‘So is that how you’re different from McCoy?’
Matt nods repeatedly.
‘Seriously, to tell people you sit in your Cornish lighthouse and everything is organic and fine and dandy all the time is just a crock of sh …’
‘It’s just very far removed from their experiences,’ pipes in Luella.
‘I mean, what was that in their article in Hello!’ Polly shudders to hear her rival’s name uttered. ‘We’re so in tune … we never fight … we bring out the inner calm in each other. Seriously?’
Luella laughs under her breath. I give Matt a look wondering where and when he’s been reading Hello! Polly turns to the kids at this point.
‘So do your Mummy and Daddy fight then?’
Daddy glares at Polly, nostrils flared. Three words dart through my head: death by brogue. Hannah looks thoughtful. Ted looks a little proud of himself.
‘They fight when Daddy leaves wet towels on the bed. Mummy says he’s disgusting.’
Matt blushes a light rose. Jake pipes in.
‘And once Daddy caught Mummy eating crisps in bed and called her a heifer.’
My turn to blush. Hannah joins in.
‘But they don’t fight like other mummies and daddies. Billy Tate said his mum chased his dad down the road with the iron once. My mummy’s never done that.’
Polly nods. I wonder what Fiona Tate intended to do with the iron. I, for one, am slightly unnerved by what could be said, but Matt’s priorities are obviously the children and how Polly’s journalistic tactics are trying to dig for information via our kids, no less.
‘Kids, why don’t you go and see Nonna in the kitchen?’
They all get up to leave, Ted hugging Polly as he goes.
‘Do you eat crisps in bed?’ he asks, trying to gage the normality of the situation. Polly blushes, which I take to mean a yes – I’m guessing prawn cocktail. And with that he runs off. Matt closes the door behind them. Luella looks worried. He comes and sits down next to me.
‘We do fight. Nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t mind my kids seeing the cracks in our relationship as long as they see how we resolve arguments. To send the message out that everything is perfect 100% of the time is the wrong message.’
Luella is satisfied with this answer and nods at Matt’s logic. Polly looks like she wants to dig further. Please Polly, don’t.
‘So with everything that has been in the press regarding past relationships, the details of your own and such, you mean you don’t mind your kids reading about that?’
Oh no, she didn’t. A big fat lump gets forged in my throat as I see Luella trying to catch her breath. The next response is critical. I should get in there first. But I don’t.
‘I mind the fact a lot of it is a load of made-up crap.’
Was that bad? I can’t tell any more. Matt, strangely, is not fuming like he’s been known to recently. He’s on a light, animated simmer.
‘So if I was to say the name Richie Colman to you …’
He would throw a cup of coffee at the wall and get his mother to chase them down the road. I hear the sound of Matt’s teeth molars possibly shattering inside his mouth. Must speak.
‘I would say he was someone from my past.’
Matt’s eyes drop to the floor.
‘Someone from a completely different time in my life. I thought it was incredibly tactless of him to have gone to the media with his story.’
Polly is not as much listening to me but watching Matt squirm in his seat. I put a hand on his knee to reassure him.
‘I can see Matt is quite uncomfortable talking about him … Does he have a hold over your relationship?’
I look at Matt, straight in the eye.
‘No.’
He looks at me, reading my face from the constellation of acne on my forehead to the curve of my chin. The squirming stops.
‘Well, if we can get back to how you guys first met? People have been focused on how you were very young when you got together, how it was all a bit shotgun. Would you agree?’
I nod, even though I’m not sure what I’m nodding at given I know this issue has always hung around us like a pesky fly, doubt that just refuses to shift. I feel Matt’s fingers interlock with mine and squeeze a little. I look over and he takes a deep breath.
‘I’d agree. We were young, it was all a bit manic. But I did the right thing at the end of the day.’
I pause to hear what he has to say next. He did the right and honourable thing and that was to marry the girl he knocked up. He could have had a very different life had he not. He could have persuaded me to go the Marie Stopes round the corner and deal with things, he could have just up and left, but he was a good man. He did the right thing.
