CHAPTER TWENTY-oNE

‘Really, Vernon? Well, first we’re going to fry off this onion until it’s translucent and the smell is starting to develop.’

Vernon doesn’t look too impressed. Well, that would be the case when Vernon is being played by a microwave and the tasting panel are a jar of spatulas. I stir my empty pan and look up to the kitchen wall. I hear laughing come at me from behind with its very best North West accent.

‘So what goes in now, love? Is that garrrlic? Lovely.’

‘You sound Cornish.’

Never mind that he is also two foot shorter than Vernon Kay. Ben punches me on the arm.

‘So Vernon Kay, why not Dermot? At least there’d be someone interesting to look at then.’

I don’t know why Vernon. The fact is McCoy has handpicked everything from presenter to jingly music to set colours and even though I got to choose what we will be cooking, I’ll just be the filler in the middle to make Tommy McCoy look like the fantastic, all-singing, wunderkind celebrity he is. Luella says not to worry but that doesn’t mean every day when I have two minutes to myself, I’m not talking to the microwave. Sometimes the bread bin. I shrug as Ben picks up the pile of DVDs from beside me. Luella sends one every day for inspiration and to help me ‘form my own sense of brand’ she says. At the moment, she wants to hype me up as a female Nigel Slater with kids but without the poncy foodie vocab, the facial hair, or the orgasmic expressions over freshly roasted cuts of meat.

‘Hot Guys Who Cook – this sounds like porn. Good porn. Are they naked?’

‘No, but you can have it. Have worked out I’m most definitely not a hot guy who cooks.’

He takes that and some early Delia – back when she used to only wear red jumpers in her conservatory – and a show involving Aussie blokes cooking in their swimwear, an eclectic mix, but that has always been Ben. He locks an arm into mine and puts a head on my shoulder. He looks different today. The clothes are always impeccable, the right side of fashion victim with the blazer and vintage jeans, but the face is a little more hopeful. I’ve only seen him a couple of times since the whole situation with Mum. Adam took it upon himself to be counsel in that matter, medicating him with liquor and, bless him, accompanying him to gay bars to help him feel better, even having the gall to complain when he wasn’t hit on.

The fact was, I didn’t know what to say to him because my feelings about the matter were still mixed. No way was I ready to accommodate more brothers in my life, but neither did I know what side of the fence I sat on. I didn’t quite hate her, all my initial anger had been replaced by more important emotions, yet I wasn’t quite ready to stand there with open arms and welcome her back into my life. I felt nothing, literally nothing about the situation, which was worse than probably feeling hate. So I hugged Ben and furnished him with love and doleful looks and left it to Adam and his bilious rage to help him get over his mother-based woes. And maybe, just maybe, it’s worked. Today he radiates an energy that is very old Ben. But then you would if you’d also just graduated with a 2.1 from Queen Mary and Westfield. I brim over with pride.

‘That’s a very chic outfit, sis.’

‘You sound surprised.’

‘Frankly, I am. Where from?’

‘Oasis trousers, M&S top.’

‘M&S? How mumsy.’

I push his shoulder slightly as he helps me rearrange my belt, making sure it sits on my waist rather than being something my tits are perched on.

‘So, you? You’re all right?’

He nods without uttering a word. We don’t have to mention her on today of all days but I need to know this isn’t a façade; that underneath the thought of our mother doesn’t bubble away and itch at his psyche. He grabs my face and plants a kiss on my cheek.

‘I thought I needed a mother. I don’t.’

His answer seems very definite, for which I’m glad, though I suspect this will not be the end of his need to grasp some sense of belonging to her as a child. Still, for now, he’s resigned himself to the fact our family works without her. The kids burst in as we smile and embrace. I hope to good god they didn’t hear the part about not needing a mother. Many an argument about picking up toys would love that tagged on the end. The boys have a present wrapped up in newspaper.

‘We wrapped it ourselves.’

It shows, given the newspaper has been coloured in and stuck together with dinosaur stickers. Ben opens it up as the boys look on. A box of Uncle Ben’s rice. We all laugh, the boys look very proud of themselves as Ben holds it close to his chest.

‘I will treasure this for ever.’

Thanks, boys, because now I realise I’m a dinner down tomorrow. And that in the congratulatory present stakes, I have let Ben down quite badly, dragging him along to the kids’ school play to sit amongst the video cameras and proud parent types. However, the boys look quite amusing in their matching grey tracksuits and patchwork handbag masks.

