September

This morning I woke at 6.50 after a night of blissful, uninterrupted sleep, flexed and pointed each foot ten times (maintaining flexibility and mobility is so important as one heads into one’s forties), stretched, yawned and said to myself, ‘Isabella, you’re a lucky girl. You’ve got four beautiful children, this lovely house, quite a lot of real friends and a wonderful career.’

I luxuriated in the gentle autumn breeze caressing me through the open window, allowed myself to relax into my ludicrously comfortable king-sized, beech-framed bed with its hand-tied hourglass springs and enjoyed the silence. My youngest child, Milo, was not requesting company or refreshment via the baby monitor and my three older ones, Finn, Chloë and Elsie, were presumably wrapped in peaceful slumbers themselves. The other occupant of my gracious Grade II listed Georgian house, my mother, had just returned from a spa weekend with a clutch of sixty-something ladies, preparing herself for her forthcoming wedding.

I can’t quite believe that it was three years ago that we moved from London to the country. It was early August when my husband Johnnie, the children and our Latvian au pair Sofija made the trek from our double-fronted Victorian home in West Brompton to this former rectory in a Suffolk village.

Back then, I had romantic dreams of living out our lives in rural bliss, growing old together (while remaining supple and attractive) and launching our children on to rich and satisfying careers and well-balanced personal lives. On the advice of my terrifying agent, Mimi Stanhope, I had eschewed the lure of private school for the little Smugges and enrolled them at the village primary, fondly believing that it would be good for my brand and would win me a whole new horde of followers. I remember walking on to the playground in my carefully curated on-trend outfit with Sofija trotting along behind me and realising that I had seriously misjudged the situation. In London, people expected me to be living my best life, to wear a different outfit every day and to be well groomed at all times. In Suffolk, not so much.

Taking some deep, cleansing breaths, I mused on the last three years. True, I had made two enemies, one of whom, the forthright Liane Bloomfield, had transitioned to a frenemy; the other, fellow playground mother Hayley Robinson, remaining very much anti-Smugge. But I could count the startlingly good-looking vicar, Tom, and his wife, Claire, as real friends, as well as my lovely fellow parent Lauren and a whole bunch of other school mums. I had mended my fractured relationship with my sister, Suze.

In other family related news, my mother had had a stroke, come to live with me and, as a result, interactions had become infinitely more friendly.

All this aside, I have been a single parent for nearly three years. Ever since Johnnie broke my heart by having an affair with Sofija, Isabella M Smugge has been the sole occupant of her beautifully dressed former marital bed. A brief and ill-advised bout of make-up sex with my husband led to the accidental conception of my fourth child (not that I’d be without him), and thus, in spite of a number of attempts on Johnnie’s part to woo me back, I am alone.

I’d be lying if I said I never got lonely or yearned for someone to cuddle at night. All my friends, my mother and my sister have told me, categorically, never to take my cheating husband back, and so far I have been strong. His incredibly handsome chiselled features, piercing sapphire eyes, top-level grooming regime and personal charm are hard to resist, however. I fell so passionately in love with him all those years ago and it’s been tough to stay focused.

Sleepily doing my Kegel exercises (as a woman passes into the dreaded Middle Years, it is ever more important to maintain really good pelvic floor health), I listened to the sound of soft breathing in my ear and felt the warm weight of a sleeping body next to mine. Is it so wrong to crave some company? I spend so much time writing about my life and sharing inspirational content with my followers across the socials, and while I have watched my brand grow ever more relatable as I navigate life without Johnnie at my side, still I yearn to be with someone, to be adored, to come first for a change.

I felt the tickle of whiskers on my cheek and the rasp of a tongue against my ear. The smell of fish was strong on my companion’s breath, which was strange as the family had enjoyed an Ottolenghi Puy lentil and aubergine stew for supper last night. I rolled over and planted a kiss on my bed-mate’s furry little head. She began meowing and bumping her head against mine, a sure sign that it was breakfast time. I swung my legs out of bed, did a couple of roll downs, pulled on my floral, lace-trimmed, stretch-woven dressing gown and super-comfy open-back textured metallic slippers and descended to the ground floor with the cat trotting eagerly at my heels. #catowner #breakfast #bedsharing

As one of the UK’s most beloved lifestyle influencers and the woman that Gorgeous Home magazine once called ‘Britain’s Most Relatable Mum Designer’, I need to stay at least three steps ahead of all the competition. Every week of late, it seems, a new, young and perky would-be competitor pops up on the ’gram or TikTok. I am trying not to mind. Yes, I did invent lifestyle blogging as a valid career, and it’s true that I have a devoted following, all of whom hang on to Issy Smugge’s every carefully curated word. However, the road to oblivion is paved with bad decisions and unwise outbursts on Twitter (or whatever it’s calling itself these days) and I cannot afford to rest on my sustainably grown laurels for a minute.

