Julia Gets a Life (30 page)

            Clever ruse on his part to commission Mother as running mate, as some half hour after putting her straight, am still subject of big sighs and wistful expressions. She will, any time now, get-photographs-out.

            Eve.

            Much hyped visit to local community centre to admire exhibits at Croydon Seniors Pottery Workshop Annual Show. Mother announces only seconds before arrival that I am to be guest of honour and that not only am I to present the prize in the ‘freestyle’ category, as befits my new status as deeply fashionable person, but also that I am expected to give small pottery related speech (huh?) though strictly, of course, in my capacity as lay pottery fancier.

            To this end, I spend some time taking my cup of disgusting tea for a turn around the trestles, and deep breathing to quell growing panic that I may too, some day, want to spend whole chunks of remaining time on planet gouging nooks and gullies from lumps of wet mud. Is there a sex thing at work here, I wonder? And will I get to do more of the real thing before it comes to this?

            Freestyle winner turns out to be elderly man in checked shirt, knitted thing (jerkin?) and Hush Puppies the colour of baby poo. Unfortunately, his abstract piece, though painted mainly blue, looks so excruciatingly like a penis plus chicken skin testicles that am forced to feign paroxysm of coughing to disguise involuntary guffaw. Finally settle on,

            ‘Well, Mr Bledshawe, it’s nice to see such imaginative and contemporary looking work coming out of Croydon SPW. Is it ..er..splut...representational, at all? And..er..does it have a ...ahem...name?’

            He fixes me with a glassy grin.

            ‘It’s called
Cold Phallus
, he says.

            Am tense and tetchy with Mother to degree that cannot resist pointing at small flower type thing on way out, saying,

            ‘And what’s that one then -
My clitoris; a study
?’

            Unfazed, she leans to read the card with the details.

            ‘Barbara Pickles, ‘ she reads. ‘Hmmmm, it could well be.’

            Later

            Mood is deflected from unpalatable mental pictures of octogenarian sex games by copious anasthaesia-by-wine and by arrival, by courier (no less), of tickets/brief/itinerary/hotel accommodation details, from Colin. But still go to bed and dream of lonely pensioner vigorously (and fruitlessly) masturbating, by weak orange glow from one bar electric fire. Arrive with soup, cheese sandwich and benevolent expression and find it is actually Richard.

Thursday

very hot, very sunny, very little chance that maternal coast enthusiasm will be deflected

            Mother up pre-dawn to hard boil eggs and make up flagons of squash.

            Avoiding kitchen out of respect for integrity of stomach contents, spend gruelling half hour with children saying things like ‘you always love picnics once we get there’ and ‘but Eastbourne is so
cool
these days. They have joy riders now, you know’ and even ‘how about one hour’s unlimited pier access plus five pounds each?’. Then spend more productive thirty seconds shouting ‘GETUPGETWASHEDGETDRESSEDGET ONWITHIT
ORELSE
’ while Mother out of earshot in toilet.

            Coast idea soon seems ill-judged, as sit in crawl of maternal hatchbacks on A22 knowing full well that will sit in similar crawl of maternal hatchbacks again on M23/A23 on way to Brighton tomorrow. Arrive in Eastbourne and find parking space a mere 1.6 miles from sea front.

            Children mutiny, then rally, as realise route seaward involves walking past
Skate Shack, Sport Locker, RamRomGameShop
and
MacDonalds
. But are thwarted in their quest for a Big MacBreakfast by approx. one million European language students clogging exterior and knocking old ladies’ glasses off with neon backpacks.

            Noon

            Arrive on beach to find tide hurtling in at warp speed, and spend some moments in scientific appraisal of shingle wetness, in order to establish parameters of remaining beach availability. (As do not wish to sit within ten yards of any of other eight billion people on beach, in traditional sociable British style.) Finally make camp of twelve towels, two folding chairs, plastic sheet of dubious origin, cool box, carrier bag of crisps, mother’s Sun Lotions handbag, and £1.99 badminton set bought on prom. Spread picnic food in wide and daunting arc around us.

            Noon plus ten minutes

            Make new camp on higher up bit of beach.

            After lunch (and departure of offspring to deposit £10 in pier management savings account) decide swim is called for, as blazing Eastbourne sun (hotter than Saharan sun, apparently) is melting the aspic in the pork pies and dessicating my contact lenses.

            Begin process of strip to new sports-style bikini and audible gulp causes sudden realisation that there is something Mother does not know.

            ‘Ooh!’ she gasps, ‘that looks painful. Did you get a boil, or something?’

            Ah,’ I reply. ‘Not a boil, exactly....more a...more a... ring...’

            ‘In your
tummy button
? Ugh! that’s absolutely disgusting!’

            ‘It’s fashionable.
I
think it looks rather nice...’

            She picks up a Kit Kat and snaps it asunder.

            ‘Fashionable?’ she splutters. ‘The Third Reich was fashionable.’

