‘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.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
That evening, I’m sitting in the kitchen staring at the walls, despondent and a little drunk. After manhandling a chef on live television (who actually wasn’t so upset about everything, I think he might have enjoyed the moment), I came home to find Matt, Gia, and the kids in fits of hysterics. Television gold, my dad texted me. Ben also rang to say Northern Chef had become his new crush. Who knew he was that well-endowed? Luella is not as upset as I thought she would be. It made for great television and the real reason we went on there, the risotto, was a success. I, however, feel rubbish. My plan was to be graceful, likeable, and elegant. Instead, reviewing the tapes, made myself out to be a cooking pervert. So now I drink. And to partake in the evening’s events, I’ve invited Luella, Donna, and Annie and a very big bottle of tequila.
‘Your mother-in-law made this? Shit, I should be her publicist.’
Luella drinks less, more interested in eating Gia’s braised veal leftovers. Annie is here to be an emotional prop, Donna to cheer me up. I hear the thunder of footsteps upstairs as Matt and Gia wrestle with the children in the bath. Luella continues to chow down and pours me another shot. I stare at it, before licking some salt off my thumb, downing it, and, because we have no real lemons, squeezing a squirt of Jif lemon into my mouth. Donna cheers. Annie shakes her head.
‘It really wasn’t that bad. If you’d spat it out then said it tasted shit, then that would be terrible, but it was an accident,’ she says.
I shrug my shoulders.
Luella intervenes. ‘She is right. People have been Tweeting about this all day and everyone thought it was very endearing.’
I pull a dazed and confused face as Luella hands me her iPad and shows me pages of people showing their support. Annie suddenly looks very excited.
‘Hey, we should get you on Twitter.’ Luella’s eyes light up as well. I shake my head.
‘I don’t know. It’s a bit much. I’d probably get like, two followers.’
Annie opens the Twitter page for me to have a look. I can do Facebook. For one, there’s a unique satisfaction you can get from stalking old school friends who used to be bitches in school, seeing how karma has left them single or with crow’s feet in their late twenties. But there’s also the way you can keep in touch with so many scattered across the country and globe, inspect their new-borns, weddings, birthday celebrations, and still feel you are part of their lives. It’s the lazy social option. Twitter asks for people to be interested in you, to be thrilled to hear you’re doing the school run or have just changed the sheets. Maybe the point is, I’m not sure if my life is interesting enough for commentary. Annie’s fingers dance around the keys.
‘There, I’ve signed you up. I’m going with a Campbells theme: you’re SouperMum. Here, see I’m your first follower. I’m AnnieTheLawyer.’
‘I will be your second. LuellaInc.’
They type so quickly, throwing the iPad between them, that I don’t have time to interject. ‘We could post recipes and mummy-style anecdotes and recommendations. It’s a good move, believe me,’ adds Luella.
Annie adds her husband as my follower to bulk out the numbers. Donna looks over and starts typing. I’m still trying to think what is relevant that people might want to hear. I read as she presses enter.
‘HAVIN IT LARGE WIV MY GIRLS! TEQUILA 4 EVRY1!’
My eyes widen as I see it there next to my name along with my avatar, which Annie has chosen as Marge Simpson. Luella and Annie laugh. I can see the headlines in the papers now. ‘Not only does she feed her baby tequila, she has it large! She can’t spell!’ Something in me can’t be urged to care. I leave it, knowing Annie and Chris are probably the only ones who’ll read it, moving my fingers about the touchscreen to read Annie’s Twitter updates.
‘Jus had appt with doc and my womb is inhospitable! Next time C’s up there, I’ll tell it 2 smile more and bake cookies! ’
Annie has got to the stage where she’ll talk about her fertility to anyone. Donna reads over my shoulder while Annie realises what we’re doing.
‘It’s something about my pH levels.’
‘Well, mate, here, squeeze a bit of Jif up there, that will change your pH.’
Luella spits out a bit of veal. Annie, who is the lightest of lightweights known to man, thinks this hysterical. Donna takes her cardigan off and I’m sure I can see a new tattoo across her left bicep of someone’s name.
‘Mate, what positions have you been trying? I swear every time I’ve got preggers has been when Dave has been going at it missionary and I’ve got my ankles round by my ears.’
