CHAPTER TWELVE

It’s Sunday today, six days since the This Morning incident and nearly two weeks since Sainsbury’s. This is the sort of action that usually fills a year. It’s quiet in the house for once. Quiet because I’ve plonked the kids in front of the television, still in their pyjamas mid-morning, and Matt is persuading Millie a nap would be a really good idea. Quiet also because someone showed up on our doorstep earlier. She was small, in a velour tracksuit top that matched her Autumn Magic curls, and was here to pinch Matt’s fats and make sure I was still feeding her grandchildren. Gia Campbell is in the building; hence the hush descended over the house, and I suspect most of Surrey. Gia and I have a wonderfully strained relationship – the main feeling that sits between us is ‘You’re never going to be good/Italian/Catholic enough for me’ versus ‘Whatever, you married a tall Scottish Protestant.’ It means we share smiles and half-hearted hugs and M&S two for a tenner Christmas presents, and when she feels like it or when Doug, the other Daddy Campbell, goes fishing, she shows up on our front door unannounced and usually with a waxy cat shopper foaming with basil and other assorted goodies. This time, however, her reasons for visiting are slightly more covert. She keeps giving me looks like she’s read all those articles and is trying to burn scarlet letters into my forehead with her eyes.

‘She can sleep in Hannah’s room. It’ll only be for a bit.’

Matt whispers in the hallway as we hear Gia rustling around in my cupboards, probably rearranging spices and wondering why half of them are past their use by date.

‘Do you think she hates me even more now?’

‘Probably. We might have to have another kid to get her back on an even keel?’

Matt laughs but it gets stuck in the back of his throat when I punch him near the groin area. At least that was one thing I was good for, producing mini Campbells for her to fawn over so she could pay tribute to her son’s strong Italian sperm.

‘Juliet! Juliet!’

I am being summoned. I must admit I do like the way she says my name, like it’s supposed to be said, as Shakespeare would have wanted. Matt ushers me in and goes to sit with the children. I take a big, deep breath.

‘Gia? Is everything all right in here?’

‘You are not having sage?’

Right now? No. I prefer one sugar in my tea. I shake my head.

‘Then good I bring. Come. I bring nice pancetta.’

I look over at my kitchen counters and the usual array of school letters, bills, empty crisp wrappers, and hamster food is replaced with a sleek and shiny work surface. An onion and three cloves of garlic sit on the chopping board awaiting their fate.

‘I think you help me cook. Come, come. This I teach. We chop.’

I take five seconds to process the sentence. I get the word chop, so stand there to attention and approach the board. Before I pick up the knife, she grabs a shoulder. I smile back hesitantly.

‘What are we cooking, Gia?’

‘Something great. Simple risotto. Nice pancetta, onion, and we roast the butternut squash. The children like this one.’

Only too well. When she cooks this, well, when she cooks anything, from bolognaise to zabaglione to the simplest tomato sauces, the children always lick their bowls clean like feral cats. I stop for a moment to take it in. You want us to partake in an activity together? OK. I see her take some of my stock cubes and hold them to her nose, sniffing them strangely. I start to peel at the onion and chop it in the manner I’ve become accustomed, like the way a chimp might use a rock to break something open. Gia looks at me curiously.

‘I no like this McCoy.’

I stand there and nod. That’s probably the first and only thing we have in common.

‘I no like how he go on the television and he cook Italian when he no Italian. He think he go there on holiday and then he teach people how to cook my food. He is wanker.’

I freeze to hear her curse. My onion is a jumble of small squares, bits, and slithers. Gia eyes it up, grabs the knife from my hand, and dices it further.

‘Rock the knife from side to side, you try.’

I take over as she stands next to me examining my work.

‘You are well, Juliet?’

I nod curiously at this sudden enquiry into my wellbeing as I watch her stare at my bottles of olive oil, shake her head, and go into her bag for her own.

‘I thought I should be coming down. I read so much in papers and I know it must be very hard.’

A large lump forges itself in my throat, waiting for the knife in my hands to end up in my jugular, especially if she read about one Richie Colman.

‘I … I don’t know what to say, Gia. I am sorry such lies were printed. It really means nothing.’

Gia purses her lips. I feel duped. What was once a bonding exercise was just a cover for discussing other matters. Not so clever when there are sharp objects in the area.

‘I know. I just always worry. I … I also read about your mama. I am sorry.’

I fish around in my drawers looking for a garlic press. I find it full of Plasticine and pick all the crusty bits out, trying not to look her in the eye.

