There’s a moment of silence. Bewildered silence as my rant is processed and pondered. I think through what I’ve just said. Was I offensive to the Japanese in any way? Maybe more so to the salmon. Or not. I hear salmon are on the verge of becoming extinct, maybe I did the species a favour. Bill laughs to try and break the silence.
‘I’m sorry, that was a bit full on. We love salmon in our house but I bake it so it’s less time-consuming, or put it in a pasta dish or fishcakes to make it go further.’
Tommy looks a bit lost for words. I have nothing left to say about salmon except that I like it smoked on Christmas day or on top of a canapé. Do I stick with salmon or move on to something else? Bill is looking to Tommy, whose fingers are digging into the leather like an overzealous cat.
‘You mean the boring way. I’ll think you’ll find that people want new and exciting twists on dishes and to try different ingredients. Mirin is great in salad dressings and for teriyaki marinades.’
I pause for a moment, knowing I don’t have anything else to say about mirin bar the fact I think I may have seen it on a Wagamama menu once. He’s going to trump me with his foodie London culinary college knowledge. Go back to what you know.
‘And you have a section here about making your own pizzas?’
McCoy nods.
‘And you list the tool that every family should have being a wood fire oven in their back gardens.’
He nods again.
‘Seriously? I don’t know what your garden is like but I have a broken swing, a rotting apple tree, and a sandpit/litter tray in mine.’
Bill laughs.
‘I make pizza and I do it in an oven in my kitchen, not in a one-thousand-pound appliance that can only be used four months of the year.’
Tommy sits there, stony faced. I refuse to give him the time to speak.
‘I agree with Ed; you make no allowances for what normal people can afford in terms of kitchen appliances and ingredients, so how this is a reflection of “family cooking” I really don’t know.’
My fingers have become imaginary sardonic speech marks. Bill turns to me.
‘So how would you define family cooking, Jools?’ I smile to have been recognised and given a moment to speak.
‘I guess I want reliable recipes where I’m not standing over the cooker for forty-five minutes. I want to know how to adapt and improvise with good, fresh, reasonably priced produce … I want to enjoy food and meals with my young family and teach them how to eat well …’
Bill nods and smiles at me. Tommy can’t seem to hide his discomfort at being ousted from the discussion. I sense in a moment he will need to rant. There are three people here; the seasoned broadcaster, the sharp-tongued MP, or the lowly housewife – easy to see who will be the target here.
‘And how is this indicative of what everyone wants? I’ll think you find pizza ovens are a great addition to any house.’
‘Yeah, if you’re running a Pizza Express from your garden.’
Ed sits back in the sofa, seemingly happy to have been ousted from the conversation given that it’s much more fun to be a spectator. I watch as Tommy McCoy refuses to face me as he talks, directing his comments elsewhere instead to the person they are truly directed to. I notice his forearms, fake tanned up to his wrists. But there’s something so preened about him, it’s distracting. I look at Luella for a moment and think about this façade he’s built his brand on. Am I really here to bring it down to its knees? To expose him for all his fakery? Or is there something about him which also scratches at my own surface, that resents him for it. I think about one of the first things I ever said to this man. How I knew I was a crap mother and didn’t need reminding of the fact. People are talking while I’m thinking and studying his leather-cuffed watch.
‘I just don’t know how she seems qualified to make such comments.’
I look over at Luella knowing I’ve missed an important sentence in the middle of all of that.
‘God, we know you have four kids, we know you have a busy life but that hardly makes you representative of an entire nation of mothers. The recent tabloids have most certainly told us that.’
I look over at Tommy. The hair. I think it’s the hair that is the most annoying. That and the fact he feels the need to think my life deserves some sort of commiseration or indeed judgement.
‘The papers have been misinformed.’
Tommy shrugs his shoulders. Keep your cool, Campbell.
‘Look, I know I’m no role model for anyone nor am I representative of most mothers. I just don’t think mums want your misplaced pity, thinking you have the solutions to our everyday woes.’
