September

This morning I woke up at 7.15, rolled over, stretched, wiggled my freshly pedicured toes and said to myself, ‘Isabella, you’re a lucky girl. Fabulous house, delightful children, wonderful friends, a job you love and lots of thrilling new projects.’ Then I shut my eyes for a further blissful half hour and let myself drift into an incredibly satisfying daydream about my ex-husband, Johnnie, being dumped by his girlfriend, Paige, and having to find a job in a drive-through burger restaurant. The sound of banging on my door and an imperious voice shouting, ‘Mum! Where’s our breakfast?’ jerked me back to reality.

That reality, as the UK’s most beloved mumfluencer, is perhaps not quite that of other working single parents. I live in the principal dwelling in my small Suffolk village, a large and gracious Grade II former rectory set in well-manicured grounds, close to all local amenities and with excellent transport links. My gardener, a taciturn man named Ted Ling, mows and rolls the lawn, rakes the gravel drive, attends to the fruit, veg and flowers and keeps everything looking picture perfect. My housekeeper fills my freezer with organic home-cooked meals for those times I’m just too busy to knock up a quick dish of gnocchi with homemade coriander pesto.

My executive assistant, Sofija, does an amazing job of supporting me and we are both doing our best to put the fact that she had a passionate affair with my ex while he was still very much my current behind us. My playground frenemy, the mildly terrifying Liane Bloomfield, cleans my self-contained holiday rental on the second floor while listening to hair metal music; Sue Parkin, my delightful agency nursery nurse, entertains my youngest child three days a week; and I retain the services of an excellent manicurist. Apart from that, it’s just me, my children and the cat, since my mother and her second husband moved out of the family room and into a rental on the High Street last month. But more of that later.

‘Mum! What are you doing? Elsie and me are starving and Milo’s running about without any pants on. We’re going to be late!’

My daughter Chloë came bursting through the door, her red-gold hair (so like mine) unbrushed and her uniform thrown on any old how. The sight of her mother languishing in bed is a new one to her. I must get out of the habit.

My three eldest children, Finn, Chloë and Elsie, have just gone into Years Nine, Six and Four respectively. My youngest, Milo, will be three in April and at some point will be leaving me to go to nursery at our local primary school, a prospect which makes my eyes fill with tears every time I think of it. I used to scoff at soft-hearted parents who lamented their babies growing up, but with the unexpected arrival of my youngest child, the result of a bout of vigorous unplanned marital activity with my cheating husband (although I wouldn’t be without my little Milo for anything), Isabella M Smugge has become one of their number. Finn is self-sufficient in the mornings, getting himself up, dressed and breakfasted and out of the door in time to catch the school bus. Chloë and Elsie, while more than capable of making toast and pouring out their own chilled organic mango and passionfruit juice (packed with the healthful vitamins so vital for the growing child), got out of the habit in the school holidays.

School started three days ago and I am not yet back in the groove. Last night I stayed up late, snuggled up on the sofa with a half bottle of nicely chilled Pouille-Fumé and a cheesy romantic comedy. I was alone, but that was kind of the point. Johnnie would have pooh-poohed any attempt to watch a romcom and I had no one else to share it with. I rolled into bed shortly after one, and I do need my eight hours if I am to remain in sparkling form.

As you will know, I rose to fame by doing things that others weren’t, namely writing a series of hugely successful books in the Issy Smugge Says series. When I was still living in London, with Sofija bringing up the children and Johnnie very much on side, it seemed that most of the nation hung on my every word. Party planning, room refreshes, how to throw a show-stopping dinner party – there was no end to my wisdom, it seemed. These days, although I still aim for curated perfection (most of the time), Issy Smugge is not nearly as flawless as she once thought she was.

Sighing, I heaved myself out of bed and headed for my gorgeous en suite five-piece bathroom for the very briefest of showers. I am a devoted mother, always putting my children before myself, and as testament to that I omitted to apply my leave-in conditioner, eye cream and Mousse Corporelle Hydratante Intense à la Texture Riche pour Femme in an attempt to save time. The children come first, and who cares if my hair is flyaway, my scalp flaky, my under-eye area crepey and my skin dry and peeling?

Not them, as it quickly became apparent.

‘Honestly, Mum! Elsie burnt the toast and we’ve run out of peanut butter. And stupid Milo wiped his nose on my skirt and now it’s covered with snot!’

Glancing at the clock and slipping on my adorable kitten-heeled clogs (so now!), I pointed out that there was a new jar of peanut butter in the pantry and that it was but the work of a minute to insert four more slices of generously seeded organic granary bread into the toaster. I dabbed at Chloë’s skirt with a moistened cloth, put the book bags by the front door, located Elsie’s missing shoe by the ottoman in the family room and managed to get Milo into his pushchair and all of us out of
the door just in time for school. #busymum #mumoffour #backtoschool

Everyone’s doing podcasts these days. You can’t activate your smart speaker without hearing some chef or actor or stand-up comedian burbling on about their boring hobbies and interests. The key to success is to find a gap in the market. Two Posh Birds was my agent’s original title for the award-winning podcast put out by my mother and myself, later commuted to Smugge Squared. Mummy’s surname isn’t Smugge and I don’t think the maths checks out, but as a title it’s got alliteration on its side and people seem to love it. Mummy and I chat about interiors, bicker about paint colours and window dressing, interview guests, talk over each other and engage in witty mother–daughter banter.

