The Worst Case Scenario Cookery Club

by Chrissie Manby

  ‘Friendly and fun environment.’

  Bella hadn’t cooked a meal from scratch in a long time. Successful people didn’t have time to cook, was the message Bella had subconsciously absorbed. Successful people followed the money. Bella was making money even if she had no time for a social life. She definitely didn’t have time for a cookery course.

  However, Bella folded the flyer in two and tucked it into her handbag anyway. She’d have a proper look when she got home.

  Chapter Five

  On Friday afternoons, when the dental surgery closed early, Liz picked Saskia up from school, unless she was going to her father’s. That weekend, Saskia would be with her mum.

  Liz was early so she did what everybody does while they’re waiting. She got out her phone. There were no text messages except one from Vince saying that the accountant would be in the surgery the following Wednesday. Nothing on WhatsApp. Nobody doing anything interesting on Facebook (as if they ever did). Twitter was the usual round of tedious #FFs. With none of her customary online haunts providing anywhere near enough distraction as she waited for Saskia to slink out of the school gates, Liz was tempted to check Brittneysbites.com. She gave in to that temptation.

  Brittney’s usual routine was to post on Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays and that Friday was no exception. On Fridays, Brittney did a round-up of the things that had been ‘inspiring’ her that week. Friday Inspo, was what she called it. Brittney’s Friday Inspo inevitably involved the latest designer handbag, spiralised courgettes and a picture of a sunset overlaid by a quote from the Dalai Lama.

  That Friday’s quote was: Balance is key in everything we do. Dance but do your yoga. Drink wine but remember your green juice. Move but stay still.

  Liz was pretty sure the Dalai Lama hadn’t said that. She was right, of course. Even Brittney knew the spiritual leader of the Buddhist faith wasn’t given to pontificating about green juice, so she’d attributed that day’s quote to Malala Yousafzai, the pioneering schoolgirl who braved the Taliban.

  That day’s handbag of the day was a Fendi Double Baguette, which was the closest Brittney would ever get to touching bread. Meanwhile, dish of the week was a variation on courgettini. So far, so familiar. But what really caught Liz’s eye was how that courgettini was captioned.

  ‘Cooked this for Darling BF’s daughter on Saturday night.’

  Which was indeed when Saskia had been at the flat in Exeter that Ian now shared with Brittney.

  ‘She declared it delicious. Best compliment ever! #teens #healthyeating #cleaneating #courgettesforthewin!’

  Liz let that sink in. Saskia – Saskia, her daughter – had declared courgettes delicious? Was this the same Saskia who once threatened to scoop out her own eyeball with a spoon when Liz kept her at the dining table for ten minutes after she asked to get down without first eating her veg? She had been a very dramatic eight-year-old.

  Liz decided that Brittney was making it up. She attributed all sorts of random BS to the Dalai Lama, Malala and Shakespeare. Why shouldn’t that ‘delicious’ be a random attribution too? All the same, Liz was tempted to add a comment even if it would mean having to set up another new email address to do so. Or she could use Corinne’s … Ah. She’d already used Corinne’s. And Julie’s. Even Vince’s once or twice.

  ‘Mum?’ Saskia knocked on the driver’s window. ‘Mum? You’ve got the central locking on again.’

  Liz shoved her phone into her handbag and let Saskia into the car.

  ‘Nice day?’ Liz asked.

  ‘Nnnngh,’ Saskia grunted.

  Yeah. Liz was satisfied that Brittney had made that courgettini thing up. Delicious? Saskia hadn’t used words with that many syllables in adult company since she turned fifteen.

  Needless to say, Liz was not going to be cooking courgettini that evening. She was doing pasta the old-fashioned way. She was making Saskia’s childhood favourite. Spaghetti Bolognese with gluten-full pasta and a non-specific meat sauce.

  It would be a ready meal. But Liz would bung the container in the oven rather than the microwave. She got points for that, surely? And she’d grate the cheese herself. That almost made it artisan, didn’t it?

  Back at home, while Saskia chatted with her friends online, Liz laid the table for a delicious family meal. As she dished up, she imagined the Instagram picture and the hashtags. #homecookedhappiness #properfood #noneofyourcleaneatingrubbish #thisisfullofgluten #andcheese. Brittney would have had a fit.

