CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘Mrs Campbell. Half an hour until you’re needed on set. Do you need anything?’

A stiff drink, a hug, and a second pair of knickers, maybe. The boy stares at me, hair styled into a quiff like Tintin with a clipboard and moon boot trainers. When did men start wearing old hi-tops and getting away with it? I just shake my head and smile.

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘OK. Oh, and someone left these for you at the front desk.’

He enters the room with a big bunch of flowers and a padded envelope. Given I never get flowers, I squeal a little, which confuses Tintin a bit as he closes the door slowly behind him. Then a thought goes through my head – anthrax? I stare at the envelope before opening it gingerly with my forefinger. Inside is a drawing of me whereI seem to have no neck and I have giant cupcakes in each hand. Or are those my boobs? I delve my hand in again and feel a rectangular object and pull it out slowly. It’s a black and white framed print of me in a birthing pool holding Millie for the first time. I look a mess of hair, placenta, and sweat but ecstatically happy. Behind me is Hannah, who missed the main event but made it downstairs to meet her sister within the first few minutes of her life. She’s in her spotty pyjamas and has a hand up waving at her. The boys slept through the whole thing. They assumed she came down the chimney in the same way Santa does. Millie’s all wrinkly and placid. We stayed in that pool for ages. Given there were now six people in that house, it was the most peaceful it’s ever been. A card is stuck to the back:

‘Mummy! You baked us all for nine months. We came out OK! xxxx’

I feel my eyes mist up. Firstly, to see myself topless for the first time in history. When did my boobs turn into flaccid water balloons? But secondly, to think what I really should be doing. I should be in my pyjamas, dodging my children who trampoline around my bed, wrestling them for cuddles and away from the television, wondering what to do for the rest of the weekend, an arm draped over a half sleeping, disapproving husband. Matt. That’s what Saturdays used to be for. Now they’re spent in Saturday Kitchens.

A knock on the door and Luella parades in holding a big pile of newspapers and coffee, with her phone tucked under her neck.

‘The coast is clear. Unless they have hidden him under the kitchen counters, McCoy is definitely not in the building.’

To avoid a This Morning style ambush, Luella has been on a mission today, confirmed as she is a vision in khaki green with big black military boots.

‘You just get to go on, cook, do your own thing. It’ll be fab. Now tell me how many times have we practiced this risotto?’

‘Enough.’

Nine to be precise. My freezer is now rammed full of the stuff, next to my fish fingers, baby food cubes, and some peas. Even though I can reel off the recipe in part Italian, part English and have been seen to be muttering about crispy pancetta in my sleep, I still think Luella’s plan to have me cook this on national television is bordering on the absurd. I wanted to do something a tad easier perhaps; something involving mince, something I could do with my eyes closed. Sausages, they’re easy enough to lay in a pan and serve with some mash. But Luella said I needed to cook something with a bit of flair, something that didn’t involve meat and two veg and sounds harder than it is. So she told the producers risotto. Great. Saturday Kitchen is a big deal though. Apparently, appearing on hangover television will connect me with the hungover 18-25 demographic and bolster my campaign to be taken seriously as a housewife cooking domestic type as opposed to a tabloid headline. According to Luella this morning, we also need to boost our media presence given McCoy and company are going for the big guns. She opens the newspapers for me at a picture of Kitty McCoy in a leopard skin cut-out swimming costume. ‘I’M A JUNGLE KITTY! GET ME OUT OF HERE!’ No stretch marks and boobs as nature intended. Luella snarls in the same way she always does when she sees Kitty’s picture.

‘Thing is, this might work in our favour. Nobody likes the mums who go in and abandon their kids. Plus the ones who always pose in the waterfalls never win.’

‘And it’s been scientifically proven that watching anyone in leopard skin can induce the gagging reflex.’

Luella laughs. She likes having someone to bitch about Kitty with. I have a feeling her phone bill might be dedicated to voting Kitty through to all the Bushtucker trials in the next few weeks. She pulls out another paper.

‘This is their pièce de résistance though. Piers Morgan’s Life Stories. Take a gander at this, makes me want to rip my eyes out.’

‘I WANT TO CHANGE THE WORLD!’ screams the headline, below stills of him in an imposing empty studio, glassy-eyed and blowing his nose. ‘MY FATHER WAS EVERYTHING TO ME …’

It’s primetime viewing tonight and Luella is not happy.

‘Please. Number one, changing the world, my arse. The only thing he wants to do is change the size of his bank balance so he can be famous and live next door to the Gallaghers on Primrose Hill. Number two, he hated his father. They hadn’t talked in years and even then Kitty used to send him jars of humbugs every Christmas just to rub it in. Poor codger was diabetic and everything.’

I look at his swollen, damp face in the pictures, feeling a little remiss to be talking about his father’s passing so casually but wondering if like Luella suggests it’s all staged to garner the public’s affections. I’m also curious as to how she knows McCoy’s dad is diabetic. Surely that goes above and beyond the duties of a publicist.

‘Nice bloke as well. Not sure what he makes of all this tripe.’

I swivel a bit in my chair again. She knows his dad? She notices and smiles.