Naturally, not everyone’s a fan. Lavinia Harcourt, my deadly enemy from school, is one such. Most unfortunately, she’s clawed her way up the greasy pole of success, becoming a top journalist (if you can dignify the acidic tosh she spews out every day by that name) and writing one of Britain’s most-read columns.

We’ve loathed each other since we were schoolgirls and she’s never missed an opportunity to skewer me and my dazzling lifestyle in her stupid paper. You’ve got to accept it when you’re at the top of the tree, as I am. Trolls and keyboard warriors are a part of my life, and I’ve had to learn to ignore the cruel words they hurl at me.

Lavinia’s a bit different. She can write – I will give her that. Even though she wastes her time burbling on about the outfits chosen by duchesses, society spats and politics. All of that said, following an exciting evening in a cocktail bar where our mothers got into a drunken fight with each other, we came to some kind of understanding. We’ll never be friends. We still don’t like each other and that’s fine. However, there is now a touch of grudging respect between us.

However, once a journalist, always a journalist, and I appreciate that dishing the dirt (even when it’s largely imaginary) is what sells papers. The podcast award brought out the worst in my old enemy.

The Cliché Queen: Isabella M Smugge Strikes Again
Modern life is full of minor vexations. Poor phone etiquette at the theatre. Sourdough shortages at the farmers’ market. Reality TV. But one can always rely on irritating influencer Issy Smugge to come up with yet more.
Since she and her mother, retired posho interior designer Caroline Neville, barged into the sound booth and seized the wired earphones, unsuspecting listeners have been bombarded with breathless soundbites about curtains, blinds, carpets and furniture from two of the most annoying women in the country.
Do we really need any more so-called experts banging on about window dressing? Who cares about this season’s cushion colours? And why oh why must these entitled bores infest the airwaves with their banal chatter? I say, retire your USB mics and foam windscreens, ladies, and give us all a break.

Mummy was incandescent with rage when she read it.

‘The cheek of the girl! Just wait until I tell her mother!’

Audrey Harcourt, Lavinia’s mother, went to finishing school with Mummy and they have history. As the UK’s premier mumfluencer, I have learned to shrug these irritating pinpricks off. Mummy not so much. #jealous #enemies #backbiting

Early September is manna from heaven for the dedicated influencer, a time of abundant foliage; clear, rain-washed skies; the very beginnings of autumn in the air and the chance to really start thinking seriously about winter coats, boots and accessories. However, even with my unrivalled position as the Influencer’s Influencer (according to weighty glossy Ascendancy Magazinein which I recently featured), more than four million devoted followers on all the platforms, my beautiful Grade II listed house, my healthy and attractive children, my extended family and my remarkable tenacity in the face of difficulties, this new term was filling me with a queasy sense of apprehension.

When I first sashayed onto the school playground four years ago, Sofija walking a respectful five paces behind me, I did not make the best of first impressions. I was incorrectly dressed (no one around here wears designer clothes), my hair was too formal (ponytail or claw clip is the rule), I was wearing a full face of make-up and my attitude was all wrong. Looking down my nose at everyone made me no friends, except for my lovely Claire, married to our startlingly good-looking vicar, Tom.

These days, I have quite a lot of actual friends and I have learned many lessons. One of the most painful ones is that people can’t be trusted. Former playground mum friend Rebecca Bennet now hates me. The second of her five daughters, Charlotte, behaved appallingly at Elsie’s cake-baking birthday party last year. Her mother is one of those parents who refuse to believe that their own children could ever do anything wrong, and blames everyone else’s instead. In spite of my attempts to resolve things in an adult fashion, she and her husband have thrown their lot in with my deadly playground enemies Chris and Hayley Robinson, plus others, and are spreading vile rumours about me. This is awkward as some of our children are in the same school years, and Chloë and Liza Bennet attend the same school of dance. I don’t know what to expect when I walk onto the playground and that’s something I’m not at all happy about.

Still, I am permitting the space between where I currently am and where I would like to be to inspire and not terrify me, as I pointed out on Insta the other day, along with a particularly fabulous picture of a shingle beach with a large seagull standing menacingly on it. Trouble is, it’s all very well sitting on my insanely comfortable fluted Art Deco-style navy blue sofa with its hand-tufted cushions in the most heavenly shade of dusky pink and posting this kind of thing, but walking onto the school playground past the poisonous little gang of parents who appear to live to gossip about Isabella M Smugge is quite another matter.

Rebecca Bennet and her husband, as I mentioned, have produced five daughters. Their eldest two are in Chloë and Elsie’s classes. Hayley and Chris Robinson have a whey-faced son named Lysander (I ask you!) who is also in Year Four with Elsie. With catastrophic timing, they were once again fruitful and multiplied around the same time as me. The month before I had my little Milo, young Cressida entered the world and I will be sharing awkward drop-offs and pick-ups with her parents for the next eight years.

I found I was gripping the handle of Milo’s Petites Roues de Joie bespoke pushchair so hard that my perfectly moisturised knuckles had turned white. Even gazing at its many smart features (Bluetooth speaker, phone charger, drink chiller, localised satnav) couldn’t distract me from the sound of Hayley Robinson whinnying with laughter at a bitchy comment whispered by Rebecca Bennet.

