CHAPTER FIVE

Before long, the kids, having been illegally loaded into my car, are now filled to the brim with fish finger pie. Something I’m still unapologetic about – comfort food needs come first but given McCoy’s damn voice still haunts me, I’m now cutting apples and plucking grapes onto a plate. Something still riles about this morning – there was the judgement, the presumption, but also the fact he pigeonholed me so quickly; how he was so quick to turn around and judge one day of junk as a fail. I think about what he said and turn to look at empty plates, thinking about processed food zipping its way around my kids’ bodies, turning into bad fats and making them stupid. Maybe I should have gone with a spag bol tonight. Maybe I should have baked my own muffins. I pluck at a few more grapes.

Upstairs, I hear some sort of boyband-like anthem pulse through the ceiling. That would be the girls, while the boys are gawking in front of the television which is allowed, as the alternative would be them hurling themselves off the sofa and swinging from the lampshades. Millie sits in her high-chair and catches bits of grape in her mouth like a trained seal. Half an hour until Paula Jordan arrives. So I’ve hidden anything with artificial colouring and gluten and I have my two best mugs out. I even have the kids watching the Discovery Channel which is thankfully now less fuzzy since Stuart the Sky Man came to fiddle with our dish.

‘Dadddddddyyyyyy!’

It’s a sound I hear every night. Like he’s just returned from war or the children haven’t seen him in months. I hear the front door open and shut and watch from the kitchen as the boys hurl themselves at him. Toby Jordan watches in adulation. I suppose Paula calls for more restraint in her house. Kids generally like Matt because of his Balamory style accent and the fact he launches them through the air and over his shoulders.

‘All right? Ted? You OK, buddy.’

Ted immediately remembers he was sick and pulls a face. Matt bundles him in his arms and returns him to the television. There’s two minutes of wrestling before he comes to find me and to give Millie a kiss.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong but we have just the two sons, right? Or are they multiplying on their own now?’

‘The Jordan kids. Eaten?’

‘Nope.’

‘There’s some fish finger pie if you want it.’

‘Yeah, why not? Put a brew on as well.’

Matt always returns from work with pink eyes and a doughy, bloated expression on his face, like part of his soul has been extracted through his flesh. He’s always worked long, hard hours to support us but I know that being an accountant was not what his heart desired. To avoid being a corporate clone, he therefore hangs on to the last vestiges of his youth that he feels still keep him young and relevant: the vintage satchel, the big earphones, the Kruder & Dorfmeister playlists, the unstyled Blur/Parklife haircut. Hell, if he could, I’d bet he’d wear his tie around his head like a Cherokee as soon as he left the office. I’m not sure what Matt would have done had we not got pregnant at the age of twenty and instead used our degrees to lead other lives. He’d probably be on a Greenpeace boat giving whalers hell, maybe a renegade journalist in East Timor, or an anti-war campaigner helping mine victims find new limbs. Instead he signed his life away to Price Waterhouse Cooper. I can’t even remember what I wanted to be.

Even before removing his bag and shoes, he does what he always does and that’s to sift pointlessly through the cupboards. He sits down next to Millie, his blond hair all ruffled, stretches his arms behind his back, and takes a long sip of tea. Then he stops.

‘So what do you know?’

It’s his line. He knows I have a million and one things to tell him when he walks through the door and this line is permission that he is ready to take it all in. I lean on the counter sipping from a cup and dole out the rest of the Rich Tea fingers.

‘Start with Tommy McCoy.’

I tell him all the details and he nods, laughs, and finishes my explanation with a hug. Hugs are what Matt and I do. For the longest time, I’ve realised this is our ritual way of maintaining some level of intimacy in our relationship given we lack the energy to kiss or think of anything complimentary to say to each other. So our groins slightly touch, his stubble grazes my freckly cheek, we literally prop each other up. Today, his hair smells of mangoes which makes me think he’s run out of shampoo and had to use the kids’ but the contact is surprisingly drawn out and I see Millie smile to see us embrace, like she knows this is how the world should be.

