CHAPTER TWo

Time to take a deep breath. In and out. And close your mouth, fool. Too late, coffee dribbles down my chin and onto my checked shirt. Millie looks at me, ponderous as to which of us is the infant at the table. We’re sitting in Caffè Nero beside Sainsbury’s having breakfast: double shot cappuccino with two sachets of sugar for Mummy, bad croissant for Millie; the sort of shrivelled-up pastry that would make the French weep and brick up the Channel Tunnel. Crumbs stick around her face like crusty cold sores and I spend half my time dusting them off. She giggles and dusts my mouth off too. I feel a level of guilt given this is probably the only time Millie and I will get to bond today. Too often these times I’m supposed to be feeding her and looking her deeply in the eyes to build the maternal attachment, I’m usually multitasking: reading a story, applying Savlon to battle wounds, stirring a dinner. Yet she’s one of those babies who doesn’t seem to mind. Sitting there just taking it all in, ginger curls, doughy cheeks like Marlon Brando.

The ginger doesn’t come from me. With a blonde eight-year-old and twin boys with chocolate hair, I wasn’t sure what to expect with this one. Not ginger, that’s for sure. I just remember the look the midwife gave me when she was in our front room, my legs akimbo as Matt filled up the birthing pool. I froze, thinking something was wrong. The baby was stuck, she saw feet, my bikini line was so overgrown she’d have to tackle that first with a hedge trimmer. But all she did was comment about how many carrots I’d eaten in this pregnancy. I didn’t put two and two together until a tiny, copper-headed missy was placed on my stomach. Gorgeous. But her head aglow like a pumpkin.

I write a shopping list on the back of a napkin with an old pen from the Manchester Team Building Exercise 2004 I found in my handbag. Matt always brings me the best souvenirs. First, the Holy Trinity: milk, bread, and eggs. As long as I have those in the house then we can survive anything. We definitely need cereal, wipes, and a plan for tonight’s dinner. After Paula Jordan left me at the school gate choking on the back draft of fumes from her Nordic silver Honda CRV, I started to wish I’d asked for that bag of millet. What to cook, what to cook, what to cook? It’s like the mantra around which my day revolves; a subtle equation whereby you have to balance the contents of your freezer with what the supermarket shelves have to offer and what your patience and time constraints will allow. And today, I have to balance in the added variable of the Jordan kids. Do I go raw? Paleo? Lacto-vegan? I think about Paula on her sanctimonious foodie bandwagon looking me up and down. I think about my garage floor. It’s Monday. Time to go pescatarian; time for fish finger pie. An age old recipe of my dad’s, it involves a box of fish fingers, a tin of tomato soup, lashings of grated cheese, served with cheap white buttered bread. It’s comfort food at it’s very best; starchy and dayglow and I have a fondness for it given my dad used to cook it for me once a month when I was on my period – his way of trying to offer a teenage girl solace.

I served it once to the Jordan kids on a day when Paula asked me when I was thinking about losing my baby weight. I remember Toby hoovering it up without actual cutlery. Yes, today is definitely a fish finger pie day.

As I scribble down the rest of my list and stop Millie eating lumps of butter like cheese, I hear the two baristas chatting. One checks her hair in the milk steamer, the other is restocking wooden stirrers.

‘So it’s today! Shit, you think we can get in on it? Pop up in the background?’

‘Man, he is so fit. We have to at least get an autograph.’

I crane my neck to help with the eavesdropping while remembering we also need sugar and I need tampons.

‘Didn’t you see all them vans outside? They’ve got lights and cameras, it’s well flash.’

I simultaneously correct their grammar while looking out of the window. Vans, lots of them. I had assumed it was the mobile library doing the rounds. There’s a lot of action. People in baseball caps mill around, trying to keep the drizzle off with their clipboards. A commercial, maybe? Photo shoot? My gawping is cut short as my phone rings and I attempt to find it in the cavern that is the change bag.

‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Campbell? Juliet Campbell?’

I always sit up straight when I hear my name in full. Definitely not Dad. It can only be a teacher, a policeman, or my mother-in-law.

‘Yes?’

‘Clifton Primary School here. I’m Mrs Terry, the school secretary. I’m afraid Ted isn’t very well. He threw up during assembly. Could arrangements be made for him to be picked up this morning?’

Half-arsed banana smoothies and mouldy Percy Pigs would do that to young stomachs. Poor little mite. Bad Mummy. I look at my list. If I rush and pick him up now, then we’ll have no food for the others when they get home. I’ll have to give the Jordan kids tuna served out of the tin like cat food. I’ll need white spirit to try and cover the twins’ tracks from their father. We’ll definitely need milk. I start crossing things out and look at the clock on the wall.

