CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Exactly thirty-six hours until T-Day, until I go on the television and try my damnedest to survive the cook-off from hell. Jake was right, why am I doing this? In the run-up, the newspapers and columnists are having a field day. There will be live blogs and William Hill have me at odds of 25-1 that I will cook McCoy under the table. Of course, McCoy is 3-1 to win the whole thing and by this time next year no one will ever remember who I am. The paps are back in my life. Mrs Whittaker (currently under review for bollocking Jen Tyrrell but assured to have her reputation bolstered by ninety-nine per cent of the parents at the school) regularly chases them out of the giant wheelie bins round the back of the school but a faithful few sit in cars by the hedges opposite the house. Mrs Pattak next door now has her curtains closed all day and when she sees me she says something in Hindi which sounds like either a curse or a prayer. I probably deserve both. This morning, the papers are all about McCoy. Apparently, because the recent floods in South East Asia are not nearly as important, McCoy has dyed his hair for the occasion. He’s gone platinum blond. There are pictures of him exiting a salon with Kitty, who has had matching highlights done, others as he goes and makes an appearance at his gastropub, a final one of him kissing a baby. Below is a picture of me picking up the kids from school, make-up-free, book bags in one hand, Millie in the stroller covered in raisins, Hannah in a mood because I wouldn’t let her go to a friend’s house, and the twins pulling faces. The picture is circled by Luella, who sent it around this morning. A message is written underneath. MASCARA! IF YOU DON’T HAVE THE TIME, AT LEAST USE MASCARA! BRUSH YOUR HAIR! MAKE THE BOYS WALK BEHIND YOU! Adam comes in and sees me studying the picture, reading the message. He perches his chin on my shoulder.

‘You don’t look that bad. C’mon, McCock, the nineties called, they want their hair back.’

I laugh and put the paper down. Adam grabs a freshly baked muffin in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, all Gia’s doing, of course. Adam is here, he says, to lend support, but truth is he’s here for the baked goods. He flicks through another McCoy article in The Sun while simultaneously feeding Millie bits of panettone.

‘Apparently, he’s been invited over to the United States to speak at fat camps and cook at the Oscars,’ I inform him.

‘Maybe he can stay there,’ adds Adam.

I have no response because he’s not going anywhere in the next couple of days. I just grab a muffin and stuff it whole and warm into my mouth. Carbs may be my only consolation in all of this. Maybe I can eat myself into a sugar coma and not have to do it. As I put my plan into action, Gia enters, eyeballing me because the baked goods are for the guests. My brother does what he always does when he sees Gia, which is to semi curtsey.

‘Adam … you see OK! magazine?’

I roll my eyes as she gets her copy out from under the fruit bowl where I’d been hiding it and flicks through to the interview and the glossy pictures. Of course, it could have been a lot worse. They didn’t mention the fact that Matt and I were snivelling wrecks declaring our admiration for each other, nor the fact that the kids thought McCoy had stupid hair. No, but they did say my family were colourful and spirited – I’m guessing code for hyper and uncontrollable. Adam scans through the photos, before a bit of baked goods flies out of his mouth.

‘Did they? No, they didn’t …’

Yes, they did. For some reason, which I attribute totally to McCoy’s camp of media interventionists, they decided to Photoshop Millie’s hair. She was now positively Ronald McDonald. Matt was fuming that they had the gall to digitally alter his daughter but didn’t think his squinty eyes needed fixing in any way. Gia takes the magazine back.

‘I think the family all very bellisimo. I like. I showing all the family in Italy.’

I nod, still a little on edge and stressed out. Gia hooks her arm into mine.

‘I wash the stuffed toys and I throw away that plant in the bathroom, it smelling funny. Is there anything you are wanting me to do?’

I smile. Lots. You could run over McCoy, set fire to one of his restaurants, cook a chilli and pop it through a specially installed trap door on set halfway through, or bestow on me some special cooking power like a genie. I shake my head and pop in another muffin. White chocolate chips and raspberries dull the horror for now.

‘You know I had a dream last night that halfway through your cooking, Tommy got Mum to appear through a curtain.’

I don’t laugh. I don’t even say a word. The fact is I wouldn’t put it past him. Gia gives Adam a look.

‘It was a joke, sis.’

