Bad Sisters Page 5

  Too hungover to be in the studio by 7 a.m., she remembered. Bloody celebrity chefs think the world shines out of their bum.

  ‘And the producer asked me to do it,’ she continued.

  ‘You must have been terrified!’

  Well, not really. What really happened was that I begged the producer, practically on my knees. I pleaded, I swore I could do it, and when he said yes, I could do the cooking segment, I was so excited I could barely breathe. I wanted to be on TV so badly I’d have done anything. Anything at all.

  But she didn’t mention any of that when she answered, smiling, ‘I thought I was going to throw up, I was so scared!’ She leaned back, crossing her legs. ‘But I loved it. It was really fun. We laughed and laughed. I tried to show him how to cook an egg, and he barely even knew how to tell when water was boiling. We got swamped with phone calls and texts – all the viewers loved it – so the producer said that I should do it regularly. I mean, at first it was really basic. You wouldn’t believe the amount of famous guys who didn’t even know how to make toast.’

  ‘Wasn’t the joke that they were too busy looking at your – um . . .’ the interviewer looked knowing as she nodded in the direction of Devon’s bosom, ‘to, um, concentrate on cooking anything?’

  Devon rolled her eyes. ‘Men,’ she sighed. ‘I had to slap them so many times! I hit Robbie Williams with a frying pan once when he was trying to pinch my bum. But I did get him to stuff a baked potato, in the end. And, you know, it was all in good fun.’

  ‘You were an overnight sensation,’ the interviewer said. ‘I mean, I remember it really well. The male viewing figures for Wake up UK went up by,’ she glanced at her notes, ‘over 25 per cent in a month.’

  Devon’s publicist shifted on the bar stool, enough to get Devon’s attention, to remind her to be careful.

  ‘It’s really women that I connect with,’ Devon said, leaning forward and looking sincere. ‘That’s who I write for. That’s my real audience. I mean, I do have male fans—’

  ‘But that’s because of the way you look,’ the interviewer interrupted. ‘I mean, my boyfriend thinks you’re totally gorgeous – he’s watching because you make cooking look so sexy. He’s not going to go out and buy the book.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Or actually cook a recipe from it, God knows.’

  Devon had to tread carefully. ‘I’m disappointed to hear that,’ she said, widening her big brown eyes, dark and rich as the chocolate she licked off her fingers whenever she made cupcakes. ‘I spent so much time on TV teaching guys to cook – you’d hope they’d have learned something, wouldn’t you!’

  ‘Do you feel that sometimes you maybe go a bit over the top with the sexy part?’ the interviewer asked. ‘I mean, you’ve obviously got a great figure, but – well, some people have said that if you covered up a bit more and didn’t lick your fingers quite so much, you’d be taken more seriously as a cook . . .’

  And here it is – the question I get every single time. Every single interview.

  ‘First of all,’ Devon said, sitting back to make herself look more relaxed, very aware of her publicist listening like a hawk, ‘I have big boobs, naturally. Believe me, I would never choose to be this size.’ She flashed a look at the interviewer, who luckily was quite well-endowed herself. ‘Because they’re really hard to dress. If I cover them up too much, I just look fat. You know? If I wear a polo neck sweater, I look the size of a house.’ She pulled a face. ‘There are so many things I can’t wear, and I’d love to. I can only wear a few designers, because most of them cut too small for me. I’m no skinny-minny. I celebrate my curves. I mean, most women in the UK are curvy!’

  Devon was on a roll now. The interviewer was smiling and nodding, and so was her publicist.

  ‘I get a lot of nasty people telling me I weigh a bit too much,’ she continued, ‘but you know what? I’m just a normal woman. Yes, I’d love to lose a few pounds – who wouldn’t? But I can’t help the way I look. I hate to hear the comments about me being fat. It’s really hurtful.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not fat!’ the interviewer protested.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Devon said, biting her full lower lip and looking poignantly grateful. ‘I keep telling myself that. I like to think that I represent normal women. Ones who don’t look like film stars or actresses, who aren’t just skin and bones. I don’t want to starve myself just to fit into some idea of how women should look, and I don’t think I should have to! None of us should have to.’

  ‘That’s so inspiring,’ the interviewer breathed.