Bill smiles at me. I want to hug him.
‘I just deal with my life each day as it comes. I cook three meals a day with children hanging off my ankles, asking me to check their spellings, sew on name tags, and get bubble gum out of their hair. I’ll think you’ll find cooking is a much different thing when under these sorts of circumstances. No mention of how to cook like that in here.’
Ed is laughing at this point. I think about that last answer. I’ll admit to a lie in there. I don’t sew on name tags any more. I write on labels with special pens or iron them on, sometimes using superglue. Even Bill is gearing up for more of my retorts. I think about what Matt may have put in my coffee this morning, rarely do I feel so energised. Tommy finally turns to face me.
‘So show me. You think I can’t cook under pressure? I was trained in some of the best kitchens in London. Go on, I challenge you.’
The colour drains from Luella’s face as I squint my eyes and look over at him on the sofa. He may as well be wearing chaps and spurs. A challenge?
‘You and me on live national television. Both cooking the same meal, on the same budget, same time, being taste tested by a panel of families.’
Bill looks over at me, telling me to back away. You can have as many retorts and well-informed opinions on food as you like. You can be the poorer, down to earth mother who can tell him how it really is when cooking for a family. But don’t cook against the man. I have no intention to do so in any case. This is him resorting to bullying tactics. He can’t take me down with his tongue and his glossy book, but he always could in the kitchen. I smile and shake my head.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Well, then what she says means nothing, really. I thought this was a discussion about food. Not for some housewife to come on here and spout anecdotal rubbish about her own experiences.’
Bill puts his hand in the air.
‘Now, Tommy, come on. There’s no need for that …’
‘No, Bill. I won’t have some half-arsed mother come on here and tell me how to do my job.’
But at this point, I know what I have to do.
‘And I don’t need you telling me how to do mine. Name your place. I’m in if you are.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘How about cheese on toast? You make good cheese on toast.’
I’m staring at Adam in our kitchen as he sips his tea. Adam, whose biggest culinary dilemmas involve whether to go all out and have the vindaloo, or to christen his bacon sarnie with red or brown sauce. I think he owns a saucepan. I think at present it’s handling the overflow from a leaking cistern. He’s peering over at the list on the kitchen door. Everything from tuna pasta bake to lamp chops to chicken stir fries to jacket potatoes with baked beans (Ted’s contribution). Yes, I can see that now. I prick a baking potato and stand in front of the oven for an hour reading a magazine as it cooks. That would make for great television. Still, at least it would fill in the time as opposed to the ten minutes it’d take me to whip up cheese on toast.
‘No need for sarcasm.’
Adam looks up incredulous at the thought.
‘Shit, Jools. No, you ask Ben. When we were little you always did the best cheese on toast. It was always crisp and you could hold it. Mine’s always …’
‘Flaccid?’
I laugh at him as he creases his eyes at me and
goes back to reading the list. It’s been here for a week, since the gauntlet was thrown down, in front of the nation no less. Twelve suggestions later and we’re still no closer to finding something in my basic cooking repertoire that I’ll be able to cook in front of millions. Maybe cheese on toast is the way forward, tomato slices to boost the nutritional content, a splosh of Worcestershire sauce, and a dusting of mixed herbs so it looks vaguely well presented. Talk about grasping at straws.
Following my foolish, impulsive need to prove a point and commit social suicide on live television, this week has bordered on the insane. Next to the usual juggling act that is my life, I have the papers debating about this epic battle with one saying it has the potential to be the TV moment of the year. Is that a proper award? Would I be able to attend a ceremony, wear an inappropriately cut Lipsy dress, and rub shoulders with the cast of Corrie? For the most part, the papers have been encouraging. McCoy’s bullying tactics are being made more evident to the critics and viewing public, and his approval ratings (whatever those are) have plummeted since. Even Dad has mentioned the McCoy sauces in his local Tesco are part of a two for one promotion. Still, he takes the opportunity to use this bit of public attention well.
