Julia Gets a Life (13 page)

            Neither, I thought, does ‘I’m sorry but my husband doesn’t live here any more on account of his disgraceful infidelity etc’, which is what Richard was
really
worrying about. But I’ve moved on from petty point scoring, so instead, I said,

            ‘Then you’ll just have to get another ansafone then, won’t you?’

            ‘I should have that one.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘Because you can’t even work it properly.’

            ‘Yes I can. I changed the OGM, didn’t I?’

            ‘No you can’t. You’re always cocking it up. It always goes wrong if you touch it.’

            ‘Bloody cheek! No it doesn’t.’

            ‘Yes it does. And anyway, it’s mine.’

            ‘No it isn’t.’

            ‘Yes it is. I bought it.’

            ‘For the family.’

            ‘For me.’

            ‘For the family. So that the children
in particular
could get in touch and leave a message if they needed to let us know they were going to be late or something and we were out. Actually.’

            ‘But you’re never out in the evenings.’

            ‘I might be.’

            ‘Pah! And stop bringing the bloody kids into things all the time, like you’re some big paragon earth mother and I’m just some...’

            ‘Unfaithful husband?’

            ‘Oh, for God’s sake! What
is
it with you?’

            ‘Nothing. I just don’t like you pushing me around.’

            ‘Me? Push
you
around? That’s rich! Here I am, kicked out of my own house and forced to live like a hermit in some grotty flat while you swan around lapping up the sympathy. I think you’re actually enjoying this.....God!’

            ‘Hi Dad.’ Max.

            ‘Oh. Er,
Hi
Max.’ Dad.

            ‘So,’ I said, ‘have a lovely evening, you two. Emma won’t be coming, I’m afraid, as she is out with her friend. She did try to get hold of you but (master stroke!) your mobile was switched off. So sorry. Good night. Take care. See you later.’

            *Note. Confront daughter re. her recent tendency to be uncharacteristically shifty looking re. male acquaintances. Hmmm. Older? Unsuitable? (if so, in what way?) Smoker? Bad lot? Swansea City fan? All of the above?

            I stood in the hall for a few minutes after they left, making rude gestures with my fingers and sticking my tongue out. Well, he could sod off.

            Then I felt really guilty about him living in a grotty flat when he had worked so hard for so many years to get us the (really quite nice) house we were all still living in. Then I felt cross with myself that I should feel guilty about that at all. Had it not been for Richard’s career machinations, I would doubtless still be living in London; still pursuing the career that I’d never quite started. Being a mother, certainly, but someone for whom a man’s largesse, or lack of, was not the controlling force in my life. And then I felt guilty about feeling like that about Richard because it was with my entire support and enthusiasm that he took the offered partnership in Cardiff in the first place. Had I ever once signalled a moment of indecision? Of wanting to be anything other than a wife and mother? Of wanting more than what he had so amply provided? And
had
I wanted more? Really? Hand on heart kind of stuff? And then I felt guilty about the flat once again.

            Which was something I recognise I have avoided addressing as it questions the integrity of my whole stance as wronged wife with two kids who needs a house (or at least a reasonable amount of space) to live in, and brings into focus the female response to infidelity generally. In some ways (oh, really, Julia? Come
on
) it would be better if he was less sorry and remorseful and desperate to mend his marriage, and went off with Rhiannon De Laney, full stop. Then I wouldn’t need to bother about the question of forgiveness and reconciliation at all. Which would suit me fine, because I’m in love with Howard now. Which was why, I suppose, I was feeling guilty in the first place.

            Then, thinking that, I felt, as usual, as if I was just playing at being a proper grown up, and that all my emotions were inappropriate ones. How could I be in love with someone else only three months since I thought I was still in love with Richard? How?

            I ran a bath. What was love anyway? It was simply lust with cuddly bunnies attached. I resolved to stop casting myself as a character in a romantic film and instead as a matur(ing) thirty-something with her feet on the ground, who would keep matters of the heart in their proper perspective and take whatever life had to offer, as was my right as a woman. With this in mind, I did the whole
Cosmopolitan/She
bit and organised a ‘bath as rejuvenating me-time’ activity, incorporating;

            Glass of wine x 2

            Scented candle (air freshener) on soap shelf

            Church candles in egg cups around bath

            Bath oil

            Bath fizzer

            Essential oil burner on windowsill

            Sea sponge

            Half tube of
Pringles

            Lady Chatterley’s Lover

           
Because I had already finished the Pringles when the phone rang, the tube was on the bathroom floor. And the bathroom floor was wet.

            And I was wet as well.