‘I married, and have always stood by, someone I was completely in love with.’
And the room stops. Not that it was moving much. But my face goes a little numb. Luella’s eyes shift from badass publicist to glazed over and affected. Polly has no choice but to smile.
‘Love at first sight then?’
I turn to face him.
‘Maybe. I think you can spend little more than a week with someone and know – everything’s different. No pretence or games, it just works. And that’s how it’s always been with Jools. It just fits.’
Don’t cry, don’t cry. Too late. I tear up a little and pick at my eyelashes, pretending it’s my mascara.
‘And next to all the love stuff, we seem to work well together when it comes to parenting and running a house. Like good sidekicks, really.’
Luella laughs. Maybe at the idea of Matt in Batman tights.
‘You OK, Jools? Do you feel similarly?’
I nod. There is so much to say. I never knew you saw our relationship so clearly, so logically. I love Matt. Of course I do. But I know I entered into our relationship tentatively – to say otherwise would be lying. I went with a gut feeling that everything would pan out all right, that he was a decent enough bloke to stick around. Matt looks over at me, eyes almost yearning for me to say something of equal emotional impact. This is the one and only time I will say something remotely loved up and mushy to you, woman. Time to ‘fess up your true emotions. But I am mute. Was I really too blind to see how much he’s loved me from the start? Has he always thought my love for him has been different – borne from obligation? Borne from a need to surround myself with a family of my own – repairing my own mother’s mistakes?
‘Yeah. I guess, it’s just … I am very lucky.’
Polly nods, not quite believing me. ‘That you are.’
Matt just looks down, the sound of a large gulp sounds like someone throwing a boulder off a cliff. I was the love of his life. And he is mine, he must be. But with Richie, there was the real sense of loss at the time, real emotions being stirred into motion. With Matt, it’s always been plain sailing. And for someone as emotionally manic as myself, I do wonder about this lack of passion. Is it because it’s lacking? Is it because I feel any less for him than I would another?
‘To be honest, I envy relationships like yours.’
Everyone pauses. Polly scribbles away, not realising she’s said something of greater significance than she’s realised.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘You got a man to commit to something at the age of twenty, my boyfriend is twenty-nine and we can’t even get a cat together.’
Luella smiles at me and nods.
‘Here you have someone uncomplicated, who obviously adores you, who gets you despite everything. That is very rare.’
I smile and look over at Matt, eyes still pointed at the carpet. I get it. You’re here because you didn’t want to be your mother. You stay here because it’s convenient, because I gave you no other choice. But no. Nine years down the line, it can’t be.
‘He’s right. It always fit. We got off to some strange, intense start but we fit. We’ve got on with life. Ninety-nine per cent of my life is just pure insanity and drama and then there’s Matt who has j
ust always been …’
The epicentre of all that is normal, sane, and logical. And I cry. Because I’m not sure where I would have been for the past nine years without him. Sitting in a messy kitchen without the four maddest kids in the world, sidekick-less, without the love of my life. And it’s as if something clicks and rains over my brain with guilt, with love, with a newly clarified logic about us.