‘I was not knowing before why you have no mother. Matteo no speak of this. But now I read the papers …’

‘The papers were not very accurate, Gia.’

‘Oh, nononono. Matteo explain. But I feel like now I know.’

I can feel tears in my eyes. Onion tears, not mother tears, but Gia looks up and perceives them to be the latter. I wipe my eyes on my shoulder and look at Gia. There’s a look on her face. One I’m not sure I’ve seen before. She pats me on the shoulder and nods. I feel like she might think we are bonding, that this is a key breakthrough moment, perhaps. I will share a recipe with you because it is obvious that my shortcomings as a temptress harlot and non-Italian mother may not be my fault at all. There is silence for about five seconds. Hell, for her to believe that is good enough for me if it means she teaches me some closely guarded recipe and I go up in her estimations a bit. She puts a velour arm around me and squeezes lightly, in the same way I’ve seen her pinch ciabattas to check they’re still fresh.

‘Jesus Christ, Millie.’ It’s something I hear every night. Matt’s voice through the ceiling as he changes a nappy and acts like it’s the first time he’s seen how much a small infant can actually poo. ‘It’s all over your frigging back.’ I hear swearing at the wipes, the new pack of nappies, and all the while, Millie chuckling her little heart out. At the front of the house, I hear the kids with Gia and the faint mutters of pirates, curtains, and walking the plank. To her credit, the kids love Gia, her Italian glamour and pockets full of fudge help, but despite any disdain we have for each other, we’re both mature enough to realise the relationship she has with the little Campbells is important, mainly as she’s the only granny they’ve got.

I am in the kitchen, (the only room I ever seem to frequent any more) and am busily writing down recipes into my file (provided by Luella). This is all part of Luella’s master plan for me: get all my cooking knowledge down on paper and try and get my skills out there. So she’s planned for me to cook on Saturday Kitchen, like in front of proper adults instead of the four wailing banshees that are usually hanging by my ankles, telling me they’re starving and they may die if dinner doesn’t make an appearance soon. Butternut squash and pancetta risotto, I print in my best writing. I stare at the empty bowls piled by the kitchen sink smeared in clementine-coloured goo – the risotto was a success, something to add to my cooking repertoire, even though all I feasibly did was chop an onion, some garlic, and stir the pan, learning things about steam and stirring. I scribble down Gia’s wise words: a risotto should be all’onda and ripple in the plate like a delicate stream. It shouldn’t land like old porridge. I continue to doodle in my folder, getting my head around writing and forming actual sentences, then finish the recipe with a flourish and try to annotate it with pictures.

‘What are you doing? Why are you drawing a giant penis next to my mother’s recipe?’

Matt peers over my shoulder curiously.

‘It’s a butternut squash.’

‘Seriously, I have never seen poo that colour. It’s like we solely feed her mushy peas.’

I nod, grimacing, always pleasant to hear Matt’s descriptions of stools as food. At least it wasn’t korma.

‘Now the others want pudding. I’ll whip something up.’

He heads over to the fridge, rooting through the drawers to find some fruit, yoghurt, and assorted goodies, then starts assembling mini trifle/parfait desserts for them with a snap of his hairy wrist. I look over and scowl a little. Although I hate to admit it, Matt’s always been the better cook; he thinks on his feet, he doesn’t need scales, he knows the magic formula when it comes to seasoning. I’m at a loss why Luella hasn’t thought he’d be a far more worthy adversary for McCoy. I remember when Hannah was starting to wean he was the one who’d be whizzing up purees, and even now the one who on a Sunday when energy is lacking is still chopping and making soups from the remnants of the roast. That’s not to say my skills are lacking but when the honour of cooking three meals a day, five days a week is forced upon you, it is easy to fall out of love with the process.

‘So what else has Mum planned?’

Yes, it seems she’s not only here to teach me about risotto. She has decided to lend me her services as cooking guru so that maybe, just maybe some of her genius may impart itself into my blood, pretty much like it has with her son. I look over now as he’s hulling strawberries and cutting them into star shapes. I might hate him, just a little bit.

‘Well, she wants to teach me her chicken cacciatore, her gnocchi, and how to make tortellini. Hearty Italian fare. She says McCoy may be able to cook restaurant food but he lacks spontaneity. He’s not a cook like she is.’

Matt nods as I lose his face in the fridge again.