  Liz was looking forward to the weekend. She was determined it would be a good one. An opportunity for some mother and daughter bonding time. She was sure that, like her, Saskia must be aware that it was a year since Ian left. Liz planned a conversation in which they discussed how that year had been for them both. Not just the things that had been hard but the little triumphs too. Despite all the disruption, Saskia was doing fantastically well at school. Liz wanted her daughter to know that she was proud of her for not letting the break-up of the family hold her back. She envisaged the conversation ending in a great big mother–daughter hug, like they used to have before Ian left and Saskia seemed to become a difficult teen overnight.

  ‘It’s on the table,’ Liz called when the Bolognese was ready.

  Three minutes later, Saskia slithered in, dragging her feet like Liz was always telling her not to, and slumped onto one of the chairs. Liz decided not to bring up Saskia’s posture. Not that night. She wanted her daughter to feel relaxed and cherished. This was going to be a really lovely Friday.

  Saskia stared at the plate in front of her.

  ‘Go on,’ said Liz. ‘While it’s hot.’

  ‘Mum,’ said Saskia. ‘I really can’t eat this.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Liz asked. ‘Are you feeling OK?’

  Saskia nodded. ‘I’m fine. But I’m sorry, Mum. This is not going into my mouth. No way.’

  ‘Sweetheart, it’s your favourite.’

  ‘I know it used to be my favourite but do you have any idea how much sugar there is in the average portion of ready-meal spaghetti Bolognese?’

  Saskia knew her mother well enough to know there had been no actual pans involved in that evening’s food preparation.

  ‘And all the other muck that goes in there. The additives and the preservatives? Do you know what they do to you?’

  ‘Keep you looking young?’ Liz attempted a shot of humour.

  ‘Seriously, the preservatives are the worst, Mum. Did you know that if you leave a fast food burger bun on a windowsill, not even the birds will touch it and it won’t start to rot for a hundred years. I bet this ready meal is exactly the same.’

  Saskia offered a strand of spaghetti to Ted the dog, who sniffed at it gingerly before turning his nose up.

  ‘See?’

  ‘Ted has never liked anything with tomato in it. You know that,’ said Liz.

  ‘No, Mum. It’s because he knows it isn’t healthy. Animals don’t eat things that are bad for them. That’s why they don’t get the diseases human beings do. It’s because they don’t eat processed food.’

  ‘Ted absolutely eats processed food,’ said Liz. ‘What do you think Pedigree Chum is?’

  ‘He only eats it because he has to. If you gave him a decent choice he wouldn’t touch it. He wouldn’t eat it in the wild.’

  ‘He doesn’t live in the wild. He lives in a semi.’

  Saskia pushed her plate away. Liz tried not to react as dramatically as she wanted to. She sat down with her own plate and added a generous helping of her ‘artisan’ hand-grated parmesan. Maybe if she underreacted, Saskia would stop trying to push her buttons.

  ‘Have we got anything else?’ Saskia asked.

  ‘No,’ said Liz. ‘I’m afraid spag Bol is the only thing on tonight’s menu at Casa Chandler.’

  ‘Great,’ Saskia huffed. ‘Something even the dog won’t eat.’

  ‘Only because he doesn’t like tomato,’ Liz said again.

  ‘He knows when he’s being poisoned, more like! If he had the
choice—’

  ‘OK,’ said Liz, suddenly losing her patience. ‘Let’s give him that choice.’ Dinner was getting cold and soon Saskia wouldn’t want to eat it because it wasn’t the right temperature any more. She always insisted on her food being piping hot.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Saskia asked.

  Liz got up from the table and went to the fridge. ‘Exactly what I said. Watch. Ted?’

  Liz called the dog over. Ted looked suspicious. He was always getting into trouble for pestering people for food and now he was being invited to look into the refrigerator? There must be a catch.

  Liz perused the shelves and pulled out a Lunchables snack pack.

  For six months when she was thirteen, Saskia had pretty much lived on Lunchables, refusing anything that looked vaguely organic (oh, how different Liz’s world had been then). Saskia’s Lunchables habit had worried Liz to the extent that she posted her concern on Mumsnet. Fortunately, the Mumsnetters agreed that when it came to teenagers you had to choose your battles and anyway the Lunchables’ website claimed they were nutritionally balanced – ‘Packed with on the go goodness’.

