Souper Mum

by Kristen Bailey

  ‘Of course, later on in juniors they’ll be PSHE lessons to cover all of this. But I just thought …’

  ‘No, it’s good to know. Thank you. Anything else, just … yeah …’

  ‘Sure. We should be going, Hannah. And I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve brought in for the cake sale.’

  Hannah looks at me and smiles. ‘Mum made some awesome chocolate biscuits.’ I smile back.

  R: You’re up late.

  J: Seriously?

  R: The other night was interesting. Friends of yours?

  J: Seriously?

  R: I’m sorry, J. I just want to say sorry, J.

  J: No one’s called me J in years.

  R: That’s because I was the only one who did.

  *long pause*

  R: I saw you on TV the other day, Saturday Kitchen.

  Friggin’ hilarious. You’re quite the chef.

  J: Glad I was there to entertain you. I can do many things now I’m a grown up.

  R: Bet you can :D

  J: Oi!!!

  R: Please tell me you accept my apology.

  J: Whatever.

  R: How adolescent of you.

  J: Seriously?

  R: I am a prize idiot.

  J: That’s a better apology. More like that please.

  R: I am a fool.

  J:

  R: I should have stayed in contact.

  J: Seriously?

  R: I mean this is nice.

  J: Is it?

  R: Well, if it wasn’t, then why are you still here?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I stared a lot at Matt last night once we’d got into bed and he’d passed out within seconds of his head hitting the pillow. He’s not classically handsome, his nose is a little off-centre and his face a little too round. But he has a good chin and his hair has never lost its appeal, the sort of straw-coloured fuzz that looks a little Damon Albarn circa the late nineties. He’s always had good dress sense at least; he’s very into his jeans and band T-shirts and zip-up tracksuit tops and till this day keeps the duffle coat from when we were at university.

  There’s no six pack or well defined garden path down to his groin area. The chest is, I’m afraid, slightly pigeony and the legs a tad hirsute. But he hides it well. No Speedos, for example, when we go swimming and he doesn’t do tapered old man shorts in the summer. There’s also the way he loses himself in blankets, duvets, and jumpers. He’ll put a hood on or disappear into the bed to find the warmest, safest place to fall asleep in the spirit of a hibernating hamster. He says that’s the Scottish in him learning to forage and keep warm. The last week or so I’ve been doing this a lot, coming up with ways to remind me of why Matt and I are together. Damn Richie Colman, Facebook, and his nonsensical hypotheticals. Yes, Matt often has no sense of humour and swears at inanimate objects. He hates that I have entered into this weird celeb cooking world. I resent that he doesn’t understand it. We live in a house that is far too small for six people. We have sex when it’s convenient and haven’t done it during the day since, well, university.

  But for everything that is bland and wrong with us, there are many more rights. However, with such deliberations always comes the question about whether others have these doubts. Are there couples out there who don’t have to question because the love that binds them is stronger than that? I hope not. Because I hope Matt thinks the same things too. That what keeps us together is far more important, that his practical streak will know kids, house, and love come with responsibilities that you don’t chuck out the window when the love flame is a little dim.

  Which is something I definitely hope he holds on to, as the next morning when Luella appears at my door at 8 a.m., there is something to suggest something’s wrong; the love flame is flickering. It’s a typical morning Chez Campbell. The kids flutter around the house, I am quite literally half dressed, in a dressing gown, a green vest, some knickers, and my cosy Ugg-style slipper boots. On my head, Jake has asked me to wear a tinfoil hat as Gia got the boys Wall-E on DVD and the in-thing are robots who clean things up. This may be good if it encourages the boys to keep order of their belongings, less so if they assume I’m a robot who doesn’t mind such things.

  ‘Is that what you’re doing the school run in? It’s very Gaga.’

  I smile and usher Luella in, immaculate in a teal jersey dress and black leggings. She’s grabbing the newspapers to her chest and double air kisses Gia, who’s been up since the crack of dawn preparing French toast for the kids. Gia’s holding on to Millie, who’s very glad to be receiving the full attention of someone who is covered in icing sugar. She chases the kids up the stairs while I walk to the kitchen, encouraging Luella to follow my lead. She’s being a little cloak and dagger which is never a good sign, and closes the door behind her.