Suddenly, a very different kind of voice was in evidence in my immediate vicinity.

‘Oi, oi! Who have we here? It’s the Influencer’s Influencer! What’s going down, Smug?’

When I first moved to the village, I was afraid of Liane Bloomfield for the following reasons:

1. She had a twenty-yard death stare which could freeze a person in her tracks.
2. Her third son, Zach, and my eldest child, Finn, had a number of violent disagreements which resulted in us both being called up to the school.
3. We had a screaming row (she did most of the screaming, to be fair) at Messy Church over a platter of her sausage rolls which I accidentally insulted. In my defence, I didn’t realise she was right behind me as I was doing said insulting.
4. She presented an alarming appearance with her heavily eyelined and mascaraed eyes (generally narrowed in a menacing manner), spiky blonde hair, black leather jacket and a roll-up behind one enthusiastically pierced ear.

I wouldn’t refer to her as a friend, as such. But equally, she is no longer an enemy and all the evidence points to us quite liking each other most of the time.

Sarcastic laughter drifted over from the Robinsons, the Bennets and a couple of other nasty bits of work who had joined them. Liane looked straight at Hayley Robinson and let out a loud and unexpected bark which made me jump.

‘Got that, you snarky cow? Shut it and stop spreading lies about my fr – Smug here. I know where you live.’

She barked again and tapped two fingers over her nose in the universally recognised sign for, ‘I’m watching you.’

And the reason she knows where my enemy lives? Because she recently moved into a brand-new house on the estate
next to the Robinsons’ abode. To their utter horror. Which
I am afraid to say makes me very happy indeed. #haha #playgrounddrama

Isabella M Smugge is not really a cat person. I’m also not awfully keen on dogs, although my venal agent, Mimi Stanhope, is always on at me to get one.

‘A Cockapoo, sweetie. Or a cute little Labradoodle? So photogenic. Or an adorable French Bulldog (their little faces!) Maybe even one of those precious Cavapoos? Think of all that lovely content. You walking in the woods, laughing and carefree, the children romping with the dog on the lawn, collars, baskets, gourmet dinners for dogs.’

I had many reasons for saying no. First, no animal with ‘poo’ in its name is ever going to live in my house, thank you very much. Also, with four children to keep fed, educated and reasonably happy, I had no more space in my life for another sentient creature. In spite of Mimi’s twitterings about trendy dogs, I happened to know that she owned two Dobermans with diamond collars and regularly manicured claws, so was not the right kind of person to dole out pet advice to those with young children.

Two years ago, I discovered that a feral cat from the farm up the lane had given birth to a litter of kittens in my ex-husband’s beloved sports car, Baby. Following extended pleading from the children, one was adopted into the Smugge family and christened Tabitha. Young Tabitha is affectionate, cuddly and certainly adds something to the ménage at the Old Rectory. However, she is also given to being sick on the carpet from time to time and occasionally doing dirty protests if her Mon précieux petit bébé à fourrure hooded cat loo is not changed exactly to her liking. In spite of all this, Finn maintains that I have become something called a cat simp.

Do I offer Tabitha a range of flavours when presenting her with breakfast and dinner? Why, yes I do. Is there a tiny fork in its own special place to chop up her Un repas gastronomique pour votre bébé à quatre pattes? Of course there is. If I were a cat, I would wish to know if I were going to be dining on guineafowl, pheasant, poussin or turbot. For such are the ingredients in the deliciously posh French fine-dining cat repasts of which I am now the face.

Mimi secured me paid partnerships with a range of exclusive feline-related companies. Naturally, I will never have to pay for anything for Tabitha ever again, for this is the way the commercial world works. If she chose, she could cuddle up in her soft, hand-sewn, lambswool-lined cat basket of a night. However, she prefers to sleep on my bed, in Finn’s wardrobe or under the dining room table. The basket has never been used. Every month, I get a delivery of gourmet cat food pouches and kibble. I do a ‘Collar of the Week’ segment on my socials, and content involving Tabitha gets me loads of new follows, comments, likes and shares.

That’s what it’s all about, according to Mimi. With every passing day, I find myself less sure of this. #catmother #furbaby #catsimp

The work–life balance is a subject I have written on many, many times. That said, looking back, I can see that I was speaking out of my perfectly toned derrière when I said all that stuff. I could only be a top Instamum with a devoted team of staff working hard off camera and executing the tasks I didn’t fancy (cleaning the loos, scrubbing the kitchen, doing the recycling, sourcing nourishment for the family and organising my timetable. Oh, and bringing up my children). These days, while of course I still have staff, I am much more hands on. Mimi has had quite a lot to say of late about the way I run my social media empire, which may be something I need to address.

I have learned so much about life and relationships since I moved to Suffolk, and while it has often been a painful process, I’m very glad that my life has changed as much as it has. The old Isabella M Smugge would no more have encouraged a group of playground mums with hardly a dab of foundation or a squirt of eau de parfum between them to breakfast with her than she would have toted last season’s handbag in public. But a few days into the new school term, still very much in the summer holiday groove and with an excitable toddler to entertain, I found myself entreating my friends to join me at our local café for a catch-up.

‘Go on. I’ve got a big meeting at eleven o’clock and I’m not looking forward to it. And Milo loves hanging out with you all. The rest of the week’s so busy and I won’t get a chance to chill for ages.’