With only the cat for company, I enjoyed my first double-strength cappuccino of the day in peace. Walking across the Indian sandstone kitchen floor, I took a deep breath and tried to ground myself in the now. I am constantly racing ahead to the next achievement, the next product placement, the next glittering prize, and if three years in Suffolk have taught me anything (and they have), it is that life is precious. My dear friend Claire was at death’s door when she had her fourth child, Ben, the year I arrived in the village, and the shock of nearly losing her, plus the trauma of Mummy’s stroke the August before last, really made me think about what I value in life.

Sunlight was streaming through my sparklingly clean windows as I walked outside and sank on to the reproduction Edwardian garden love seat by the pond. Birds were singing melodiously, the sun was warm on my freshly exfoliated face and a gentle breeze was whispering in the branches of the birch tree. I had left my phone in the kitchen deliberately, although this was an excellent opportunity to take a few of my justly famed images to post across the socials with a handful of appropriate hashtags. As my life continues to depart from the plan Johnnie and I laid out for it when we first met, I’m finding that I’m less keen to show off. Coming from the UK’s premier Instamum, that may sound baffling. But as I try to be a better parent, friend and daughter, and continue to dip my toe into church life, I’m changing.

Facing up to the trauma of being sent away to boarding school at seven, the long-buried pain of losing my father and my godmother in an accident abroad at the age of twelve, and the realisation that I have been in a relationship with a coercively controlling (albeit dazzlingly handsome and charming) man for most of my adult life has taken its toll. I used to think my life was perfect and I certainly gave that impression on my social media. These days, I’m far more likely to post a funny story about a broken nail or a wonky cupcake or a parenting fail than to pump out wall-to-wall images of my carefully curated life. Yes, I still have standards, and yes, millions of devoted followers look to me daily for advice on the correct paint colours or how to tablescape really well. But I’m letting my slip show a lot more, and that’s something I never thought I’d hear myself say. #authenticity #realme

My mother is getting married next month, and having hosted my friend Kate’s nuptials in the summer, I am very much in the zone. The Old Rectory is mood board central at present! I will shortly be acquiring a stepfather, two stepbrothers and a stepsister, and while three out of four of them are pro-me, the fourth is certainly not. Harry Cottingham, my mother’s fiancé, has three children by his late wife, and the youngest, Karen, is not a fan of any of us.

At the Grand Meeting of the Families in August, Mark and Karl, their wives and children all made a huge effort to be friendly and welcoming. Karen, however, is quite another matter. She scowled pretty much throughout the entire meal, sat next to her father and sighed loudly every time he spoke to Mummy or held her hand. The man is seventy, for heaven’s sake, and he’s been a lonely widower for several years.

I admit, I struggled when I first met him. Seeing my mother giggling and playing footsie under the table raked up all kinds of painful feelings. I loved my father very much and I never got to say goodbye to him or have him walk me down the aisle,  nor did he meet his grandchildren. The pain of that, I suspect, will never really go away. However, in my constant attempt to become a better person (albeit it via several screaming rows with Mummy), I have now accepted Harry and he is a lovely man.

Harry’s had a significant effect on my mother’s general health. Not only does she smile far more regularly these days, but also, after many years of fruitless nagging from me and Suze, she finally gave up her cigarette habit. It seems that Harry’s wife was a heavy smoker and died from pneumonia, having had a lung complaint for years. Give Mummy her due, once she decides to do something, she sticks to it, and although she often admits that she misses the joy of sucking a cocktail of addictive and toxic substances into her lungs, she has not yet fallen off the wagon. Which makes her a much more pleasant housemate. Karen, on the other hand, is an enthusiastic consumer of the evil weed and is trying to lure Mummy back into her old habits.

In addition, I came face to face with my arch nemesis, the muck-raking gossip columnist Lavinia Harcourt at our school reunion. Things got a little out of hand, but after a stern talking-to from our former headmistress and a promise from both of us never to engage in fisticuffs in the sacred precincts of St Dymphna’s ever again, we agreed to meet on neutral ground to talk about our considerable differences. But more of that later.

