Food Fight

by Anne Penketh

  She found her phone and sent a text message warning Mimi to stay at home. She had only just hit send when she received the reply. “Daily Monitor – coming down”, was all it said.

  Mimi was telling her to read the paper and was on her way, she guessed. Her mother didn’t have a computer so her only Internet connection was on her phone. The Monitor headline blared: “The Widow Whistle-blower”.

  She was starting to feel physically sick, but followed the link. What dirt had they dug up on her?

  “The marketing executive who has exposed alleged malpractice at the food giant DeKripps is a red-haired widow who haunted Washington bars by night looking for men and dated online under the nickname Peek-a-boo, according to former colleagues.”

  She reached for the kitchen chair and sat down. She forced herself to read the whole article over two pages, dotted with photos of her taken from the Internet. One was from her Facebook profile, taken a few years ago by Serge, her frizzy locks flying in the wind as she posed on the sloping red rocks of Perros-Guirec against an emerald sea. The other looked like a group photo taken at a party – surely not Frank’s garden party one summer in Cobham? Her face was circled in red as though she were a bulls-eye.

  Finally, of course, there was a picture of Mimi, apparently taken from her NGO website, nose stud and all. The story recalled her fateful trip to Washington the previous year, and even quoted ‘former colleagues’ – the same ones? - who suggested that mother and daughter might have been working together on the DeKripps exposé. She was relieved that there was no mention of Serge, apart from a cursory reference to her ‘dead French husband.’

  Her mother came down carrying Nellie and found Susan with her head in her hands. “My dear girl, what on earth is the matter? Who are all these scruffy people outside and what’s going on?”

  She gave Susan a long hug which brought tears to her eyes.

  “This is so awful, I don’t know where to start. I’m the scarlet woman from DeKripps and now the whole world knows about it.”

  “Give me that,” said her mother, already in full battledress makeup and wearing a light blue summer frock and high heeled shoes. She’d obviously noticed the cameras. She set Nellie down gently in front of a bowl of dog food before taking the phone and wincing. “I don’t know how you can read anything on this thing.”

  After a few minutes, she put the phone down, shaking her head in disbelief. “But darling, is this true? Or is it all made up? Are you really Peek-a-boo? It certainly doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Yes, it’s all too true, that’s the trouble! It’s exaggerated, but basically, it’s true.”

  “You mean you picked up men in bars while you were in Washington?”

  “Look, mother, I picked up one man in a bar, as you describe it, and had sex for the first time nearly two years after Serge’s death. And unfortunately I told a colleague from work about it, when I believed she was my friend. Now look what’s happened. This is exactly like Mark said.”

  “What is? Who’s Mark?” The whole story was making no sense to her mother. How could turning the tables on DeKripps cause the world’s media to be trampling her Queen Elizabeth roses?

  “Mark Palin. The lawyer who helped Mimi when she misbehaved in Washington last year. He told me that DeKripps would come after me, firing with all barrels, if they found out I was the source of the leak about Project Candy.”

  Her mother sat down at the table while she digested the news. This was clearly too much information at once.

  “Mimi’s on her way down now. She’ll want to know everything too. Why don’t we just wait until she gets here, and I’ll tell you both the whole soap opera. It’ll be too long and confusing otherwise.”

  “That sounds like a good idea, dear. Now, let me make you some coffee.”

  “I don’t want any. I don’t think I could eat or drink anything.”

  “But look at you. You must eat. Keep your strength up. You can hardly stand.”

  “I’ve never been so humiliated in my whole life.”

  “But may I ask you one more question?” She nodded. “What will they write in part two tomorrow?”

  “What do you mean?” Susan hadn’t noticed that at the end of the article, the Daily Monitor promised a second day of revelations.

  What else could there possibly be to tell? She needed to talk to Mark. Maybe they could obtain an injunction against the Monitor and prevent publication. Without thinking of the time, she picked up the phone and dialled his number. It went straight to voicemail.

