-respect, perhaps, a moment to go back to at the end of my days and say hey, Warhol was right. I had my fifteen minutes but they weren’t wasted in Big Brother or singing karaoke week after week; I beat McCoy to a pulp and won a small battle for hard done by mothers across the land.
‘Well, nothing. But …’
‘Then why do it?’
Polly looks at me curiously. I freeze. Because in all of this, I have been starting to question my double standards. Matt looks down at his knee knowing that from the start he’s always had his reservations about my dalliance with this intrusive, media-based career. So why? I only agreed to this stupid cook-off because McCoy provoked me. I should have done what I tell the kids to do, back down and smile sweetly, take it all on my blotchy chin. I should try and reclaim some sense of normality for the kids to avoid them being bullied at school, to not let them question whether their family is falling apart. Am I doing this for the money? The promise of a book deal? Meagre sums for guest appearances on UKTV food channels that no one will really watch? I don’t even know any more.
There was a lie I told myself that maybe I was doing this for me, to prove that beyond being this half-baked mother to four children, there was a university-educated girl with goals and aspirations higher than building things out of Meccano and learning how to reverse park into really small spaces outside a school gate. Was this my breakout chance for a career? To do something for myself? Yet the ritual humiliation that this is entailing is hardly boosting my morale in any way. My pause is long. Hannah sits up.
‘Because mummies would rather listen to her than some silly man with silly hair.’
Matt and I g
ive each other looks, wishing there was a way we could push the words back in. Polly laughs. Luella falls off the end of the sofa. They boys are satisfied with such explanations. Matt continues.
‘Hannah’s right in a way. The best thing about my wife is that she’s not perfect and she acknowledges it and lets other mothers know it’s fine. I’m not sure how it’s come to be that someone like McCoy with all his sanctimony can be so popular.’
Hannah smiles, knowing she’s been vindicated but unsure what half those words meant. Polly’s hand starts to move quicker across the page. Luella cranes her neck around to see what she’s scribbling.
‘So is that how you feel about McCoy, Jools?’
Again, diplomacy addles my brain so much that I can’t think of what I need to say about him. All that filters through my mind is wanker, wanker, wanker.
‘I think we lead very different lives.’
Polly nods, expecting more, but I’m not going to give it. I just smile. I think it riles her a little, especially when she comes up with her next question.
‘So Matt, you mentioned before your wife isn’t perfect? What did you mean by that?’
Matt hesitates, especially as we see the kids sitting next to us, paused, eating Cornetto crumbs off the fronts of their jumpers.
‘I mean, she’s human. We’re all flawed.’
His tone is abrupt, edging towards Angry Scot. He might need another Cornetto. I give Polly a forced smile through grinding teeth.
‘I mean, our relationship is not some glossy magazine editorial. We’ve never been about keeping up appearances and purporting to always get it right. We don’t. We just keep it real and work damn hard.’
I pause as he says that. How do we do that exactly? It’s funny how nine years down the line, you wonder what’s changed. How has our relationship ever evolved? I’m not sure how it was supposed to – does love envelop and change you from the person you once were? Is it maintained by big monumental events that I can’t remember? I’m quiet because I’m not sure how damn hard I’ve been working on us. Polly looks at me curiously.
Souper Mum Page 26