And as if my life as a single parent of four and internationally renowned lifestyle blogger and mumfluencer wasn’t complex enough, my husband has started going out with a twenty-four-year-old work colleague called Paige (I ask you!), got himself a tattoo and inadvertently started a new family. Young Paige is now two months pregnant and suffering from rampant heartburn plus sickness which refuses to confine itself to the mornings but continues for most of the day. I know this, and quite a lot more besides, since he is a chronic over-sharer.

From the top, then, my to-do list looks like this:

1. Prepare nutritionally balanced breakfast every day for four children who all like different things.
2. Ensure three of said children have everything they need for a full day of education while thinking about potty training for the fourth (is he too young? I must consult Claire).
3. Help Mummy to pull off a stunning, on-trend wedding celebration.
4. Reach out to Karen.
5. Make Karen like me.
6. Make Karen like Mummy.
7. Meet Paige.
8. Introduce Paige to children.
9. Deal with inevitable fallout of introducing Paige to children.
10. Manage not to give Lavinia Harcourt a smack when we meet at a chi chi cocktail bar in town.

And that’s before the everyday grind of school runs, homework, after-school clubs and what are laughingly called enrichment activities! Do I need any more in my life? I think not! #busymum #newterm #blendedfamily

I can’t quite believe that I have children going into Years Eight, Five and Three. It seems like yesterday that I was dropping my little Finn off at nursery on the first day and crying all the way home. I’m looking forward to getting back into the school routine, if I’m honest. Trying to juggle work and children is no joke. I don’t know how people without staff and plenty of disposable income do it.

I was taking the jug of mango, pineapple and passionfruit juice out of the fridge (packed full of vitamins, so good for the growing child) and putting out my navy-blue crackle glaze breakfast set when Finn appeared. He’s inherited his father’s dark hair and blue eyes but, as yet, none of his less attractive qualities.

‘Morning, Mum. Fancy some toast?’

He poured himself a glass of juice and put two slices of organic granary bread in the toaster.

‘Go on, then. I think we’ve got some of Wendy’s blackcurrant jam in the fridge.’

When we bought the Old Rectory, we inherited the gardener, Ted Ling, as well as a Victorian greenhouse and a thriving vegetable garden. The Smugge larder is kept well stocked with fresh tomatoes, salad greens, courgettes, cucumbers, beans (French, runner and borlotti), radishes, sweetcorn and pumpkins, and most of the contents of the fruit cage go straight to Wendy and Sue, the jam makers at church, who turn it into jars of the most delicious preserves.

I sat next to my boy at the island as we munched on our toast and jam.

‘So, are you OK about today, darling?’ I enquired, taking a sip of my second single origin cappuccino of the day.

‘Yeah. It’s all good, Mum. Don’t worry.’ Finn glanced at the clock. ‘I’d better go. I’m meeting Jake and Zach at the bus stop.’

I leaned over and kissed him. ‘Have you got everything? Pencil case? Geometry set? Lunch?’

‘I had it last night when you asked me and nothing’s changed since then. See you!’

Slinging his rucksack over his shoulder, he walked out of the front door and slammed it before I could set up the traditional back-to-school shot. I’ll have to do it when he gets home and put a filter on it so it looks like early morning. What kind of multi-award-winning influencer forgets to take a picture of her own son on his first day of school? I’m off my game.

I could hear the tap of Mummy’s stick on the stairs, Milo’s voice on the baby monitor and Elsie calling from upstairs. As I was stirring Mummy and Milo’s porridge, whizzing up a fruit smoothie for Chloë, putting two more slices of bread in the toaster and getting out a jar of organic Ricca Crema Spalmabile al Cioccolato, Arancia e Nocciole chocolate spread (Italian, rich, indulgent and one of my new paid partnerships), Mummy appeared.

‘Good morning, darling. Has Finn gone already? I wanted to wish him good luck for his first day. Milo’s shouting for you. I think he’s done something in his pants. There’s the most frightful smell drifting down the landing.’

My eye darted involuntarily to the chocolate spread with which Elsie is obsessed. Another day of parenting was upon me and I honestly didn’t know if I was ready for it.

Walking onto the playground with Chloë stalking ahead and my little Elsie clutching my hand, I spotted Lauren with her three girls.

‘Hi, babes! Nice shoes.’