  “I’m going back to bed, mother. Can you let me know when Mimi comes with the paper, and I’ll get dressed then.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “And don’t open the door to anyone else.”

  About an hour later, there was a hubbub outside. Susan, who was lying prostrate on the bed, heard a man’s voice shouting, “Bitch”. Mimi must have arrived. But what could she have done?

  She ran downstairs to open the door discreetly, accompanied by Nellie who was yapping violently. A young woman who resembled her daughter was pushing a stroller along the drive. She was dressed from head to foot in black, dyed black hair framing her pale face. She was wearing black lipstick and black nail varnish. Susan could see the ‘daughter of Dracula’ headlines already.

  “Oi, turn round this way, Miss,” one of them yelled.

  There was some sort of commotion among the photographers. Susan noticed people climbing up on step ladders with heavy zoom lenses, while others tried to push them aside. As Mimi reached the door, one group with furry microphones broke away from the rose bushes and stood at the end of the drive.

  “What did you do to that poor guy to upset him like that?” She beckoned at Mimi so she could get inside.

  “Oh, I just spat at him,” she said. “He deserved it, the prat.”

  “So, can we unpick this?” Susan asked. “I just want to be clear in my own mind how they got all this stuff for the article.”

  The three women were in the sitting room behind the drawn curtains. Mimi had refused the leather chair – veganism oblige - and was cross-legged on the sofa. Nellie was in her basket, and Meadow on the floor beside the dog, playing with a moist baby toy chewed beyond recognition by the Yorkie. Four generations of Perkins together for the first time.

  Susan, leaning forward in the leather armchair and speaking almost in a whisper in case the microphones outside caught the sound, spent two hours telling her family the full story of her downfall at DeKripps.

  The narrative began with Mimi’s visit to Washington and ended with her last conversation with Frank. From time to time, one or the other would ask a question. Mimi, who finally seemed aware of her share of responsibility, was holding Susan’s hand in an odd sign of contrition.

  Neither Susan nor her mother had dared say anything to Mimi about her fashion transformation. After all, they’d put up with dreadlocks when she was a teenager. And the goth look had been all the rage at Sussex. Her mother had made one remark, however, when she brought her in.

  “Do you have to stomp around in those boots inside, sweetie? It’s high summer you know.”

  Mimi had removed her platforms to reveal black nail varnish on the big toe poking through a hole in her tights. Later, Susan’s mother asked how Mimi could take parenting seriously while dressed so outrageously. Susan had stuck up for her, saying that as far as she was concerned, she was showing signs of being an excellent parent. She was more worried that she seemed to have returned to strict veganism so soon after the birth.

  Slowly it began to dawn on her that she might have been responsible for leading the media to her mother’s door. Mimi was looking at her strangely when she finished telling them about Frank at Waterloo station.

  “Wait, you told him you were coming here,” she said.

  “Yes. He knows about Lymington.” She stopped. It was Frank! What a naïve fool she had been.

  “I’m sorry. Of course I made a huge mistake.”

  It w
ouldn’t have been hard to locate all the Perkins in Lymington once they had a name and a place, and her mother’s number was in the directory. She connected the rest of the dots. Barney knew all about Peek-a-boo. And Ellen must have spilled the beans about her one night stand at the Merchant. Under pressure from Barney, no doubt. But still her friend had betrayed her.

  “But why didn’t you confide in Ellen? Why didn’t you tell her about Barney making a pass at you?”

  “I was embarrassed. If I was going to tell her, I should have told her straight away. And then the scene at the Merchant happened, and I felt so ashamed. I think she would have misunderstood. In fact, come to think about it, she might have thought I brought it on myself. So I guess that’s why I kept it to myself.”

  She looked at the others for reassurance.

  “It’s obvious that you should have blown the whistle on DeKripps long ago,” said Mimi. “Using a genetically modified microorganism on genetically modified crops to get people hooked on chocolates. Honestly! It gives death by chocolate a whole new meaning.”