            ‘
Hi, Julia. Missed you again, ha ha. Er, Boro da! This is Howard.....
’ Aarrrgh! Ouch! Oh, my bottom! Owwwww! No! Aarrgh!
‘.....I..er..suppose you must be out, so...er...well..er..perhaps you could give me a ring when..er...Well...
’ Oh no,
please
don’t hang up, grunt! Urrgh,
please
.
‘..I..er..anyway. Give me a call. Bye.’

            Bugger.

            Lily was on the doorstep half an hour later.

            ‘So I had a brainwave!’ I told her. ‘I thought - I know! I can ring 1471, can’t I? So I did, and he wasn’t there of course, so I had to leave a message on
his
ansafone, which was so burbly and cringe-making it makes me shudder to even think about it, but then guess what? He called me back! He’d only gone out for a take away and was really pleased I’d called him and I explained about you coming over and - here let me see to that wine box. You French have no idea about bulk packaging - and so I said I was sorry but I wasn’t free tonight - well, what’s left of it - but that I did have a fairly quiet weekend, as it happened, and he said would I like to go and see a film or something tomorrow evening, or whatever, and I said yes - of course! - and so we’re going to the pictures tomorrow. Here - have a big glass - you’re looking wan, and it is Friday night after all - and so there you have it. Brilliant, or what? Do you know what’s on at the Odeon?’

            ‘Pshhh! Julia. Listen to me. I have a big problem.’ Gulp, slurp, swallow etc.       ‘Problem?’

            ‘Big. And getting bigger and bigger. Julia, I am pregnant.’

            ‘Pregnant? By who?’

            ‘By Malcolm, of course. Who else would it be?’

            Malcolm, as in tall stringy man in beige corduroy trousers and sweater. Malcolm as in woodwork teacher at adult education centre at college. Malcolm as in not-much-of-a-catch (apparently). Malcolm as in person who has surprisingly turned out to have had a sexual experience after all. And with
Lily.

            Cripes. This was a turn up.

            ‘Lily,’ I said, effortlessly donning a maternal tone and ushering her into the kitchen. ‘You shouldn’t be drinking. Getting drunk is definitely on the no-no list now. Oh and congratulations, of course. Come here and let me hug you.’

            ‘Pshhh!’

            ‘No. I mean it. Con-grat-u-lations. One thing everyone knows is that no matter how you feel about this baby now, in time you will come to accept the idea. Indeed, become thrilled and full of wonder at the mystery of conception, and the miracle of life that will be the baby you give birth to.’

            Note. By now I had consumed three glasses of wine and no dinner, due to

           
Lurve
etc. Privately rather taken with whole idea of making babies with Howard, even if I can’t.

            She sat down. ‘But I don’t want it.’

            ‘Ah. You say that now...’

            ‘But I don’t. I don’t want a baby. I am twenty six, single, and the father is a dweeb.’

            ‘A dweeb?’

            ‘Definitely. It says so in the toilets at college.’

            ‘Oh, that’s just students for you.’

            ‘The staff toilets.’

            Hmmm. What to say next. That I was only twenty four when I had Emma? Twenty four.
Jesus
. And in love with her father. And happy. And expecting to remain so. Indefinitely. Maybe not. I am probably a very poor role model indeed. More wine, perhaps.

            ‘Have a Pringle,’ I offered. Then, sniffing a challenge, ‘Okay, then why did you sleep with him?’

            She stuffed about twelve in. Then shrugged. ‘He made a lot of shelves for me. I was grateful.’

            ‘Lily! How could you!’

            ‘ I don’t
know
! Ask Richard. Hah! And I’m sorry, but I am drinking. I have to drink to forget.’ So she did.

            ‘Did you drive here?’

            ‘I’ll sleep over. Oh, Julia, why did I do this?’

            ‘God knows. Why didn’t you use contraception, you twot?’

            ‘What’s a twot?’

            I considered.

            ‘Like a dweeb, but more affectionately thought of.’

            She ignored this. ‘So. How do I get an abortion? And do you have any more Pringles?’

            ‘Lily, don’t panic. We have to think this through. Let me get some paper.’

            Saturday breakfast.

            Max. Three pop tarts (weekend splurge).

            Emma. Grapefruit on muesli (why are teenage girls so predictable?).

            Me. Nothing (bulk of winebox still sloshing about and taking up space).

            Lily. Peanut butter on digestive biscuits plus tuna fish, plus glass of milk with mashed up banana in it. Lily has a face like a day old scone.

            ‘So. What
is
this exactly?’ says Emma, knowing very well.

            ‘Give me that,’ I snap (bulk of winebox still etc.etc.).