I realised, to my horror, that I was still wearing my super-comfy open-back textured metallic slippers. I’d meant to change them before we left, but in all the flurry of trying to find Elsie’s bookbag and realising that the kitchen clock was five minutes slow and that we were therefore in danger of being late on the first day back, it had completely slipped my mind.

‘Yes,’ I lied, thinking quickly. ‘All the rage this season. Ideal for autumn/winter transitioning and so comfortable.’

‘They look a bit like slippers to me, but what do I know about fashion? Are yours all excited about coming back to school?’

‘I wouldn’t say excited exactly. Finn was OK this morning, but I never get much out of him. How about the girls?’

She sighed. ‘Crystal couldn’t sleep last night for worrying. She doesn’t do well with change. She settled great last year but now she’s gone up into the next class, she’s got herself in a right state. I’m half expecting a call from Mrs Hill before I get home.’

Mrs Hill is the friendly and efficient powerhouse who runs the school in conjunction with our head teacher, Mrs Tennant. I never used to worry about anything to do with lunch payments, school trips or forms when Sofija ran the show at the Old Rectory, but these days, with only a housekeeper, gardener, part-time nursery nurse and manicurist on the staff, I have to be a lot more hands-on.

The playground was filling up with parents holding the hands of tiny children dressed in over-large school uniforms. The start of the autumn term is the time when mothers (and sometimes fathers) hand over their four and five-year-olds and realise that they are at both the beginning and the end of a new season of life. Miss Moss, the kindly Reception teacher, was bending down to speak to her new students and tactfully ignoring the sobbing women holding their hands. Looking back to when my little Elsie started Reception, I remember feeling a sense of relief that another of my children had been fed into the omnivorous maw of full-time education. The very notion of dressing my precious baby boy in little grey trousers, a white polo shirt, navy-blue sweatshirt and black school shoes, however, brought the tears rushing to my eyes.

‘Look at them!’ Lauren was gazing across the playground. ‘I was a mess when Pearl went up from nursery. It’s always worse when it’s your last one.’

I squinted over at the Reception line. A woman dressed in skin-tight jeans, high-heeled ankle boots and a leather jacket and sporting a pair of over-sized gold hoop earrings was embracing a little girl with two neat blonde French plaits tied with navy blue ribbon. As the bell rang and the line of minute people trotted off to their classroom, their mothers surged to the glass window of the corridor, waving and blowing kisses.

‘Is Liane’s youngest going into Reception? I didn’t realise she was old enough.’

But Lauren had broken into a trot and was heading at top speed for Crystal’s line where her daughter was sitting on the ground with her arms folded and her head down, scowling mutinously. My PTA enemies Hayley and Chris Robinson scuttled past, making sure to avoid making eye contact, which was absolutely fine with me. Standing alone in my slippers, I felt a little isolated, but just then, Maddie, Kate and Lovely Lou appeared.

‘Ooh, nice shoes! They look as comfy as slippers. Is that the trend this autumn?’

I came out with the autumn/winter transitioning line again which my friends swallowed without question. We were catching up on the news when I spotted Liane walking quickly past. There has been a summer cold going around (I never catch anything thanks to my high vitamin intake, balanced diet, good exercise routine and daily echinacea capsule) with which she has clearly come down. Her eyes were red and puffy, the eyeliner and mascara around them smeared and her nose running.

‘Liane! Have you got that cold that’s going round?’

I let out a muffled yelp as Maddie’s foot connected with my ankle.

‘I’m fine, Smug. Double eye infection if you must know.’

Issy Smugge never misses a chance to share the bounty which life has poured out upon her.

‘I’ve got some amazing eyedrops back at home. Yeux Pétillants de Beauté. They’re wonderful. Do you want me to bring them for pick-up time?’

My frenemy shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and sped away towards the gate. I was somewhat taken aback. While I wouldn’t say that we were friends, exactly, still our relationship is relatively amicable and she has gone so far as to say a few nice things by accident over the past few months.

Lauren appeared back in our midst, looking grim.

‘Great start to the term. I pretty much had to drag her into the classroom. So, what’s all the news and schmooze, ladies?’

We walked slowly out of the playground, none of us that keen to get back home.

‘What’s up with Liane?’ I asked. ‘I offered her some eyedrops and she barely spoke. Have I done something to upset her?’

The girls exchanged looks.

‘No, babes, it’s not you.’ Lauren was the spokeswoman. ‘Her little one started Reception today and it’s hit her hard. Plus the anniversary of her dad’s death’s coming up. She’s not in a good place. When she’s like that, we know to leave her alone. She’ll talk when she’s ready.’