  And I’m such a liar, Devon thought miserably. I’d love to be a sample size. I’d love to fit into every single one of the clothes on a shoot, not pose in dresses that are open at the back because I can’t zip them up.

  Because that was exactly what had happened on the photo shoot for pictures to accompany this article - they’d had to hold the dresses together at the back with gigantic safety pins bridging the gap.

  I’m a liar and a hypocrite.

  Devon bit her lip harder and reminded herself that everything she had, she’d made for herself. She looked round the amazing, magazine-spread kitchen, with its amethyst floor tiles, its black Corian surfaces, the sunlight pouring in through the glass roof making everything shine entrancingly – even the chrome and stainless steel, which took so much work to polish. Her eyes lingered on the KitchenAid mixer, a rich purple the manufacturers called boysenberry, which alone had cost hundreds of pounds.

  Ten years ago I had nothing. Less than nothing, if I count the overdraft and credit card debts. And look at me now. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth – I earned all this through sheer hard work and determination. Like Maxie earned her own success.

  Ugh, why do I always come back to Maxie? It’s like I can never get away from her!

  Lost in her thoughts, she’d tuned out for a few moments, and when she came back to earth, she realized that the interviewer’s expression had changed. Her head was ducked so she wouldn’t meet Devon’s eyes. Never a good sign.

  Devon had a nasty sense of what was coming next.

  ‘So, my editor wants me to ask this,’ the interviewer said apologetically, fiddling with her fingers, ‘but . . . um . . . anyway . . . if we could just briefly cover the comments that were made about your first book – mostly about your first book – um, that some of the recipes don’t actually work? I know there was an issue with your signature chocolate cake . . . a lot of people apparently couldn’t get it to rise . . .’

  Devon took a deep breath. This was the other of her two weak areas in interviews: both of them revolved around her lack of any training as a cook. I should have got people to check those recipes more, she thought, as she’d done a thousand times already. But the publishers were rushing me and I was so excited to have the TV deal and the book coming out, I couldn’t tell them to slow down.

  She opened her mouth, hating this moment, very aware of her publicist’s eyes boring into the side of her head like twin gimlets, willing her to give a good answer.

  And then salvation appeared, all six foot four of him, wide-shouldered, curly haired, a classic rugby player’s build, with arms as large as Devon’s thighs and thighs as wide as Devon’s waist. Salvation was so enormous and manly that the interviewer turned, took one look at him and went as red as the cranberry velvet sofa, any awkward questions thoroughly wiped from her mind by the sight of him.

  ‘Hi Matt,’ said the publicist flirtatiously. Used as she was to the sight of Devon’s husband, jaded as she was by meeting endless celebrities, even she wasn’t immune to the 250 pounds of solid muscle that was Matt Bates.

  And to Devon, he was an answer to a prayer. Her irritation at the way Matt could eat anything he wanted without putting on weight, at his early nights which left her up roaming the house bored, drinking and snacking, at their totally incompatible lifestyles, all faded immediately as she grabbed the escape route that his appearance had given her.

  ‘Darling!’ she cried, jumping up
from the sofa and running towards him. ‘I didn’t expect you back so early!’

  Initially taken aback at his wife’s unusual enthusiasm to see him, Matt broke into a beaming smile as Devon hurtled into his arms. A weaker man might have staggered back at five foot eight, size fourteen Devon thudding into him, but it was Matt’s job to have men much larger and heavier than Devon tackling him all day long, and he took the impact of Devon crashing into him as if he were catching a bouquet, rather than a woman who weighed a hundred and sixty pounds.

  ‘Well, what a nice way to say hello!’ he said, kissing the top of Devon’s head. ‘Mmn. You smell good, love.’

  ‘Ohhhhh . . .’ sighed the interviewer wistfully at the sight of Matt lovingly enfolding his wife in his enormous arms, the fabric of his cotton shirt straining over his biceps.