  This particular Lunchables was a ham and cheddar combo. Liz pulled off the cellophane and put the carton on the floor next to Ted’s front paws. Ted looked at Liz. He looked at the Lunchables. He looked at Liz. He looked at the Lunchables. He stared at Liz as though trying to read her mind. What was going on?

  ‘See!’ Saskia was delighted. ‘He doesn’t want to eat it! He knows it’s not good for him.’

  ‘Ted,’ said Liz. ‘Eat it.’

  Ted’s ears popped up and he tucked into the forbidden food with glee. Cheese first.

  ‘There you go,’ said Liz. ‘He loves it.’

  ‘What? He’s only eating it because you told him to! He’s trained to do what you tell him.’

  ‘Then let’s see what he makes of these,’ said Liz, putting a small open carton of pre-cooked cocktail sausages on the floor alongside him. ‘I’m not saying anything. It’s up to him to choose. And how about these?’

  Liz peeled three processed ham slices from another packet and arranged them on the kitchen tiles.

  ‘Mum,’ Saskia’s voice took on a warning note. ‘You shouldn’t do this.’

  ‘But I need to know if you’re right.’

  ‘You’re being, like, ridiculous,’ said Saskia.

  ‘I’m being, like, scientifically rigorous,’ said Liz. ‘You told me animals will not choose processed food. I’m saying, Ted, who is an animal, will eat whatever he can get his paws on.’

  ‘But you’re not even giving him the organic choice.’

  ‘You’re right. Hold on.’ Liz took the lid off an organic yogurt and placed it next to the sausages.

  Ted didn’t know what to eat first. It was all his birthdays come at once. He was practically wagging his bottom off.

  ‘Mum!’ Saskia shrieked. ‘Stop giving Ted dairy!’

  ‘Have I proved my point?’ Liz asked. She picked the yogurt up again before Ted could get to it. The ham was already gone.

  ‘This isn’t a fair experiment!’

  ‘What other evidence do we need?’

  ‘Do you have any idea how crazy you look?’

  ‘Do you have any idea how crazy I feel when you turn your nose up at the food I’ve just cooked for you?’

  ‘You hardly cooked it, Mum. You tipped a ready meal onto the plate.’

  ‘A ready meal that I paid for.’

  ‘Then you wasted your money.’

  ‘Just like I’ve wasted my money on all this?’

  Liz had moved onto the ‘treats’ cupboard. She yanked it open and pulled out a packet of Party Rings, which she tossed over her shoulder in the direction of the bin. It went nowhere near the bin but landed on the floor near the dog flap.

  ‘You won’t be wanting these either.’

  A bag of Doritos followed the biscuits.

  ‘Those were for my school lunch!’

  ‘Too many additives,’ Liz tutted. ‘Same with this.’

  Liz chucked a tube of barbecue Pringles onto the kitchen floor.

  Ryvita next.

  ‘Are these really good for you? Probably not.’

  A tub of TexMex dipping sauce.

  ‘Pure evil.’

  ‘Mum!’ Saskia could only squeal with horror while Liz emptied out the food stores in a frenzy. Soon the floor around the bin was covered in packets of biscuits and crisps, dry roasted peanuts, bags of flour and icing sugar and boxes of cake mix. Meanwhile, Ted chased the Lunchables carton around the kitchen table legs, determined to get every last morsel. He was having the time of his life.

  ‘And Ted ate the Lunchables,’ said Liz triumphantly. ‘Animals know what’s good for them? My arse.’

  ‘Oh. My. Days,’ said Saskia. ‘Dad’s right. You have gone completely mad. I don’t think I’m safe in your custody.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve gone mad. Just like Dad says. You don’t care about Ted. And you don’t care about me. You don’t care about what Ted eats or what I’m eating because you want us to die early of a preventable nutrition-related disease because we remind you of your failed marriage.’

  That didn’t sound like something Saskia had just come up with.

  ‘Who on earth suggested that to you?’