Not for the first time, I realised that I live in a community that is loosely stitched together with intricately woven relationships, dynamics and a shared history. Try as I may, I will never truly be a part of it. The smell of coffee was drifting enticingly out of the new café on the high street and I yearned to leave my responsibilities behind for an hour and enjoy my friends’ company. But I couldn’t. Over the summer break, I allowed myself some downtime with the children and didn’t schedule every single day of the school holidays with a mixture of enrichment activities and work. I had a lot of work to catch up on.

At the village centre, we divided, Lauren to go to the Post Office to stock up on party bag fillers for her daughter’s upcoming birthday celebrations, me heading back home. My friend gave me a brief hug and a side eye.

‘You forgot to take your slippers off this morning, didn’t you?’

I sighed. ‘Yes. Of course I did.’ #losingit #platespinning

Returning home, I found Mummy and Milo constructing what appeared to be a multi-use modernist building with a large box of sustainably made educational bricks in the family room. I never thought I’d see the day.

I walked down to my studio and unlocked the door. I had a Zoom call scheduled with Mimi. My agent is wonderful at what she does and has advanced Isabella M Smugge’s career no end. However, she is not exactly relaxing company and she can spot a creeping uncertainty or a moral quandary a mile off. I checked my lipstick, tidied my hair and prepared for the onslaught.

‘Darling! How are you? Looking incredible. I simply loved your latest blog about plate spinning in your forties. Honesty really sells, in moderation.’ She let out a hoarse laugh and took an enthusiastic drag on her cigarette.

‘Now. Sweetie. I’m in talks with the people at the Sunday Times and Vogue. They both want you for serious lifestyle and fashion spreads. Ascendancy magazine wants to do a feature on you – working title ‘The Influencer’s Influencer’. And I have some terrific news. Brace yourself.’

I had been bracing since the moment her corrugated features appeared on my screen, and felt it was time to take a breath.

‘Fire away, Mimi. I can’t wait.’

My agent leaned forward and puffed out a cloud of smoke.

‘I’ve been keeping a weather eye on the shenanigans at Belle Peinture. I saw Bill Stoddart and Hugo Parker in the smoking room at my club the other night. They were obviously having a private conversation, but nothing gets past Mimi.’

She paused for a second, giving me a chance to reply, which I declined to take. It’s best to let Mimi spill all her beans before commenting, I’ve found over the years. Belle Peinture, as you no doubt know, is the gorgeously expensive mineral-based paint company used by anyone who’s anyone and several who are aspiring to be. Bill, Hugo and Hugo’s brother-in-law Mark Power are the founder members and run a very tight ship. For years, Mimi has been angling for a paid partnership with them but to no avail. She coughed and stubbed out her cigarette.

‘I hid behind the chiffonier and listened in. Wonderful news, darling! Mark has left the company and is starting his own paint firm! You know what a maverick he is. I can’t believe he’s lasted as long as he has. It all came to a head with his attempt to drive through his Hanoverian paint range. I heard whispers about it around town and it’s even more exciting than I thought.’

My heart missed a beat and I felt a surge of excitement run through me from my gorgeous gel pedicure (deep Burgundy, so this season) to my freshly lowlighted hair. I had all but decided to source the paint and wall coverings for my second-floor renovation from Belle Peinture and jolly well foot the bill myself. In order to pull off a truly show-stopping reno, the savvy influencer must think through every tiny detail and overlook nothing. The paint, of course, is the foundational element but the correct flooring, storage, light fittings and decorative touches are also absolutely vital if one is to stay on top of the trends while being sustainable and relatable. My followers simply adore it when I redecorate, and I must confess that I do love the whole process.

I took a sip of my skinny latte and settled back to hear what Mimi had to say.

‘I know you’re far too stylish to fall into the obvious decorating traps, darling. No muted Regency shades for you! I went straight from the club to have a late-night drinkie with Venetia. She’s finally gone ahead with the surgery and got her elbows done while she was at it, and I have to say she’s looking almost human.’

Venetia Portarlington is almost as terrifying as Mimi, a hugely successful agent who manages Daisy Finch, the cleaning blogger, along with a whole host of other influencers and media tarts. Of indeterminate age, with a dowager’s hump, beady eyes and a sixth sense for juicy gossip, she is not a woman you would wish to fall out with. They say that she could bring half of London’s CEOs to their knees if she so chose.

Mimi lit a fresh cigarette.

