Julia Gets a Life (36 page)

            Sky himself was arrested also, but released without charge shortly after.

           
‘And get
this
,’ Nigel said. ‘Guess who phoned with the tip-off?’

            We both shook our heads.

            ‘It was Kayleigh, of course.’

            ‘How do you know?’

            ‘Because she’s already been on the phone to Jon, this afternoon. She’s cock-a-fucking-hoop. She’s one of a kind, that one.’

            Craig bounced out of bed, naked, and unconcerned to be so. He took the paper from Nigel.

            ‘Christ, I wouldn’t rate her chances if Heidi Harris finds out.’

            ‘I don’t think Jon has even the smallest intention of telling her about it. And you two keep schtum, won’t you?’

            ‘Hey, ‘I said, re-reading the piece over Craig’s downy shoulder. ‘Hang on! What about this? It says I had my nose broken! And...and that I’ve been arrested as well! How did that happen? I wasn’t even there!’

            ‘Your name’s not actually in it. I shouldn’t worry.
Depth
have plenty of photographers, don’t they? It’s just bog standard crap reporting. Quite normal.’

            ‘But anyone could look at an old copy of the
Herald
and find out my name. And think I was on drugs or something. Like, people I
know
. And where on earth did they get the idea to put that in the first place?’

            Nigel moved to the doorway to help the breathless waitress who had just arrived with the coffee tray, while Craig simply sat on the bed with a pillow over his groin. Cups rattled furiously, as Nigel went on,

            ‘I shouldn’t worry about it. I doubt it will hit Cardiff. It just made a good link with the punch up last month. And who’s going to be arsed to find out your name when they’ve got Heidi Harris and Ted Bunting in the frame?’

            I poured out the coffee while Craig did his little dog cartoon on the Room Service slip. Such a thoughtful touch. God.
Lurve
alert,
and how
.

            And Nigel, I decided, was probably right. Who
would
be arsed? No-one.

            Wrong again, J.

Chapter
24

                        Seaside

                        Sun

                        Sea

                        Sand

                        Sandcastles

                        Surf

                        Seashells

                        Starfish

                        Spray

                        Salt

                        Styrofoam Cups

                        Seagulls

            ‘Sex.’

            ‘No, no, NO! You can’t say the S word!’

            ‘All right. Um......Swordfish.’

            ‘No. Can’t have it. You can’t see any.’

            ‘I can.’

            ‘No, you can’t.’

            ‘Yes I can. In the Sealife Centre. So
there
.’

            ‘No you can’t. You can’t actually
see
them. The rule is....’

            ‘Okay,
okay
. Um..........um...........hell,
sex
.’

            The things you do.

            Kite were supposed to be doing a live radio interview and phone in for
Surf FM
early Saturday evening, but Nigel cancelled it because of the drug raid story. Which suited everyone fine.

            ‘Didn’t want to talk to some Dickhead DJ with a playlist he got out of his own backside anyway,’ Davey announced, with rare animation. And was speaking for the rest of the band also, it seemed. So there was half of Saturday night to kill.

            When Nigel left, Craig showered and shaved (with my pink razor) then padded off to his own room in my high density towelling.

            ‘Wouldn’t it be nice,’ I’d remarked, putting on mascara while he shampooed his hair, ‘if we could go out for a walk on the beach, or something. You must really miss being able to do things like that.’

            ‘Not often. I’m a bit of a lazy bugger. (Patently untrue. He was fit and energetic and driven.) I quite like being chauffeured everywhere and brought take-aways.’

            ‘Who wouldn’t? But surely you’ll tire of it eventually.’

            ‘I can’t imagine it now. But I suppose after
Kite
my face won’t be slapped all over the place the way it is now, so it won’t be a problem any more.’

            ‘I wouldn’t bank on it. Look at people like Sting, or Phil Collins...’

            ‘I’d rather not, thanks.’

            ‘But you might end up like that, might you not?’