Chapter
21

            I feel kind of insulated this morning. I’m in a bit of a bubble. My personal escape pod (or, rather, Time-Of-Your-Life-Mondeo-Escape-Coupe) is speeding me on down shimmering tarmac, off to my new incarnation.

            I had a call from Richard last night, half way through dinner. I have avoided speaking to him all week, of course, because I fully expected to shout at him - which would have been inappropriate and ill-advised given the constant proximity of mother plus offspring. But I had to speak to him last night because he called to organise things with Emma and Max. I shut the kitchen door firmly and took it in the hall.

            ‘Look,’ he said, plunging straight into what he now obviously feels is his role as committed father, moral arbiter etc. ‘I don’t think it’s very productive to keep this up, do you?’

            I said, ‘I’m sorry?’ I still had a sprout in my mouth, so was caught off guard.

            ‘I mean this aggressive stance you’re taking all the time.’

            Such breathtaking loftiness. I swallowed the sprout.

            ‘I’m not sure productivity is the issue here, but if you mean aggressive in its common usage as the word to describe not returning a telephone call then, yes, I’m being
pretty
damned aggressive.’

            ‘You see? That’s
exactly
what I mean. I can’t talk to you any more. I only wanted to apologise for Friday, but you seem intent on...on...’

            ‘On not being apologised to, quite frankly. I didn’t want to talk to you because I was very cross with you and...’

            ‘And, as I am happy to admit, quite justifiably so. I was out of order, I know I was out of order...’

            ‘And I wasn’t particularly interested in hearing your apology. Been there, done that.’

           
‘God!
Julia, do you not have even the slightest sense that I might be suffering here too?’

            I did. I do. Not sure (don’t care) about the Rhiannon position, but my guess is he’s not getting any more sex than I am. Tetchy, tetchy.

            ‘No. But I’m glad you’re taking the kids away for the week. It’ll be your first ever bit of proper single parenthood. And in French. And I hope it gives you an insight into what it’s been like for me for the last few months, even though it doesn’t involve work or Sainsburys or packed lunches or anything. Oh, and don’t let Max go anywhere muddy in his new trainers. Oh, and don’t worry if Emma doesn’t speak to you. Oh, and my mother is expecting you for lunch tomorrow. I reminded her that sautéed kidneys were your absolute favourite.’

            When I stopped speaking there was complete silence. I thought he had hung up, but finally he spoke.

            ‘Why are you being like this?’

            To my credit, I thought for a moment before answering.

            ‘Because, ‘I said at last, ‘it makes me feel better.’

            He laughed then. Not a big laugh or anything, just a small, ironic, unexpected, ‘huh’ type laugh.

            ‘Funny,’ he said. ‘But it makes me feel better too.’

            Bastard. What did he mean by that?

            There’s some sort of sea change going on in my life all of a sudden, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. One thing’s for sure though, and that’s that Richard doesn’t like me any more. I don’t mean doesn’t love me, because I think he still does. Loves the wife he was unfaithful to, at any rate. I just don’t think he can cope with the me I’m turning into. And I
am
changing. I feel like I’m becoming a more vibrant and successful version of my former self. That my potential - creatively, socially, emotionally - has been unlocked by the trauma of my relationship with Richard, and that all of a sudden I’m in control of my own future. Pretty scary stuff for your average bloke, I guess.

            I find
I
like my new self very much. In fact I would say I’m almost
in
love with myself right now, which is bizarre. I’m finding a sensual pleasure in my own body. I like the ring in my belly button, like watching myself as I dress in the mornings, like to stroke my own shoulders, caress my own arms. Like to touch myself now, with no thoughts of loss or loneliness.
Really
like that I can make myself feel good on my own. Curiouser and curiouser. Mad old bag stuff.

            I’ve been thumbing through the book I bought to Mum’s with me, because I want to read somewhere that it’s what people
do
.

*

            Rock Up Front is one of those events that the music industry monolith stage every year just to prove that they have half an eye on humanity and not just on their obscene profit projections. A nine-hour concert, staged outdoors - the income from which will be directed this year at Earth Patrol - it will include sets by anyone currently big in the charts who they can ‘persuade’ to come for nothing (which seems to be everyone, pretty much), and will be shored up by gaggles of tittering DJs and kids TV types (Heidi Harris
for sure
), who will fill in the bits between bands. Much of it is to be televised, and all will be on video. In short, it is perhaps the most cost-effective bit of publicity anyone in the music industry could hope to enjoy this year. (I didn’t actually know any of this stuff before, of course. Colin told me.)

           
Kite
, as befits their megastar status, will be headlining. They will not, therefore, come on till well after nine tonight.

            Rehearsals, however, will happen this morning, as will a whole range of publicity stuff. My job (Job!) is to get lots of pictures;
Kite
hanging out,
Kite
at the Earth Patrol stand,
Kite
cavorting about with celebrity folk. Also
Kite
on the beach (as if - Brighton? July?) and
Kite
- if it happens - doing impromptu jam sessions with other bands.