Lauren, Liane and two other playground mum friends, Kate and Maddie, all agreed to join me.

Settled at the big table in the corner, the air filled with the scent of really good coffee and high-quality bacon, I propped Milo up on a couple of cushions and ordered an organic apple juice and some toast and jam for him. Relentlessly sociable by nature, there is nothing he loves more than going out for breakfast with the girls (even if he’s already broken his fast
in the company of his immediate family). Liane was looking grumpy, but she often does in the mornings. Coffee and nutrition ordered, we put our elbows on the table (metaphorically speaking) and chewed over the latest news.

‘Hayley’s dropped the price of her house by another ten grand.’

Lauren smiled with great satisfaction.

‘Crime doesn’t pay, girls. I bet she wishes she’d just given her house a lick of paint and put new worktops in like a normal person instead of selling secrets to that heartless cow of a journalist.’

The cow to whom she was referring was, of course, the black-hearted and golden-haired Lavinia Harcourt, queen of the trashy journos. Having taken a violent dislike to me from the first, and unbeknown to me, Hayley Robinson began feeding Lavinia morsels of gossip about me and my family, for which she was well paid, hence becoming universally loathed by nearly all my friends.

Hayley and her weaselly little husband extended and embellished their abode with their ill-gotten gains. When the new estate was built next door, taking away their views of open countryside and increasing the amount of traffic, they were furious, a fury greatly intensified when Liane moved into a four-bedroomed new-build close by. Ever since then, their house has been on the market, but no one seems to want it. Which is a real shame. #sorrynotsorry

The conversation moved on to my personal life, which had taken a massive hit when my husband cheated on me with my au pair (such a cliché!). Encouraged very strongly by Lauren, I recently commenced a romantic relationship with Robin Knight, a widower who recently moved to the village from Leamington Spa with his parents and two daughters. I revealed that the two of us were planning to go out to dinner.

Lauren was almost bouncing up and down with excitement. In previous centuries and in a different culture, she would have made an excellent matchmaker.

‘You two are such a cute couple. Where are you going?’

This question was one I could not answer. Robin had left the decision to me and I was struggling.

I went out with a couple of boys the summer I left school, but neither of them developed into a serious relationship and we pretty much did nothing except hold hands and snog. Johnnie was my first real boyfriend and when we got married, I assumed (wrongly, as it turned out) that I had waved goodbye to the terrifying world of dating forever.

‘I feel really weird about it. What do I wear? What if we run out of things to talk about? What if he tries to kiss me?’

The conversation descended into everyone except Liane giving me unsolicited advice, which was no help at all. At the end of ten minutes, we were no further forward.

Liane clicked her fingers loudly and caught the waiter’s eye.

‘What do I have to do to get a refill around here? Double shot Americano, and step on it.’

Fortunately, the young man was also her oldest son and presumably used to her complete lack of any filter or social graces (and I say that with the greatest of respect). She turned to look at me.

‘You must be planning Christmas now it’s September, Smug. Bought and wrapped all your pressies? Got the Christmas tree up yet?’

Her tone dripped with sarcasm. Over the course of our relationship, I’ve come to realise that every time she shows the slightest hint of vulnerability, she overcompensates massively. I ignored her snarky tone and smiled charmingly. But on she went.

‘We haven’t all got pots of cash and enough time to faff about buying overpriced rubbish for our kids. Some of us have to work.’

Lauren put a hand on Liane’s arm.

‘Dial it down a bit. What’s got into you?’

Liane pushed back her chair, stood up and extracted a roll-up from behind her ear.

‘Can’t sit around all day wasting time with you losers. Make it to go, mate!’

There was an uncomfortable silence. Clutching her takeaway cup, my frenemy paid, exited and stalked off down the High Street.

‘What’s the matter with her? Are you all right, Issy?’

Kate was looking concerned. I’ve been in the village long enough to understand at least some of the complex dynamics that go on round here.

‘She nearly called me her friend when she was standing up for me against the Robinsons and the Bennets on the playground this morning. She’s overcompensating. I’m fine.’

‘Whoah. That’s big stuff. Expect extreme rudeness for at least a week.’

It was a measure of how much I’ve changed that I found that I was looking forward to it.

Issy Smugge says #challengeaccepted

A dinner date with an actual man demands that a girl looks her very best. I selected a tailored pencil skirt in a heavenly emerald green, ivory satin scoop-neck blouse and a broad belt cinching in my waist, kitten heels, a ten-denier sheer tight, natural make-up with a triple sweep of mascara, a spritz of perfume, a pair of colourful drop earrings and a statement ring. Downstairs, I shrugged myself into my belted trench (and let me tell you, this style of coat will take you anywhere), dropped a kiss on Finn’s reluctant head and said goodbye to Mummy and Harry, who were babysitting.

We’d agreed to drive to the pub separately, which gave me time to collect my thoughts and ponder an extremely important matter, namely what I was going to eat. My last first date was with Johnnie. I hope you won’t judge me when I tell you that we spent most of it in bed and it lasted for four days. We were very young and passionately in love, and back then I didn’t care about eating embarrassing foods in front of my boyfriend. This situation is entirely different. Having scanned the menu at the pub, I assessed the options.