‘Let’s play Quidditch, Uncle Ben!’

I look over curiously at Ben, who shrugs his shoulders. The boys ’fess up.

‘Uncle Ben showed us. You can do it with the hoover and a tennis ball.’

I shake my head. ‘No time for Quidditch! Shoes on.’

They leave, running past Gia who stands behind her with a handbag and the biggest camera known to man.

‘Gia, looking glamorous as always.’

Always a sucker for a compliment, she bows her head and smiles. In her hands, a copy of last week’s The Sun that she seems to have surgically attached to her. She urges Ben to come and have a look at her newfound fame: a picture of her chasing Richie Colman down the road, with Matt and I in tow looking like we’re practising for a 4x4 relay down my local parade of shops. Still, Gia is quite happy to be in print and has shown the article to everyone who has walked through the door.

CAMPBELL MAFIA MOTHER-IN-LAW

Ben’s eyes open widely as he whispers out the side of his mouth.

‘Jesus, is she chasing him with a dildo?’

I half choke, half nudge him with my elbow.

‘It’s a courgette.’

‘Well, whatever gets you off.’

Gia looks curiously at Ben, who just grabs her by the shoulders and gives her perm a kiss.

‘Well, I think it’s brilliant you gave him what for. Never liked him.’

‘I went out with him for four years!’

‘Well, I always thought he was slightly homophobic and he had awful taste in shoes.’

The latter I cannot argue with. I look at the picture – Luella’s biggest bugbear about it is that Matt and I seem to be standing outside a fried chicken takeaway looking worryingly out of breath. A bit of cropping and this picture could ruin us, she says. But to be honest, I’m not sure if it didn’t do the very opposite. After chasing my ex down the street, we got Gia home and it was only then we realised why she had been staying with us for so long. It was neither to impart cooking wisdom nor rearrange my spice jars, but to fiercely protect and look after a small little family unit she had grown quite fond of. While she may always have her doubts about Matt and myself, she believed in our family and her goal was to hold together what ratty newspaper articles would wish to set asunder – all with the power of a couple of courgettes. So she’s been here to prop us up, lend support, cook her little heart out. And I think I like it; I feel it’s marked a shift in our relationship. Her validating my family makes me believe for the first time in nine years that maybe she doesn’t hate me too much.

‘Ta-dah!’

Hannah suddenly makes an entrance in the kitchen, looking far too old in her hula outfit. Matt went protective father figure and vetoed coconut shells on an eight-year-old whereas I vetoed the thermal vest under the coconut shells to save Hannah’s street cred, so we have settled for a house plant that has been stapled onto an old swimming costume, that she now wears with black plimsolls, sport socks, and a lei that Matt wore on a stag do and smells a little of cider. Ben grabs Hannah, declaring her the most beautiful hula dancer in the land. I fiddle with earrings and change bags and my rhino sex shop masks while Ben watches on.

‘So the boys are elephants? Cute.’

With Matt meeting us at school, I arrive in good time (very unlike me) so that we don’t draw too much attention to ourselves and can nab the best seats. Dad isn’t coming to avoid a repeat of last year when he fell asleep and left a wet patch on Matt’s shoulder. Adam would rather pull teeth. I’ve positioned us centre left so I can see the children through a column of curtain-less space before they go on stage and have a good escape route should Millie decide to wail her way through the performance. As soon as Donna sees us, she scoots over.

‘I’ve got some Piriton in my bag? Doped Alesha up so she won’t get too moody.’

I decline the offer of soft baby drugs as Ben reaches over for air kissing. The parents arrange themselves as I would have guessed. The Tyrrells and Jordans together second row from the front so they can look over the teachers’ shoulders and be party to gossip and flaunt their dedicated parent act. Hugh ‘Huge’ Tyrrell might as well have brought the BBC wildlife division with him for the size of the camera he has propped on his equally large shoulder. Paula has Greg Jordan in tow, the sort you can tell plays tennis in Cliff Richard polyester shorts and pulls his ankle socks up so they’re just under his kneecaps. Out of all of them, Greg is the only one to gesture hello by saluting me like a Girl Guide. I salute back. Parents like me, the Liquorice Allsorts who come with babies, cameras that don’t work, and don’t feel important enough to go too near the front, fill the middle. Pooja’s mum always waves with both hands, still in dusky pink fleece; Billy Tate’s mother, who I know doesn’t use tampons, comes over and we have a chat about McCoy; and I also get to chat to Eve Lingham, mother of Alfie who called Jake a pube. She’s got large corkscrew curls and a fondness for maxi dresses in a bid to make her look like a trendy earth mama. To prove this, she embraces me and tells me a lot of the mums at school are really behind me. I shake my head and tell her it’s a storm in a teacup. She returns with looks that either suggests I’m crazy, this thing is huge and you’re going to get steamrolled, or that I’m trying to be politely modest.

