They nod.
‘Like the article with your mother?’
I pause. Luella was right – nothing is out of bounds. My mother situation still sits a little raw. The media have picked at that scab and I kind of need to let it heal over a little before I can deal with it. For now, it just stings. I really need to talk.
‘Erm, you know … I guess … sure.’
As eloquent and concise as ever, Jools Campbell. My eyes glaze over for a moment – could be the eyeshadow, could be the emotion coming up into a slow simmer. This isn’t about her, it can never be.
‘Also the fact that Heat have me in their worst dressed pages this week because I didn’t wear a bra to the supermarket.’
The diversion tactic to beat all diversion tactics, talk about my tits. Phil’s eyes scan down. Holly laughs. Job done.
‘So if you wanted to rewrite a lot of the media coverage about you, what would you say?’
I smile. Time to get my word out there. Here goes.
‘At the end of the day, I’m a mum in a semi looking after four kids on a budget. I’m a cook, not a chef, and sometimes that role, while enjoyable, is also a chore. I’m like any other mum out there trying to do the best by their kids but sometimes falling short.’
I sigh as I say this, realising the depth attached to that last sentence. Christ, woman. Don’t get emotional again. They nod again. I can’t tell if it’s sympathy or boredom.
‘I just think McCoy doesn’t realise that we don’t need his condescension. His smirking and finger pointing because we don’t know what an artichoke is or because I occasionally dole out fish fingers. We don’t need that sort of help.’
I nod to myself hoping I’ve not come across as too offensive.
‘… so tell us what do you think would help you in the kitchen?’
I pause for a moment. Am I supposed to refer to ingredients, kitchen appliances, or what I would really want which is a houseboy called Juan to chop my onions for me.
‘I guess sometimes you just want reliable recipes, new twists on old favourites … that and an extra pair of hands?’ That hasn’t drummed up nearly as many smiles as I thought it would.
‘Well, funny you should say that because we might have those spare hands for you today. Let’s bring her on.’
The first thing that runs through my mind – not my mother, please not my mother. But the person who appears from behind the curtain is probably a thousand times worse.
‘Kitty McCoy! And she has brought with her today her little one, Ginger.’
I freeze, holding up Millie as a shield. What the holy crap of mother? I look over but can’t see Luella’s face, only a figure marching up and down and waving her hands about. Kitty approaches me and shakes my hand while Phil makes a lame joke about Millie’s hair colour and the youngest McCoy’s name. The first thing I notice is how perfect her fingers are, soft like baby’s skin, yet her handshake is a bit feeble, the eye contact slightly menacing.
‘So lovely to meet you, Jools!’
I still can’t speak. I have been ambushed. Worse, I have been ambushed by someone who guided me through my younger years on children’s TV and looks particularly happy with himself. How could you do this to me, Phil? Kitty looks me up and down. Next to her I look like the before shot of a makeover shoot. Her skinny jeans are far better fitting, her top has nautical stripes: the sort of horizontal patterns that magazines always tell me to avoid because they’ll make me look as wide as a freighter ship. Baby Ginger sits wonderfully still on her hip, wearing a beautiful checked dress and tights. Poor Millie in her casual get-up. But Millie has more hair and she’s got nicer eyes. Look at me comparing the poor babies, I have got really desperate.
‘So we thought today was the day to get you two to meet, you both have babies the same age and I know Kitty has some things she wanted to share with you.’
I can see Luella in the corner of my eye waving her hands about. Like telling me to stop? Or not talk? Kitty turns to me and puts a hand on my knee, I flinch as she touches me. I don’t want to hear it.