‘Venetia heard that he’s calling the company Bitter and Twisted. So gorgeously dark and unpleasant, just like him!’

She laughed in a rasping baritone.

‘Venetia’s still in touch with her second husband’s step-niece. You know, the head colourist at Belle Peinture. Mark’s poached her and she told Venetia all about the Hanoverian range. Lots of deep, dark, vintage colours with amusing names and a few lighter ones to break it up. Perfect for you to use as accent colours and for your reno. No good at all for those dreadful little boxes that normal people live in, and of course far too expensive for the everyday market.’

I was feeling a little unsure. While my readers and followers love me revealing new and exciting trends, most of them don’t live in vast Grade II listed former rectories with unlimited decorating budgets. Call me old-fashioned (although no one ever has), but what your everyday house owner really wants is a nice reliable selection of pale hues with the odd pop of colour.

‘I don’t know, Mimi. It all sounds very now, but is he going to do anything more down to earth? You know, something my followers will actually buy.’

My agent waved her scarlet-tipped hand dismissively.

‘Don’t give it another thought, darling. That’s what you pay Mimi for. I’ll call as soon as I’ve got the colours out of Venetia.’

As you will know if you follow twenty-first-century paint trends, Michaela Gotts was the head colourist at Belle Peinture, the woman Paint Chips Today called ‘the mineral-based wizard of her generation’ and the co-founder and presenter of the ‘Gottcha!’ podcast which covers the gorgeous and far-reaching world of paints and wallpapers. There’s nothing that woman doesn’t know about interiors. For some time now, Mummy and I have been thinking about having her on our podcast and now that she’s finally jumped ship, she’ll have even more fascinating paint gossip for us.

Mimi and I wrapped up our conversation. I could almost hear the cogs whirring in her head. A new paid partnership, an achingly trendy product and the potential to lure a high-octane guest on to our podcast. Say what I will about my agent, she certainly is 100 per cent behind my brand. She stubbed out her cigarette and waggled her nicotine-stained fingers at me.

‘Love you, sweetie, miss you, mwah, mwah!’

And with a final bone-rattling cough, she was gone, leaving me to ponder how on earth I was going to stay calm and focused with a to-do list that would put anyone to shame. #busybusy #trendscout

In the old days, I raced through the week in a flurry of carefully curated gorgeousness, scheduling blocks of quality time with the children which involved a few heart-warming and wholesome family posts and never thinking that they might be missing out on something. Or that I was. I honestly believed that I was living my best life and being an amazing mother. Back then, living in London with my devoted husband, wonderful au pair and right-hand woman Sofija, huge circle of friends and glittering social life, I thought my life was perfect.

These days, my routine is quite different. Yes, I am almost entirely housework-free (unless you count wiping crumbs and blobs of random stickiness off the island and using my multi-head mini vacuum cleaner to run along the skirting boards). Yes, Ali, my devoted housekeeper, does all the washing, drying and ironing for me. Yes, I have a team devoted to keeping Issy Smugge looking dewy, fresh and radiant at all times. But apart from that, I’m just a normal, everyday mum, making breakfast, loading the dishwasher, doing the school run, checking bookbags, sorting out packed lunches (OK, Ali does them, but I do get them out of the fridge), helping with reading and homework and generally maintaining the emotional well-being of four children.

As the evenings got slightly darker and my Virginia creeper began to turn from vivid green to a bright shouting red, the smell of woodsmoke and the crunch of fallen leaves became the backdrop to my twice-daily walk to school and back. I do love autumn, but this year, rather than focusing on doorscaping and planning my menus and starting to think about the perfect Christmas, I have a wedding to get through.

When I was still a happily married London-based mother of three, I’d have laughed in your face if you’d told me that my mother would ever be:

1. Getting married again.
2. Happy and relatively positive much of the time.
3. An evangelical non-smoker.
4. Actually pleasant to me and the children.

When we first moved to Suffolk, she was cold and judgemental to me and ultra-critical of the children. Being forced to spend a year together under the same roof has worked wonders for our relationship. The children actively enjoy spending time with her, she simply adores Milo, and she has become infinitely warmer and more loving. True, she has, by some miracle, found a man who has voluntarily offered to spend the rest of his life with her and that’s made quite a difference, but I think that actually getting to know me as a person has changed her entire outlook on life.