I get a finger and jab it into his armpit, which makes Millie laugh to no end. I do it again. I haven’t really spoken much to Adam since the whole mother reappearing from nowhere debacle but it doesn’t looks like anything has fazed him too much in the ordeal. His psyche had already filtered her out and dealt with her not being part of his life. I half hate him for his psychological efficiency. It still nags at me a little, still pops into consciousness every so often and makes me stare at wall space for moments too long.

‘So you heard anything more from ol’ Dottie?’ he asks.

I shake my head.

‘Me neither, in case you were wondering.’

‘I wasn’t.’

Gia sits down quietly, pretending that wiping Millie’s mouth needs far more concentration than it does. Adam then does what Adam does which is to squish my shoulders from the side in a half-hearted attempt at a hug. He’s never quite enveloped me like Ben does but it’s his way of letting me know he’s on my side. I squish back. Adam looks out the back window of the kitchen, as far as his reflection.

‘What did they look like?’

‘The others?’

The brothers. I’m not sure if I gave the picture a second look but one of them was attempting to grow one of those bum fluff beards, the other had a tie-dye T-shirt on. I shrug my shoulders.

‘I’m picturing two lads out there who are just carbon copies of me and Ben.’

‘Another two of you? I shudder at the thought.’

He pushes my arm a little and gives me a look. Adam’s looks are not as playful and bright as Ben’s – they just seem to be loaded with something I can never quite make out, some level of emotion he’s too scared to ever want to express. There’s always a lot of nodding.

‘I swear though, I never want to see Ben that fucked up again … sorry, Gia.’

He turns to apologise but Gia has her hand in the air, almost as if she’s allowing it for now. She catches my eye and gives me a smile. Gia has been particularly tactful regarding the situation with my mother, staying permanently on the side-lines through the furore, looking on as my brothers and I broke down in front of her and argued our way through it. Yet she was quiet, saddened, by the events. I only saw her comment to Matt, so he could translate for her how significant it was.

‘She is a silly woman,’ she suddenly adds.

Silly might be an understatement but Adam nods in appreciation of the fact that it’s not just him who thinks so.

‘I am sorry she is not the woman you want her to be. She is silly to not see how lucky she is to be having children like you.’

And then silence as Adam and I digest that final sentence. I smile. Gia, Gia, Gia – only three weeks ago you were bordering on being the mother-in-law cliché. But then something happened. You championed my family, you chased the ghosts of ex-boyfriends away, you kicked ass with copious amounts of homemade pasta. And while your visits used to be filled with awkwardness, a shade of forced sentiment, now there is something warming about having you around, the comforts you have provided from my kitchen, the way you organise my saucepans so they fit together like Russian dolls. Adam is still a little silent.

‘Come, you must go for your rehearsal, no?’

I nod. She has her hand faced upwards and goes to touch my face like she’s blessing me. I respect you now, mother of my grandchildren – go back into the world with the recipes I have bestowed upon you and continue your good work. But no. Instead, she places something in my palm.

‘This for you, for tomorrow. Have faith, mia.’

I look down at my palm and open it to find a small, gold cross there on a chain. Adam, holding Millie, can barely contain himself from bursting into hysterics to see it. Yep, that’s what I need. A fucking miracle.

12.36 p.m.

I’m not entirely sure where I pictured this Armageddon-style cooking showdown taking place. I thought I’d at least get a set of someone’s house that wasn’t actually mine but no, this place is bloody huge. The studio is cavernous, the walls all intertwined and not unlike the inside of the spaceship in Alien. If anything is going to intimidate me, it’s all these wires and the metal hanging down like some sort of industrial accident waiting to happen.

‘Seven minutes left!’

I’m here for a mini run-through with Luella. I am dolled up in a fifties-style dress with heels and accessories and my only audience member is Annie, who’s here on her lunch break because her office is ten minutes away. To be honest, I’m not sure how today is helping me in any way, apart from making me very on edge. What seems to be most telling is that I cannot seem to cook under this sort of pressure. Leisurely Saturday Kitchen cooking where half of it is done for me, I can do. Four kids pulling my arms and hanging off my hips, I can do, but with Luella telling me constantly that I have minutes left, under the heat of the lights, and with people scrutinising my every move with questions, I fail miserably. I don’t know why I cut my avocadoes like that. I just do. Jake would never give me such a hard time. A voice booms on to set.

‘Wow, Tommy! That smells amazing!’

I look over to the empty worktop next to me where Tommy McCoy is being played by a broom and Vernon is a microphone stand.