The rest of the parents are best described as a motley crew. I always like the dads in the work overalls, the ones who bring aunts, uncles, and second cousins, the couples obviously mid-separation who sit seats apart.

And then you get to the back of the school hall, the mothers with even younger babies who are trying to breastfeed using the school polyester curtains as cover and the au pairs who reserve two seats for parents who will no doubt be late and slip in when they can. And the nameless few, not paps I think, as Mrs Whittaker stands there by the door with a big stick (really, I’m told it’s a prop for the play) making sure. One woman keeps looking over at me and smiling. She’s pretty in a fresh, sprightly way which makes me think she’s not a mother or has had plastic surgery. When Matt comes in, he’s obviously run a fair bit as his hair is frizzy, his tie skewed over his right shoulder. He pats Millie on the head and goes in for a well done hug with Ben.

‘So how’s it been? The vultures out yet?’

He stares over at the Tyrrell/Jordan collective as he says it. Vultures being not far off given the cardigan Jen Tyrrell wears, with its bizarre feathered cuffs and collar. We had anticipated a bit of a free for all after her and Donna’s altercation but so far everything has remained decidedly civil. There have been looks, and we’ve had to trap Donna into a seat by the wall so she can’t go anywhere, but there are no asides, no nasty remarks. Even the other parents do not seem to be too concerned about me; they smile and whisper but not in a necessarily malicious way. Just in a way to make me think I need to check my teeth.

There are actually more comments directed towards single mothers, play away fathers, and one mother rumoured to be profiteering from running special masseuse services out of her front room (not in my kids’ class; she used the local rags to advertise her wares and got found out by another dad – small world etc.). So, me cooking on national television and looking like I’ve spent a few bob on some better fitting clothes actually isn’t that big of a deal. And for some reason, this is actually quite comforting to me.

In actual fact, the biggest thing to explode that evening is the homemade volcano at the back of the stage. Clifton Primary has gone all out this year with the lights, the papier-mâché backdrops, and baking powder volcanoes.

It’s a sweet if completely nonsensical play. Two of the eldest children narrate in the style of a Julia Donaldson book about a giraffe who’s tall and feels left out and is befriended by a dolphin who shows him the world and they become good friends etc. I’m not sure how Attenborough would deal with the biological inaccuracies, but hell, these animals talk, sing, and wear masks made out of Primark handbags. Ciara does a good job of being the dolphin, wearing a silver swimming cap with fins made out of said handbag. Hannah does a commendable hula number and Matt takes a million and one photos while I simply sit and stare at the poor girl whose mother made her hula skirt out of a green plastic bag through which you can see her pastel pink knickers. When my boys come on, I hold my breath waiting for them to start charging at the stage. A narrator starts:

‘The giraffe was unhappy, misunderstood,

But those old baboons were just up to no good.

They wanted giraffe!

They wanted her out!

They didn’t understand what she was about.

So dolphin told the rhinos,

All wrinkly and grey,

You must go and help her,

You must save the day!’

As much as I’m not sure that I like the fact my sons are being cast as non-verbal lackeys, they do a hilarious job of charging up and down the stage and making ghastly grunting noises. Matt and Ben find it hilarious as do most of the audience. Gia’s clicking finger can’t move fast enough. This only goads them on to show off more until I see a teacher flap her hands about in the wings telling them to calm down. It’s then I notice the baboons in the production. One of them has a mini fur coat on, neither have made an attempt to make their buttocks shine pink: Maisy Tyrrell and Harriet Jordan. I point it out to Matt and we both look at each other then over at the vultures who don’t seem wholly impressed at the way my five-year-old twins have confined them to a big hole in the savannah. And there things draw to a close, with Ciara banging out a lovely doleful duet with her giraffe friend (namely the tallest boy in school dressed in what looks like the remnants of an old sofa). Then everyone comes on stage to sing along to what sounds like a do-gooder’s rehash of a Michael Jackson anthem. They all wave their hands, from hula dancers, to scuba divers, to rhinos, to sea anemone, and the poor lad who got cast as the sun and was made to wear canary yellow tights. Nobody seems to care though, parents take photos and children look bemused, my twin boys jump up and down at the side of the stage and punch each other in the arm. I think I’m proud. I think about what this means. If Donna is the wily and graceful dolphin and Jen and Paula are the gossiping baboons, surely that makes me the big clunky rhino with my weathered skin and surly eyes. I pout a little. Even a hippo would have been better than that.