  ‘So, you need to be totally honest with me, OK? I need to know this. Are you having an affair with anyone?’

  If my chin were made of rubber, it would bounce off the floor, swing back up, and knock me out. I always am amazed by the insinuation. When would I have the fricking time? Quite literally. Like I’d just leave the kids in front of the TV while I popped upstairs for a shag? Maybe I could get it on mid-school run? Under the cover of darkness when everyone was in bed? Luella looks me in the eye for a long time, nodding and studying the directions my pupils seem to move in, then puts her bag down.

  ‘Thought not. But …’

  Matt enters the kitchen, curious at my get up and why Luella seems to always frequent our house out of office hours. I am trying to find the Febreze to freshen up a school jumper that smells a little of hamster. Luella passes a newspaper to Matt, who cradles his cup of coffee.

  ‘Jesus, they dream these things up, eh?’

  He reads, scrunching his forehead up while I have my bottom sticking out of the cupboard below the sink, one of the many black holes of this house.

  ‘Is this McCoy again?’

  Luella nods. ‘I suspect so. But it’s not even front page, he’s clutching at straws.’

  ‘They say here that it was a secret, covert conversation …’ reads Matt.

  ‘I know. They make it seem like some sort of grand flirtation.’

  And that’s when I pause. Who am I supposed to be having this affair with? I make a mental sift through the men in my life. Shit. No. I suddenly realise who they might be talking about. I look up at Matt, who seems confused by my mortification.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Truly we were just chatting and he started with the innuendo and talking about the past and … really, it was nothing.’

  Luella also starts to look confused.

  ‘You know I haven’t spoken to him for years. It was just he wanted to apologise about the article and explain himself …’

  Matt puts his coffee down while Luella looks from behind his shoulder, shaking her head and gritting her teeth. He passes me The Mirror, showing a grainy photo of me and Mr Pringle. I stare at it for ages, and the accompanying headline: Mummy Campbell and the Toyboy Lover.

  ‘Who were you talking about?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Jools?’

  Luella looks like she might want to be anywhere else but here. I can’t lie. I shouldn’t lie. It was nothing.

  ‘It was Richie … Colman.’

  Luella takes this as her cue to leave and barricades the door from eavesdropping mother-in-laws and little children. I have to think on my feet here.

  ‘We were Facebook chatting and it just snowballed. Seriously, it was nothing.’

  Matt’s body language turns defensive, almost hurt. His shoulders slump, his eyes mist over.

  ‘It was him being inappropriate and making references to the past. It was wrong and I told him as much.’

  ‘But it was enough for you to think that someone could take it the wrong way.’

  My silence speaks volumes.

  ‘And for you not to tell me about it.’

  He turns and places both hands on the kitchen counter as I see his an
ger boil up to a rolling simmer. I have no answers. Yes, we had some brief conversation that dredged up hypothetical questions but this really meant nothing in the greater scheme of things. I put my hand on him to calm him down and he shrugs it off. I put my hand back on his shoulder.

  ‘I told you this was all a really bad, bad idea.’

  ‘Matt, seriously. Don’t make this bigger than it is.’

  ‘And why can’t I? From the moment this all started, it’s dredged up so much bloody crap. And now him? Of all people, him?’

  ‘And?’

  He looks up at me, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Well, you might like all this attention but I think it sucks. I think this sucks for our kids and when you start telling me shit like this, it makes me bloody … fricking furious. I can’t …’

  ‘Can’t what?’

  ‘Him! He was a shit to you and sold your story to the paper and you have the gall to humour him? What the hell is wrong with you?’

  ‘With me? Why are you acting like this? We talked. We didn’t do anything else. Calm the hell down!’

  He then grabs a cup of coffee from the kitchen counter and throws it across the room. Rivulets of coffee drip down walls, across chairs, onto the tiles. I flinch and shield my face like it might hide my shame. The rustle of footsteps outside the kitchen door get shepherded into the living room by Luella. Gia swoops through the door.