‘You have to not appear distracted, Jools! Vernon will throw lines around like this and you can’t let it get to you.’

I’m more distracted by the fact my salsa looks like it’s been pissed on. Why is it so watery? I can’t tell from this lighting either whether my guacamole is going grey or just looks rubbish. I squeeze more lemon on it. I then stand there for a moment staring at everything. Luella looks highly concerned.

‘You have to appear proactive! Maybe wash something up?’

I look confused. Do I have to? This is the time at home when I’d be letting the food simmer away and sitting down to have a glug of tea and a read of a magazine. I nod and chuck things in the sink. Then I drain the rice and plate up.

‘Three minutes!’

If Ted did this at home, I’d be tempted to throw him out the kitchen window. I spoon everything onto the plate as required and even have time to fold a napkin on the side. What’s that thing that chefs do with their tea towels? Don’t they wipe the sides of the plate down? I try to do that but it ends up an even bigger smudge on the side of the plate. I wipe it with my finger and see Annie laughing.

‘Thirty seconds … twenty-eight …’

I’m done. I stand there and put my hands behind my back. I’m not going to wash up because I don’t want to. I just grab some coriander and chuck it on the side.

‘Ten, nine …’ I let the other numbers wash over me so Luella can have her dramatic finish.

‘STOP COOKING!’

Annie makes a faux angry face, which makes me giggle, and they both come down from their chairs to my workspace. I swizzle my hands around, presenting my food like I’m inviting them to play their cards right. They both look at it curiously.

‘Well, you want to try it?’

Annie shrugs her shoulders and tucks in. Luella puts a notebook down on the side where I can see that in the past hour, she’s dedicated two A4 pages to my failings. She picks up a fork and fluffs at my rice.

‘It’s all right, Jools. Perfectly good chilli. Maybe a bit more spice, a bit more chilli powder?’ says Annie. She comes and gives me a hug. Luella’s lips twist around each other.

‘Rice needs more seasoning, maybe, and I’d be tempted to ditch the coriander – devil’s herb. The guacamole is a touch too sour as well.’

I nod. It’s all entirely constructive so I’m sure I can use it to my advantage.

‘But I have other things.’

I hold my breath.

‘One. You can’t wave at the audience with a big cat grin, the people at home won’t know what you’re doing and it’ll just make you look demented.’

I was trying to be funny given my only audience member was Annie, but never mind.

‘Second, I’m tempted to rethink the dress. You kept doing this plié-style bending at the knees like you were either breaking wind or had some issues down there.’

Annie laughs and salsa flies out her mouth.

‘It’s just, I’m not used to this set up. I’m usually on all fours getting saucepans out of cupboards so I find myself reaching down to get them.’

Luella pulls a confused face and nods.

‘Well, maybe we’ll have you in something a bit comfier. We look like we’re trying too hard to turn you into Bree Van de Kamp. And we’ll rethink the tribal bangles, you just kept getting shit caught in them.’

I nod. Annie grips on to my hand tightly.

‘And I think we need to work on presentation and plating up. Nothing too artsy fartsy but this looks a little crude. A little like …’

A dollop of technicolour cat sick? I think about how I usually plate up, and that’s to arrange the fruit into smiley faces.

‘A little amateurish?’

‘But she is an amateur,’ Annie informs her.

‘True. But this is school dinner plonked on a white plate, it’s a little dull.’

Annie cocks her head from side to side. ‘We could get some pretty earthen crockery to jazz it up a bit,’ she adds.

Luella nods and takes notes.

‘They do those great tapas-style plates with all the different sections; that could work?’ she adds.

‘Or maybe we could also bring in a mariachi band and ply the tasting panel with margaritas?’ I tell them.

They both laugh yet Luella’s eyes seem to question whether this could indeed be possible.

7.16pm

After my run through, I dashed across London to pick the kids up and found that Hannah’s class had made me a good luck card. It made me cry for reasons I wasn’t sure of – today, people were telling me I was headed for disaster and that the only things that would get me through were miracles, luck, and alcohol. So I went with the latter; got home, opened up a bottle of white wine, and started drinking.