‘Ummm, yes of course. I’m just in the doctors’ at the moment. Could you give me half an hour?’

‘Sure.’

There’s a condescension in her voice that suggests she knows I’m lying. It’s a ‘he’s sick and you don’t even care’ voice.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Few people shop on a Monday morning bar elderly couples stocking up on pork pies, rice pudding, and newspapers, which makes trolley dashing far easier given the circumstances. Pensioners are left for dust as we race around, Millie enjoying the lively pace, my boobs not too happy about the lack of support. When we get to the freezer section, fish fingers are on special at £1 a box (get in) so I dump three boxes in the trolley and get some plain crackers for Ted’s poorly tummy. I emerge from an aisle to see mini muffins fresh out of the in-store bakery. Will I have the time to bake my own later? Will I bugger. I cave. This is going well. Maybe I’ll only be twenty minutes. Next bread, eggs, tinned soup, locating the white spirit next to the lightbulbs, and then the milk aisle, scanning the lids for blue and green, the right amount, something that isn’t leaking (this has happened before, the smell has still not left the car). I see a new product – toned milk. From cows with slim calves and flat stomachs? I laugh at my own joke and Millie looks like she’s worried for me. Given it’s Monday and the theme for today is comfort food, I also treat myself to a pack of mini scotch eggs. Damn the consequences. I head for the counters slightly smug, also worryingly out of breath. Behind me I hear crates rattling to get past so I stop hogging the aisle and move to one side, cupping my hands under each armpit as the icy fridge air hits me. But no one passes me. I turn around only to find a great, giant light in my eyes. For some reason I assume it’s fallen from the ceiling and bend at the knee. But then, a face. Shitting mother of …

‘Hello, darling. Right, don’t be too surprised. I’m Tommy, it’s lovely to meet you. And what’s your name?’

I’m not wearing a bra. I’ve actually got a boob in each hand. I’m blinded by a light behind Tommy’s head and a camera is pointed square in my face. Tommy McCoy. He puts an arm around me as I wave into the camera for some unexplained reason.

‘Shit. Sorry, I mean … yeah, you are …’

Tommy and his cohorts all cup their mouths and laugh at my speechlessness. Millie glares at me wondering why we deserve such attention, her chin shiny with drool. I notice they’re leaving a gap wide open for me to talk.

‘I’m Jools.’

‘Like Jools Holland?’

‘Yeah. But I can’t play the piano.’

That was funnier in my head. The blank expressions in front of me assure me that’s the case. A couple of elderly ladies stop to ogle. Staff in uniform pinnies and fleeces emerge to stare at me. I’m still not wearing a bra.

‘And who is this little carrot top here?’

Millie, who has heard this term of endearment a lot since her birth, looks immediately quite insulted. I urge her to throw up on him.

‘This is Millie.’

‘She your only one?’

‘Nope. I have three others.’

‘Cripes, love. You’ve been popping ’em out haven’t ya?’

How the hell do you respond to that? Yes? Indeed, I have! Like cannonballs! I smile back. He’s very glossy in real life. His hair looks like it’s been dipped upside down in wax, and with his face close up you see the shimmer of face powder. The light blue eyes might be a redeeming feature if you could look past the distressed jeans, the slogan T-shirt, and the orange suede trainers. He hops about on his feet, addressing the camera every so often by winking at it, presuming his fame and looks give him licence to squeeze my shoulders.

‘So tell me about yourself, love?’

Love? I’m not sure what he wants to hear. I’m also not sure how to stand. He’s considerably taller than me so every time he grabs my shoulder for a one-armed hug, I end up in his armpit. I’m also wholly aware that in my current ensemble of comfy student chic, I’m going to appear ever so dumpy. I hover on my tiptoes.

‘I’m a mum of four. I live here. Not in the supermarket … but in Kingston. I … errrm, I’m married to Matt as well.’

I hope Matt doesn’t see this and wonder why I added him as an afterthought. Lots of beady expectant eyes watch me, taking in the short and meagre speech that is my life story.

‘And do you work?’

‘I’m a home … mother … housewife?’

I pause as I say it. I hate that term and the pitiful looks that come with it. Is that all? You’re just a housewife? I’m tempted to tell him I’m an astronaut on Sundays. But I don’t. Tommy continues.

‘So, not sure if you’ve seen the show, we’re here today looking for people we can help. Tell me what’s for your dinner tonight. Can I have a look in your trolley?’

He hasn’t quite asked my permission so much as told me what he’s about to do. Maybe I can run. Or feign confusion. This isn’t my trolley, never seen this baby before in my life. He starts with the fish fingers.

‘Fish fingers? Really?’