1. Homemade soup of the day with freshly baked bread and butter. (Bit dull, and also how does one wield a spoon full of liquid while indulging in lively and interesting conversation?)
2. Spaghetti marinara. (Absolutely not. Finely chopped herbs which have a tendency to stick in the teeth and long strands of pasta which, if not expertly handled, slap the diner around the chops leaving splashes of tomato-based sauce.)
3. Sausage and mashed potato in a giant Yorkshire pudding with onion gravy and veg. (Maybe. But what does it say about a woman that she wants to tuck into bangers and mash on a first date? Lots of carbs and protein. It’s not really my look.)
4. Line-caught cod in a beer batter with triple-cooked chips. (I mean, maybe. It is at least local and sustainable, although should anyone be eating cod any more? Also there is the danger of plunging one’s fork into the batter and spraying self and companion with tiny orange particles. And fried food makes me burp.)
5. Jacket potato with a range of fillings. (No! So boring and predictable. And if the skin is tough, it gets caught between the teeth. A terrible look.)
6. Dirty burger with sweet potato fries. (A hard no for so many reasons.)
7. Mussels steamed in white wine, garlic, shallots, parsley and cream served with sourdough. (Undeniably delicious, but how does one manage all those little shells without getting shallots under one’s freshly manicured nails and sauce down one’s front?)
8. Duck breast with a blackberry sauce, fondant potatoes, steamed kale and petit pois. (Honestly, about the only thing I can countenance. I suppose I can always go to the loo between courses for emergency dental maintenance.)

I arrived to find Robin hovering nervously by the reception desk. I went in for a double cheek kiss and he stuck his hand out, resulting in a last-minute manoeuvre that resulted in neither. Cringe.

Once he’d hung up our coats and we’d been shown to our table, a conversational hand grenade lobbed by the waitress reduced my careful planning to dust and ashes.

‘We’ve just sold out of the duck breast, but special of the day is three greens orecchiette with homemade pesto. Soup of the day is French onion.’

Show me a person who orders French onion soup on a first date and I will show you a self-sabotaging lunatic. I made a lightning decision.

‘That sounds delicious. I’ll go for the orecchiette please.’

My thinking being that the pasta shape was easy to handle and that peas, broccoli and spinach with pesto could be managed by a judicious fork and spoon combo. Robin scanned the menu and chose fish and chips. I ordered a rhubarb and blood orange pressé over ice and he requested a pint of the local alcohol-free beer.

There was an uncomfortable silence then we both spoke at once. There was a flurry of ‘No, no after yous’ and ‘Please, I insists’ before I kicked things off.

‘How are the girls doing at high school?’

We spoke about this in a desultory fashion while nibbling on the complimentary olives and nuts (very flavourful and not particularly challenging to eat). Then we switched briefly to the weather (‘We might get an Indian summer.’ ‘I do hope so, such a lovely time of year.’) and discussed the differences between Warwickshire and Suffolk at some length. There are many, as it turns out, none worth mentioning at this point.

Anyone observing us might have had us down as a married couple out on date night (we were both wearing our wedding rings and engaging in the dullest conversation possible). However, upon closer inspection, it would have been reasonable to change that view to a would-be adulterous couple (please see earlier comment about wedding rings) just circling around each other before taking that first step down the slippery slope.

I realised, as I cast about for conversational topics, that I don’t really know him that well. Yes, we see each other across the pews most weeks at church, and yes, he is part of my homegroup, but this kind of one-to-one interaction was new to both of us.

Isabella M Smugge is adept at taking control of awkward situations, so as Robin consumed another handful of mixed nuts, I took the plunge.

‘How did you meet your wife?’

He did one of those mini-chokes caused by the rapid inhalation of nut skins (I suspected it was the Brazils) and took a couple of sips of iced water.

‘Gosh. Well. It wasn’t what you might expect, actually.’

I waited for the usual boring tale of their eyes meeting in a crowded prayer meeting, attending some kind of holy retreat or being introduced by devout chums. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

He let out an embarrassed chuckle.

‘I was a bit of a bad boy back in the day. It’s quite a story.’

Our main courses arrived and I plunged my fork into the steaming mound of orecchiette.

‘I’m all ears.’

The next day on the playground, I was mobbed. Opinions of Robin rose dramatically as I recounted the tale of our first date.

‘No! He doesn’t look the type! She must have been something special to make him change his ways. Sorry, Issy, didn’t mean that rudely.’

I waved away Maddie’s implication and continued.

‘So he was the village bad boy, his parents were at their wits’ end and kept comparing him to his older brother, who was Mr Perfect from the sound of it. He was really honest once I told him I didn’t mind and I wanted to know all about him. Apparently, he had loads of flings and one-night stands, chased girls and then lost interest when they gave in, smashed up the public toilets with his mates, smoked and drank all the time and dropped out of college.’

‘I don’t believe it! He looks so respectable.’

Maddie looked like a woman who has lost a fiver and found a bar of gold bullion. So it’s not just me who likes a bad boy.

‘I know. One of his mates told him there were loads of fit girls at the youth group. He went along to check them out and spotted a girl he liked the look of. He did the usual – chatted her up, offered her a cigarette round the back of the hall and so on – but she wasn’t having any of it. He started going to the group, playing pool and hanging out with everyone who went. His mates dropped him eventually when he stopped smoking weed and shoplifting. He started going to church, went on a course of some kind and then signed up for religion. His parents were delighted! They started going too when he got married, and they just loved his wife. When she died, they said there was no God and that they’d never darken a church door again.’