‘Well, don’t let the bastard get you down. You’re an all right cook.’

I look over and give him half a smile, knowing that popping fish fingers in soup and slapping a thick layer of butter onto cheap white bread doesn’t really qualify for much affection. But all right? I’ll take that. He points to the fridge.

‘Well, you do what all mums do, you get on with stuff. End of.’

I stare at the fridge and the numerous recipe cards and magazine cuttings stuck on with alphabet magnets. He may be right. Maybe that is something that also niggles. Not that I’ll ever be a McCoy league chef but truth be told, I thought I quite liked cooking. I have a feeling that in my harried existence, it’s one of those things I seek some sort of joy from, even some feeling of achievement. From creating something in the kitchen to seeing it being wolfed down and the kids asking for more, it’s definitely one part of being mum where I feel almost useful. Even feeding the husband makes me feel that I can at least provide him with some joy after a fraught working Monday.

I watch him sit down to eat when there’s a knock at the back door. Adam. Adam, the elder of my brothers, lives around the corner in a bachelor pad with a flatmate the kids have christened Smelly Seb. When Adam runs out of money for a takeaway, he comes round to ours.

‘Matteo! Juliet! How goes it?’

‘Eaten?’

‘Nope.’

I get him a plate. ‘So are we still on for tonight? You got the TV fixed?’

My raised eyebrows reveal to the boys that an explanation is wanting. Matt nods and winks to Adam. ‘It’s the Champions League semi-final. Liverpool vs Inter. Adam and I are making a bit of a night of it.’

I flare my nostrils. ‘Anyone else I can expect?’

‘No. Could you rustle some of those nice chicken wings you make?’

‘No, I can’t make bloody chicken wings.’

Adam holds his imaginary handbag up. Matt smiles at me hoping it will summon up some goodwill. Not likely, Matteo Campbell.

‘Well, I won’t mind if you both get the kids bathed and ready for bed before you sit down to your game.’

I pat Millie on the head and Adam and Matt mumble their acceptance of the terms and conditions then wolf down what’s left of the fish finger pie.

‘You know Dad used to sprinkle the fish fingers with Tabasco, crisped them up under the grill. Proper legend.’

I stand open-mouthed wondering how he has the gall when he’s shovelling it all in double speed. Jake walks in and does what he always does in the kitchen – sniffs his nose around on the hunt for sugar. His face lights up to see my reprobate brother.

‘Uncle Adam! Are you here for the football?’

I realise there has been a plan in place all along, so stand closer to Millie to garner some form of female solidarity.

‘Sure thing, Jakers. How’s it going, little man?’

‘All right, but Alfie Lingham called me a pube today.’

A bit of crust flies out of Matt’s mouth which Millie finds highly entertaining. Adam looks to me for some back-up – this goes beyond the call of duty for an uncle.

‘Do you know what a pube is?’

‘No.’

He’s five. For some reason this fills me with a sense of relief.

‘Well, it’s hair that grows around your underwear area.’

Matt laughs and piles more food into his mouth so he doesn’t have to explain.

‘What, like Daddy’s? He’s got hair all over his beanbags.’

‘Yes, that would be correct.’

Adam is going purple trying hard not to laugh and erupt in a messy fish finger fit of hysterics.

‘Well, that’s stupid. How can you be a pube? Anyway, Toby’s mummy is here.’

We all freeze as a cloaked figure hovering in the hall awaits her entrance to be announced.

‘Paula? Paula! Hey, come in. God, kids, eh?’

Seemingly unperturbed at learning about the state of my husband’s balls, she sashays into the kitchen. The boys even rise to greet her. Luckily, her eyes seem more focussed on the bright orange concoction laid out in front of her and the fact Adam seems to be creating a sandwich involving crisps, sweet chilli sauce, and iceberg lettuce.

‘Thanks again for looking after the kids. Are they ready?’

‘Yeah, sure. HANNAH!’

Paula still can’t seem to take her eyes off the food.