In the past week I’ve counted six interviews with him talking about everything from his public support for meals on wheels being made healthier, to his new business venture – a new line in non-stick baking tins in his own patented colour of McCoy maroon. Kitty is also in on the act, waving her baby foods about and also, deliberately Luella tells me, wearing loose clothing so people will conjecture if she’s pregnant again (the answer is no; she’s still healing from her last stomach shaping operation). Most days I wonder what I was thinking, others I ask Luella if we could ask Gordon Ramsay to don a wig and fake boobs and take my place. For now though, it consumes my life, my house, my family. If I have a moment of clarity on a busy day, the thought creeps over me and starts to throw me into a panic. Because it’s there in my mental things to focus on list today, along with cutting the twins’ toenails, squeezing a blackhead on my chin, weaning Millie off her bottle, making three school play costumes, and fixing my relationship with my husband. That’s all.
‘Ben’s going to fucking freeze out there.’ Adam gestures over to the end of the garden where Ben nervously puffs away on a cigarette (that better be a cigarette), kicking old sandpit toys. Both brothers have been more regular fixtures at the house since the whole business with our mother has reared its ugly head. Not that I mind at all – though completely different, we’ve always had each other’s backs, yet we seem unable to know how to deal with anything. Adam I worry less about, yet Ben seems to internalise all that worry. You see it today in the way he jogs from side to side and inhales between his teeth. I watch him staring at an old, unpainted fence panel, his baby face masked in thick slivers of cloudy confusion, and ache to hold him like a big sister should. He approaches the back door and I pretend not to have been staring.
‘So, where’s Dad taken Gia?’
‘Tea dance at the church hall.’
Adam pulls a face and roots through my bread bin.
‘One day that’ll be you … now hands off my crumpets, they’re tomorrow’s breakfast.’ He doesn’t listen and heads for the toaster. I hear the distant thunder of steps as Matt attempts to dress the kids. Ben hovers by the door.
‘Where is your effing coat? You’ll catch your death.’
Ben doesn’t respond. I glance over and he’s looking at my wonky kitchen clock.
‘Ben?’ He’s quiet as Adam rustles through the cupboards looking for jam.
‘Are you guys free now? Just for a little bit.’ His face is slightly ashen, a little despondent. Adam nods. I go over to give Ben a hug and feel his head rest against my shoulder. ‘I’m really sorry, Jools,’ he whispers into me.
I peel his body away from me and look down at his face. Adam stands there clutching a jar of strawberry conserve, unwilling to get involved in the embrace but knowing something is wrong.
‘What’s up? Are we having more talks about she-who-can-not-be-named?’
I snigger a little imagining her as Voldermort’s older sister. Ben looks over at Adam. ‘Are the kids going to be around?’
I nod. ‘I can get Matt to take them to the park. What is this about?’
Ben puts his head around the kitchen door. ‘No, no, no … it’s probably best they’re here. I mean …’
‘Ben, spill.’
And then it’s like magic. A doorbell. ‘I really am sorry. Seriously. But you said you didn’t mind so I rang the newspaper and they put me in touch … and well, we’ve been talking …’
‘Ben!’ Adam and I literally shriek in unison and pop our heads around the door. ‘What the fuck have you done?’ Adam crumples his crumpet in his fist. A shadowy figure hangs by the front door and my heart doesn’t stop. It goes into some strange somersault mode where I can feel it resonate in my eyeballs. ‘You didn’t. Seriously? My house? You invited her to my house?’
This isn’t supposed to happen here. It’s supposed to happen on a pier. In the rain. Not now when my monologue isn’t prepared, when my hair isn’t brushed, when my toilet isn’t cleaned, when my kids … I can’t think. The doorbell goes again.
‘Jools! Get the door!’ I hear footsteps on the stairs and recognise the light, skippy gait as Hannah. No, no, no, no. I run into the hall.