Once Robin had shared this unexpected backstory on our date, it had felt quite natural to talk about my own shame around stealing my sister’s boyfriend. On the face of it, conversing at great length about one’s husband (divorced) and one’s wife (dead) on a first date seemed odd. But strangely, I felt a frisson of excitement which I had never expected to experience again. A bad boy with a leather jacket and a motorbike who smashed up toilets and ingested vast quantities of the devil’s lettuce had morphed into a respectable middle-aged property expert with a multi-generational household and an index-linked pension. (OK, that last one was a guess.) Was there still a scintilla of wildness under the dad bod and dull shirts? It seemed highly likely.

My friends asked the obvious question.

‘Another date?’

#obvs #nobrainer

Back at the Old Rectory, I began doing some research for my new series on sustainable interior design ahead of my call with Mimi. Isabella M Smugge never stands still (part of the reason for my lithe figure and excellent joint health), and one of the many reasons that I am still one of the UK’s most beloved influencers is that I will not allow myself to get into a rut. I was spotted by Mimi when I was a mother of one and had only ever done a quick, relatively amateur zhuzh of our London flat. I suppose having an internationally renowned interior designer as a mother had something to do with it. It’s in the genes.

Mummy and her best friend, Arabella Pryke-Darby, ran Carobella, their design agency, together until their friendship and partnership came to an end when Arabella’s affair with Daddy was discovered. Mummy kicked him out and the pair of them died in a road accident in Italy. My early life was marked by trauma and tragedy. I can see that now. Once upon a time, I would have brushed it aside, but I have to admit that growing up with parents who were constantly fighting, being sent away to boarding school at seven, trying to navigate Mummy and Daddy’s separation and then losing Daddy at the age of eleven must have had some kind of effect on me.

In any case, I came to consciousness in an atmosphere which was full of swags, pelmets, hand-made silk cushion covers, lamps and beautifully upholstered chairs. Mummy is the daughter of a viscount and I suppose when you grow up in a Grade I listed mansion with parkland and grounds running to nearly eight hundred acres and landscaped by Capability Brown, a ha-ha, an orangery built in the reign of William and Mary and estate cottages dotted across the landscape, you gain a natural understanding of how to hang pictures, drape curtains and arrange furniture. Although, of course, there were staff to do all that.

Mummy was born the Honourable Caroline de Courcy, married my father and became plain Caroline Neville (although she still used her honorific when she wanted to pull rank). These days, she’s Mrs Caroline Cottingham and I haven’t heard her use her honorary title since she said ‘I do’ on a beautiful autumn day last October. I don’t make a big thing of her aristocratic lineage, and to be fair, these days neither does she.

‘Viscounts are the bottom of the heap, darling!’ she used to say, lighting a fresh cigarette and refreshing her gin and tonic. ‘Royal dukes first, then ordinary ones, then marquesses and viscounts. The only thing lower than that is a baron or a baronet. Can you imagine? So frightfully common!’

Johnnie used to do impressions of her after she went home. They never got on. Strangely enough, his girlfriend, Paige, has a mother who also dislikes him intensely. Had Sofija’s mother ever met him (unlikely, since she lives in Riga), she would undoubtedly not have taken to him. Funny how you start to see patterns in retrospect.

I set my laptop up on the kitchen island, ready to speak to my agent. I fired up the coffee machine and made myself a flat white with an extra shot. One needs to be heavily caffeinated when going head to head with a force of nature like Mimi Stanhope. I had dressed nearly as carefully to chat to her as I had on my date with Robin. Which is weird.

Her face, with its vulpine eyes, pencilled eyebrows and scarlet lipstick bleeding into the lines around her lips (Mimi smokes somewhere between forty and sixty cigarettes a day), sprang onto the screen.

‘Darling! How is my absolutely favourite client? You’re looking simply marvellous!’

She wasn’t wrong. Bang on trend as always, I was wearing a delightful boho blouse in a fabulously flattering shade of olive green teamed with a pair of chocolate brown houndstooth trousers. I’d kicked off my kitten-heeled clogs (not terribly comfy and I won’t be wearing them on the school run again) and had plunged my feet into the welcoming depths of my open-back textured metallic slippers. They were last year’s look, but even Mimi can’t see through my screen and down to my feet. At least I don’t think she can. She does have several rather unsettling super powers, including eyes in the back of her head (almost not a joke after all the plastic surgery) and an ability to deduce one’s secret thoughts.

I smiled in what I hope was a natural way and complimented her on her appearance.

‘You’re looking very – fresh, Mimi.’

The wrinkles around her eyes had disappeared and she had an unnaturally wide-awake look which I suspected had nothing to do with the ingestion of coffee.

‘I’ve just come back from a couple of days in the most marvellous little clinic in Vaduz, sweetie. My surgeon has been very difficult of late and, would you believe, he absolutely refused to do the most basic of little eye lifts for Mimi. I fired him on the spot and flew off to Vaduz for some work. I had my elbows seen to while I was there.’

I had only the haziest notion of where Vaduz was (in the middle of Europe somewhere? I must look it up), but I knew that this was merely the small talk before my agent launched into a barrage of suggestions and critique. She lit up a cigarette, took a swig from her small silver flask and we were off.