‘Yes, Jools. I know how hard it is for young mums nowadays so I have my own brand of baby food and I thought I could show you some recipes from my new book that I think all new mums should try. So …’
Everything is a flash of exclamation marks and Kitty’s new book, Kitty’s Kidz! ‘Organic! Everyday! Family!’ – as people run on set to usher me to the kitchen set-up less than twenty feet away. A bosomy woman comes to take baby Ginger away, a person with a clipboard offers to take Millie. I decline. Phil and Holly follow us. I still can’t speak. I stand there next to the kitchen counter while Kitty gets down to business tossing her ice blonde hair about her shoulders. Jesus, she is tiny. How the monkeys do you get so skinny after four kids? From her profile side she looks about ten centimetres across, like she could fit through prison bars. I’ve read all the articles; I just bounced back! I ate sensibly! I breastfed all the fat away! Part of me wants to believe there was lipo, faddy diets, and girdles involved. Part of me knows she probably didn’t get through three packs of Maryland cookies a day nor use the excuse that pushing a double stroller up a hill is a proper cardio workout.
‘So Jools, I have this gorgeous recipe which is great for babies coming up to their first birthday. My kids love it and in our house we call it Baby Ganoush.’
Everyone laughs except me. I smile like I’m passing wind. Kitty proceeds to grab some pre-prepared roasted aubergines from an oven and blends them with yoghurt, lemon, garlic, parsley, and adds other assorted clear bowls of spices and such. The blender comes on and Millie starts to cry. Ginger in the meanwhile is quiet from over in the wings.
‘Aaaah, is she scared of the blender? That can happen with unfamiliar noises. My kids don’t mind it, it’s just on all the time in our house.’
I’m not taking anything in. One, I’m still stunned by the ambush, and two, I’m all too aware that Millie has just peed in her nappy.
‘It’s just so incredibly easy and my kids love it with veggie sticks or with pitta strips for a quick and tasty lunch.’
Phil and Holly tuck in as someone from the side creeps a large plate of crudités on to the counter. There’s lots of oohing and aaahing. I’m offered a cucumber stick and dip it in to the light green gunk in front of me. Phil turns to me.
‘So Jools, what do you think?’
This is my chance to say something. Anything.
‘It’s lovely. Thanks.’
‘So with recipes like this, I really don’t think there’s any reason to cut corners.’
I smile through gritted, bearing-into-my-gums teeth. I just can’t believe they’ve gone and done it again: brought me and my abilities as mother down a peg or two, but this time on live television.
‘And Kitty had some pudding ideas she wanted to share with us too.’
‘Yeah, I mean my kids are really loving exotic fruits at the moment. Papayas especially. So easy to mash up for babies. We’re also really into drying our own mangoes.’
Phil, Holly, and Kitty all turn to look at me. I have trouble drying the kids’ clothes in time for Monday mornings, she wants me to dry fruit as well? I want to cry. Maybe stuff my face full of crudités to make me feel better. Yes, I am rubbish. Thanks for telling me. I eat Baba Ganoush out of a tub, sometimes with a spoon. I don’t use my blender too much as it’s a bastard to clean. Then from in front of me, a little hand reaches out and grabs a stick of cucumber and starts to gnaw on it. I want to lift her into the air. Look! She eats vegetables! But everyone has their gaze fixed on Queen Kitty. Millie turns her face to smile at me. That one little dimple on the left cheek, the gappy, translucent baby teeth. That smile that says she’s happy because the cucumber is cold and helping ease her teething woes. But also a smile I see a lot, the one that I believe to be her acknowledging me. I’m that someone who’s been there from day one and hey, it hasn’t all been a bag of fun (you fashion my infantile hair so I look like a little ginger Susan Boyle; Jake pushi
ng me off the sofa was a particular low point) but you’re my mum. Here, perched on your rather large hips, I am usually safe and warm and cosy. You’re not perfect. I get it. I look down and smile back. You have to say something, Jools Campbell. You must.
‘Papayas are quite expensive though.’
Phil and Holly nod so as to say they agree with me. They’ve earned back some brownie points they may have previously lost.
‘It’s just two, three quid for one papaya, and I could get two bags of apples for that.’
‘Yes, but the point is to introduce your children to new tastes. Papayas are stuffed full of vitamins and fibre. In the Far East, they’re everywhere.’
‘Yeah, but I live in Kingston.’
No one seems to know how to respond. I’m also trying to recall the last time I ate a papaya. Possibly as small, unrecognisable lumps in an exotic Ski yoghurt.