‘She half has a point. Mums are different breeds of cooks, you’re more instinctive, spontaneous – you have to think on your feet more. Is this granola?’

He holds up an old Tupperware.

‘Hamster food.’

He puts it back in the fridge and I watch his denim backside as he bends down, a slice of fraying underwear peeking up over the top. I scribble down a bit of what he just said about being spontaneous. Hell, I like that. Many a night has been spent with three potatoes, a tub of Philadelphia, and a carrot, wondering how this could feasibly be turned into an evening meal.

‘Hey, is my shepherd’s pie worth writing home about?’

Matt shimmies his head about. Yeah, thanks for that.

‘But you do a decent chicken pie.’

I scribble things down.

‘Is this for that Saturday Kitchen thing?’

I nod frantically.

‘Do the pie.’

‘But I always buy the pastry in.’

‘And? I don’t know anyone who makes their own puff pastry. That could be your cooking niche. Jools Campbell Does Pies.’

‘It sounds like really bad porn.’

I see his body shaking with laughter. ‘Free DVD with every cookbook.’ I look up from my folder and stare at my husband as he continues to root through the fridge, finding half a furry cucumber. I pretend I’m too busy to notice. He returns from the bottom shelf with some marshmallows and a jam jar then heads over to the counter and rolls his sleeves up, lining everything up on the counter.

‘How about … Jools Campbell: the Mother Forker …’

I fake smile.

‘Chez Jools? The Sort of Yummy Mummy?’

He laughs at his own joke. I don’t. I doodle a little pie in my file with stars all around it but squint and notice they all look like flies. I then look over at kitchen rat Matt, doing what he does best, which is to line up all his utensils and pick out bits of something from a ‘clean’ mixing bowl that wasn’t washed up properly. He then stalks around the kitchen, sticks a tea towel in his waistband, and this is when I know I’ve lost him. He’s playing chef. Like when he puts on his B&Q tool belt to screw in a lightbulb, I am doing serious things that deserve my attention and I shall not be disturbed in these endeavours. I, of course, sometimes feel the need to poke fun at his surly alpha male ways, which often results in a scrap of sorts but deep down, I think that’s what I’ve always liked about him. He gets on with things in his own pensive, sensible ways. He never says much unless needed and then when he does it’s sometimes still incomprehensible, but always earnest. Even the Matt I met at university was so annoyingly honest and straight down the line. After our second one-night stand, I remember he woke me up fully clothed and with a cup of tea, his fluffy hair was poking out of his beanie, his duffle coat had shades of the Paddington about it. I assumed he was leaving so didn’t think much of it. It had been a lovely night, he was sweet and considerate. But this was drunken, incognito sex that was, in a way, fuelled by a need to get back at Richie bloody Colman. I remembered him looking at me with fuzzy eyes.

‘Ummm, I have to go. I volunteered to do some stuff at the Union.’

I was intrigued by his excuses and smiled.

‘Anything interesting?’

‘I’m collecting signatures for a petition for the release of some Thai prisoners in Cambodia.’

I remember not saying too much as I thought this was either the most elaborate excuse I’d ever heard in my life or the actual truth. When I realised such, I remember being quiet, knowing I knew sod all about the geography nor the politics of the situation. He launched into explanations, yet not in that preachy way I’d come to expect from bohemian sorts who’d accost you outside the supermarket with pictures of drowned cats. He was sad and wistful, his eyes looking as if he knew what he was doing could probably lend very little to any outcome but he was at least going to try. I pulled the duvet back to try and locate my knickers.

‘But I mean if it’s all right, I was thinking of coming back? I’ll be about two hours and then maybe I could bring back some food? We could have some tea together. Ummm, that’s if you want to.’

I just smiled and nodded, pretending to cover my mouth to mask the smell of stale cider, and went back to lying against my pillow as he got himself ready. I noticed little things about him, the sort of things that stick in the mind because they’re novel and exciting, and the things I refer back to now when he’s left skid marks in the loo or wet towels on the bed. A slice of midriff when he stretched his arms above his head, tatty little holes in his T-shirt, a dimple on his left cheek, eyes that went the size of large almonds when he smiled.

‘So this is a little embarrassing but it’s Jools, right? Not Julie, or Julia?’

That may have taken away the romance of the situation a bit but the fact was up to that point I thought his name was Toby.

‘Well, it’s usually Jools. Or Juliet if you’re my grandma.’

He said my name out loud to himself a couple of times as he smiled.