I want to answer back. But I can’t. Tommy nods, frowning and pulling a face like I’ve just told him I’m feeding my kids fried turds.

‘And your family eats this a lot?’

‘It’s just an occasional treat. It’s fish fingers … I’m making a pie …’

He pulls his lips back across his teeth.

‘I mean, it’s like comfort food. Being Monday and all. Just …’

He looks at me and sighs a little. I want to question the sort of man who has never sought infinite amounts of joy from a fish finger sandwich. But I don’t. His attention returns to the contents of my trolley. Tommy rifles past white spirit and milk and gets to the bread.

‘Is this the sort of bread you normally buy?’ he says, squeezing my loaves. ‘The average household could save up to £250 a year by investing in a bread maker. You could do yourself all sorts of flavours: wholemeal for a start, multigrain, lovely Mediterranean loaves with olive oil and sundried tomatoes …’

The bugger has pummelled my loaves and left huge depressions in them that I know will mean the bread will never return to its original shape and will leave the slices shaped like squashed clovers. His attention turns to the scotch eggs and mini muffins and he has his way with them too, poking at them and listing all the artificial ingredients to the camera.

‘Such a shame, love, you know these things are so easy to make yourself. Bit of minced pork, herbs, and breadcrumbs. I have an amaaazing recipe.’

I nod. It’s just for today. I needed a scotch egg pick me up. The posse of spectators who have gathered are all shaking their heads like I’ve just peed in the middle of the aisle. I stand speechless, shocked but also narked. I don’t have time for your judgement, I’m not dressed for this. I need to get to my precious Ted and his technicolour vomit. I can also feel my skin starting to glisten – these lights are bloody hot.

‘Look love, I want to help you and I can see you’re uncomfortable so I’m gonna ask you straight up. You’re a busy mum of four and to be honest, I don’t want to see you feeding your brood this rubbish. Can I help you?’

I look at my wrist and a watch that I’m not wearing.

‘Ummm, the thing is, I really don’t have the time. I need to get somewhere.’

The gathered crowd inhales. One woman in her sensible shoes, perm, and twinset seems to not understand what I am saying. You mean you are turning him down? Are you blind? Other Monday mums jostle to the front of the crowd, arranging their bosoms so the producers may pounce on them next. I smile at Tommy, who looks like the sort who’s never been turned down without a fight.

‘C’mon, love. You get me for a whole day, in your house, on the television, helping to turn your life around. Whaddya say? For your kids?’

By this point, I’m quite proud of myself because none of his bribes are luring me in. He could indeed turn my life around, if he had a cheque for a sizeable amount of money with my name on it in his back pocket. Alas, I suspect my pride would prevent me asking for cold, hard cash. He grabs my shoulders in a vain attempt to squeeze some emotion out of me.

‘Sorry, I can’t.’

I turn to leave, glad to have my back to the camera for once, but not before I hear him mumbling under his breath to someone with a clipboard.

‘Let’s find someone else. If she doesn’t care, then why should I?’

This is where I should really walk away. I should canter to the tills, pay, pack, and run off to Ted who’s going to be sitting on those orange polyester chairs by the school office wondering where I am. To be honest, it takes very little to rile me today. I’m not touchy, over-sensitive, or confrontational in the slightest. Take my parking space, spill my drink, show up on my door trying to sell me windows. It’s all small things in the greater scheme of things. But today is Monday. I’m not wearing a bra. I’m coming off a truly bad school run. He thinks I don’t care. I turn and see him still glaring at me while he adjusts his collar.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Changed your mind then?’

‘Actually, no.’

The producer seems happy I’ve returned but the crowd seem a little bored of me now.

‘I just heard what you said. I thought it was a little out of order.’

Tommy shrugs his shoulders, quite unapologetic.

‘Well, like I said, love. It seems to me like you don’t care. You’ve got a whole load of crap in your trolley, pardon my French, and you’re gonna give that to your kids? Mums like you break my heart.’

My mind races like a high-powered computer, filtering everything that was wrong with what he just said. Firstly, crap is crap, it ain’t French. Secondly, I’m not giving it to just my kids, there are two adults involved too. And lastly, mums like me?

‘Well, please enlighten me about the sort of mother I am, seeing as you know me so well.’

The semi-dispersing crowd re-huddle for the potential drama about to unfold.

‘What’s your idea of cooking? Putting something on a tray to go in the oven? You’ve no fruit, no veg. You probably have your kids chugging away on snacks all day long.’

‘I’ve got fruit and veg at home, my kids eat OK. I think it’s a little rude to judge me on a shopping trolley and the fact you’ve just met me.’

‘Really? You have the veg at home, is it?’