‘It’s just there is also a cost in importing exotic fruits – I thought being organic was also about eating local produce.’
Phil and Holly are still being wonderfully impartial and nod their head, following the conversation with sudden interest. I see Luella has stopped jumping around in the background, and a quiet hush descends over the set.
‘But it’s also about educating your children about variety.’
‘Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate your advice but what if you have a budget to think of?’
Kitty gives me a look, the same look her husband gave me when I told him he could take his TV show and his misguided attempts at helping me and leave me alone. This all makes for a fabulously awkward moment which I predict might make some list of annual awful moments in a magazine somewhere. Kitty, slightly speechless, just puts some of her Baby Ganoush on the end of a celery stick and pops it in her mouth, mumbling something through roasted aubergine.
‘I was just trying to help. You said …’
We all strain our ears to hear her.
‘You said before that you feed this poor girl out of a freezer. I’m just thinking about her, that’s all.’
Phil and Holly inhale sharply. Millie grabs on to my shoulder knowing all too well that my chest has tensed up and I’m ready to lash out. But I keep my cool, I think.
‘I’m sorry. That interview was taken out of context. I do freeze a lot of Millie’s purees in ice cube trays. That’s what I was referring to.’
‘Well, even so, this recipe freezes very well also and is mentioned in the book.’
A copy is pushed over to me and I push it back in her direction.
‘I’m good, thanks.’
‘Please take it. All mums need a hand every so often.’
‘Well, if you want to help, you could come around and do my ironing?’
Holly chokes a little on a pepper stick, laughing. Kitty just smiles and proceeds to munch her way through some carrot. I want to get said carrot and ram it into her forehead.
‘I also have a new snacks section in there. You will find that childhood obesity is linked to an overconsumption of processed snack foods.’
I look at Holly and Phil, who realise this little segment has become about her, her book, and her agenda. She couldn’t give two hoots about my ironing. Phil starts flicking through the book.
‘Crisps? You make your own crisps?’
This has suddenly got everyone’s interest as we imagine her drying her own fruits in the heat of the North London sun and deep frying batches of crisps for her children with her cashmere jumpers and non-existent backside.
‘I do. I use a mandolin and use anything from sweet potato to parsnips to kale. The kids love them.’
‘But how do you get the smoky bacon flavour?’
Phil laughs and all is forgiven. Kitty gives me the evil skinny eye.
‘The crisps you speak about are incredibly unhealthy. I would never give them to my children.’
She sounds so resolute. I don’t hasten to add that Millie is probably thirty per cent salt and vinegar given that was all I could keep down in my first trimester.
‘I mean, even processed, overly sweet cereal bars: they are the enemy. I always make my own. I always have an array of healthy snacks with me. Like here: dried fruit and honey bars.’
The book comes out again. There’s a picture of Ginger munching down on one, radiant in a mink sequinned dress, her face shiny with health and Photoshop.
‘This is the perfect snack for young babies.’
I glance over the pages.
‘How young?’
‘Of any age. There’s no limit to how young you can start healthy eating.’
I arch my eyebrows.
‘Well, there is if you’re giving babies honey. Here, you say these are a suitable finger food from nine months. You’re not supposed to give babies honey until they’re one year old.’
Kitty’s face goes grey as she looks down at the book. Phil looks over at me.
‘Really?’
I attempt to sound like an authority on the matter.
‘It can cause infant botulism.’
He’d better not ask me what that is because I don’t know myself. Phil and Holly look back to Kitty, who’s looking over at a man in a suit. Behind him, Luella appears to be doing a little jig on the spot. Kitty scans the recipe with her well-manicured finger and realises this rather big typo is not going to go away on the five gazillion other books in circulation.
‘Well, it’s just a bit of honey. And …’
The set is silent. Phil, ever the professional, expertly leads into a break. Camera lights flick off. Luella storms over, along with a man in a suit, obviously part of the McCoy entourage. Phil and Holly are ushered away with make-up brushes and people with wires in their ears.