‘Then I’m Matt. Or Matteo if you’re my mother.’

I smiled. There was something slightly exotic about his name that made me swoon a bit more. I mumbled the name to myself.

‘So Matt, what time can I expect to see you back?’

‘Say three o’clock?’

And with that we had a cheeky snog and I went back to sleep, thinking he might not return because my morning breath had been particularly bad. But he did. Three minutes past three. And with him a bag of iced buns.

I’m still daydreaming about that incident when I’m disturbed by Matt swearing at the kitchen.

‘Jesus … Jools, this kitchen is a fucking tip.’

My immediate daydreams evaporate into nothing as I watch the scowl, the look about him which says this is my responsibility. Yet with his mother upstairs and within earshot, I feel reticent to draw this out into an argument. Maybe I can blame her? But I can’t. At the end of the day, this is how I cook. It involves soiled tea towels, every teaspoon in the kitchen being used, and kitchen tiles splattered in sauce. I look around. Matt tuts and starts piling things up by the sink.

‘I’ll do it later. Anyways, I’ve decided that’s my cooking style. Neat and tidy does not a great cook make. You have to throw some love and wild abandon in there.’

‘Not sure you can have wild abandon with two countertops the size of ironing boards. You need to clear up as you go along. You don’t see Nigella cooking in this sort of pigsty.’

‘No, you see her cooking in a kitchen that’s not even hers.’

‘Still, she’d put things in the bloody bin.’

He pushes ends bits of squash and onion peelings into a plastic bag. I’d love to see Nigella cooking in here – not sure she’d survive without her freestanding cake mixer and mezzaluna, having to make do with my IKEA scissor selection and scratched non-stick pans.

‘You don’t need a whole countertop to spoon out some yoghurt.’

He gives me another scowl, piling dishes by the sink and balancing crusty pans next to them using talents he’s probably accrued from many a night playing endless rounds of Jenga with the kids.

‘And don’t leave this to “soak”, I don’t want to have to deal with soggy bits of rice in the morning.’

Preachy Matt! I give him the eye from my folder. If we’re starting on pet hates, then please could he not throw the dirty tea towels in with the baby clothes nor leave an inch of juice in the carton. This little exchange is quite indicative of how we fight: serious Matt vs sarky Jools. It’s petty – I’m usually defending the way I do things, he’d preach how he’d do things differently. Then we compare stress levels when it comes to our work. Juggling four children and a house vs commuting/audits. He tells me he’d gladly trade places with me, I tell him he ruined my earning potential when he impregnated me. And then my humour is completely lost on him. That’s the one thing about his earnest sensibility – it does not sit well with scatty tomfoolery.

‘I think I’ve got a name for your brand then: the scummy mummy. Or the crumby mummy. Forking hell, she’s loose in the kitchen again!’

I cast him a look to let him know he’s hitting a nerve. He stops what he’s doing. I can just about handle preachy Matt but there are times when it borders on the cruel and I have no humour left to combat it with.

‘Too much?’

‘Just the bit about me being rubbish at my job. Always a winner, Matt. Proper confidence booster.’

He comes to the table with a bowl of perfectly cut strawberries for us to share. ‘I was attempting to be funny. You know I think you do a perfectly good job. It’s just this celebrity thing, it’s going to be a full-time gig and you’re going to have to get your shit together before you run off and do this …’

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows he’s worded it completely wrong. I already know as much but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t cut the silence with a big fat knife. It was that bit on the end about running off. Away, out of here like someone we know. He pauses, not knowing what to say next or whether to broach the subject at all. The problem with the situation with my mother is that it’s never brought up between the two of us. I leave it to swim in the darkest recesses of my mind, he never probes the issue – it just sits there like the Coco Pop-sized mole on his lower back, the credit card bills, the strange sound the car makes – because if we were to talk about it, it might lead to a whole ball of madness. Emotion makes my chest swell slightly. Matt returns to the counter, even the double cream that he’s been whipping seems to droop slightly.

‘I mean, I know you’re not going to run off but …’

I can’t seem to answer him.

‘Jools, I just …’

‘I know. You’ve never been totally keen about me doing this …’

Matt waves his hands about, backtracking with impressive speed.

‘Shite, Jools. I was just saying you needed to keep the kitchen in order. Don’t start.’

Again, indicative of how we do things – when mundane and petty gets picked at to mean more that it is. He stares at me for longer than he needs to. Don’t do this when my mother’s in the next room.