  Nobody laughed. Mimi paused, then said: “Do you know what this reminds me of?” Susan and her mother looked at her warily. “Iraq. Group think! That’s why it’s so hard to break out and challenge prevailing opinion, particularly in a corporate context.”

  As Susan struggled to see the connection between DeKripps and the Iraq war, the phone rang. Her mother picked it up.

  “Hello, 290 3941. Yes, good afternoon. Just a moment please.” She handed the receiver to Susan. It was the lawyer from Smithson and Hopkins. Susan had left a message for the woman who’d helped with her redundancy payment, explaining her plight and inquiring about the possibility of obtaining a gag order against the Monitor.

  “Do you know what they are going to print tomorrow?” the lawyer, Laura Melrose, asked.

  “No I don’t, but judging by today’s paper, they must think they can get away with murder. I can only expect something extremely damaging to me and my reputation.” Susan had to acknowledge that the story in today’s paper was broadly true.

  The lawyer explained that succeeding with an injunction before publication would be extremely unlikely, given the fundamental freedom of the press. She suggested that Susan waited to see what was printed. It was already clear that the paper had not attempted to get in touch with her before going to press, to at least enable her to give her side of the story. That would be taken into consideration if she decided to take subsequent action.

  “Also, I’m afraid that if you do try to obtain a temporary injunction, there is a risk that the paper will get even more excited and advertise the story as the one you tried to ban.”

  “I understand. In the meantime, would you be able to contact Mark Palin in Washington via your internal system? I need to talk to him urgently but I’m worried about talking on an open phone line. If you could ask him to let me know a time he’ll be available today I can ring him from a public phone box, assuming I can find one in working order here.”

  She hung up. What would the next morning’s papers say? She contemplated her family gloomily in the darkened room.

  Her mother stood up. “Well, there’s only one thing to do in a situation like this.” She went into the kitchen and came back with a shopping bag in which to carry Nellie.

  “I’m going to Waitrose for a bottle of gin.”

  She put on a silk headscarf and a light jacket, and from behind a crack in the curtains Mimi and Susan watched her wave politely to the rabble of journalists as she marched down the drive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “I’m sorry Mum,” Mimi said as they watched her go. She never apologized. This was major. Susan hugged her close.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got to be strong to get through this if there’s going to be a trial. And the same goes for you. Mark warned me that DeKripps was bound to launch a smear campaign. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have given them the excuse.”

  “You know perfectly well that companies can dig up dirt on anyone if they set their mind to it,” Mimi said. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”

  “Look, we’re all in this together. But what a total mess.”

  “They’ve certainly won round one.”

  “You know from marketing, and I know from USAway, that whoever gets the first version out there is likely to be believed,” Mimi added. “People think there’s no smoke without fire. So the issue will be your credibility as a witness if we’re looking at the big picture.”

  Susan reminded herself to discuss this with Mark. Laura Melrose had rung back to say he would be available at 5 p.m. Washington time.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Do you know you sound just like Mark Palin in DC? We need a battle plan. And he can help us.”

  It was dark when she left the house to find a phone. Only one or two photographers were lurking behind the rosebushes.

  “Miss Perkins,” one of them shouted.

  She closed the gate behind her, intending to ignore him. Then against her better judgment, she said sharply, “Haven’t you got anything better to do than to harass my family? Can’t you see that there’s a baby in there, and my elderly mother?”

  “Only doing my job, Miss,” he replied. and kept on firing his camera trigger. A couple of reporters appeared from nowhere, and ran behind her with their notebooks. The photographers followed them. “Why Peek-a-boo, Miss?” one of them asked. She turned round, furious. It was exactly what he’d intended. The flash was like a strobe light on her face.