‘Can I get you something to eat, perhaps?’

She forces a smile, staring at the loaf of bread on the counter. Her bread is probably brown with bits and a chewy crust, not neon white and doughy. She shakes her head.

‘Did I tell you about the new wholefoods section of Waitrose? We’ve tried the tempeh bacon and it is delicious. You really wouldn’t know the difference.’

It’s a comment so out there that even Millie looks perplexed. I think it’s a lead in so I will confess if I’ve tarnished her kids’ insides with fish fingers. It’s also a sanctimonious way of telling me how clean living she is, why she’s so skinny and her skin glows like a ripe peach (which Donna says is nothing to do with her vegan lifestyle but all to do with the dermatologist she sees and the tummy tuck she had to get rid of her baby pouch). Matt and Adam look quizzical.

‘I’m sure. Next time I’m in there, you know …’

I notice Adam mutter, ‘Tempeh?’ trying to resist laughing.

‘Ummm, Paula, this is my brother Adam.’

She turns to greet him as he takes her hand and shakes it rigorously. I’m scared her arm will detach from her socket. In Adam’s unsubtle way he gives her the once over: boobs and face. I think Paula enjoys the attention.

‘Our kids are all in the same swimming classes.’

‘Wow, you’re a mum too. Would never have guessed.’

Please, Adam. Not Paula Jordan. To interrupt a potentially rather ick-inducing situation from proceeding, my voice gets shrill as I urge Hannah and Harriet to come down from upstairs and the boys to make an appearance from the living room. Paula doesn’t sit but does what she always does: scans the cracked paint on the walls, the year-old school newsletters on the fridge, my hair twisted on the back of my head like a cockatoo’s backside.

‘What about a drink?’

I point to my best mugs but again she shakes her head, knowing that I probably don’t have the organic ginger and elderflower cordial she’s used to. She flicks her hair. It smells warm and chemically which makes me think while I’ve been looking after Harriet and Toby, she’s been with Toni and Guy.

‘So are you joining the parents’ discussion forum on Tuesdays? We’re thinking we could hold the meetings in parents’ homes. Thoughts?’

I smile to myself, thinking of what Donna told me earlier at the swimming pool. Now they’re going to lure poor Mr Pringle into their homes and seduce him in their downstairs cloakrooms.

‘I’m not sure I have the time, Paula.’

I look over at Matt and read on his face, what the hell is a parents’ discussion forum? Paula reads it too.

‘The parents want to welcome Mr Pringle into the fold and are going to hold a fortnightly forum where we can discuss ideas with him over the children’s extra-curricular activities.’

‘Poor bloke.’

I laugh, maybe snort a little. Paula suddenly looks offended. Matt continues in the way I’ve come to appreciate him, i.e. in his inimitable Scottish accent mixed with some inventive swearing.

‘No offence, Paula, but he’s a young lad. Probably wants to spend his Tuesday evenings down the pub – not in a room full of overzealous mothers talking about the children he’s spent all ruddy day with.’

I close my eyes. Very slowly. Offence might have been taken – just a smidge. I shout up the stairs for Harriet to get a move on. Paula stands there looking at the crumb trails on the floor. Harriet appears looking sullen at having to go home. Toby appears and smiles at me as he puts his shoes on like he might want me to adopt him. As they tackle their coats, Paula throws in a last ditch attempt to win me round to wasting my Tuesday nights at the bigger, better, and more colour co-ordinated houses of the Organix crowd.

‘Well, I think it’s a way for us to use our time better.’

I can think of another. EastEnders.

‘Put me down as a maybe. I’ll see.’

She creases her eyes at me – a look which perceives me to be either a wastrel mother who just sits there using prime-time TV to fill her sad life, or one that tells me my disinterest means I don’t care. In any case, it feels overly familiar from this morning, so much so that I don’t wave to her as she trots out to her Honda CRV. Bye then. Thank you for taking care of my children? I settle the kids back into the living room, trading sensible nature programme with nonsensical alien cartoon and return to the kitchen to find Matt washing up and Adam making space in my fridge for beers.

