Souper Mum

by Kristen Bailey

  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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FoUR

  By the end of the morning, the nervous energy still bubbles over but in a nice Jacuzzi style rather than as before, when the bubbles were spitting violently and boiling over the edge of the pan. Hearing my dad’s fighting talk and falling into the bath quite ungracefully, legs akimbo, shifted something. There’s a little fighting spirit in me, mostly from the realisation that this hoopla surrounding the situation had mostly been orchestrated by McCoy to get at me and trigger the sort of response that would have me backed on to bathroom doors declaring I never wanted to see the outside world again. The bastard may have got to me just that little bit but I was surrounded by people who would pick me up again, the only people whose opinions I cared about. The kids were a huge pick-me-up as they left with their hugs and declarations of support, Matt even more so. So as people arrived to pluck, wash, and polish me down to within an inch of my life, I suddenly felt like I could take on the day and come out the other end. Maybe.

  In the car over to the studio, I can’t tell if Luella feels the same. She’s quiet and seems to have my life down to two purple A4 lever arch files which she scans every so often, not while shouting to the driver to avoid flyovers and high streets because of the shitty traffic. I forget that this day probably means quite a lot to her in terms
of getting one over on an ex-love.

  Since she mentioned her history with McCoy I’ve let things lie, not wanting to drag the matter out nor bring to mind the fact she might be living vicariously through me. The driver goes over a bump and things fall out of her Mulberry bag, including a wallet and some photos. I help her scoop things up, glancing at her French husband and designer children in their matching Vertbaudet raincoats.

  ‘In a parallel universe, they’d be named Cinnamon and Fennel.’

  I laugh, a little too much, and snort. Sleep deprivation and nerves make me a tad delirious. I look at her as she studies the picture and smiles.

  ‘Have you met McCoy’s kids before?’

  She shakes her head at me, her mouth pointed to a pout.

  ‘Only Ginger and Kitty when we did This Morning but as the collective happy family? No. Actually, that morning at BBC was the first time I’d seen him since …’

  My mouth is open, realising what she’s saying. Since he dumped her, broke off their engagement, and left her for dust to marry a skinnier, blonder vixen. Is this wise? There will be knives in the vicinity. I’m starting to question what scenes of chaos may ensue in between me chopping onions and frying up beef. She senses my unease and laughs.

  ‘Don’t worry. That ship has sailed. You know there was a time I’d gladly have pickled his balls and given that wife of his a good slap but it’s over … different chapter of my life.’

  I nod, the driver wincing a little to hear talk of pickled testicles.

  ‘I mean, you know how it is with a past love. He’ll always have been a part of my life but the emotion has changed. The story’s moved on.’

  I pause to hear her say that. I forget Luella has been witness to every part of my life so far. Up to this point she’s remained impartial, very professional about everything, but sometimes she says a comment like that to let me know she’s had her ear in.

  ‘Not that you taking him on and kicking his chef arse into next week won’t give me some pleasure, but this is about you today. You’re my lucky horse.’

  I hope that’s not a reference to the size of my backside, and smile as she grabs my hand. Luella Bendicks and her pornstar name and her sleek bob. Would I be here if it wasn’t for you? Maybe. But I’d know far less about organic farming and be wearing cheap tights that would stick to my dress and ride up to show the whole world my gusset. I grasp back to thank her. The driver peers over the seat.

  ‘Oi, oi. Big kerfuffle up front.’

  Luella stares out the front window as a sea of people part for the car to pass. At first I don’t register why they’re there. Maybe an accident, a rally. Then the flashes start flashing, people call my name. For me? Luella goes into panic mode tidying all her things away, reminding me to cross my legs and shade my eyes so the flashes don’t make my eyes pop like I’ve got a thyroid condition. Don’t celebs put things over their heads at this point? Or is that only for weddings and unnamed prisoners headed for court?

  ‘Just get through the gates! We’ll go round the back.’

  ‘I can’t get through! They’re lying across the sodding bonnet.’

  Luella turns to me.

  ‘Remember, legs together. Follow me. Say hello to everyone, tell them you’re very excited and raring to go. Nothing else. And whatever you do, don’t listen to them.’

  I nod as she opens the car door and follow her instructions to the letter. The cacophony of noise is deafening. Where are your kids? Is your hubby/mother/lover coming? What do you think of McCoy? Really? I just smile and wave and bid everyone a good afternoon. Luella pulls my arm along as we get to the doors and I turn to wave goodbye and for some reason curtsey. Luckily, the photographers find that amusing. And then we go inside. If I were a horse, I think that would be my viewing time in the enclosure. All bets are off.

  2.39 p.m.

