‘And what’s that you’re adding there?’
A dash of AB positive, fresh I’ll have you know.
‘Some Worcestershire sauce. Sometimes I’ll put some soy sauce in too.’
Vernon smiles. I see blood. Did anyone else see the blood? I just stir until everything in my pan goes a uniform dark brown. I’m cooking with blood, sweat, and tears, quite literally.
‘And what are you serving with it?’
‘Well, usually Mexican night for us is this with rice, tortillas, and some dips so I’m doing some easy guacamole and a bit of salsa. I mean, it’s the reason I chose this dish … it’s a great midweek meal.’
‘Well, it’s looking great and I sincerely wish you both the best of luck. There’s half an hour left on the clock so we’ll leave you to get cooking and go to a break. See you in five.’
Lights switch off. Vernon’s hands go to my shoulders.
‘Calm down, love. It’ll be fine.’
I look up at him, just seeing a shadow of big man, and nod enthusiastically. Luella runs on set and grabs my finger. I wince in pain.
‘How are you? Do we need to change the dressing?’
I shake my head with no time for words, getting to grips with my avocados. Yet because I have an aversion to the stupidly sharp knives, I’m just grabbing at the seeds with my fingers, clawing at them so the avocado flesh turns to mush. I look over at McCoy chopping at herbs and deseeding chillies. Then I turn around. Matt. He grabs a tin opener to help me out with my tomatoes. He says nothing. Of course, the McCoys would never stand for this. Kitty storms over.
‘Excuse me, the deal here was that we’d be cooking solo. No help. This is a clear infringement of the rules.’
Matt doesn’t seem to register she’s standing there and carries on regardless. Luella butts in as I would have guessed she would. I hope none of them bring up the issue of the bribe, surely that would be the biggest infringement of any rulebook.
‘Give her a break, she’s just sliced her finger open on a knife that your husband pushed on her. He’s just opening a tin.’
He’s also giving my rice a stir but there is no room for compassion here. Kitty clicks her fingers and from the side-lines a small Hispanic-looking man with a strange, evil beard runs on in Crocs and checked trousers, brandishing a paring knife, going straight for the limes.
‘What the fuck?’
Kitty shrugs her shoulders with a sardonic smile, which Luella mimics before swearing at her turned back.
‘We’ll see about that bitchbag.’
Luella’s hands are a blur over my countertop as she starts emptying little measured-out pots over my mince. Everything gets tossed in maniacally. Including the chocolate.
‘Noooooo!’
But I’m too late and as soon as I see it melting, it sticks to the bottom of the pan, becoming a hot, dark brown mess. Shit. Quite literally. I see Kitty’s head bob with laughter as the three of us stand over the pan, Matt having the good sense to chuck the tomatoes in to try and save it. But this only makes the burnt chocolate rise to the top in flakes. Matt turns to me saying nothing while two producers look on at me, my foundation starting to melt from the heat.
‘And we’re back in one minute.’
I look over at McCoy; aromas drifting over from his side of the set, his little sous-chef making light work of a head of lettuce. I look at my lettuce in the colander in the sink, already drooping as if it knows it’s going to be on the losing side. This can’t be it, can it? No. I grab the tin of kidney beans and empty them into the pan to hide the chocolate. It’s a non-simmering pot of boggy mess, Matt has the good sense to try and find me a cover while I whisper to Luella.
‘The blood. Did my blood go in the mince?’
Her face goes ashen and she doesn’t even have time to answer before a producer runs on to usher Matt, Luella, and beardy sous-chef away.
‘So we’re back. McCoy vs Campbell in our live cook-off, seeing if we can pit culinary genius against stay-at-home street smarts, and I’m here with Jools Campbell. So chilli’s on, can I take a look?’
I grab at Vernon’s sleeve as he goes to reach for the pot. He flinches back.
‘It’s hot. Here, why don’t you try some guacamole?’
I hold a spoon up to his mouth, flicking a bit of green onto his shirt. I see Luella in the corner of my eye putting her hands to her face. He nods and gives me a thumbs up to tell me he approves. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be rude. He then starts with the questions.