‘… he’s always been the one thing that makes perfect sense …’
There’s no drama because when it comes to us, there’s never been the need. Luella smiles and nods. Polly scribbles away, not realising she’s done what we may have paid a therapist thousands to do. And for the first time, Matt looks up at me and smiles and even though he’d never admit to it, that might be a little tear in the corner of his eye.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Exactly thirty-six hours until T-Day, until I go on the television and try my damnedest to survive the cook-off from hell. Jake was right, why am I doing this? In the run-up, the newspapers and columnists are having a field day. There will be live blogs and William Hill have me at odds of 25-1 that I will cook McCoy under the table. Of course, McCoy is 3-1 to win the whole thing and by this time next year no one will ever remember who I am. The paps are back in my life. Mrs Whittaker (currently under review for bollocking Jen Tyrrell but assured to have her reputation bolstered by ninety-nine per cent of the parents at the school) regularly chases them out of the giant wheelie bins round the back of the school but a faithful few sit in cars by the hedges opposite the house. Mrs Pattak next door now has her curtains closed all day and when she sees me she says something in Hindi which sounds like either a curse or a prayer. I probably deserve both. This morning, the papers are all about McCoy. Apparently, because the recent floods in South East Asia are not nearly as important, McCoy has dyed his hair for the occasion. He’s gone platinum blond. There are pictures of him exiting a salon with Kitty, who has had matching highlights done, others as he goes and makes an appearance at his gastropub, a final one of him kissing a baby. Below is a picture of me picking up the kids from school, make-up-free, book bags in one hand, Millie in the stroller covered in raisins, Hannah in a mood because I wouldn’t let her go to a friend’s house, and the twins pulling faces. The picture is circled by Luella, who sent it around this morning. A message is written underneath. MASCARA! IF YOU DON’T HAVE THE TIME, AT LEAST USE MASCARA! BRUSH YOUR HAIR! MAKE THE BOYS WALK BEHIND YOU! Adam comes in and sees me studying the picture, reading the message. He perches his chin on my shoulder.
‘You don’t look that bad. C’mon, McCock, the nineties called, they want their hair back.’
I laugh and put the paper down. Adam grabs a freshly baked muffin in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, all Gia’s doing, of course. Adam is here, he says, to lend support, but truth is he’s here for the baked goods. He flicks through another McCoy article in The Sun while simultaneously feeding Millie bits of panettone.
‘Apparently, he’s been invited over to the United States to speak at fat camps and cook at the Oscars,’ I inform him.
‘Maybe he can stay there,’ adds Adam.
I have no response because he’s not going anywhere in the next couple of days. I just grab a muffin and stuff it whole and warm into my mouth. Carbs may be my only consolation in all of this. Maybe I can eat myself into a sugar coma and not have to do it. As I put my plan into action, Gia enters, eyeballing me because the baked goods are for the guests. My brother does what he always does when he sees Gia, which is to semi curtsey.
‘Adam … you see OK! magazine?’
I roll my eyes as she gets her copy out from under the fruit bowl where I’d been hiding it and flicks through to the interview and the glossy pictures. Of course, it could have been a lot worse. They didn’t mention the fact that Matt and I were snivelling wrecks declaring our admiration for each other, nor the fact that the kids thought McCoy had stupid hair. No, but they did say my family were colourful and spirited – I’m guessing code for hyper and uncontrollable. Adam scans through the photos, before a bit of baked goods flies out of his mouth.
‘Did they? No, they didn’t …’
Yes, they did. For some reason, which I attribute totally to McCoy’s camp of media interventionists, they decided to Photoshop Millie’s hair. She was now positively Ronald McDonald. Matt was fuming that they had the gall to digitally alter his daughter but didn’t think his squinty eyes needed fixing in any way. Gia takes the magazine back.
‘I think the family all very bellisimo. I like. I showing all the family in Italy.’
I nod, still a little on edge and stressed out. Gia hooks her arm into mine.
‘I wash the stuffed toys and I throw away that plant in the bathroom, it smelling funny. Is there anything you are wanting me to do?’
I smile. Lots. You could run over McCoy, set fire to one of his restaurants, cook a chilli and pop it through a specially installed trap door on set halfway through, or bestow on me some special cooking power like a genie. I shake my head and pop in another muffin. White chocolate chips and raspberries dull the horror for now.
‘You know I had a dream last night that halfway through your cooking, Tommy got Mum to appear through a curtain.’
I don’t laugh. I don’t even say a word. The fact is I wouldn’t put it past him. Gia gives Adam a look.
‘It was a joke, sis.’
I get a finger and jab it into his armpit, which makes Millie laugh to no end. I do it again. I haven’t really spoken much to Adam since the whole mother reappearing from nowhere debacle but it doesn’t looks like anything has fazed him too much in the ordeal. His psyche had already filtered her out and dealt with her not being part of his life. I half hate him for his psychological efficiency. It still nags at me a little, still pops into consciousness every so often and makes me stare at wall space for moments too long.