So now, I am completely relaxed and watching The One Show for I suspect the same reason everyone else does, because it’s before the good telly and there’s nothing else on the other channels except news. Luella has been here with her last-minute pep talks and is now gone. The children potter about the house, Dad cooks dinner with Millie, and I am getting drunk. This feels almost surreal. Like any other day. Not that I’d be midweek drinking – there are still a hundred and one things to do before day’s end. It feels like nothing and everything could happen tomorrow. Yet I still feel nothing. I down another glug of wine. Maybe it’s the wine. I slump into the sofa and feel a lovely, oozy, warm feeling about my shoulders. This midweek drinking has happened a lot recently. Not sure if I’ve done this much since I was a student. I sit there and think about what’s changed since then. For one, I don’t dye my hair stupid colours any more. I don’t use batik wraps as curtains nor drink two pound bottles of wine from Spar. But some things remain the same. Matt, my poor attempts at an exercise regime, the fact I still don’t have a mother, and that I have big, fat debts hanging over my head. I down half a glass of Chile’s finest. A little person comes in and sits down next to me, snuggling their head into my armpit. Hannah.

‘Is that Kitty McCoy?’

I am so half-drunk, I hadn’t noticed. Yes, it is. She’s talking about tomorrow and wears a strange tabard-style shift under which you can see her bra. Are people allowed to do that at her age? I think about the greying quality of my bras in the drawers upstairs: the comfortable cotton, the downy bits of lace, the dying nursing bras stained with old milk. Then I have a thought that maybe I can wear one tomorrow and the shock of seeing something so horrific would mean no one would look at my cooking. I look back at Kitty. Even her elbows shine like she’s been polished. Her hair is so golden and glistening, the studio lights make her look like Christmas. I nod.

‘I’m glad she isn’t my mummy.’

I stop for a moment and look at Hannah and smile.

‘Why’s that then?’

‘She just doesn’t look like that much fun.’

I infer this to mean I might be fun. I’m not skinny or blonde or boobsy but I am fun. I’ll take that.

‘Harriet’s mum’s like that. When we head out the house, she’s got to make sure her shoes match her outfit and Harriet says she won’t leave the house without lipstick, not even to go and buy milk.’

She stares at the screen with an inquisitive brow as I sigh thinking how glad I am she perceives such vanity over one’s looks to be a failing. Then I sigh again thinking how I’ve sometimes gone into that petrol station on the corner with a pyjama top tucked into my jeans and a beanie over my bed hair.

‘So are we coming to the TV place tomorrow?’

I nod.

‘Yep, Uncles Adam and Ben are coming too … and Aunty Annie. You’ll all be there to watch.’

She snuggles in close. Watch as your mother suffers a breakdown in front of the nation. Who wouldn’t want their eight-year-old there to witness that?

‘Then why are you sad, Mummy? Don’t be sad. Has Tommy McCoy been saying nasty things again?’

Well, kind of, but I don’t tell her that. I shake my head.

‘Is this about your mummy?’

I shake my head again, wondering where all this empathic insight came from.

‘You think my mummy makes me sad?’

Hannah shrugs her shoulders and nods.

‘You like to cry. Like when people die on EastEnders. Or when we watch X Factor and people talk about their kids and stuff. You get sad a lot.’

She makes me sound like a big blubbering fool. Is it healthy for your child to see that much crying?

‘Well, people can be sad sometimes about stuff. You sad about anything at the moment?’

She shakes her head. This fills me with a big sense of relief.

‘I get sad when you’re sad. That’s all.’

Big swirls of white wine push something inside my brain and the tears start to fall and roll down my cheeks. Hannah’s face turns to ash to think she might have said something untoward in all of that. She jumps on my lap and holds me tight. I call them thunderstorm hugs – they crush your ribs and make your tongue stick out of your mouth like a frog. I look down at her body laid over mine. When did she get so tall? She literally takes up three quarters of me. When did her brain get so big and full of information? I remember the days when we used to sit in our bedsit in Leeds and spend the time looking through library books, and she’d test me on theories of pro-social behaviour and short term memory. Now she is so many things. She has more hair. She doesn’t spend all day in her pyjamas. She has a small overbite that will probably need braces in three or four years’ time. Little Hannah Banana. Maybe you are the reason why things are as they are now. If you hadn’t been conceived, would I still be with Matt? Would I have four kids? Would I be married and about to appear on national television? Probably not. She doesn’t seem to notice me staring at her, questioning the effects of her existence. She just hangs on tight and I squeeze her back. Dad enters the room and looks over at us. He sees my tears, he sees the half empty wine bottle on the floor. He nods his head and leaves the room, mouthing something as he goes.