  ‘I’m doing an interview for Women’s Life,’ Devon said, pulling back and looking up at Matt. In her bare feet, Matt was so much taller than her that she needed to crane her head back, her thick hair tumbling down over her shoulders. She gestured at the interviewer, who was wriggling on the sofa, pink-faced and flustered as an excited 5-year-old girl who’s just seen a life-size Disney character walk into the room.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ Matt raised a plate-sized hand in a greeting to the interviewer. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘Oh no – it’s fine – it’s great to meet you.’ The interviewer swallowed audibly. ‘Could you, um, tell me how you feel about Devon’s show? Do you watch it? How do you feel about your wife being a sex symbol for a lot of men?’

  Matt grinned, a wide, lazy smile. He was no stranger to interviews either, although he didn’t much like them; but a professional rugby player couldn’t help but have to speak to the press on a regular basis.

  ‘I’m so proud of her,’ he said, still holding Devon by the waist. ‘Devon’s a real live wire – she’s always got something on the go. TV, or books, or crockery, or something. I can’t keep up.’

  ‘Crockery?’ Devon said incredulously.

  ‘Yeah!’ Matt frowned, looking embarrassed. ‘Am I wrong? I could’ve sworn you do crockery, love, don’t you? Jars and plates and things?’

  Devon rolled her eyes at him. Having grown up poor and working class, she was paranoid about being caught out using the wrong words, or talking with the wrong accent; she and Maxie had worked really hard to polish their rough, uneducated tones into much posher, smoother, more educated-sounding pronunciation. Maxie, as in everything, had led the way: gone to study at Oxford, realized on the first day that she didn’t sound right, and kept her mouth shut until she could copy successfully the way the children of privilege spoke. God knew, Maxie had assimilated perfectly. And Devon, just as ambitious, had followed in Maxie’s footsteps. Deeley was the only sister of the three who had never cared so much about getting on and fitting in.

  Everything always came easy to Deeley, Devon thought jealously for a moment, before she remembered what she was supposed to be focussing on. Pulling herself back to the present, she flashed a charming, seductive smile to the interviewer.

  ‘He means my ceramics line,’ she explained. ‘China and stoneware. That’s how you say it, darling,’ she added to Matt over her shoulder.

  ‘Sorry!’ Matt looked abashed. ‘My gran always called it all crockery. But it doesn’t really matter what I call a plate, as long as I make sure to put it in the dishwasher when I’m finished, right?’

  ‘Awww,’ the interviewer sighed, relapsing into 5-year-old behaviour again.

  ‘Sweetie?’ Devon prompted Matt. ‘She was asking you how you feel about me being a sort of sex symbol?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Matt said cheerfully. ‘I don’t care one way or the other. I mean, the lads’ll have a laugh in training, sometimes, if they watch Dev’s show and she’s licking a spoon or something, but I reckon they’re all just jealous of me. And you’ve got to have a thick skin in my job, don’t you?’ He raised one hand to his face. ‘I mean, I’ve had my nose mashed in twice, and this ear’s all wonky.’ He pulled at one lobe, which looked as if a fellow rugby player had taken a bite out of it. ‘I’ve got enough to worry about on the field without blokes fancying my wife.’

  He looked wistfully at Devon, who had walked over to the central island and was leaning against it.

  ‘As long as we’re happy, who cares what anyone else thinks?’ he concluded a little sadly. ‘I mean, that’s the only thing that matters.’

  Matt had been handsome before he started playing rugby. His once classically straight nose, as he’d said, was bumpy after a couple of bad breaks, and one cheekbone was a little dented. But what he had lost in handsomeness, he had gained in sex appeal. The bumps and dents gave his even, regular features a touch of raffishness, a contrast to the very youthful clear blue eyes and tight brown curls. He was tanned from all the outdoor training, and the deep crinkles round his eyes and slight chapping to his lips gave his boyish good looks a manliness that no woman, and few men, could help responding to.

  But even if Matt had had a face like the back of a bus, his body would still have been a work of art: sculpted by Michelangelo, photographed by Bruce Weber. The word ‘strapping’ could have been invented for Matt. He was built on a massive scale. A Hollywood producer would have taken one look at him and cast him as a Roman gladiator or a Greek god. Devon, instead, made him pose for aftershave ads, which he loathed with every fibre of his being.

  Seeing the way the interviewer was undressing Matt with her eyes, Devon made a quick decision. She glanced across at her publicist, who was, she could tell, in full agreement with her.