‘So you heard anything more from ol’ Dottie?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
‘Me neither, in case you were wondering.’
‘I wasn’t.’
Gia sits down quietly, pretending that wiping Millie’s mouth needs far more concentration than it does. Adam then does what Adam does which is to squish my shoulders from the side in a half-hearted attempt at a hug. He’s never quite enveloped me like Ben does but it’s his way of letting me know he’s on my side. I squish back. Adam looks out the back window of the kitchen, as far as his reflection.
‘What did they look like?’
‘The others?’
The brothers. I’m not sure if I gave the picture a second look but one of them was attempting to grow one of those bum fluff beards, the other had a tie-dye T-shirt on. I shrug my shoulders.
‘I’m picturing two lads out there who are just carbon copies of me and Ben.’
‘Another two of you? I shudder at the thought.’
He pushes my arm a little and gives me a look. Adam’s looks are not as playful and bright as Ben’s – they just seem to be loaded with something I can never quite make out, some level of emotion he’s too scared to ever want to express. There’s always a lot of nodding.
‘I swear though, I never want to see Ben that fucked up again … sorry, Gia.’
He turns to apologise but Gia has her hand in the air, almost as if she’s allowing it for now. She catches my eye and gives me a smile. Gia has been particularly tactful regarding the situation with my mother, staying permanently on the side-lines through the furore, looking on as my brothers and I broke down in front of her and argued our way through it. Yet she was quiet, saddened, by the events. I only saw her comment to Matt, so he could translate for her how significant it was.
‘She is a silly woman,’ she suddenly adds.
Silly might be an understatement but Adam nods in appreciation of the fact that it’s not just him who thinks so.
‘I am sorry she is not the woman you want her to be. She is silly to not see how lucky she is to be having children like you.’
/> And then silence as Adam and I digest that final sentence. I smile. Gia, Gia, Gia – only three weeks ago you were bordering on being the mother-in-law cliché. But then something happened. You championed my family, you chased the ghosts of ex-boyfriends away, you kicked ass with copious amounts of homemade pasta. And while your visits used to be filled with awkwardness, a shade of forced sentiment, now there is something warming about having you around, the comforts you have provided from my kitchen, the way you organise my saucepans so they fit together like Russian dolls. Adam is still a little silent.
‘Come, you must go for your rehearsal, no?’
I nod. She has her hand faced upwards and goes to touch my face like she’s blessing me. I respect you now, mother of my grandchildren – go back into the world with the recipes I have bestowed upon you and continue your good work. But no. Instead, she places something in my palm.
‘This for you, for tomorrow. Have faith, mia.’
I look down at my palm and open it to find a small, gold cross there on a chain. Adam, holding Millie, can barely contain himself from bursting into hysterics to see it. Yep, that’s what I need. A fucking miracle.
12.36 p.m.
I’m not entirely sure where I pictured this Armageddon-style cooking showdown taking place. I thought I’d at least get a set of someone’s house that wasn’t actually mine but no, this place is bloody huge. The studio is cavernous, the walls all intertwined and not unlike the inside of the spaceship in Alien. If anything is going to intimidate me, it’s all these wires and the metal hanging down like some sort of industrial accident waiting to happen.
‘Seven minutes left!’
I’m here for a mini run-through with Luella. I am dolled up in a fifties-style dress with heels and accessories and my only audience member is Annie, who’s here on her lunch break because her office is ten minutes away. To be honest, I’m not sure how today is helping me in any way, apart from making me very on edge. What seems to be most telling is that I cannot seem to cook under this sort of pressure. Leisurely Saturday Kitchen cooking where half of it is done for me, I can do. Four kids pulling my arms and hanging off my hips, I can do, but with Luella telling me constantly that I have minutes left, under the heat of the lights, and with people scrutinising my every move with questions, I fail miserably. I don’t know why I cut my avocadoes like that. I just do. Jake would never give me such a hard time. A voice booms on to set.
Souper Mum Page 27