‘Dinner’s up.’

‘What we having, Grandpa?’

He smiles, oven gloves in hand.

‘Fish finger pie. Ready when you are.’

I laugh so hard snot flies out my nose and into Hannah’s hair.

2.34am

It’s today, it’s today, it’s today. I look over at the clock. Technically, it is today but I don’t sleep. I can’t, I won’t, I shan’t. Occasionally I do drift off but the dreams I have are such horrific versions of possible events involving me spontaneously combusting, shitting myself, and severing digits that aren’t my own that I wake up in cold sweats and find the room awash in that weird navy-blue colour that drowns out every sound and scent and makes me think I’m losing my grip on my sanity. Now I’m worried; that sort of pre-birth worry that everything on the other side of this event may be changed and irreparable for ever. Is this going to be one of those TV moments that live for eternity so in years to come, people will point and mock? So I don’t sleep. I just lie there in my bed and think about all the things that fill me with dread and panic. My mum. My dad. My kids. Losing my kids. Kids being snatched off streets. Matt. Losing Matt. Matt having imaginary affairs with skinny women in his office who don’t exist. Women who have nice shoes and don’t wear knickers. Adam never finding love. Ben becoming some poor, slovenly actor who never gets a break. The fact my kids might grow up to hate me, or start carrying knives, or buy drugs from the ice cream van near the cemetery. Never being able to pay off our mortgage.

‘Are you up? Go to sleep, Jools. You need to sleep.’

‘I can’t. I’m really cacking it.’

‘The amount you drank tonight I thought you’d be dead to the world by now.’

After the wine came another bottle at dinner and then a glass of warm brandy before bed. Enough alcohol to have me miss a couple of stairs, not enough to make me comatose. I think about those fish fingers warming my guts, orange waves of artificial breadcrumbs partying with the white wine. My stomach churns.

‘Talk to me, please.’

Matt rolls over and spoons me. I feel the warmth of his breath nest into the back of my neck, hands grab on to post-baby love handles. He does this so he knows he can sleep and I will talk into blank air like he’s listening.

‘Kitty McCoy was on television tonight. She’s selling Baby Ganoush in tubs now. And a whole new range of fruit dips.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘I’ve never made a fruit dip in my life.’

‘Because there is no need to dip fruit. You can just eat it as it is.’

Silence.

Matt’s quiet, his breath slowing down as he tries to fall back to sleep.

‘What if I throw up on the food?’

‘Parsley. Covers up everything.’

I nudge him in the ribs, thinking about that chilli I made today. Maybe vomit might help? I can feel Matt rubbing his feet together under the duvet. It helps him sleep. Little Hobbit hairs rub against my ankles as he does it.

‘Do you think I can beat McCoy?’

He’s quiet, asleep? He mumbles something I can’t quite make out. I turn to face him.

‘What was that?’

I see his eyes clamped shut. I put my finger up his nose.

‘I think you’re the bravest person I know for doing this but …’

But what, you half-finishing sentence fool? He looks me straight in the eye and then goes to hug me. I’m not sure what to feel. On the one hand, Matt has always been brutally honest with me. Yet on the other, I want him to tell me I will take McCoy down. I will cook him under the fake countertops and come out so victorious people will hold parades in my honour. Maybe I’ll even get to wear a little crown. I want him to believe I’m at least capable. Why am I doing this then? To be a pawn in McCoy’s media game, proving he’s better than everyone? To put myself through this for the sake of bravery? I’m still thinking this as we’re mid-embrace, wondering how this came to be, a semi-decent cook taking on the biggest chef in the land with his numerous accolades and bestselling tomes, when I feel something against my leg. My imminent failure has made my husband hard? I push him away.

‘I’m glad the fact that I’m going to make a tit of myself on national television is so arousing.’

He laughs. Again, not very morale boosting. He brushes my hair from my face and looks at me again, the way Matt does, like he’s studying my face for something I’m not sure is there. He then goes to kiss me so I won’t press him for the answer he’s not yet given me. Idiot. Idiot because it’s almost working. This is not kissing like he normally does. It’s soft, drawn-out, and attentive like we’re in the back of a cinema. His hands are in a new place. Not on my boobs like they normally are, squeezing them like oranges. On my face, cupping my chin, tracing the outline of my cheeks. You bastard. Trying to distract me with nice kissing. He rolls on to me, our legs straddling each other, feet touching. His weight on me, he whispers into my ear.