  Saskia shook her head. Though Liz didn’t really want the answer. She knew exactly where this clean-eating shtick was coming from.

  ‘The most loving thing you can do for someone is make sure they’re eating properly,’ said Saskia. ‘Which means you don’t love Ted or me at all.’

  Then Saskia got up from the table, pushing her chair back so abruptly that her share of the Bolognese toppled onto the floor. She raced upstairs and Liz chased after her to continue their argument through Saskia’s bedroom door. Meanwhile, Ted, like a 5:2 dieter who’s accidentally broken a fast day and thought ‘sod it’, decided he did like tomato sauce after all.

  Chapter Six

  Saskia would not come out of her bedroom all evening, even after Liz realised she was the one who was going to have to apologise. It didn’t matter how much Liz pleaded and promised it would never happen again. The only thing Saskia would say to her mother was ‘go away’ until she finally did. Liz went straight to her own bedroom to cry without going back downstairs first. So much for her Friday night of mother–daughter bonding.

  The following morning, Liz covered her eyes as she stood in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by the carnage of the night before. While Liz and Saskia argued and sulked upstairs, Ted had taken advantage of the opportunity to eat everything he could get into. If it was on the floor, it was fair game. And Liz had left an awful lot on the floor. Saskia’s spaghetti Bolognese was a mere memory; Ted had just about licked the pattern off the plate. Unfortunately, he had also managed to open the Party Rings, the Doritos and the Pringles. Liz had never intended for him to eat those. He’d got into a bag of peanuts. He’d even polished off a box of cake mix, six months out of date. She wouldn’t have guessed Ted would even be interested in that.

  Reopening her eyes, Liz rued the cost of trying to make a point. It was just that Saskia could be so blinking annoying sometimes and Liz couldn’t help but see red when she heard Brittney’s soundbites coming out of her daughter’s mouth. She was sure she would have been a great deal more patient if she thought Saskia’s sudden aversion to ready meals was entirely her own idea.

  Liz spotted a note on the kitchen table. Saskia had already gone out.

  ‘Going to stay at Georgia’s,’ she’d written in her big loopy handwriting. ‘Don’t try to make me come home. I haven’t cleaned up because this isn’t my mess!’

  Fair enough, thought Liz, as she picked up the empty Pringles tube, the shining plate, the yogurt pot – Ted had jumped up to the counter for that – the Lunchables wrapper and the shredded cardboard cake-mix box. She couldn’t blame Saskia for wanting to get out of the house. But Ted was nowhere to be seen either. Ordinarily, he w
ould have stuck close by until he got his breakfast. Possibly he wasn’t feeling like breakfast that day.

  Ted had his own dog flap. When Saskia said she wanted a dog, Liz insisted on the dog flap as a condition of fulfilling her daughter’s wish, knowing there was little to no chance Saskia would get up early every morning to let her new puppy outside to pee. The dog flap was duly installed in the back door and they all appreciated the convenience of Ted’s being able to come and go by himself. Liz assumed he was outside that morning, policing the garden for squirrels and doing his early morning business.

  Ugh. That was going to be another headache. What had gone in was bound to come out. Liz would need a bumper supply of doggy doo bags on their next walk. At least it was a beautiful morning.

  But when Liz looked out into the garden as she started the washing up, she saw that Ted was not making the most of the mid-September sun. Instead, he was lying on his back with all four paws in the air and he did not look very happy at all.

  Liz stopped what she was doing and raced out to the garden. Ted remained on his back, though he did attempt a rather feeble wag.

  ‘Ted?’ Liz asked him. ‘Ted? Are you OK?’

  Clearly he wasn’t and he didn’t need the power of speech to say so.

  His stomach was the size and shape of a small tight barrel and he was making the strangest of noises. There was no sign that anything of the previous night’s feast had come out yet but there was every sign that when it did, it would be hideous.

  ‘Ted?’

  He whined.

  Liz rolled her dog back onto his feet. His breathing was oddly laboured. In her mind, Liz went through everything he might have eaten the night before. She knew he’d probably had too much. Definitely had too much by the look of the kitchen. But had any dog actually died of overeating? Didn’t they sort of self-regulate? He’d left most of the peanuts. Everything he’d had was fit for humans so …