‘Forgetting the whole Victoria Beckham thing, she’s a bit of a MILF.’

‘Adam, you’re such a scrubber. She’s married, and ten years older than me.’

‘The word is experienced, sister.’

Matt laughs in his Marigolds.

‘And what’s this, Matt was just telling me you had some run-in with that foodie berk McCoy? Good for you. He’s such a knob.’

I smile and nibble at the last soggy fish finger in the baking dish. Matt turns to me.

‘What did you give Millie for her dinner? Looks like vomit.’

I inspect the bowl.

‘It is vomit.’

Adam takes this as a cue to leave and terrorise the three children in the living room. Millie looks decidedly pale.

Ted threw up again, having the good sense to deposit it in a toy truck in the living room, then Jake followed suit. Hannah holed herself up in her room telling me she wasn’t coming out because everyone had the Plague and she was going to die. I got a phone call from Paula at about seven o’clock to tell me Toby was not too well and asked if my kids’ vomit was bright orange too. I made Matt Google ‘orange vomit’ to try and come up with an explanation I could fob her off with that avoided the truth about fish fingers. Ted and Jake were given plenty of water and cuddles, wiped down, and put into our bed with buckets nearby. Millie stayed downstairs with the football fans, lying on the sofa having only mildly vomited just the once. Having brothers like hers has aided her ability to sleep through anything. By some miracle, there is no bit of carpet, bed linen, mattress, or clothing that needs scrubbing so I’m in Hannah’s room as we make our way through the Harry Potter novels. Hannah has a thick section of my hair and twists it around in her hands as she nods off.

‘Mum, can I go to the cinema at the weekend?’

‘What do you want to see?’

‘The 1D movie.’

Hooray.

‘OK, maybe. We could go in the morning.’

‘Oh, not with you. I want to go with Tash.’

‘Oh. With her mum?’

‘No, just us. Lucy’s mum lets her go the cinema on her own and she’s got her ears pierced.’

Lucy’s mum also dresses like she’s fifteen in unflattering arrays of midriff tops and harem pants. I stop for a moment. I look at Hannah’s soft ear lobes, thinking about them being poked with hot needles and my baby girl looking like a shiny pageant queen. I’d forgotten about peer pressure at school or had thought I wouldn’t have to deal with that for another five years at least.

‘We’ll see.’

‘That’s what you always say.’

‘That’s because I love you.’

What the hell did that mean? Hannah doesn’t buy it either. She never has. I reckon she knows she was born to a mother who was never really old or ready enough to know where she stood on certain matters, so always gives me a look like I’m just pulling my parenting skills out of my arse. She sits there unimpressed, still twiddling my hair.

‘Look, it’s late. How’s your tummy feeling? You OK?’

She doesn’t respond so I kiss her on the forehead and turn off the lights. It’s late for her so she won’t get out of bed in the morning without a shove and a kick. On my way out, Matt is checking the boys as they sleep in symmetrical star shapes next to each other.

‘Ted’s got a fever. Just gave Jake some more water. How’s Han?’

‘OK, just having a strop because I won’t let her go to the cinema on her own.’

‘But she’s eight.’

‘Exactly. Millie?’

‘Asleep with your brother.’

For some reason that makes me want to dash down the stairs, but Matt stops me for a quick embrace and I relent. Another hug, this might be a weekly record. We’ve had it easy tonight. The worst so far was the flu of 2009 when the boys were babies, Hannah was three, and we were all sick. So sick, Jake had to be hospitalised, Matt pulled a muscle in his ribs from coughing so hard, and Hannah threw up over the new carpet in the landing that we’ve since covered with a rug.

‘So what else do you know?’

‘Too much. I’ll tell you later.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the football.’

To be honest, I’m not sure how angry I was about that. It pales in comparison to what other wives apparently worry about. From Hannah’s class alone there are sordid whispers of infidels, gamblers, and Tinder fiends. Empty beer bottles on the coffee table and crisp crumbs all over my sofa isn’t a big deal.