Why the hell would I lie about a bit of broccoli? A person from the production team hands him a Japanese radish that I half hope he’ll slip on so it lands directly in his rear end.

‘What’s this called, then?’

‘It’s a radish. A daikon, I think.’

He seems shocked. I raise my eyebrows. C’mon, throw all your rare vegetables at me, you bloody condescending prick. Now you’re just assuming I’m uneducated, stupid even? Seriously? Ted is sick. Granted, that’s because he ate old Percy Pigs for breakfast but I’m not doing this now. Tommy’s rifling through a basket fingering some physalis.

‘Hold up there, missy.’

I freeze. Missy? I have the overwhelming urge to throw something at him, saddened that I haven’t got a pineapple available. I am flustered, cold, and have a suspicion that Millie may have filled her nappy again.

‘Really, please. I think you’ve insulted me enough today. I’m not sure I can handle any more lectures. Thanks.’

His eyes mist over. He puts a hand to my shoulder and cocks his head to one side.

‘Sorry, look – all I want to do is help you, love. Not judge. Eating healthily can be cheap and convenient. At least take a copy of my book for some recipe ideas.’

He holds it up to the crowd. It’s shiny, has his face on it, and is called ‘The Real McCoy.’ I open the first page to see that it’s signed. My first thought is of eBay. A young upstart with equally fluorescent trainers hands out a few copies to the crowd. One woman holds her copy with Tommy’s gleaming face at her bosom, smells it, and looks like she might be having a special moment. I put mine in my trolley.

‘Don’t you want to look through it now?’

‘Errrm, no. Thank you. It can wait.’

He throws his hands up in the air like he’s done with me. I’m a lost cause, obviously there must be something wired up wrong in my brain. Why aren’t I in the throes of oestrogenic adulation, hanging on to his every word? I catch an image of myself in the reflection of the camera lens. My hair looks like I’ve been rolling around in static.

‘You should think about your kids.’

‘I do.’ I furrow my brow to see where this is going.

‘Because you need to …’

‘I need to …’

‘Do better by them.’

The hush descended over the crowd hangs like fog. Tommy stands back, knowing a line has been crossed. Walk away, Jools. Walk away.

‘Excuse me? What right do you have to tell me that? God, yeah – if I was shitting money like you – of course, I’d buy bloody organic everything and make my own bloody bread. Thing is, I don’t have your millions. I have four kids and a mortgage. So I don’t need some hyped-up twat who’s completely removed from reality giving me grief and judgment over a fucking fish finger.’

I said fucking. Millie looks up at me like a little distressed lobster. Mummy has her rage on. The fish fingers have made their way into my hand as if helping me fight the closing argument of a trial. The once frozen box is soggy in my fingers. Maybe I can bring up the fact they’re 100% cod, the fact Captain Birdseye looks like the reliable sort. Tommy, for once, is speechless, while my transformation into raving lunatic continues. The entire supermarket seems to look on.

‘We’re all parents, love. We know how hard it can be.’

He announces this to the crowd. Some of the faithful nod. The irony is not lost on the others.

‘Really, Tommy? How? Please explain your hardships to me.’

Tommy is silent and staring daggers at me. I’m on a roll.

‘I thought so. Are you off on the school run later? Will you be changing nappies today? Making cups of tea you’ll never drink? Wrestling your children into a bath? Grating cheese till your fingers are raw? No.’

People chuckle. A group of shelf-stacking teenagers have joined the gaggle of silent spectators. Somehow it goads me on in a playground mob way.

‘You’re not like me. It’s completely patronising of you to compare our lives in any way. So please drop it with the mockney “best mate” act and realise you know nothing of my life, and even if I do mess up being a parent every so often, I don’t need you shoving it down my throat.’

Wow. That was quite ballsy, but also surprisingly eloquent, which is very unlike me. A man at the back applauds me. Everyone else is paralytic with shock, so I leave. I run. Literally sprint. Gripping on to my trolley and heading for the self-service tills to avoid any further human contact. I’m silent, maybe a light shade of raspberry, and a bit balmy around the armpit region, still breathless. I brought my own bags. Does that count for anything? I can feel the stares of staff and customers boring into the back of my head. Car. Just get to the car. Leaving the store, it’s drizzling again and I run to the car using a spare fruit and veg bag to cover Millie’s head. Everything loads randomly into the car and, all damp, I finally get into the driver’s seat, checking myself in the rear view mirror. A rather fetching sweat moustache, hair like a straw mane, my eyes creased with an emotion I can no longer contain. Tears fall on to the steering wheel as I realise how bloody angry I am. Bloody, bloody idiot. That, and I forgot the sodding cereal.