  ‘Well, this has been a great interview!’ the publicist said brightly, adjusting her hemline so she could step down from the barstool without flashing her knickers. ‘But Devon and Matt have a really busy schedule, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to call an end to this now.’

  ‘We do?’ Matt, a bit slow on the uptake, mouthed at Devon, his wide forehead scrunching in concern. She knew perfectly well that, once back from training, all he wanted to do was play Xbox, do some gardening, and talk about what they were having for dinner; that was as busy a schedule as Matt could handle.

  ‘Yes!’ Devon said, ignoring her husband’s look of panic. ‘It’s been so great talking to you.’ She crossed the wide expanse of kitchen floor to the sofa, where the interviewer was reluctantly rising to her feet. ‘I hope you got everything you needed.’

  ‘Well, there still are a couple of things . . .’ the interviewer started.

  ‘Great! Fantastic! Do email me with any follow-ups,’ the publicist said, leading her firmly out of the kitchen. ‘Look forward to reading the article!’

  ‘She seemed nice,’ Matt said, nodding at the retreating back of the interviewer.

  ‘Oh, Matt. You think everyone’s nice,’ Devon said impatiently. ‘You even think Maxie’s nice.’

  ‘Well, she’s never been nasty to me,’ Matt pointed out reasonably.

  He stretched his arms above his head, easing out his back and shoulders, one hand locked around the other wrist to pull both arms straight. Anyone else would have goggled at this sheer display of brawn; Matt’s arms, biceps and triceps bulging looked as big as sides of beef. Devon’s fingers couldn’t possibly encircle Matt’s wrist, and she was built on a fairly substantial scale herself.

  ‘Maxie’s tough as old boots,’ Devon said. ‘That’s why she’s done so well for herself. But she isn’t nice.’

  ‘You’ve done well for yourself too, love,’ her husband said, taking a couple of strides across the floor to reach her, wrapping his arms around her. ‘I can’t even come into my own kitchen for a cuppa without finding you talking to someone from a magazine, can I? I’m dead proud of you, you know. I should’ve said that to that lady journalist. I mean, none of the other lads’ve got wives who’ve made something of themselves, you know? Look at you – on TV all the time, front page of the papers when you go to one of your parties!’

  ‘You don’t care about that, really,’ Devon s
aid petulantly and unfairly. ‘You’d rather I was home at night cooking your dinner.’

  ‘I can cook my own dinner,’ Matt said. ‘Well, I can bung some fish fingers in the oven.’ He looked down at her, his blue eyes serious. ‘I’d like you to be home more, there’s no secret about that. I like a quiet life. But I am dead proud of you, Dev. You know I am.’

  He leaned down for a kiss, but only managed to plant one briefly on Devon’s full red lips before she pushed him away. It was a token push; she could no more have shifted Matt physically than she could have uprooted an oak tree. But he pulled back immediately, looking hurt.

  ‘Give us a proper kiss, eh?’ he said.

  ‘Matt . . . there’s people here . . .’ Devon twisted away from him.

  ‘We’re married, Dev!’ Matt pointed out. ‘We can kiss in our own kitchen as much as we want to. That’s probably in the vows somewhere, don’t you remember? Love, honour and snog in your own kitchen . . .’

  But just then the publicist whisked back into the kitchen with a whir of keys as she tapped on her BlackBerry without missing a step.

  ‘That went very well!’ she said happily. ‘God, I wish I could arrange for Matt to come in halfway through every single interview! He melts the women and the gay men – plus the straight men just want to talk to him about sport; it’s the best distraction.’

  ‘Distraction?’ Matt’s brow furrowed. ‘Why’d you need a distraction?’

  ‘Never mind,’ Devon said impatiently. ‘Look, shall I make you a cup of tea or something? Isn’t that what you wanted?’

  Matt looked even more hurt. ‘It can wait,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and check my email or something. See if one of the lads is home by now and wants to play Xbox online.’

  ‘It’s all games with them, isn’t it?’ the publicist said rather patronizingly. ‘Men and their balls!’

  ‘We play quiz shows as well,’ Matt said crossly. ‘General knowledge. We’re not all complete thickos, you know, even if some of us haven’t got a lot of formal education.’