Milo calls her ‘Gandy’, which is as close as he can get to ‘Granny’, and it’s become a general nickname with the children, which is rather sweet. That said, she hasn’t changed completely. She is still prone to loud, embarrassing comments in public and to interfering in my life. I was enjoying a rare moment of peace in the family room post-school run, sipping my coffee and leafing through an interiors magazine when she appeared.

‘Now, darling. Don’t be cross. I’m coming with you when you go to meet the Harcourt girl in London.’

I let my magazine slide to the floor.

‘What? I don’t need you there breathing down my neck. Lavinia and I are old enough to deal with our own affairs.’

Mummy frowned. ‘That’s clearly not true, Isabella. Look at what happened when you met up for the first time since school. You screamed at each other like a pair of fishwives and ended up having a fist fight! So common! I think it’s far better if we stay at my club and I sit quietly in the cocktail bar and keep an eye on things.’

‘Come on, Mummy! She’s harboured a grudge for years because I cut off her plait, which she deserved.’

My revenge on my sister’s school tormenter had been to sneak into her dorm as she slept and snip off one of her precious long golden plaits. Lavinia had never forgiven me and, as a top gossip columnist, used her paper to disseminate horrible stories about me.

Mummy and I wrangled for some time, but she would not be moved. Great! I’m going to be forty-two next June and my own mother thinks I need a babysitter. #cringe #helicopterparenting

The weeks trundled on without incident and the day of my meeting with Lavinia Harcourt drew ever nearer. I was trying to remain calm but at night, fast asleep in my beautifully dressed bed, my head nestling on my self-plumping, lavender-scented Plump No More pillows, my overactive brain took refuge in the most alarming dreams.

I was skiing down a black run, being pursued by Lavinia wielding a machine gun, when Mummy suddenly appeared and told me she was marrying Joey Essex. Then the scene switched to my old house in London with Johnnie telling me that he had a second wife and family down the road in Fulham and that I mustn’t mind too much. The next minute, I was back at St Dymphna’s in front of the class trying to read from a book of Latin poetry which had unaccountably been translated into Russian. It was a huge relief when I awoke at 5.45 to the sound of Milo crying.

By the time I’d got him back to sleep, I was wide awake myself. I pulled on my dressing gown and walked downstairs. I flung open the boot room door to commune with nature and got a faceful of the most unpleasant odour. I couldn’t place it, but it was most noxious. Deciding that I’d had more than enough fresh air for the day, I closed the door again and made myself a comforting hot chocolate. No one else was up and I didn’t feel inclined to start work just yet, so I curled up on the sofa in the family room and closed my eyes. Our startlingly good-looking vicar Tom always encourages us to pray at all times, so I thought I’d give it a go.

I was halfway through my list of requests when I lost consciousness. I woke, dribbling slightly and with my half-drunk chocolate stone cold, to the voices of my children quarrelling in the hall. Sighing, I heaved myself off the sofa and commenced another day of desperate overachieving in the face of some considerable opposition.

One of the great things about being self-employed is that if you fancy downing tools and having your bestie over for coffee and a chat, you can. I lured Lauren back from drop-off with the promise of high-quality caffeine and home-made ginger snaps.

Slumped on the sofa with our feet up on the ottoman and talking enthusiastically about what I was going to say to Lavinia, our conversation was interrupted by a chirrup from both our phones. I don’t know about you, but there is no respite from emails about delayed buses, behaviour policies and the urgent need to buy textbooks and scientific calculators at one end of the spectrum right down to bump notes and invitations to class assemblies at the other. This one was from the primary school and was sharing the news that Elsie’s class was suffering from an outbreak of nits.

As far as I know, none of my children’s scalps have ever been infested. Or if they were, Sofija dealt with it in her usual efficient way without bothering me with the gruesome details. The point is that they are very clean and that it is next door to impossible that head lice could have become part of the Smugge family.

I shared these thoughts with Lauren.

‘They never say who it is. Trouble is, at that age, there’s a lot of contact and it only takes one untreated kid for it to spread. Are you honestly telling me yours have never had nits?’

I assured her that to the best of my knowledge, this was the case. Her phone rang.

‘It’s the school. Hang on, babes.’

There was a short pause while a voice at the other end imparted vital information which made my friend leap to her feet and grab her bag.

‘I’ve got to run. Crystal’s in the office with Mrs Hill in a right old state. See you later.’

And with a brief hug, she was gone, leaving me with my second half-drunk beverage of the day. Oh well.