‘What the hell was that? We were not informed that Kitty was going to be here. You ambushed Mrs Campbell here and used her for your own purposes, and that was to publicise your little book.’
The man in the suit turns to Luella and they embark on their own little argument as regards to my fame (fame?) being contingent on theirs and how it was all the producers’ fault. I look around to see Kitty striding off set to Ginger and the bosomy nanny. So much for being here for my benefit, she doesn’t seem interested to impart her culinary wisdoms now the cameras are off and I’ve pointed out the rather large mistake in her book. There are hair flicks aplenty as she strops off. I look down at Millie, who is fascinated by the lights on the ceiling, her little mouth wide open. Luella grabs my arm.
‘We’re out of here. This is the last time I come on here. I have this year’s X Factor winner and their family ready to sit on your sofa but it’s not happening, you hear me.’
And in a storm of swear words and fumbling about trying to get all my belongings together, we leave.
By the time we get home, it’s nearly time to pick up the kids and I find Ben and Dad preparing dinner in the kitchen. When it comes to my kids, I always send a tag team in to help with any babysitting – one to wipe, one to catch. It looks like another Dad classic: toad in the hole. When I enter, the kitchen is silent, making me think they’ve watched the interview and the way Kitty McCoy basically mauled me on air. Luella follows behind me, slightly sheepish. She’s apologised ever since we left the studio and was still mid-explanation when we hit the A3. It was wrong of the producers to think they could create some sort of celebrity duel on their show, worse for Kitty to capitalise on what was supposed to be my air-time for her own selfish purposes. She’s mightily peeved, to the point where I know she wanted something different for me, not that. In the car, I spoke to Annie and Matt. Annie was kind as always, saying my comebacks were good and collected, my dress looked very chic. Matt said what I needed to hear, which was he wouldn’t do her for a month of Sundays. It’d be like shagging a rake. That, and that it was quite obvious that Millie had had her wee face on halfway through the interview. Ben and Dad are more reticent to show their opinions. I hand Ben the baby while Luella goes over to air kiss my father, something which has caught him unawares both now
and the several other times she’s done it.
‘Frank, put the kettle on. This girl has been through the ringer. Did you watch it?’
Dad nods, silent, and does as he’s told.
‘I mean, talk about being waylaid. It’s so the McCoys though, they have press manipulation under their belts, that’s for sure. But you did good, Jools. I was worried for a second, your face when she came out was a picture, but you held it together and that’s what’s important. I don’t take sugar, Frank, and green if you’ve got it.’
I shake my head to Dad. He smiles and looks at me for that moment too long, like he might want to tell me something.
‘Dad? Everything OK? The kids got off OK this morning?’
‘Oh yeah. It’s just … something happened when you were out.’
I go through the list of possibilities: kids are at school, Matt is at work. This means it’s something to do with the house. I think about our dodgy guttering or the fact someone may have blocked a toilet.
‘Your mother called.’
Luella stops her babbling to stare at Frank for a bit, then back at me before realising her mouth needs to stay very much shut for the meanwhile.
‘You better speak to Ben, he spoke to her and now he’s gone all quiet. I don’t know what she said …’
I rush into the lounge to see Ben disrobing Millie from her coat as she’s perched on the sofa. He always seems to do it much better than I can and that’s saying something since I’ve had four to supposedly practice on. Millie has a soft spot for Ben, I think it’s the constant singing and comedy hair.
‘Dad told you then.’
‘I’m sorry, hon. Are you OK? What did she say?’
‘She didn’t even register who I was. She thought I was your husband and I said no, it’s her brother and then she called me Benny and launched into lots of hasty admissions of love, how sorry she was. It was quite touching.’
I grab him, sandwiching Millie in between us, hoping the hug will do enough to squeeze any hurt out of him. Ben has always been this dynamic, happy sort, but talk of the darker side of life has always led his face to drop a couple of shades as he fights off the anguish with sarcasm, lots of it. We settle into the sofa, leaving Millie free to explore the television and find the remotes to snog.
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