‘I bet you’re wondering …’

‘Well, kind of. You know Tommy’s father?’

She nods. ‘Promise this won’t throw you off kilter?’

I’m not sure much can. Given the tumultuous turns my life has taken of late, I’m pretty sure I could withstand any curve balls she threw at me.

‘Tommy and I were once an item.’

A heavy sigh makes her chest sink into itself like a fallen soufflé. I, on the other hand, am floored, completely off guard.

‘You what?’

‘Yep, dated for three years if you can believe it.’

I sit there agape, a few dozen mutterations falling out of my mouth. Her and him? Together? I’m suddenly confused. Is this why she’s been helping me all along? Because she had some sort of vendetta against the man?

‘Oh, it was a lifetime ago. I won’t bore you with the details but he was an up and coming chef and we’d been going out since college. Then everything started going well and his publicity machine got hold of him. They persuaded him an opinionated brunette wasn’t going to sit particularly well with his brand and I was laid to rest as it were.’

She pirouettes a pen around her fingers as she talks. The way a woman talks of a past love, all misty-eyed and doleful yet with enough hatred to know if he walked into that room right now, she could probably skewer one of his testicles. I hold her hand and nod to take it all in.

‘I’m sorry. No wonder you …’

‘Tommy never even stood up for me or thought about our relationship. All the time I had sacrificed so he could follow his dream, all the support I gave him. Anyway, ten months later and he’s engaged to blonde and skinny and three months later, Basil Brush was born.’

Her fingers have now started drumming the table, every inch of her seizing up to have to recount the details. I’m not sure what to do but hand her the bottle of wine that’s been sitting on my dressing table. Hell, it’s before midday but the information I’ve just been made party to deserves to be absorbed with alcohol. I open the bottle badly and pour her a plastic cupful.

‘So you see, I know his story. I know everything with him is a crock of shit. It’s brand management at its very best, it’s selling a myth to people who suck it in and believe it. So when I see a person like you being shat on by him, I feel compelled to help.’

She glugs the wine like Ribena and puts the glass down, her hands picking bits off her tongue that I suspect are cork. Yet she doesn’t seem to mind. I study her face, trying to read the sincerity.

‘So, I have to ask, is that the only reason you’re here? To get back at him in some way.’

She smiles.

‘God, no. Of course, I’m all about exposing him for the fraud he is, but I liked your style. I thought you were someone worth supporting, someone quite endearing. And that is water under bridges that flowed past many years ago.’

‘You’re not still … I don’t know … pining?’

Such an awful word. I’ve made it sound like she’s a lovelorn wolf baying at pictures of him by the moonlight. Luckily, she laughs in response.

‘Christ, no. I found myself a new man. Gorgeous Frenchman called Remy who’s fabulous, but you know how it is with a past love.’

She pauses as she says it, looking at me for signs that I may want to divulge any information regarding one Richie Colman. Since the whole palaver with my mum, she’s discovered I may be quite the sensitive soul when it comes to rehashing moments from my past so has let it lie. I like her all the more for it.

‘Anyway, now is not the time to be talking of such things. Bad publicist. I’m sorry I sprung it on you. This is about you today. Time for focus.’

She bends back the newspaper in my hands.

‘There’s a bit about you in the interview. Third line from the bottom, page ten.’

I scan the words until I find it:

When asked about the growing popularity of Jools Campbell, the woman who stood up to him when McCoy tried to recruit her as part of his foodie army, McCoy shook his head, tears in his eyes again. ‘She just didn’t get me. My heart is and always has been in the right place and that’s to help everyone. It’s all about the next generation, about being as organic as you can and doing the best for our kids. It’s all about the kids.’

A wave of bile surfs over my stomach. Luella’s snarling a little again, possibly foaming behind her teeth. All this talk of someone who treated her so callously can’t be good. I feel a need to calm her down.

‘Look at his wrists. Must have left the watch on in the spray tan booth.’

She pulls the newspaper to her face and scans the photo and stops snarling, possibly smiles.

‘You’d think someone who loved kids so much would also give his own proper names.’

Another smile. She studies his picture for a moment too long.

‘Shitbag. He really is. Such a ploy for attention.’

She stares a little at the newspaper before putting it to one side.

‘But I’m confident today will help our cause and I have some magazine things lined up. We’ll get you out there, we’ll get earthy, honest Jools Campbell out to the public to piss all over this.’

There’s a knock on the door as Tintin makes his appearance again.

‘Are you ready?’

Earthy, honest Jools Campbell. It sounds like some marketing campaign for organic peanut butter. I peek over at the picture glimpsing at me from behind my flowers: two little girls beaming up at me. Ready, steady, cook as a wise person once said.

‘So Jools, tell me about this scuffle with McCoy then, sounded like a right old barney.’

The host today is northern, tall, and dare I say it quite good-looking. Casual in pastels and brown suede shoes, he leads me around this shiny kitchen set as I attempt to stand in some ladylike fashion. According to Luella, I am prone to slouching and always seem to have my hands in my back pockets. So I stick my chest out a little. But did that look like I was bouncing my boobs in his face? I hunch my shoulders in again and pretend to laugh.