‘Some lovely posts over the summer, darling. I see you haven’t taken my advice about including more adorable snaps of the tots in your content. Still got those ridiculous notions about privacy, I suppose? Well done on the nomination for your podcast. That’ll get us some publicity. Now. Christmas. We have to talk about it. I can almost hear the chink of funds being transferred into your account and new followers signing up.’

She appeared to be drooling slightly, although that could be the result of repeated rearrangement of her facial skin and soft tissue. I have known for some time that Mimi is driven by money and power and the more I think about it, the less it aligns with my values. But there is no stopping her once she starts.

‘Gorgeous fireside shots of the little ones ripping open aspirational presents on Christmas morning! Matching stockings suspended from the mantelpiece! Perfectly dressed Christmas trees! Beautifully set tables! Candlelight! Crystal glasses! The family gathered round the table enjoying a Yuletide repast together! No one does it like you, sweetheart, and that’s why I love you.’

I took advantage of the pause afforded by her going into a coughing fit to reply.

‘I don’t know who’s going to come for Christmas this year. My sister and her family are having to go and spend it with her mother-in-law. She lost her husband last year, you know, and she wants to host.’

Mimi frowned.

‘That’s a shame. She didn’t add much to your Christmas table, but the little Asian girl certainly upped the diversity quotient. As did the skinny one with the lovely bone structure. Have you got any other adopted relatives up your sleeve?’

She had gone too far. One of my nieces is of Chinese heritage and the other is struggling with an eating disorder. I won’t have my agent using them as some kind of marketing tool.

‘That makes me really uncomfortable, Mimi. Please never say anything like that to me again.’

A look I had never seen before crossed Mimi’s face. I’ve always known that she is a person one disagrees with at one’s peril, and that London is littered with the battered corpses of those who went up against her and lost (I always thought that was a just a metaphor, but as she bored into my very soul with her narrowed eyes, I was beginning to wonder).

The look lasted only a couple of seconds and then she rearranged her face into a wide and entirely artificial smile.

‘Darling! Forgive Mimi. She just wants the very best for you and your brand! Now, tell me what look you’ve chosen for this year’s celebration chez Smugge?’

Naturally, I had spent a good part of August poring over mood boards and style sheets before making my decision. I had toyed with the idea of Cheerful Maximalism, Luxe Moody and Metallic Glamour, before plumping for a Natural Christmas look, with the focus on bringing the outside in. Last year, I decorated to a Royal Fairytale colour palette, choosing classic fir Christmas trees hung about with jewel-coloured decorations, swathing my banisters, windowsills and mantelpieces with spruce, pine and gold fairy lights and hanging fairytale green glitter wreaths on the exterior doors. It had been a triumph and my followers had loved it.

This year, having a recently potty-trained toddler rampaging around the house helped me with my decorating decisions. I intended to create snow scenes on all my mantelpieces (high-quality organic cotton wool dusted with sustainable silver glitter with pine cones, wooden Father Christmas figures and tiny hand-crafted Christmas trees. Even Milo can’t reach up that high). I’m leaving off the fairy lights on the banisters and windowsills as he’ll have those down before you can say ‘vintage-inspired wreath’. However, I will be hanging traditional red and green baubles on my locally sourced non-drop blue spruces, sourcing vintage ornaments, using dried oranges, twigs and pine cones in my table centrepieces and styling the whole look with wooden stars, felted ornaments and plenty of greenery. I may even find some lovely seagrass baskets which I’ll pile high with wrapped presents and put under the main tree (once Milo is safely tucked up in bed, that is). Gingerbread houses are an absolute no-no after last year’s Boxing Day disaster. The less said about that, the better.

‘Marvellous, sweetie, simply marvellous! I can almost see it now! Let me know when you’ve got a confirmed guest list. I suppose your mother and her new husband will be there?’

I confirmed that they would. Only a few years ago, the very notion of spending the festive season with my mother would have sent me hotfooting it to my wine merchant to stock up on red wine and port (several glasses, judicially applied, puts her to sleep after a heavy meal), but now I was actually looking forward to spending some quality time with her.

‘Now, one thing more, then Mimi will leave you to write some more of your lovely little blogs and aspirational posts. I’ve got a wonderful new paid partnership for you, darling. As we girls head into the forties, we need to keep an eye on our skin, don’t we? You’re already the face of that gorgeous little vegan brand, but who doesn’t love a new product? This is right up your boulevard. D’Aesculapian Deeply Moisturising Serum for Her. One hundred per cent natural, all sourced from an impoverished little European country that really needs the money, to be honest. Relatively low airmiles, absolutely charming packaging. Metallic bottles in amber and ochre. So now! There’s a daytime and night-time range, suits all skin types, reassuringly pricey. Can I sign it off? All the due diligence is done and dusted, of course.’

Maybe it was that look of rage that flashed into Mimi’s eyes when I told her off. Or perhaps the red flags I’d been determinedly ignoring for the last year or so. More likely, it was the fact that I’ve been going to church quite a lot and chatting with the good Lord (who, I have to say, is a lot more approachable than I had previously thought). What would Claire do? I shot up a rapid communication to the heavens where I understand He dwells.

‘Good morning. Issy Smugge here. Just a quick one – should I say yes to Mimi? Something feels off. Kindest regards.’

