Julia Gets a Life (28 page)

            ‘Your Father thought you’d enjoy spending a week in France, in a Gite.’ In the rain. While your father sits in a deckchair, in his (awful) sandals, scouring day old newspapers and saying ‘put the kettle on, Em’.

            He starts to launch into how lucky he’s been getting a place from a colleague on the council, especially given the short notice, what with everything that’s happened and suchlike, but Emma has already perfected the Richard Potter special, and her withering expression completely dries his flow.

            ‘And next week, ‘I add (is no end to the horrors parents inflict on their children?) we’re going to Croydon to spend a week with Gran.’

            ‘Next
week
?’

            ‘We leave Sunday.’

            ‘
Sun
day?’

            ‘As in the day after tomorrow. And we’ll have to pack for both because Dad will drive to Gran’s to collect you at the end of the week. You’ll be going over by Eurotunnel. Won’t that be exciting?’

            ‘God!’

            ‘Less of that tone with your Mother, young lady.’

            ‘And you’d better let me have your games kit and stuff out of that bag before you stomp off. I need to crack on with the washing.’

            And
that
was when the photo fluttered out.

            Looking back, I guess for Emma it must have been one of those dreadful, heart-stopping moments that you re-live all your life, in slow motion. Like when my Mum pulled ten Number Six out of my school summer dress pocket. At the time, though, she moved like a splash of hot lava. Not fast enough though. Richard was nearer.

            ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Who’s this?’ Then his face dropped an inch.

            After that, it began doing all sorts of strange things, involving colour, contour, eyeballs - the lot. And his voice went the usual half octave lower. A sure sign that impending doom was due shortly. I leaned over to see.

            ‘But that’s him! It’s him, Richard! Good grief!’

            And then I thought; CONDOMS. Then; EMMA, then; SEX.

            Richard said,

            ‘So. Damon Bugle, no less.’

            Emma sat down (I think her legs had decided they wanted to take no further part in things) and wrenched the picture from her Father’s hand.

            ‘So?’ She said, knowing full well that ‘so’ was the only appropriate response one could make to a confrontational parent with murder on their minds, but with a rather disturbingly vivid blush that totally belied her innocence.

            ‘So Damon Bugle is your boyfriend, is he?’ I said.

            ‘Sort of.’

            ‘What does ‘sort of’ mean, exactly?’ Richard asked. We exchanged a look that wondered whether we should invoke the ‘C’ word at this juncture. I felt not. Emma shrugged.

            ‘I thought you said Damon Bugle was a geek,’ I went on. As opposed to the sex crazed maniac that may have already deflowered our vastly underaged daughter. Oh, God.

            ‘Well he’s not. He doesn’t
just
play chess you know. He’s also vice captain of the sixth form debating society, for your
infor
mation
.
And
he plays rugby for the Lions. And...’

            She’d got it pretty bad.

            ‘Okay,’ said Richard. ‘So he’s not a geek. We get the picture. But what concerns me is that you’ve been very reluctant to discuss him with us, and you haven’t brought him home either. You are entitled to your privacy, of
course
, but your mother and I have been very concerned about your behaviour lately. It’s not like you to be furtive. And the love bite...’

            ‘Dad! It was only a
love
bite, for goodness sake. I’m fifteen, you know. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

            ‘And fifteen is too young to be getting up to the sort of thing that means you come home with a love bite...’

            At which point, Emma’s face became redder still and tears began to plop out of her eyes. This is it, I thought. This is where she tells us she’s pregnant. Then - hey, condoms, of
course
. My relief was immense. But then I thought; Sex! My baby! She’s only just got rid of her Barbies! I put my arm round her, prepared for the worst. She yanked it away.

            ‘Oh, leave me alone, both of you!’ she sobbed, rising from her seat. ‘You just don’t understand anything about anything. You don’t care about me. You just don’t understand
anything
about being in love. I
hate
you!’ On which note, she fled from the kitchen.

            ‘God, the little bastard,’ said Richard. ‘If I’d known...’

            ‘Urghhhh,’ I said, ‘And there was me telling Carol Phelps that Moira shouldn’t have taken it so badly. Badly! And thinking what a responsible lad he must be! God! If only I’d known...’

            ‘Do you think...’

            ‘I dread to...’

            ‘You don’t think...’

            ‘I hope not...’

            ‘We’ll have to...’

            ‘I know. When she’s calmed down...’

            ‘Do you think I should...’

            ‘No. Not now. Let’s think about this for a while. We don’t want to...’

            ‘God, no. That’s exactly what sends them straight into their arms, isn’t it...’

            ‘Exactly. God, I feel so
responsible
. I’m her Mother. I should have realised...’

            ‘You’re right. This
is
partly our fault. All this upheaval in her life, and...’

            ‘And me being so wrapped up in myself, and...’

            ‘I wouldn’t say that..’

            ‘Oh, but I have. What with work, and me being...’

            ‘Well you have been...’