  ‘Matteo! Che cosa succede?’

  ‘Niente, mamma. Lascia stare.’

  She glares at him then her attentions shifts to me. Brownie points earned over the past week evaporate into the air like mist.

  ‘Come ti permetti di arrabbiarti cosi, davanti ai tuoi ragazzi!’

  I haven’t the faintest what they’re saying but given it’s reverted into Italian makes me think it must be about me and driven by emotion that the English language cannot convey.

  ‘Non dirmi cosa fare. Ti deve piacere! Mi hai sempre avvertito di questo!’

  She bangs the kitchen counters with her hands, which is enough for both of us to stand to attention, her eyes fixed on Matt as she points a finger at him.

  ‘Enough! We can discuss this later when children are not in house. Take the children to school. We are late.’

  8.32 a.m. Shit. What the hell just happened? Matt? I stare at him but he can’t even make eye contact with me. Please don’t leave it like this. It was nothing. But he doesn’t utter a word, just pushes past me and grabs his coat from the banister in the hallway, ushering silent children out the door, Hannah turning to look at me for reassurance I’m not sure I even have. I turn and Gia already has the kitchen towels out and is cleaning the floor. I feel the need to make peace with at least someone.

  ‘Gia. I’m not sure what you heard but …’

  ‘Not now, Juliet. Go and change.’

  I shuffle to the front room to see the children sitting bolt upright in the car, the twins clutching on to book bags. I wave them off but only Hannah responds with a small wave back, leaving me with tears still on standby waiting to roll. What the hell was that? Matt and I never fight, or at least not like that. We argue over messy kitchens, never grander things, and the guilt starts to stake me through the heart to imagine how awful it must be to have that set up anyone’s day. Millie hangs off Luella’s hip, staring curiously at the fuss at such an hour

  ‘Jools?’ asks Luella.

  But nothing. I just turn, pretending to take gazelle-like leaps up the stairs to get dressed when really it’s because I don’t want her to see the tears in my eyes.

  When I get downstairs, Luella is like a one-woman machine with the phone calls and the web print outs. Gia seems to have tidied up all signs of previous coffee flinging and even scrubbed and hung out the chair cover. I mooch about downstairs but she doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight. Dare I say it, I think I might be a little scared about retribution.

  ‘She’s gone to the supermarket.’

  I sigh a little with relief but am hardly surprised. Whereas most people eat, smoke, drink, or partake in exercise to de-stress, Gia seems to do this in the kitchen. A fiver says she’ll bring back some cut of meat which needs heavy tenderising. Luella is in the kitchen with Millie, who sits in her high-chair eyeballing me. Where have you been? Dad went off in a huff, Nonna’s disappeared so I’ve been left with this one and she won’t let me near her iPad. I go over to appease her with a rusk, hoping neither of them will notice I’ve been sitting in my bathroom, crying in a ball on our apple red bath mat.

  ‘Thanks, Luella. Sorry for the drama and the tantrums and the mug slinging.’

  All my sarcasm can’t hide the emotion weighing on my shoulders like great, fat boulders. Luella urges me to sit down and pours me a cup of coffee.

  ‘Talk about putting your foot in it,’ she says, sucking air through her teeth. ‘I would have thought you and him would have talked about it. That Richie Colman thing was in the papers weeks ago.’

  I shrug my shoulders. That’s not really Matt and I at all. We’ve always had some unspoken pact where we never really talk too much about the foundations of our relationship given we know how shaky they are. Yet in the same way, I’ve never laid myself bare to Matt. We never talk about my mum’s abandonment, we hardly talk about the future. I think about Richie for a second. It was a very different relationship in that aspect; as immature as it was, our conversations were always open, long, and used up all my free minutes. Everything with Matt has always had sweet, romantic undertones but momentum has carried us through. Nine years of momentum, just swinging back and forth and not really going anywhere.

  ‘Was Gia fuming?’