Play over, we all assemble in the school hall where I get excited over the prospect of custard creams and tea served out of a big silver urn. I always think there’s a lovely retro quality to having tea at school. I dig around for egg mayo sandwiches but the budget doesn’t seem to have stretched to that this year. I pocket more biscuits to make up for that and hang around with Ben, Matt, Gia, and Millie. The Tyrrells and Jordans stand to the side of the room turning their noses up at the UHT milk. Ben skims through the photos on his camera phone, giggling.

‘Jools, those twins are fricking hilarious.’

I smile back. After the group finale had finished, Ted thought it a good idea to launch himself off the stage in the style of Kung Fu Panda, shouting out how no one was to mess with him. In the process he toppled a teacher off her chair and tore a large hole in his tracksuit so everyone could see his underwear. No doubt, this will be what everyone talks about for years to come. I suspect clips will make their way on to some Saturday night outtakes show. The children come running in at this point, past us and to the table filled with flimsy cups of neon squash. When they see us they wave and we give them all hugs for their efforts before they fly off again to play with friends. A tap on my shoulder and I turn around to see the sprightly young lady from before. Matt looks her up and down.

‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to introduce myself … given you’ve been sleeping with my husband and all …’

Matt, Ben, and I freeze as she laughs. Gia looks like she might throw her cup of tea at her.

‘I’m Lindsay. Sam Pringle’s wife.’

Matt still can’t seem to move his face whereas I finally get the joke and laugh nervously so that I cloud the air with biscuit crumb. I go to shake her hand. Ben goes to explain everything to Gia in a hurried mix of what sounds like Spanish and GCSE French.

‘Jools. Campbell. I am so sorry about all of that. I was mortified that events got so twisted.’

She puts an arm on my shoulder.

‘Oh, we had a good laugh about it. The school made a statement on our behalf as well. I just wanted to wish you luck for Friday. Sam and I are rooting for you. We even have that poster from The Sun on our kitchen fridge.’

Yes, The Sun poster. An A3 monstrosity that came with yesterday’s issue which you could stick on your front window, fridge, or as I saw it yesterday, in a car window to pledge your allegiance. ‘Campbell’s SouperMum!’ or ‘Masterchef McCoy!’ For one, I’m worried my new moniker looks a bit like a really bad typo. The picture is of me waving my finger at McCoy on the BBC sofa, mid-gurn and looking like I have multiple chins.

‘That’s very kind. To be honest, I need all the help I can get.’

She smiles as Mr Pringle approaches us, buoyant at the success of the play and that Ted falling off the stage was the only minor mishap. There are kisses and congratulations all round.

‘I mean Ben studied drama so he knows his stuff.’

Ben nods even though I know this is far removed from the experimental, nouveau-street theatre he is normally accustomed to being involved in. Mr Pringle is all smiles; this isn’t the first time I’ve seen him since our whole newspaper debacle but he’s been very good at glossing over any awkwardness for Hannah’s sake and making light of the situation. His wife’s hand goes into his while Matt and I let the initial panic of her introductions wash over us. They’re a sweet couple, in those early throes of new marriage where I suspect frequent sex and date nights still figure quite highly. I notice her look over my shoulder and suddenly grimace.

‘So are they the ones, Sam?’

I turn to see Paula, Jen, and their family entourages standing behind me, collectively mocking the biscuit selection with old lady carryalls. I smile at Matt. Mr Pringle nods but whispers something under his breath. Ben realises this is his cue to leave and stand next to Gia and Millie while Matt and I lean in to try and make out what he said.

‘I have half a mind to …’

‘Linds, seriously not here.’

I sense the urgency in his voice and back down, fake smiling like I might not be interested in what she says next. She turns to me and whispers into my hair, ‘You know it was them, right? The ones who took the photos of you and Sam and sold them to the papers.’