            ‘And I’ve been worried about Lily, and spending a lot of time...’

            ‘And you have been going out a fair bit...’

            ‘And forgetting that she’s really only a child still, and...’

            ‘And it’s hardly a good example, is it? All this gadding around...’

            ‘Well I wouldn’t exactly call it...’

            ‘But you have been...’

            ‘No, I
hav
en’t. I was just saying...’

            ‘And she
is
a girl, Julia. Look, I’m there for her, she knows that, but she’s hardly going to come to me for advice about
that
sort of thing, is she? She needs a mother’s guidance..’

            ‘What do you mean ‘
gadding
’?’

            ‘Simply that...’

            ‘Oh. Oh! So you’re Mr Squeaky Clean Stop At Home, are you?’

            ‘Well I...’

            ‘Well I nothing!’

            ‘I certainly haven’t been dressing up in strange clothes and pretending I was fifteen, quite frankly.’

            ‘Oh, that’s what I’ve been doing, is it? How dare you...’

            ‘Look, I only meant..’

            ‘You meant exactly what you said.
You
think Emma’s going off the rails because of me. Because I’m a crap mother and that I’m more concerned with myself than with the good of my children. Well thanks a
lot
.’

            ‘I said nothing of the kind. I just think
you
should think about the affect this is all having on the kids. Being carted back and forth all the time, and you going out with bloody hippies and whatnot. Children need stability. They need a secure family life. They need...’

            ‘What you need is a kick in the balls. How
dare
you lecture me about family life! You were the one who poked that bitch round the corner. This is
your
fault, okay?’

            I could almost see Richard’s knees scrunch together as I said this. His superior tone made a bolt for it, too.

            ‘Look, I know it was me who did
that
, but..’

            I stood up. Same effect. He was visibly shrinking. ‘Oh, and pardon me for taking offence!’ I bellowed. ‘I suppose I should have just said - oh, diddums, you must be feeling so
guilty
, poor thing. Please accept my apologies for feeling a teeny bit bloody upset about it. And what’s with this ‘
that
’? You make it sound like you just put a shelf up wrong or something - that’s if you ever bloody bothered to do that sort of thing in the first place - it was
infidelity
, Richard. You were unfaithful to me. Where’s the book that says infidelity is no longer a bad thing? Huh?’

            He stood up as well, arms across crotch, looking weary.

            ‘I think I’d better go. This is getting us nowhere.’

             ‘It’s getting me bloody wild. Yes, you’d better.’

            Bastard.

            By the morning, the pace, tone and general ambience of the Potter household has subsided from seething hotbed of fury to a more manageable smouldering den of resentment. Emma and I are circumnavigating the house with care and lowered faces.

            Despite being so angry with Richard that I want to hack off his willy and put it in a blender, my mood is lightened by two things.

            The first of these is Max’s admission that he took a small tube of writing icing with him to school yesterday, and surreptitiously autographed all my fairy cakes with the legend
JP (plus heart).
That he went on to charge an illicit five pence for them is something I shall overlook. That it is a very sad woman who’s day is lifted by something as inconsequential as a fan club of twenty odd eleven year old boys I shall also overlook. I am clearly a star. They were sold out in minutes.

            And then there is Moira and the canapé moment.

            Moira Bugle, I realise, must have
known
about Emma. And must be living in fear
at this very instant
, that I, Julia Potter, celebrity brawler, may be on my way round to re-arrange her son’s face. Hah! SHR!

                        But I’m still bloody mad. Thank Heavens, for Richard’s sake, for Croydon.

            Now, I know that by the middle of next week I will be fantasising about stashing hamburgers, wine boxes and intelligent conversationalists under my bed, and attaching clothes pegs to my tongue to stop me from screaming at her, but sometimes my Mum is the
only
person who can make me feel better.

            Within moments - no, micromoments - of me telephoning, she was enthusing about me, fit to bust. I almost decided she’d developed dementia and thought she was speaking to someone from Pottery Workshop
about
me. But no. The word ‘you’ was definitely in there.

            ‘So I went down to Smith’s and bought a dozen copies - I thought I’d pop a couple to your cousins in Penge. And, of course, everyone at Potty (Potty?) thinks it’s all terribly exciting. In fact, Minnie Scrivens - you
know
, with the cellulitis - wondered if perhaps you might be able to get that television lady’s autograph for her grandson. Anyway, I said I’d ask. I mean, she should really make some sort of amends, shouldn’t she? Oh, and I’ve had a couple laminated - I thought I could use them as placemats, and I’ve written to Great Auntie Bet in Canada - she always likes to know what you’re up to. Anyway, when you come you can see. I could get some done for you as well, if you like. Oh, and there’s a thing! We’re having a little bit of show on the Wednesday - nothing grand - just a small exhibition of the term’s best efforts - my Mondrian ring tree’s going in - did I tell you? And you could come along, and bring the children - oh, it would be lovely! Everyone’s dying to meet you, now they’ve seen you in the paper.’