  They fell back as a police car rounded the corner, and she strode towards the high street. Little did they know she had no idea where she was going. It was a balmy evening with a whiff of salt air being blown from the Solent. She usually loved evenings like this, but she worried she’d be followed as she wandered down the streets in search of a payphone. She checked behind her every time she turned a corner. She might be recognized if she dropped into a pub to ask for directions. When she finally found a phone at the station, she grabbed the receiver and dialled. She was relieved to hear Mark’s friendly voice.

  “So, you’ve heard about my predicament.”

  She was shouting down the line, which had a disconcerting echo. She cupped her hand over her mouth, hunching her shoulders. Was there someone behind her in the empty ticket hall? “As you can imagine, I’m a bit upset about it all.”

  “I’m sure you are. But listen, we can get through this. DeKripps is on the case right now. The Daily Monitor story has been picked up here by the networks and it could get ugly.”

  “The worst thing is we don’t know what they’ll publish tomorrow.”

  “No. We’ll have to ride it out. I know you spoke to the London office and I agree with Laura that it wouldn’t get us anywhere by trying to obtain a temporary injunction. Why don’t you call me again tomorrow when we can see how things stand there?”

  His cool professionalism reassured her. Despite her anxiety, she smiled for the first time that day, before hanging up and returning to the house via the riverside quay. When she reached the house, the paparazzi had gone.

  The next morning Susan was awoken by a barking dog and a crying baby. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. Then she pulled the bed covers over her ears and eyes, wishing she could make her ghastly reality disappear. When she went downstairs, where the curtains were still drawn, Mimi was breast-feeding Meadow on a kitchen chair, having got up early to smuggle in the morning papers.

  She watched them tenderly for a moment from the doorway. They were so sweet together in silent communion like a Madonna and child. The baby’s eyes were closed tight as she suckled, and one tiny hand reached upwards towards her mother’s breast. Mimi, a flannel laid over her shoulder, was looking down adoringly at the ruffled little head which she cupped in one hand. But she stiffened imperceptibly when she noticed Susan.

  “Morning,” said Susan, bending over them, and kissing Meadow on the cheek.

  “How are you, Mum?”

&
nbsp; “Awful. I’ve just had the worst day of my life. Correction, the second worst day of my life.” They both knew she was referring to Serge’s death.

  “I can’t even bear to switch on the radio in case they’re talking about me. Do you want some toast?” Mimi gave a nod. “How much longer will you be breast feeding?”

  It was an innocent question, but she regretted her words as soon as she spoke. Mimi raised her eyes towards the ceiling.

  “Okay, sorry I spoke.”

  She busied herself, running the water to make some coffee and popping bread in the toaster.

  “Have you seen mother?”

  They both swung round as she entered the kitchen, bleary-eyed.

  “Oh dear, I seem to have had one glass too many last night.” She pulled up a chair and looked sharply at Susan.

  “Could you please stop clattering around?”

  The morning papers brought a fresh catch of headlines. Mimi’s picture was in the tabloids, printed in the Daily Scrum under the headline ‘PUNK FOOD!’, her mouth twisted into a tight O. Her worst crime, apparently, was to have targeted Fleet Street’s finest with a gob of spittle. The short article recapped her shock appearance in a Congressional hearing and described her as the ‘mastermind’ behind the ‘DeKripps is Krap’ campaign.

  She turned to the Daily Monitor story, headlined ‘Dark Side of DeKripps Whistle-blower’. It was a hatchet job in which she was described as a seductress who had harassed her immediate boss. They’d turned the incident with Barney on its head. And there was the photograph of her opening the curtains in her mother’s dressing gown. Susan was too embarrassed to cry.

  She dragged herself back upstairs and lay curled on the bed, feeling like a hunted animal. Then she sat up bolt upright as though electrified.

  “That’s it! I’m being punished for not crying at Serge’s funeral!”

  She called Mimi’s name. There was no sound. She must be playing with Meadow. She shouted her name again. This time, she heard heavy footsteps and the light came on, forcing her to shield her eyes. She felt the baby being laid down carefully at the foot of the bed, and Mimi sat beside her. She couldn’t get used to her crow-black hair.