‘But you haven’t even told me if you think this is the right thing to do. You said before you thought that Guardian article should have been the end point. But then it snowballed … I don’t know. We didn’t even make this decision together. Should I be home more?’

‘Jools, when have I ever tied you to the kitchen sink? You’re free to do what you want.’

‘But don’t run off like my mother?’

‘No. Just … this has nothing to do with that. If you think this is the right thing to do, then go ahead, you’re just going to have to multitask, that’s all.’

I raise my eyebrows at him, insulted by the further condescension; even more so that he thinks I don’t multitask every hour of every day, it’s all I do.

‘So you don’t think I’m capable of handling both? You think I shouldn’t do this?’

He throws his hands up at me, his voice slightly raised.

‘Christ, Jools. I am never going to tell you what to do with your life but if this works out, you’re going to be a working mum now. You’ll have a lot to fit in.’

I sit there, confused at how this conversation has evolved but also at what he’s trying to tell me. I can’t do this? If I do this, that’s fine but it’s not changing my life – off you go?

‘I mean, I am doing this for you guys too. Luella says if we get momentum behind this, it could get somewhere. That could mean a lot for us.’

Matt looks confused and pulls up a chair next to me.

‘Well, that’s a load of shit.’

I sit there, indignant. There are a lot of reasons to do this: to get back at McCoy, to stand up for the everyday mother, but he can’t deny the financial rewards that the situation might bring have a lot to do with this as well.

‘Matt, this could be us paying off a bit of the mortgage, putting money aside for the kids. This is important.’

He looks a little angry. Matt gets angry in scales (1 – someone, usually me, leaving the garage door open; 10 – paint on garage floors) – this is about a six and a half. He looks a little hurt at the suggestion that his financial contribution to our household needs topping up.

‘Sod the money. This is more than that. You need to do this for yourself, I get it.’

And this is where I pause because to say it out loud – I want to do this for myself – sounds so completely selfish, almost neglectful of my family’s needs, their emotions. There needs to be another reason why. Because it’s what my mother did – listened to some instinct greater than being a mother and a wife, decreeing that this just wasn’t good enough for her and she needed more. I refuse to say that out loud. Matt looks over at me.

‘But I just can’t understand why you want to do this?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘All of this, with the telly and the papers, it just feels hard, it feels like a lot of work and a lot of tears. You’ve let that TV idiot come into our lives, our kids’ lives and tell us we’re not good enough – that our lives are not good enough.’

‘I’ve let him …’

‘Well, this could be over. But it’s not. I was all for one with you standing up to him and having that moment to speak up for yourself but you’re drawing this out. Into what? Into being some half-arse celeb … the sort we used to take the piss out of all the time. You have a degree … you’re smart. You could do so much more.’

‘Like what?’ Matt shrugs his shoulders. ‘Seriously, Matt … tell me what I should be doing with my life?’

‘I don’t bloody know … just maybe not this …’

His voice is slightly raised, almost trembling, but he stops. He steadies his hands on the countertops and finds three little teaspoons to put into three plastic IKEA bowls and walks out of the room.

R: Hey, Jools. Did we get cut off the other night?

J: Ummm, yeah. I didn’t like the direction of the conversation.

R: Sincere and apologetic?

J: Hmmm, I gauged it more as deceitful and trite.

R: Well, take from it what you will. I am sincerely sorry. I’ve complained to the papers. They are printing a retraction on page 4 of tomorrow’s paper.

J: Taken out a full-page apology? Really? How sweet.

R: You were never this sarcastic.

J: I’ve changed, Mr Colman.

R: I can see that. You were always funny, not sarky – never cruel.

J: No, you were the cruel one.

R: Harsh.

J: True.

R: So I’m supposed to apologise for dumping you when we were 19? I’m sorry. Can I blame being young and foolish?

J: You can blame the fumes from all that hair wax you used to use.

R: She’s back in the room.

J: That funny girl you used to know?

R: What happened to you?

J: I had babies. Lots of babies.

R: Was that always the plan? I knew you wanted a family but going into uni, I always thought you wanted to do something else.

J: Well, yes. I write my doctorate at the weekends. Evenings, I run a small business empire from my kitchen table.

R: Selling what?

J: Car bumper stickers and iPhone covers.

R: :D But you’re happy?

J: Of course.

R: You sound so resolute.

J: Why wouldn’t I be? I have a heavily mortgaged house, my health, my kids AND all my own teeth.

R: Humour aside, are you happy? Really?