Pages Reveal for The Further Adventures of Isabella M Smugge

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 clutch 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 also 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 and due to my mother’s stroke, she had lived with me for a year and our interactions had become infinitely more friendly.

All this aside, I have been a single parent for two and a half 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 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 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 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, and the shock of nearly losing her, plus the trauma of Mummy’s stroke last August 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. Deliberately, I had left my phone in the kitchen, 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 mumfluencer and 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 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 July, 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 or 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 him 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, 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 misses 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 Instamum 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 stood up on tiptoe 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.