My head swings round to face them. Matt’s nostrils flare quite unattractively.

‘Another mother dobbed them in. Completely pathetic if you ask me. And as for their other behaviour …’

Their what? It was them, really? Was this payback for having given Paula’s kids fish fingers? My mind spins as I try to decide how I should deal with this news. Lindsay gets in there first, and before I know it she’s waving at Paula, who sashays over. Of course, she ignores me and has done ever since McCoy labelled me a food cretin, but now I know why. Guilt. Do I miss her? Christ, no. But I miss the satisfaction that comes from looking after her kids. Their guts must be aching for a bit of gluten right about now.

‘Hello. I’m Paula Jordan. And you are?’

‘Lindsay Pringle. We spoke once. I think you called my house once at three in the morning?’

What? Did she just say that? Or have I eaten too many custard creams? Paula goes a shade of pomegranate while Matt and I take two sidesteps to the left. I hand Matt a chocolate bourbon. There is some fantastically awkward silence. Greg looks at his wife curiously. Mr Pringle tries to pull his wife away, as Ben acts as Gia’s dodgy interpreter. Plus, he’s holding a sandwich. There are sandwiches?

‘We’ve been calling about school matters, actually,’ says Paula, not very convincingly. ‘I find your insinuations quite curious.’

Lindsay looks like she’s gearing up for a retort while her husband stands there, eyes to the school parquet flooring. Ben has a selection of sandwiches – tuna, cheese and pickle, and, ka-ching, egg mayo. I scan the room with one eye on sandwich alert while the other scans the conversation in front of me.

‘Important school matters, actually.’

It’s a voice so loud and haughty I look to the ceiling to see if it is God himself. No, just Jen Tyrrell. I’ve never spoken to Jen Tyrrell in my life. Mainly because she’s the sort of person who doesn’t let you get a word in edgeways but also because there’s an air about her as though she think she’s better than you and everyone else in the room. She strides over with her husband, Hugh Tyrrell, the heavy treader in all this, the muscle, though I can’t make out if he ever has an opinion on anything or is simply henpecked into submission. Ben shifts me a look, less confused, more excited that his graduation present is going to contain an actual live fight. He takes Gia and Millie off to stand behind the curtains.

‘Well, if by that you mean ringing at eleven thirty in the evening after you’ve downed a bottle of red to tell my husband how you haven’t had sex in a year then that sounds particularly pertinent to school matters, yes.’

Lindsay Pringle in your lemon yellow tea dress and Monsoon cardigan – you are officially my most favourite person who exists. I see Sam Pringle turn a lovely shade of beetroot. Ben chokes on his tea, Matt’s eyes open up like they could fall out of their sockets. I want more! Who hasn’t had sex in a year? But from the way Paula’s face drains of colour (which isn’t actually that hard given how pale she is) I think I know the answer. You drink wine? I thought you only drank mung bean tea. Our post-play date conversations could have been far more interesting if you’d told me you drank alcohol. Jen Tyrrell makes a valiant attempt to spare her BFF’S blushes.

‘Your husband has been a confidante to all the mothers in the class.’

‘But how is that his job? His responsibilities are to look after your kids, not you.’

‘Linds …’ Sam grabs her arm but she hasn’t had her say.

‘And to top it all off and make your coffee mornings all the more interesting, you make up stories about him and Mrs Campbell to entertain you and earn you a quick buck. Frankly disgusting behaviour.’

Hey, that’s me! Jen Tyrrell glances over at me a little evilly. Not knowing what to do, I put a hand up in the air like I’m acknowledging my name has just been said. Lindsay just shakes her head. Paula sidles up to her at this point, trying to draw attention away from her sexless marriage. Parents next to us have started to crowd around like they’re here to watch a hanging. Sam Pringle finally gets a word in.

‘Mrs Tyrrell, Mrs Jordan. I am appreciative that you want to involve me in your kids’ lives but I am a teacher, there are boundaries, and to make up stories is just plain wrong and completely inappropriate. It sends a really bad message out to the kids.’

It’s a statement so official that I wonder if he’s been trained by Luella. But it’s a final word on the matter, we don’t have to draw it out any further. Maybe I can go and find a sandwich. Or not.

‘I’m inappropriate? Really?’

Mr Pringle’s shoulders seem to slump back into their sockets as he realises what he’s done has not so much drawn a line in the sand but created a sandstorm of angry mother.