‘So tell me, love. What is your best money-saving tip for mums out there when cooking a dish like this?’
I pause for a moment as I wrestle with my limes, squirting juice all over myself.
‘Ummm, wow. Well, to be honest I would never make something like this from scratch.’
The set freezes. I’m going against the Channel 4 Organic Ethos. They all assume it’s a reference to takeaways or buying a ready meal or worse, serving it from a tin; time to dig myself out with my wooden spoon in hand.
‘I mean, chilli in our house is usually a leftovers kind of meal. Like, I’ll have a savoury mince left over from a bolognaise or something and then I’ll just fry up some kidney beans and spices to bulk it out and then I’ve got another meal.’
I look over and Matt smiles at how efficient I sound. Truth is, sometimes I just tip a tin of baked beans over some mince and pass it off as chilli. They’re kids. If you put things on sticks and tell them it’s kebabs, they listen. I don’t tell Vernon that.
‘That’s genius. Great tip. So a savoury mince is like onions and …’
‘Celery, carrots, any bits of old veg at the bottom of the fridge. Fry with mince, add your seasoning and herbs, and pour some stock over. Great base for loads of dishes.’
Vernon smiles. Your Tess does this too, doesn’t she?
‘I mean, our man McCoy is talking about chuck steak, chipotle, and fresh chilli but seriously, if you’re cooking a chilli for a family, you’ve got to think about spice level for little people and your budget.’
Vernon gets me. We nod and talk about mince accompaniments, everything from polenta to potato and I sound almost like I know what I’m doing, apart from the fact I’m scared of polenta and my chilli is hissing. Instead, I lean against my counter chatting away, trying to block everything out when really I should be slicing and dicing. Better still is seeing McCoy behind Vernon, looking over and wondering why he isn’t getting any attention. Up yours, McCoy! Vernon likes me more!
‘And so we’ve heard from Jools and after the break we’re going back to Tommy. Guys, we have approximately eighteen minutes left. We’ll see you after this.’
Another break already? The fact is I was so busy chatting to Vernon I didn’t realise I was also here to cook. Luella runs on again and opens the pot to examine the chilli. It’s actually not so bad. The kidney beans mask the burnt chocolate bits and the tomatoey bit is simmering down to a thicker pulp. Matt comes along and stirs my rice again, which Kitty observes from her thirty paces away and orders bearded sous-chef back on to set to help arrange plates and open pots of sour cream.
‘That was fab. You’re doing great. Keep up with the answers. I’ll forget you just pelted Vern with avocado.’
I smile knowing the chilli is going to have to do wondrous things in that pot for it to taste decent. I put my guacamole in the fridge and see my face in the oven door looking a little like I might have a sweat moustache. Hopefully, the foundation will just soak that up. Back at my countertop, Kitty has stridden over again, purposeful and decidedly nosey. Little Clementine is with her, a child with wavy, honey-glossed hair like she’s borrowed it off Jennifer Aniston. She puts her fingers up on the counter and peeks over at what I’m doing.
‘Really, this is out of bounds, Kitty. I believe this is an infringement of the rules.’
I walk up to the counter to find Luella glaring at her nemesis with a sweet smile but eyes like a death hawk. She must get some sense of supreme satisfaction fro
m laying into her like this, yet I think a smidgeon of jealousy overwhelms. Would Luella use today to bring the subject up? They stand there for a few seconds while Kitty dares to look through my spice rack. Matt looks like he wants to slap her hand.
‘Oh, you’ve bought your tortillas? That’s nice.’
I smile at her. A daughter named after an orange? That’s nice. I can’t understand her little interruption. For a moment I thought it might be she’s here to make amends and apologise too. Let’s just all cook and be happy! But no. She scans my dishes as producers come on yet again to usher everyone to their rightful places and Vernon comes running on like he’s just been away to have a pee.
‘And we’re back! Twelve minutes left, people. And I’m with Tommy McCoy! How’s it going? Tell us what’s happening with your rice.’
I block this bit out. I don’t need to hear him teach Vernon how to feel up an avocado or why your beef should be a bit fatty. I just need to concentrate on my food.