You have to believe me that, quick as a flash, the phrase ‘Wait and see’ flashed into my mind. I have got much better about seeking and taking advice over the past few years.

‘Let me have a think, Mimi. There’s no rush, is there?’

Again, the very faintest flicker in her hooded eyes, like a watchful cobra waiting to attack. Then it disappeared.

‘Sweetheart, take your time! It’s entirely your choice. Love you, missing you already. Mwah!’

And with a wracking cough which seemed to reach down into the depths of her much-abused lungs, she was gone. Phew.

It took a week for Liane Bloomfield to start acting normally around me. And even then, she was snappier than usual. But I’d rather be snapped at than slowly strangled by the alluring coils of an ageless boa constrictor who gets a fat percentage of everything I earn.

Mummy and Harry have confirmed they will be with us for Christmas and New Year! Hooray! I wonder if I can lure Amanda and Davina, two of my sisters-in-law, to the Old Rectory to celebrate the Yuletide season with me. I expect Rafe and Xenia (Johnnie’s youngest brother and his exotic Russian wife) will be on the family yacht as usual. I hope they’re OK. We haven’t spoken for ages.

Surely I’ve got enough serums in my life. I wonder why Mimi is so keen that I take this one on?

Look at my photos on the ’gram and you’ll see beautifully lit interiors, gorgeous outfits, outdoor shots and the odd funny pic of an overcooked red velvet cupcake or a messy bedroom (I need to keep it real). My actual life at home, however, has just as many unexpected moments as those of normal people. Let me give you an example.

I was just nodding off to sleep the other night when I heard a strange noise outside my bedroom door. Tabitha was yowling, interspersed with an odd crunching sound. After a few minutes, I got up to investigate. To my horror, she had brought in a small, recently deceased mammal and was enthusiastically consuming it on my lovely carpet. That evening, I had fed her a particularly delicious evening meal, composed largely of grouse, and yet here she was, eating what appeared to be a dead mouse on my landing.

I went back to bed. It seemed discourteous to interrupt.

The next morning, I awoke and made the mistake of walking out of my bedroom barefoot. Suddenly, I felt something cold and repellently squishy between my toes. I screamed, bringing Finn and Chloë sleepily out of their bedrooms.

I explained.

‘She’s just showing love, Mum. Like, we’re part of her pack.’

My son seemed unfazed by the squelchy mess, but then he wasn’t going to be clearing it up. My daughter was horrified.

‘Mum! Ewww! That is so disgusting! Where’s the rest of it?’

It was a good question, answered just after breakfast when Tabitha quietly expelled the unwanted elements of her midnight snack on to my lovely clean kitchen floor.

On the playground, I consulted Lauren.

‘Gall bladder, babes. Cats don’t like them because they taste bitter. Like mouse haggis. They eat most of the animal and they love crunching up the bones. One of those things.’

Every day’s a school day, but sometimes I wish it wasn’t.

Note to self. When is it the right time to take off your wedding ring? Johnnie and I are divorced. Robin lost his wife and I am only the third woman he has been on a date with since then. But he is still wearing his. I honestly don’t know who to ask.

My head resting upon my delightful Plump No More pillows (lavender-infused and self-plumping) and my recently exfoliated and deeply moisturised limbs nestling into my five hundred-thread count crisp white Egyptian cotton sheets, my racing mind began to calm. I filled it with an attitude of gratitude, as Tom suggested we do in a recent sermon.

Things I have to be grateful for

1. I have got real friends who, in spite of the fact that I am a ludicrously wealthy public figure with an aristocratic bloodline, appear to like me for myself and want to spend time with me.
2. I don’t have to worry about money, as so many people do.
3. I have developed quite a lot of self-knowledge since moving to Suffolk and this is making me a nicer, more compassionate person.
4. Mummy no longer puts me down every time she speaks to me.
5. Also, I don’t have to worry about second-hand smoke any more as she has finally kicked the habit, in spite of her awful stepdaughter Karen trying to get her back on the evil weed.
6. None of the children are in trouble at school/infested with nits/wetting the bed/having major friendship issues at present (I’m aware this could change at any minute).
7. I live in a lovely house full of lovely things and I feel really good about sharing them with family and friends.
8. I am on excellent terms with my ex-husband’s new partner and mother of his fifth, accidentally conceived child, which is all terribly modern and impressive.
9. I enjoy my work and have got lots of choices, which I am aware is a blessing.
10. Thanks to my genes, I have naturally radiant skin with only an occasional tendency to oiliness around the nose, which is easily dealt with by a jolly good exfoliate.
11.

I must have nodded off at this point as when I awoke, it was apparent that there was no eleventh point. Or if there was, I didn’t have time to think about it as it was 7.15 and more than time that I was up and at it. I selected my outfit of the day (an artfully draped midi dress in light blue, a funky ankle boot with block heel, cosy vegan-friendly tights, chunky silver layered necklace and a pair of fabulous silver polished drop earrings), jumped into the shower, towelled myself dry and applied a light spritz of perfume. By 7.35 I was downstairs, making coffee, retrieving scattered book bags, helping Milo with his second wee of the day on the toilet (‘Good boy!’) and making sure that Finn had everything before he headed off to catch the school bus.

Am I bossing it or what? Bring it on, autumn! Issy Smugge is ready for you. #busymum #OOTD #singlemumgoals #autumnvibes