‘What I meant was …’

‘If I’m inappropriate then what about Mrs Campbell here?’

Woah, that’s me again! But I’m inappropriate? Is it this top? I pull a shocked and confused face. Angry and Scottish to the left of me barges in.

‘Excuse me?’ he half bellows.

Matt is ready to charge at her like a, well, rhino, but I hold his arm back.

‘Ever since her little rant in the supermarket, I can’t think of anyone more inappropriate than her. Flaunting herself in the public eye, all those stories about her mother and her ex-boyfriends and family.’

Paula nods, still trying to detract from the fact that good ol’ Greg Jordan can’t bear to sleep with her. Lindsay Pringle looks at me and smiles in support. Matt might be foaming a little out the corners of his mouth.

‘What sort of message is she giving my kids? That it’s all right to get pregnant when you’re twenty, marry someone you hardly know, and reject your own mother?’

Silence descends over the crowd like fog. Jen Tyrrell has been publicly put down and man, is she coming back with a vengeance. Damn Donna leaving early. I am quiet, my jaw is locked. I look over at Gia, who obviously doesn’t understand half of what has gone on but wishes she could get involved. I look over at Matt, who’s speechless with rage, and I look over at my kids standing by the doors to the hall. Jake and Ted at the front, Hannah towards the back, squash in hands trying to make out words from behind reinforced glass panels. Matt and I look at them and realise retaliation is futile when they’re party to these events. They’ve already endured so much at school, they don’t need this. We have to take the high road.

‘We all know what you’re about, Jools Campbell. You’re trying to make out you’re some celebrity mother or chef but I can’t think of anyone less qualified to talk about such things.’

And there it is, the final poisonous dart fired, leaving me reeling from the fact it’s been let out into the air like that. I feel my eyes glaze over, like skin over custard.

‘And who are you again?’

I don’t recognise the voice at first; maybe because he’s made an effort to sound authoritative like a knighted Oscar-nominated actor – a bit Gandalf trying to scare off a dragon. I turn and he slips a hand into mine.

‘Jennifer Tyrrell. And you are?’

‘Ben Hartley. Jools’s brother. Can I ask your qualifications as a mother then?’

‘Well, I … that’s not what I meant.’

‘Well, from where I was standing, it sounded like you may have a masters on the subject, a doctorate perhaps?’

He turns to face the crowds in the same way one might in the Globe during a meaningful soliloquy. I can tell he more than half likes the attention and the wonderful acoustics.

‘Trust me, half of what you read in the papers is rubbish, much like a lot of what just came out of your mouth.’

Jen Tyrrell glares at Ben, framed by her husband and her furry cardigan. What possesses a woman to buy a garment like that? What possesses a mother to have such a sour personality? The people around us stand to attention.

‘And are you a parent? You know then what it’s like to have kids and have experience on the subject?’

‘No. I am not a parent.’

‘Then how does this concern you?’

‘Because I’m the person in this room who probably knows Jools the best. Yes, as you’ve kindly pointed out to everyone today, she was twenty years old when she became a mother …’

I look over at Ben, who refuses to look me in the eye else I collapse into floods of tears.

‘But trust me, she was also a mother long before Hannah ever came on the scene.’

He pauses, half pouting, half trying to hold back what I hope are not drama student tears.

‘So to berate her in front of everyone here only shows your insecurities, your jealousy, and is a great insult to someone I hold very dear.’

I grab his arm and pull down on his sleeve, trying hard not to cry. The crowd is moved. Unfortunately, this only eggs Ben on.

‘And I am very proud of her. Better to go out into the world and have a dignified opinion on parenthood as opposed to having a career as a tanorexic middle-aged woman in badly fitting Matalan, spreading gossip to entertain herself.’

Lindsay Pringle snorts a little. Matt stands there immensely proud of his brother-in-law, his chest out. I close my eyes in preparation for the inevitable Tyrrell comeback.

‘And how old are you?’

‘I’m not sure how that’s relevant but I am twenty-one.’

‘Because I take great insult from someone half my age spouting diatribes about my life. Your youth reeks of ignorance.’

You can tell half the crowd are doing some simple maths in their head.

‘Your age reeks of regret, bitterness, shades of vindictiveness.’

I look over at Jen, who is running out of words, out of plausible ways to defend herself in the face of such eloquence and calm. She panics.