‘Well, I’ll trade an evening of football for a morning shopping, on my own, with the phone turned off.’

‘Phone on.’

‘Phone off and I’ll only go to Primark.’

‘Deal.’

He smiles and we stand in the darkened room almost mid-moment, both of us too tired to take the emotion to the next level, whatever that may be. Hugging with stray hands, I reckon. But the moment is gone as shouting from downstairs starts up again.

‘You’re missing the match.’

Matt looks at the clock in the room.

‘No, it’s half time.’

‘JOOLS! JOOLS! Shitting hell, come quickly!’

We skip down the stairs, both fretting something’s up with Millie, hoping she hasn’t thrown up on the sofa. But as we enter the living room, Adam is crouched in front of the screen listening carefully. Millie is still asleep. The three of us gawp as we listen to the news report. Blood drains instantly from my face.

‘… the woman, only known as Jools, has found herself a YouTube sensation. Twelve thousand hits in a matter of hours, the clip filmed by a worker on their mobile phone of her quarrelling with renowned TV chef Tommy McCoy as he tries to recruit her for his hit television show, Off Your Trolley …’

The clip is unbelievably clear. It is me standing by the yoghurts: hair, boobs, the jeans, the horror. Matt is transfixed. Adam is rubbing his chin hanging on every word.

‘… in the clip, the mother of four berates Mr McCoy’s ideals and rejects his offer of help by questioning his intentions and indeed his own TV persona by referring to his ‘mockney’ accent. Mr McCoy has been unavailable for comment …’

The clip replays. Adam is the first to say something.

‘Shit. Look at Millie’s hair. It looks like a ginger afro.’

It does. If you squint it looks like her head is in flames. But really, all I can see is me. Am I really that big? I’ve heard the adage about the camera adding ten pounds, yet why are five of those pounds on my face? I look bloated, pale like a middle-aged, lard-eating man. We won’t even talk about the hair. And the lack of a bra is wholly evident; my nipples, which should protrude nicely on a level with my armpits, are halfway down my torso. The buttons missing from my coffee-stained shirt reveal a strip of podge above my waistband. I’m also shiny with sweat like I’ve been jogging.

Then there’s the rant. Did I really say that? Who is this beastly woman? Why am I standing on my toes? Why is Millie not wearing socks? Matt puts his arm around me when Tommy McCoy starts laying into me about bread. Adam claps when I correctly identify the radish. Matt squeezes me when I tell Tommy I can’t bear to be insulted by him any more. They both laugh when I talk about him shitting money. Then the clip ends on a grandiose note, when I tell Tommy he’ll never be like me and storm off. I thought I’d strode away quite confidently but in the clip my bulbous behind is all I can see, the backs of my jeans all torn and frayed, three inches darker where the hem soaked up the rain.

‘And in other news …’

We stand silently as the news moves on to the next item, a dog who can bark along to Adele.

‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry … that was…’

Horrendous. Completely horrendous. From my coat hook nipples to my pre-menstrual rant to looking like a mess of cheap blouse, badly fitting jeans, and scuffed trainers. I am mortified beyond belief.

‘… that was the possibly the best thing I’ve ever fucking seen, Jools … come ’ere …’

Adam envelops me in his gangly arms and lifts me up. Matt shakes his head in bemusement, alternating between the screen and me. This is good? Humiliating myself on TV is good? I’d rather get naked with Gok Wan in front of the entire world than people see me like that. YouTube? Matt and I are speechless as Adam, who’s forgotten about the football, heads for the computer to search for more.

‘Any more beers, Matt?’

Matt saunters off to the garage while Adam starts to investigate this unlikely news item, my head spinning from the shock value of having seen my mug in HD, huge bags under my eyes, frizzy mane, and my appalling dress sense. Until a voice booms from the kitchen.

‘JOOLS! WHY THE HELL IS THERE PAINT ALL OVER THE BLOODY GARAGE FLOOR?!’