‘Han, I need something upstairs. Please get it for me.’
‘What?’
‘A pen. Any pen. Just get me a pen.’
She screws her face up and retreats up to her room. I panic. The shadowy figure has seen me. My voice goes into pitchy, sing-song mode, ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’ I dart back into the kitchen. Adam maniacally clutches a box of Cheerios for help and stuffs them into his mouth hoping if he fills his mouth enough, or I guess chokes, then he won’t have to deal with this. ‘I’m not doing this, end of. You bugger for making me do this. You little bugger. You tell her I hate her.’
‘Sure. Any other messages you want to pass on?’
‘No, that will do for now. Bugger.’ He pushes past me, knowing the only escape is upstairs. Deep down, somewhere, there’s little Adam who used to stare at Mum’s picture on the mantle and tell her about his day. But today he has been ambushed. We have both been ambushed. I glare at Ben. This was never going to be a good idea. Ever. Why now? I can’t.
We shuffle to attention, hearing the muffle of footsteps upstairs and voices through the wall. Ben’s heartbeat radiates through the air like sonar.
‘Benny?’
Shit. Matt. No. Not yet. ‘Nope. Matt. Campbell. Sorry you’ve had to wait. I thought … wait, you’re …’
I can see Matt’s face now: Firstly, you thought I was Ben? Wrong hair colour, wrong age, but you’ve thought I’m six years younger than I really am so I’ll take that. But you look familiar. You kind of look like my wife.
‘Dorothy. Juliet and Benny’s mother.’
Then nothing. I wonder what’s going on in her head. Is she being rude in her silence? Are they hugging, shaking hands? Maybe Matt’s staring her out. I hear him hesitate before remembering he’s the gentlemanly sort and telling her to come in. ‘I didn’t know you were expected but I guess it’s a pleasure to meet … I think I’ll go and get …’ Ben looks at me and takes my hand. I follow him.
She’s how she looked in the newspaper so there are no big surprises there. But she is shorter than I remembered her, her jewellery is brash and I suspect Elizabeth Duke cheap. She’s wearing khaki slacks and black ballet pumps, a floral shirt, and pashmina. And well, not ill like I might have expected from all the sullen photos she’d posed for in the papers. Matt stands behind her holding her handbag and raincoat, looking a little like he might be in shock. I see him and giggle nervously. But I can’t look at her. This wasn’t my plan, it was Ben’s and he doesn’t hesitate. He launches himself at her and hugs her in the same way that Ben does most people, with genuine heart, arms wrapped roun
d like an orangutan. I see his body shudder as he’s hung over her shoulders and my eyes glaze over.
‘Oh, don’t cry, love.’
She looks over at me.
‘Juliet.’
I nod, still silent, feeling too much to want to launch myself at her lest I knock her to the floor and bang her head against the floor repeatedly. Matt sees me, confused, then glares up to the ceiling understanding why Adam might be hiding with the boys. He looks concerned. I look lost. She’s here.
‘I’ll get some tea on, maybe?’ he says.
The next five minutes are a cloud because I block myself out of the conversation and the room. I don’t want this to be a part of any memory in my head, I don’t want to betray Dad, I don’t want to say anything I’m not prepared to say. I focus on aspects of the room: how that stain got on the sofa, the film of dust over the television. There’s that missing bit of puzzle I opened the vacuum cleaner to find. Ben just launches into his line of questioning, feeling so happy to be able to tell her about what he’s been up to; university and life goals. He’s healing over those little life cracks that have made his foundations so unstable for so long.
‘Jools, Mum asked you something.’
I come back into the room.
‘Where are the kids?’
Matt comes in with tea and biscuits and shouts up the stairs. I have an urge to barricade the door and not let my children see her. Does she deserve to see them? I’m not even ready for this. They thunder down the stairs, loitering by the doorframe while Matt encourages them to enter. The twins bounce into the room while Hannah stays by the door. Matt looks over at the twins and nods his head encouraging them to come forward.
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