On the playground at pick-up time, I found Lauren being comforted by our fellow mums Maddie and Lovely Lou. It seemed that Crystal had reacted badly to the teasing of one of her classmates. He had been needling her since the beginning of term and while Lauren had been working with the teacher to keep things on an even keel, today it had all been too much and her daughter had punched her enemy square on the nose in the middle of Literacy. This had led to a number of outcomes, namely:

1. From the huge amount of blood spurting from the said nose and the rapidly swelling nasal membranes, the teacher had diagnosed a broken nose and called the child’s mother.

2. Said mother had come up to the school breathing out vengeance on Lauren and her entire family and threatening to sue the school for negligence.

3. The child had been rushed to A&E from where his mother was issuing regular bulletins via social media.

4. Liane Bloomfield had threatened to go round to the child’s house and put his mother straight.

Poor Lauren was beside herself. Maddie handed over mopping up and comforting duties to Lou and filled me in.

‘It’s that new mum. You know, the family who moved into one of those big posh houses on the new estate? The Whitmores. She’s the one that works in Ipswich at some office or other three days a week and is always going on about how she juggles her family and her fabulous career. Right braggy. I’ve tried talking to her but she’s not interested. Her kid is a horrible little so-and-so.’

I was righteously indignant on Lauren’s behalf.

‘What can we do to help?’

Maddie looked grim.

‘Well, for a start, we need to talk Liane down. She’s never liked Sally, ever since she sneered at her in a singing assembly for being late. And she’s mates with that Hayley Robinson. She wants to try working a week of night shifts and looking after five kids single-handed with no support from anyone.’

It seemed an ugly situation, violence spilling out in a safe space where our children went to learn and grow. I felt powerless. And all the more so when my little Elsie’s class appeared and her teacher came up to me to share the shocking news, sotto voce, that my daughter’s head was playing host to a full-on infestation. She handed me a leaflet.

‘This will give you all the information you need. We ask that you treat Elsie immediately, then re-treat in a week’s time.’

Clutching my leaflet, I gazed in horror at my daughter who was scratching her head enthusiastically and looking under her nails with great interest.

‘I’m trying to see the eggs, Mummy. Becky says they’re teeny-tiny. I can feel the lice wriggling on my head. It tickles!’

‘Go and have a little play, darling. Mummy’s a bit busy at the moment.’

I hoped that by encouraging my daughter to dash about the field with her friends, the Robinsons, standing uncomfortably close, might forget about what they had just heard. Not that that’s very likely! #nits #itchy #cringe

My forthcoming meeting with Lavinia, headline news with the girls until Crystal punched Oliver Whitmore and nits came calling at the Old Rectory, had been bumped to Any Other Business. The mums’ WhatsApp group was at fever pitch with constant updates on Crystal and Liane and the nit situation. Maddie took control and started a new group, ‘Nit Help’, to answer my increasingly desperate questions. It seems that you can apply a stinky lotion overnight then wash it out thoroughly the next morning, or you can apply another stinky and much runnier lotion and comb out the little critters with a nit comb an hour later. A number of mums also recommended investing heavily in tea tree oil products, which nits hate. Who knew? I opted for the first choice and sent my poor little girl to bed with a shower cap on her head complaining that liquid was running down her neck. I can only hope and pray that none of the other children get it.

Liane has been dissuaded from going round to the Whitmores and having it out with Sally, although what will happen when they see each other on the playground is anyone’s guess.

Crystal is refusing to go to school ever again. Lauren is in despair. Oliver Whitmore is recovering at home. My suggestion of a mums’ group breakfast at the new café for an emergency summit is being considered.

My head is itchy. Can adults get nits? I sincerely hope not. Lying, sleepless, in my lovely bed, I tried to banish images of hugely magnified head lice from my mind. I can never unsee the contents of that educational leaflet. Never!

I got up half an hour early to tackle my poor little Elsie’s head. Naturally, Mummy has lots to say about the situation. She is being almost supportive, in an out-of-touch kind of way.

‘Clean heads don’t get lice, Isabella. That’s what Nanny always used to say. She had a special comb and a bottle of olive oil in case you girls ever got them. Not that you did, of course. The very notion!’

I pushed the leaflet across the island.

‘That’s a myth, Mummy. Anyone can catch them. I’m going to the pharmacy this morning after drop-off to pick up some tea tree oil, shampoo and conditioner then I’m off for breakfast with the girls. Can you look after Milo for me?’

She agreed, idly scratching her head as she did so. Can it be…? We can only hope not. #nithorror #playgrounddrama