‘It will be fine.’

The sex or the cooking? I’m too tired to ask him which. I just let him cup my buttocks in his hands, trying to remove my knickers and kick them off the edge of the bed. It’s always the same with Matt, safe, warm sex, like a hot water bottle except without the knobbly bit that gets stuck in your back. Even better than that. Maybe this will help me get to sleep.

7.10 a.m.

The sex did help me get to sleep. It was like being on a ship rocking its way to shore on a light current. Matt fell asleep inside me without coming, until I pushed him off and literally tucked him in. Then I rolled over and passed out myself. This time my dreams involved cooking on a boat like Keith Floyd, surrounded by wine and drinking myself into oblivion under the Greek sun until I didn’t really care about what I was cooking. To be honest, it was very comforting.

The only thing is next morning, while Matt and I are in our semi-states of undress, we’re woken up by Luella. Quite literally. She bursts into our bedroom, no knocking, no tea.

‘Up, guys. Your dad let me in.’

She rubs her hands together as Matt tries to position himself under the duvet as so to not let on that’s he’s stark bollock naked under there. My dad?

‘Action stations. Gia and your dad are downstairs making the breakfast and the twins are already watching Rastamouse. Chop chop. Hahahaha, how appropriate.’

She exits the room as I realise she was standing on my half-worn underwear at the foot of the bed. Outside, the sky is grey and the clouds hang low as if they know what today will bring. I feel my forehead to see if I am warm enough to carry a fever. No such luck.

Today is to be run with military precision, we know this as Luella printed out itineraries for us that she laminated and attached to every wall in the house. The children will go to school as normal. A people carrier will arrive at 12 p.m. to take myself and Luella to the TV studio. Dad and Gia, who are too nervous to be present, are going to stay at home with Millie and watch on our TV. Three o’clock and the kids will be picked up by Uncle Ben in another people carrier and dropped at the studio. Uncle Adam, Annie, and Matt will meet us at the studio at 6-ish. The live telecast will begin at 8 p.m.

So, for a day that starts at midday, I am curious as to why Luella is here at the crack of dawn. I pull on knickers and a dressing gown and find Millie sitting in her cot, hearing all the commotion. She puts her arms up to me, her hair all matted onto her face like a little red helmet. It’s sad she won’t be there to see this thing through with me. She was there at the beginning, when it all started. She faced off against Kitty McCoy like a faithful mini henchman. She endured a Photoshop disaster. Now she’ll have to see the end via a television next to my dad. She puts her head against my chest and gives me what I’m going to call a hug. I’m here for you Mum, you can do this. That, and I need a new nappy.

Downstairs, the kitchen boils over with excitement and baked goods. Gia and Dad felt it necessary to start the day with stacks of doughnuts, pastries, and bacon sandwiches so the kitchen table is stacked high. Dad, who tells me he didn’t sleep a wink last night either, came round early to help get the party started, as he puts it. He’s jittery, too much coffee, too many nerves; so much so he’s decided to unload my drawers and start rearranging the middle one, home to my potato masher and whisks. Next to the kitchen table are flowers. From Aunt Sylvia to Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall to Mrs Pattak next door, there seems to be a torrent of good luck cards and floral arrangements. It’s slightly funereal and a little overwhelming.

Next to that lies a big pile of newspapers Luella has presented for our deliberation. Matt is already at the table with The Sun that has my face opposite McCoy’s like we’re about to go five rounds. It’s the headline and large picture usually reserved for World Cup Semi-finals or reality show finales. IT’S WAR! There might be some people in the Middle East who dare to question that.