Annie seems to be taking mental notes while I wonder why I didn’t introduce these two sooner. Luella is particularly blasé about everything.
‘You got kids, Lulu?’
‘Two. A boy and a girl.’
I swizzle my head around, realising I’ve never really even thought to ask Luella about her private life. She gets out a picture from her handbag.
‘There. Xavi and Clio.’
They sound like car names but I don’t tell her that. I just examine the photo and smile. They have the expected designer haircuts but behind them stands a very bohemian-looking man I assume to be her fabulous Frenchman.
‘That’s Remy.’
Donna looks over.
‘Oooh, a Frenchie. Bet he’s a good lay.’
I cringe to hear Donna be so comfortable with those she’s just met but Luella doesn’t seem to mind the inquisition. She just laughs, knocking her head back.
‘Il est magnifique!’ Donna snorts with laughter. Annie looks over at me.
‘You mean the positions are important? What about you, Jools?’
The tequila has left me warm, a little like I might take off because I can’t feel my feet. I turn to Gia’s veal, hoping the tomato sauce licked off my fingers might be able to soak up some of the booze.
‘Ummm, well you know about Matt and me. Condom broke the first time. Can’t remember the life of me what the position was?’
‘Means his little swimmers were busting to get out. Broke through the sodding rubber.’
I smile but Annie knows talking of Hannah’s unplanned birth always hit a nerve, like to mention how random it was means it was less important in any way.
‘Those sperm knew that they were meant to be with that egg and create the most beautiful little baby girl I’ve ever seen,’ she adds. She grabs my shoulder.
‘You all right? C’mon. More tequila. This will erase today completely.’
I fake a smile and look down at my drink, thinking about what she said. That in the greater scheme of things, Matt and me were just meant to be. Our inner workings decided our fate for us and made us a baby. Like magnets, it was a force uncontrollable. I think about that. And I think about Richie Colman.
‘I spoke to Richie the other day.’
I’m not exactly sure why the words leave my mouth but all I feel is relief when they do, to be able to share without too much judgement. Luella looks over inquisitively on hearing his name. Donna rubs her hands to
gether in preparation for gossip. I guess she’ll know as much as was in the papers but she can see there’s more to tell. Annie goes a bit quiet to hear his name. She was always very supportive of me at university, always on my side, I thought. When we were together, even though she found the idea of childhood sweethearts a little trapping and thought we would never last through the slalom course that was university, she allowed us to be. She then turned ape-shit on him when he dumped me and poured all her efforts into liking Matt even though she knew I was diving into everything head first, fully clothed.
‘Just via Facebook. We had a little chat thing going on. I just, he said some things. I don’t even know.’
Annie pushes a shot glass towards me.
‘I read the article. Did Matt really hit him?’
Luella closes her eyes.
‘You know, I haven’t even brought it up with Matt. With all the stuff with my mum and the cooking stuff, I pushed it away. It just didn’t seem important, but he’s just … niggling away a bit …’
Everyone looks over inquisitively.
‘Was he a total shit to you?’ asks Annie.
‘No, he was apologetic, just wanted to explain himself … take a walk down memory lane. To be honest, it was all a bit of a non-event.’
But it wasn’t. It triggered something inside this brain of mine, that much I know, which is probably why I’ve brought it up. I see Annie looking slightly worried, anxious about what I’m about to say.
‘I hope you told him he was a cock. Those kiss and tellers who are in it just for the money get on my tits,’ adds Donna. Annie agrees. You get a sense that is how Luella might make some of her living so she’s quiet. They still all turn to me, expectant that this story will have a more interesting ending.
‘I didn’t know what to say. It was at the end of a crazy day after that article about my mum came out and it got me thinking.’
Annie looks like she’s on edge. Thinking and me don’t really mix too well.
‘He was a first love. Plus he was harping on about the past and the what ifs, it just stirs up questions.’
Annie grabs me by the hand when I say the first love thing. She knows my relationship with Matt wasn’t founded on some strong, intense love but has since gained momentum and four kids later still exists. I hope she’s not drunk enough to pass comment like last time. Luella interrupts.
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