‘Scuffle? It was just an exchange of opinion. I’m no expert in cooking. But there are certain TV chefs out there who try and make us mums look bad and it all gets a bit preachy.’

He nods and smiles so his veneers shine at me like newly polished car lamps. I think I might want to hug him.

‘I mean, when I cook, it’s not perfect but it’s about my family. And sometimes we eat great big hearty homemade dinners and sometimes it’s a tin of something with toast. But we eat together and we keep the kids informed about making good food decisions.’

Tall Northern Chef smiles.

‘I like that thinking. So fish fingers?’

‘A once in a while treat. Who doesn’t have happy memories of fish fingers from when they were little? I think that can be the best sort of food – the stuff that makes you glow when you think about it.’

I don’t add that certain brands probably use breadcrumbs that make your complexion glow a faint tangerine afterwards, but he seems to like my reasoning, as does Luella who beams from off camera.

‘I hear you on that one. So you’ve not really cooked before this then?’

I furrow my brow. ‘Well, kinda. It’s in my job description … just not like this.’

‘Well, don’t worry, we had Ken Hom on here the other day nearly burn the place down so you’ll be fine.’

I laugh, still tense, but approach the work bench and start manhandling my ingredients, all of which have been measured into little bowls.

‘So first things first, don’t bother with the little bowls. I mean who wants to create more washing up for themselves?’

Tall Northern Chef laughs. Look at me, cooking and making people laugh, I believe that’s multi-tasking at its best.

‘Yep, so it’s a risotto. I can’t take credit for the recipe, it’s my mother-in-law, Gia’s, but it’s one of those great one-pan dishes that takes half an hour and my kids love it.’

I sincerely hope Gia is watching, given I gave her a little moment in the media spotlight. I pick up my squash and grip on to it tightly.

‘So we start with your butternut squash. You just wrap it in foil and just pop it in a mid to high oven.’

‘You don’t cut it beforehand then?’

I give him a look. There’ll also be questions while I do this? I didn’t expect questions. I thought I would just have to cook. I shrug my shoulders.

‘I guess you could but these things are pretty tough. If you’ve got a range of crappy knives like I have, you’d probably need a hacksaw.’

I laugh. Then stop. Crappy. Is that a BBC 10 a.m. kind of word? It would seem not given Tall Northern Chef looks mightily uncomfortable. I look over at the camera to see Luella shaking her head at me.

‘But to wrap it up and just pop it in is the easiest and quickest way, I reckon.’

I walk to the oven to demonstrate, open the door, and realise it’s way too hot without oven gloves and end up chucking in my little foil package like a rugby ball. Did anyone see that? Only half of Great Britain. I scamper over to the counter and then start fiddling with my hundreds of little bowls, all unlabelled.

‘So then the risotto base, which is dead easy. So in a hot pan, you need some olive oil then a smallish onion, two or three cloves of garlic, and fry that off.’

I’m feeling a little calmer now. One, because everything is actually cut up for me so all I have to do is turn on the hob and chuck stuff in the pan. I can do this. I show off chunks of glistening pancetta and make the chefly suggestion of substituting streaky bacon. Then I add my rice and glugs of my pre-prepared stock. It almost looks edible. Tall Northern Chef smiles and grips on to my shoulder.

‘So contrary to what McCoy’s been saying, you can cook then? This looks great.’

‘Yep. I try. I mean I cheat sometimes and sometimes the food doesn’t quite work out but I give it a good go and any mum will tell you there’s nothing more gratifying than a clean plate and a happy tummy.’

I turn my head to the camera where Luella has two thumbs up. I am stirring with one hand, chatting away, clouds of steam puffing out my rice. This is fine. I can do this. Someone slides a crinkly, burnished squash on to the counter.

‘Then when the rice is cooked, I just scoop the roasted squash in … like this … and add some salt, pepper, some dried sage, and Bob’s your uncle.’

And to prove a point, a pan of already cooked risotto makes its appearance from the side, from Tintin with the earpiece and the skinny jeans. It’s swapped with my half-made dish and Tall Northern Chef, who I could very easily hug right now, compliments me with how great it smells and how easy it was to make. Well, yeah, when half of it’s done for you, when you don’t have to wash up or scrape it off the walls because Millie thought it’d be fun to missile it at her brothers.

‘And it’s bright orange so in our house that means it gets eaten in half the time.’

He laughs. The guest panellists laugh. Luella jumps about by the camera from foot to foot like a little kitchen pixie. I hand him a fork and he tucks in as do I. It’s actually OK. But shit, it’s hotter than I expected. I roll my tongue up into my mouth to try and force it down my throat. Why isn’t Northern Chef struggling with this? He must have a mouth made out of asbestos. And then I cough.

‘So … weee. It a lic-kle … hoooock …’

I cough again. A little more abrasively. The risotto flies out of my mouth on to Northern Chef’s beige trousers. Worse than that, down his crotch so that I and most of the televisual world can see a) how tight they are and b) the possible outline of his undercarriage. I turn a deep shade of beetroot. I grab a tea towel from the counter and go to wipe at him, before realising what I’m doing. Tall Northern Chef looks like he might die laughing. I just might die. Right here, right now.