‘Well, at least I knew my husband before I married him.’

If Matt was a cartoon character he’d go ten rounds with this woman like Popeye. But he is restrained for the kids and his mother and simply shakes his head and holds my hand in response. I’m surprised if his tongue is still attached given how much he’ll have to bite into it. I want to be angry, so angry. But for some reason I refuse to be. I can’t think of anything bad to say when my kids are glaring at me like that from that door. If they weren’t, though, it would be too damn easy to just lay into her. You want to talk about husbands? From what I hear Greg Jordan shags the nanny at the park! In the bushes by the tennis courts! Donna also reckons Hugh Tyrrell has a fondness for trying on his wife’s shoes. Other parents around us think differently and are aghast at the low blow, others are just glad for the entertainment.

‘You’re telling me you knew you were going to marry some overweight, hirsute man? Wow. I applaud your good taste, lady,’ adds Ben.

The room shudders a little with laughter. Surprisingly, a sweat patch-addled Hugh Tyrrell doesn’t flinch. Paula and Greg seem less interested in being involved in this fight now. Greg’s eyes seem to dart around the room with worry that everyone might think he’s impotent, Paula knowing she’ll never be able to take on the verbal prowess of my little brother. Jen just stands there, boiling in her furry cardigan, part furious, part indignant that her family life is being picked apart bit by bit. Welcome to my world, Jen Tyrrell, welcome.

‘Just … just … go to hell, you jumped up little fag!’

I’m not sure what happens next. Speaking for myself, all I know is that the little part of my brain that is dedicated to loving my family and being a mother, that goes all lioness when people try and infringe on my little unit, starts to fizz in my head. This deserves a breaking of silence. I’m gearing up for a McCoy style rant. I look over at the Pringles, all open-mouthed in shock. I look over at Matt whose eyes are so wide they almost glow white. Ben stands there, eyebrows raised from not having heard that word since the late nineties. Words line my throat as I go to speak. But I’m too late.

‘That’s IT! Get the hell out of my school. NOW!’

People suck in air like vacuums. I turn to see Mrs Whittaker, face red like rhubarb, quite literally. Even her ears pulsate bright pink. Mr Pringle steps in and holds her hand back.

‘Alice, please, you’ll …’

This isn’t even a tumbleweed moment. Parents, children, and other teachers stand about like this is huge game of Stuck in the Mud. Jen opens her mouth so wide you can see she still has some old metal fillings at the back.

‘In all my years of teaching, I have never met a more malicious and small-minded woman. I will just about tolerate your tattle-mongering but you have just sat through a play about diversity and come out with language like that. You owe Mr Hartley an apology.’

‘Never.’

I’m not sure exactly what to do. Even Millie has paused to absorb all the drama. You can see it in Jen Tyrrell’s eyes. Get out of my way. Ben looks to the floor in shame. Gia’s eyes pop out from behind the curtains.

‘How dare you! I will be talking to the school governors about this on Monday.’

Her eyes are all demonic at this point, so much so I can’t bear to look at her.

‘Please do. Alice Whittaker. Do you want me to spell that for you?’

‘This is a disgrace.’

‘What? Your behaviour? I couldn’t agree more. Now leave.’

Jen stares her down before finally caving and dragging her sorry entourage out of the room. Everyone breathes again as they leave. Children run into parental arms. My mouth is still open, crumbs of custard cream all over my bottom lip and in my hair. Matt looks at me and over at Mrs Whittaker, whose glasses have fogged up, her face still pink, massaging her liver-spotted hands as Mr Pringle drapes his arms over her, embracing her tight.

‘Alice, you shouldn’t have said …’

‘I know. But that wench has had it coming. I’m sorry, Mr Hartley, that you had to hear that in our school. And I’m sorry, Mrs Campbell, that I couldn’t do more to step in earlier.’

I shake my head. She did enough. Enough to have given the conversation some finality. Ben, on the other hand, tips his head to one side. I know he’d never be offended by an offhand insult from someone he didn’t even know. But I know what he’s thinking. That was bloody awesome! Best graduation present ever! When do I usually have the chance to accost and publicly harass middle-aged harpies? When do I have the chance to have such an attentive audience? Can I come again next year? Then he looks over at me and gives me one of those big, colourful Ben smiles, the sort I like, the sort that makes it impossible for me to hate him, or at least think there was something in the middle of all of that that was meant just for me.