‘So I think you’ll find a real Mexican chilli would never have kidney beans in it.’
I spy my empty tin on the corner of the counter and throw it in the bin. I get out my tomatoes to make my salsa. At least there will be salsa. And I stir the rice again. It looks all right. But the pan is a little static. I stir it again and see Matt on the side-lines flicking his fingers up and down like the way he used to dance in the mid-noughties. I crease my eyes to look at him and watch his mouth. Find? Fight? Fire? Fire? What about the fire?
It’s bloody off, that’s what it is. What? How? I bend down to start flicking at switches and knobs. But it wasn’t off when Matt stirred it before. It’s been on since … since Kitty came over with her daughter who was poking around my workstation. I stare over at the little doughy-cheeked girl and her glossy, horsetail hair and she waves to me. Gobshites! Kitty pats her on the head as I get my water to go back on the boil again. Matt is whispering something to Luella given he must have realised what happened and she storms off to the producers in her harem pants and shoes combination like an angry genie. The rice is still hard. Ten and a half minutes left.
This can still be done. Soldier on, Campbell. But I can’t. He’s won. I am defeated. For the love of God, don’t cry on live TV. Don’t you dare.
I look over at McCoy. And then I look at Matt. Down by his side, the children sprout from behind his back. Little faces watching the lights, the cameras, the action, and waving like I’ve just come back from war. And he sees me and smiles, that smile I’ve come to know and love and appreciate. Look at this mess we’ve got ourselves into. But I’m here, you’re here. I’ve got your back. I will always root for you. And tears that may have been there dry over, the breath stuck in my throat escapes. And I do what Luella tells me not to; I grin back like a demented cat, waving.
I love you, he mouths. I nod. And then he bends down to talk to Hannah. She then whispers something to Jake, who like a wave passes it on to his twin. Why are they coming over? Why? Luella stands there watching them slowly and I know what she’s thinking. Why is Jake’s hair sticking up at the back? Where is that Fat Face cardigan I gave Hannah? The kids look nervous and I go over to meet them at the end of my worktop.
‘We’re reinforcements,’ Hannah says smiling.
‘Daddy said you shouldn’t be doing this alone.’ I run a hand over the top of her head, feeling both terrible they’re in front of this camera but slightly relieved that they’re here: familiar, warm, and smiley. The twins grab on to my legs and I embrace them either side of me. Ted tugs me down to his level. ‘Can we help?’
I look over at hot pans and sharp German knives and twist my lips. ‘Lettuce? You can tear the lettuce?’ Jake doesn’t seem overly excited about the task in hand but they head to the counter and do as they’re told. I see Kitty to one side of me, her collection of children dumbfounded. Hannah slips a hand into mine.
‘Stir the dinner before it burns.’ And I laugh. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because this happens a lot. Maybe I’ve got this far because half the time, when I’m preoccupied with things it’s usually Hannah acting as egg-timer. She hangs off my arm like she does and we do that strange rocking dance we do when she’s bored or cruising for a hug. I hold her close to me. My kids. My crazy monkey-faced kids. Over on the other side of the kitchen, I see Kitty whisper orders to Baz, who walks over to his father and hugs him around the midriff. McCoy says something to him I can’t make out but there’s a look and he goes to sit down again, shrugging his shoulders. I smile. And that’s when I realise, when I have my lightning bolt moment about me, about the way I cook, about the way I should have been winging this all along. I turn to Hannah.
‘You think you could lay my table for me? Fold some napkins?’ Hannah smiles and nods, doing as she’s told.
‘So tell me about school today?’
‘I learnt about Florence Nightingale. But I didn’t get all my tables right. It was the nines.’ And for one small moment, I forget where I am.
‘Didn’t I show you that trick? With your hands?’ I go behind her and hold out her hands. ‘One times nine is, see the fingers.’
I hear her laugh. And that’s all I hear as McCoy’s corner is suspiciously quiet, competing for noise and attention. I see the cameraman smile. I claw at my hands with her hair and kiss her on the forehead. The boys run up to me.