  I have a dressing room with my name on. Not since I was twelve have I had a door with my name on so I am a little excited. It’s a strange old room. It’s not lined in orchids, white damask, and bowls of sweets where all the green ones have been removed. But I have a mini fridge with little bottles of water and Diet Coke which Luella tells me to avoid as it might discolour my teeth and she doesn’t think I need the caffeine. Before, Vernon popped by to say hello. He was properly tall. Like basketball player, looking-up-to-the-sun tall. He was nice enough and gave me a hug, which made me feel like a three-foot midget. But for now, I sit here. I’ve had a nice chicken salad sandwich for lunch with posh crisps. I’ve flicked through some magazines and talked to the wall, pretending to chop an onion that isn’t there. I’ve also used my en-suite loo. The toilet paper was even quilted.

  A knock at the door sees me jolt out of my seat and I go to answer it, partly glad for the distraction. Another celebrity maybe? Please be Ant and Dec. Or maybe a tea lady with nice biscuits? I’m almost excited until the door opens and I stand there for a good five seconds and stare.

  Ambushed. Again. Really?

  ‘Hi, Jools. How’s it going? Just thought I’d pop by and wish you well.’

  At this point, my first instinct is to shout for Luella like when you’re a kid and there’s someone at the door you don’t know. The second is to shut the door really hard and see if I can’t take off a couple of his toes.

  ‘Tommy. Hi.’

  It’s like a stand-off with a chugger. No, get out of my way, I don’t care that every five seconds a donkey dies. Behind him stands a man in a suit carrying a briefcase who gestures a hello with a nod of his balding head.

  ‘We were wondering if we could come in and have a chat?’

  I look down the long and winding halls to find Luella is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I mean, are you busy? We can come back later.’

  He pops his head through the door to see my empty dressing room, just my handbag and some bread crusts keeping me company. Bastard. This is why people have entourages. I could do with Donna here right now.

  ‘Well, I’m not but I guess …’

  He takes this as his cue to enter and rolls his eyes around my dressing room as he does, judging my lack of view of the Thames and Xbox, no doubt. I invite them to sit down and grab a chair, feeling a little on edge, a little like I want to lay into this man and grab fistfuls of his newly bleached hair. But I don’t.

  ‘So, this is Roger Kipling, he’s my lawyer and we just wanted to come and chat to you today and see how everything’s going. Feeling ready?’

  A lawyer. I have a lawyer. Her name’s Annie. She’s not here yet and she doesn’t have a comb over. One point to me.

  ‘I guess.’

  I eyeball the lawyer and his fancy suit. Annie would wear cashmere. That is obviously from Burton. Another point to me.

  ‘Well, that’s great. You’re a fighter, I like that.’

  I nod.

  ‘So, I’m good. Is that it? Can I help you with anything else today?’

  Maybe he wants to apologise, maybe he wants to have a continued discussion about the benefits of frying salmon. My heart beats out of my chest for some reason. I half expect the lawyer to have a gun in there. Maybe he wants to sue me.

  ‘Well, I just wanted to apologise for the media. It has gotten way out of hand – all the stories being dragged through the press, it really has been quite upsetting.’

  Upsetting for him? I’m sure.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘No one likes to see their family undergo all that scrutiny.’

  ‘Well, from what my publicist has told me, you had quite a hand in getting some of those stories to press.’

  He smirks a little. I spy the fire extinguisher in the corner of my eye and wonder if I can bash his head in with it. I’m sure I’ve seen that on CSI.

  ‘Your publicist?’

  ‘Luella Bendicks. She was with me at the BBC thing. I believe you might know her.’

  He rolls his tongue over his top teeth and says nothing.

  ‘She’s been really good in telling me how this media game wo
rks. I’ve learnt a lot from her.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  The room is deathly silent for all of ten seconds. The lawyer coughs to break the silence. I get up and retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge. The only thing I can think to do to display my level of anger is not to offer them anything – no Diet Coke for you, tossers. The lawyer whispers something to Tommy and he then looks at me.

  ‘Jools, we’re here today because everything has been blown out of proportion. I came here because I am genuinely sorry at how big this has become and how I forced you into a corner to cook and participate in this competition.’

  I stand there and quietly sip from my bottle before returning to my chair. This is getting better. Apologies. They might be better in a newspaper or on live television but at least here I can gauge their sincerity. The lawyer reaches into his briefcase and retrieves a printed document.

  ‘So I want to offer you money as recompense for all the embarrassment I’ve put you through.’

  They slide the document over to me with a fancy looking cartridge pen. It sits there on my low-lying coffee table and I notice the rectangular piece of paper attached to the front. I choke. Fifty thousand pounds. For me. With my name on.

  ‘Please, take it.’

  They both nod. There’s a catch. There has to be. I pick up the papers and start reading. No, no, no. You must be joking. I read it again.

  ‘This sort of money could really be good for you and your family. Please consider it.’

  I scan through the one sentence to have captured my attention. I read it over and over and over till the words blur.

  ‘You’re bribing me? It says here I have to lose the cook-off tonight and then the money will be mine.’

  They both nod. The lawyer pushes the cartridge pen towards me. Fifty fricking thousand pounds. Bye bye, some of the mortgage, hello, new car! Hello, computer and a shopping spree. Hello, proper fitting shoes and music lessons for the kids. Bye bye, dignity.