I peer over Matt’s shoulder and we have a two page spread with people’s comments and columnists giving their predictions. One is very pro-McCoy, telling us that it’s hardly worth the television minutes, while the other urges me on, trying to hype up the underdog. I pick up The Guardian and I’ve got Charlie Brooker giving his column’s worth of opinion on the matter. It is as it usually is. A sprinkling of clever profanity mixed with his acerbic nonchalance about people and the world in general, but he is also profoundly anti-McCoy (‘he makes me wants to cut my eyes out, sauté them lightly with balsamic, and then squeeze lemon juice into my empty sockets’) so he wants me to win and while I’m at it ‘put his testicles through a garlic press.’ Will do, time permitting. Outside we have four paps waiting in their cars and by the time the laptop is out, Twitter and Facebook (or Twitface as it’s come to be collectively known in our house) is ablaze with comments and good wishes from the unknown. It’s all a bit much. So I stuff my face with croissant and watch as everyone mills about. Croissants. Last time I ate one of these was in Sainsbury’s, leaving big flaky pastry warts on my chin. I stop eating out of paranoia and grab a doughnut instead. Maybe I can resort back to the plan where if I eat enough sugar-based gluten products then I still have time to slip into some sort of coma, which means I won’t have to be a participant in today’s events. Maybe. I’m not sure what I feel. I am sure there is deep-rooted primal fear that will come to paralyse me as soon as cameras come on and I’m baked in foundation and fake tan (Luella’s suggestion given I was starting to come across a bit Twilight undead). But for now I feel nothing. I feel numb with nothing. I think I might need to pee. That’s about it. I don’t think I want to cry, nor laugh, nor collapse into a big huddle of tears. I definitely want to run. But I’m not sure where to. Luella chatters like she’s being run off a generator.

‘You’ve got to love Brooker. Remind me we should send him something. Maybe some steaks.’

I nod. I should feel differently, I think. I should be jogging up and down the hallway and firing myself up, boxing the walls and gathering the family around for prayer as we hold hands and chant together. But nothing. It doesn’t feel like Christmas, nor like the morning of a big exam. God, do I feel calm? The urgency to need to pee tells me otherwise. I hear the children next door fly off the sofa. Hannah enters and picks up a pain au chocolat, her hair like a fuzzy banshee.

‘They’re talking about you on the television, Mummy.’

Luella runs into the next room. Hannah comes over and drapes her arms around my neck. I stare out of the window and over the hedges to where there is a small sliver of sky in the distance, framed by telephone poles and untrimmed trees. Matt puts his hand into mine and looks in to my eyes, the same way he did last night before our clumsy attempts at passion. And he says nothing. I don’t think he needs to. I just grab his fingers really hard until little crescents are left in his palm. The boys suddenly rush through the door and their eyes light up at all the baked goods. Everything is very quiet bar Ted sneezing from all the flowers. He jerks a sneeze right into Luella’s coffee. No bogies, maybe she won’t notice. Jake goes over and pesters my dad for a spatula that he can hit his brother with. Hannah turns to me, chocolate all over her fingers and smeared across her face like war paint.

‘Tommy McCoy is such a gobshite.’

Huh? Matt chokes on his pastry.

‘Han, where did you learn that word?’

‘Bloke on the television just called him that.’

Matt shrugs his shoulders and smiles.

‘Just don’t use it again, all right?’

Hannah smiles. I am, however, in that state of confusion where I need to rub my temples. What the fuck is happening today? Where the hell am I? I move Hannah from my lap and go upstairs, into the family bathroom, and back against the door. I hear Luella’s voice on the landing.

‘Jools? Jools?’

I hear footsteps creak up. Shit, I need five minutes out of this. I need to breathe. There’s a soft knocking.

‘Please, Luella. I just need five minutes. This is all a little messed up.’

‘Jools, it’s me. It’s your dad.’

I reach up and unlatch the door, going to sit on the edge of the bath. He comes and joins me, our toes embedded in the shag pile that Matt and I have never had the money nor time to replace even though we suspect it’s been harbouring mould.

‘Talk about your circus come to town.’

‘Not my imagination then?’

Dad shakes his head and puts a hand on my knee.

‘Do you still want to do this?’

‘It’s not a case of want, Dad. I have to. I signed a contract with the production company.’

He nods his head slowly. Maybe we can fake some appendicitis, get your hand stuck in a blender. He’s also scanning through his well-rehearsed list of phrases meant to boost my spirits and make me feel better. He has many. Failed German GCSE mocks (not the end of the world, only Germans speak German); being dumped by Richie Colman (other fish in the sea); finding out I was pregnant with twins (could be worse, could be triplets). He’s none too inventive but I’ve always felt, since Mum left, I’ve been his only key for tapping into the female psyche. It’s meant he’s always been cautious, never too judgemental else he’d scare me off too. I await my Dad Phrase of the Week.

‘Then do it, love. Do it properly. Get your arse out there and hold your head up high. I’m not having some poxy bell-end of a TV chef make a fool out of my daughter. You go out there and show that wazzock what you’re made of.’

I say nothing. I just fall backwards into the bath as we both collapse into fits of giggles.