‘We’ve done the lettuce … and Ted ate some.’ Ted hits Jake. I separate them and tear off a bit of kitchen towel, wiping something off Jake’s nose.
‘We don’t hit in this house.’
‘We’re not in a house.’
‘Smart alec … you want to help me with the coriander?’
‘More green stuff?’ Jake turns his nose up and I mimic him. They go over to the chopping board and Jake sticks coriander up his nose and sneezes it out.
‘Jake!’ I give the rice a stir then open the pot of chilli. But geez, what is that smell? I see it thick, swampy, and a strange orangey colour. That is not going to win anything. The bottom is starting to form that familiar rubbery crust, the blackened flecks of chocolate seem to cling to the kidney beans, making them like they’ve got some strange bean pox. This would be the moment I’d turn off the gas, let it congeal so it’ll be easier to chuck in the bin, and head to the freezer. For some fish fingers. I smile.
And then a hand falls on my shoulder. I turn.
‘That looks like the contents of one of Millie’s nappies.’ I laugh and put the pot lid back on. The cameraman looks away. Luella stares over at all of us and puts a thumb up at me.
‘You’re going to be on TV. You’re going to be one of those TV saps you hate.’
Matt smiles. ‘Well, at least we’ll be on together, like Sonny and Cher.’
‘Like Richard and Judy.’ He laughs. He takes a lock of hair that’s been dangling over my left eye and brushes it away from my face. And it’s over. I know that. I haven’t won. I’m nowhere close. But I’m all right. I always have been. I laugh under my breath, wipe off my brow, and find Jake, one eye on me, one on my tortilla chips.
‘Muuuuum, Ted and me are really hungry …’
‘Well, guess we better sort that out, eh?’
SIX MONTHS LATER
I’m curious to know what Christmas is like in other houses. I always imagine it’s a very civilised affair. There are big, towering trees, Bing Crosby, and large glazed turkeys that are carved by the man of the house while everyone sits around drinking mulled wine and exchanging presents, the children revelling in the joy of Jesus and Santa. My Christmas starts with Ted at the end of the bed crying.
‘Santa didn’t come, Mum! I said I was sorry for all those horrible things I did.’
I wake up and usher him in under the duvet given the house is like an icebox. The clock reads 4.56 a.m.
‘Ted, he hasn’t got to our house yet. Go back to sleep.’
Santa has actually left the stockings in our wardrobe to avoid a repeat of last year, where the boys went downstairs first and opened all the presents b
efore anyone else got up. Matt and I had to re-wrap all of Hannah’s presents in newspaper and tin foil. Ted seems happy with what I’ve said and nestles into my armpit but I can’t sleep. Turkey anxiety. Is it all right there in the fridge? What are those timings again? I do bad turkey maths in my head and think about other Christmas style woes (exploding puddings; uncrispy potatoes) until I realise I’m never going to fall back to sleep again. Neither is Millie, who heard her brother come into our room and stands in her cot, eyes piercing the darkness like a little jungle tiger. I pick her up and go to the wardrobe, collecting the pressies, and head downstairs to do some ho-ho-hoing.
It is frigging cold in my house so I put on my slippers and dressing gown, Millie on one arm all sleepy and warm, a big IKEA sack in the other. I head over to the fireplace and arrange the presents at jaunty angles along with a note that Matt has written in charcoal. I then eat the mince pie the kids left out for him, neck the Baileys, and return the carrot to the fridge. Millie gives me a look like I may be scarring her for life.
‘Mummy! What are you doing?’
Shit, shit, shit. It’s Jake: one pyjama leg up, the other down, the hair bouffant about his ears. I wipe crumbs from my mouth.
‘Jake? What are you doing up?’
‘I’m waiting for Santa.’
‘You’ve just missed him.’
‘Really? Oh man! What did he say?’
‘We had a chat about stuff. He liked our tree.’
Jake looks over at it. We left our tree buying a little late this year so it’s a little scarce on the fir, a little lopsided given we’ve had to squash it in a corner. Jake suspects that last sentence was a lie.
Souper Mum Page 31