  Luella twists her brow.

  ‘She didn’t say much. I think she was just confused.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  Luella puts a hand in mine.

  ‘You should just let it lie for a while. Let him cool down. You’re not … you know … with Richie though?’

  I open my eyes wide like they could fall out their sockets.

  ‘No! Why …’

  ‘It’s just you sounded guiltier than you were.’

  I cradle my head in my hands. The guilt stemmed less from a couple of Facebook conversations but more from the fact I’ve let myself think about him, comparing him to Matt, thinking about those what ifs and parallel situations. I’m guilty of having mentally erased Matt during daydreaming moments and replaced him with Richie.

  ‘Well, then seriously, let it lie. And we definitely know you’re not banging the teacher.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Can I ask what this picture is about? Why are you looking at his crotch?’

  ‘Hannah was sitting next to me and we were having a talk because she had given out tampons to her friends at school.’

  Luella’s whole body stops for one moment except her fingers, which move with expert precision over her iPad. She then gives me a look, almost like she was expecting something that random to come out of my mouth.

  ‘Well, I’ve covered for you on Twitter.’

  I freeze as she says it.

  ‘Annie linked it to your Facebook account. You did know that, right?’

  I look down and lo and behold, so it is, and I have five thousand followers on my Twitter account. Bloody hell. Five thousand people waiting anxiously with handheld devices and computers to hear of my next move.

  SouperMum: Sam Pringle is my kid’s teacher FFS. Nothing to see here people! #happilymarried.

  I feel too embarrassed to bring up the fact I have no idea what FFS means. Still, at least the humour lends itself to taking the accusations not that seriously so I don’t take offence to the fact she’s hacked into my accounts. My phone rings and I see Donna’s face pop up on the screen. I go to answer it.

  ‘Jools, babe. Where are they getting this shit from?’

  ‘DidyouseeMatt? WasheOK? Whataboutthekids?’

  Donna takes a moment to translate. ‘Calm down, babe. Matt seemed all right, gave the kids big hugs when they went t
hrough the gate. Chill.’

  I tear up a little to think of my family in a big, collective huddle outside school like penguins seeking warmth.

  ‘I just had a huge barney with Paula and Jen though. Geez, those women have mouths on them. Gossiping hags.’

  Now there’s a surprise. I am slightly taken aback by Paula’s indiscretion given our supposed friendship but Jen Tyrrell is no great shock. She’s the one who’s often accosting Pringle at the school gate, presuming they have a friendship of sorts. The kind of parent who knows all, sees all, and has no problem flaunting this knowledge on social media and at the school gate with her Tannoy voice.

  ‘What happened? Were they the ones who took the pictures?’

  ‘To be honest, love, I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised but it could be anyone, really.’

  I simultaneously feel betrayed and disappointed, sifting through all the mums I know at that school. Some I know, some I’ve sat next to at charity concerts, one whose car I once reversed into, one who always wears shorts, even in winter. All of whom I know have phones with cameras, phones that can take grainy pictures inside school gates and sell them to the national press. I feel the need to curse, be angry, yet residual information from this morning leaves me static.

  ‘But them and their gossip; having the gall to talk about you and Matt when we all know Paula’s hubby’s been shagging that au pair? But I put them in their place, never you mind. We had it out. Chav? She should watch her gob.’

  I close my eyes to see how that would have panned out. Donna (Superdry hoodie/ Reebok Classics) taking on Jen Tyrrell (Per Una denim/sensible, not meant as a style statement, moccasins). I pray physical violence wasn’t used to defend my good name.

  ‘And Mr Pringle, did you see him?’

  ‘Nah, but seriously? The guy just got married. I think he’ll laugh it off. Shit, look, Alesha just poured a Frube down me. I have to run. Call me if you need me.’ Donna hangs up quickly, leaving me listening me to a bleeping tone. I have nothing left in my mind to give. Luella continues to type while Millie gives herself a rusk facial.

  ‘Are we good?’ she asks.

  ‘Drama at the school gate … and I should really ring Mr Pringle to apologise.’