            ‘Not. For definite. Once we’ve done all we can with
Kite
I’m going to open a little specialist music shop off Shaftsbury Avenue and spend my days selling Fenders and Gibsons and jamming with elderly session musicians.’

            ‘Really?’

            ‘Of course I’m fucking not! I’ll be living it up! I’ll have fucking millions! And perhaps I’ll buy Wales, so I can have you as my own private serf...Hah! What do you think, Mrs Sexygorgeous Potter?’

            When he came back, even I didn’t recognise him.

            ‘Baggy clothes, sunglasses, hat. The job’s done. Where are we walking?’

            So we’re down at the quiet end of the beach and though I have seen several teenagers staring and obviously wondering, not one has been sufficiently bold to confront him. Which is lovely. I have him all to myself.

            ‘Sunhat! There!’

            ‘Does it say Kiss Me Quick?’

            ‘No....
Reebok
, it looks like. But there’s another one.’

            ‘And what does that say?’

            ‘It says
CJ 4 JP’

            ‘Oh, come
on
...’

            ‘Come on what? I’d make a very good magistrate. Have the likes of you fucking dope-head
Depth
photographers banged up, that’s for sure.’

            ‘Har, har. Very funny. Sandwiches.’

            ‘Sex.’

            ‘
Not
allowed....’

            ‘Sex.
Really
. Over there. You see that boat?’

            ‘What boat?’

            ‘Over there. Way up the beach. Past the windsurfer. Orange sail. Yes?’

            ‘Well look a little past that. There’s some sort of hut. You see? Where some old geezer probably keeps his maggots and so on..’

            ‘Yuck. Yes...’

            ‘Well just beyond that, a little further down the shingle, is an old boat. Upside down. And propped up at one end by an oilcan. Being painted, I suppose. Or pitched, perhaps.’

            ‘Yes....’

            ‘Well that’s it.’

            ‘But it’s deserted over there. I can’t see anyone at all, let alone two people having sex...’

            ‘Well of course you can’t...’

            ‘But you said...’

            ‘What I said was
Sex. Really. Over there
.’

            ‘But there isn’t...’

            ‘But there will be. Just as soon as we’re under it.’

            I said
you’re joking
, and
but we can’t
and even
but what if somebody sees us?
To which Craig quite reasonably replied
I’m not
, and
we can
, and
they won’t
. All of which was true. Like any other oily, boaty, ropey out of the way bit of beach on a sultry summer Saturday evening, it had been passed over in favour of clean bits with deckchairs and proximity to tea stands and kiosks and toilets. And if some crusty old sea dog should happen along here, he’d probably, Craig reasoned, consider it a bonus.

            And my body was clearly in agreement. The gentle heat that had been quietly simmering in my lower torso all afternoon was fired up, whoosh!, like a boiler, before the words ‘under it’ were out of his mouth.

            We jogged the few yards past the windsurfer (surfer abandoned? Drowned?) and on to an area of knobbly, oil darkened shingle, that was littered with old bits of rope and driftwood.

            ‘We can’t do it on this,’ I said, privately expecting we’d manage.

            ‘No probs,’ he replied, veering off across the stones. ‘We’ll use this!’ It was a large slice of ancient tyre tread, culled, no doubt from a junk yard, and to be used, I supposed, as a buffer for the front of a boat.

            That it would provide instead buffering for my backside touched me as too ridiculous for words and I laughed.

            Craig tutted and pulled me by the hand.

            ‘Under that boat, Mrs Potter, and look lively about it, or I’ll have you on fatigues for the rest of the voyage.’

            Obediently, I crawled on in. It was a big, deep boat, and would seat six or so, comfortably. The seats themselves, three wide and greying wooden planks, formed the cross beams of our roof. With the prow propped, and facing seawards, our domed hidey hole put me instantly in mind of a mini Sydney Opera House, thrusting out towards a shimmering blue seascape. Craig, though, had more prosaic matters on his mind.

            ‘You realise that if the Man from Atlantis emerges from the waves here, he’s going to get a cracking view of your arse.’

            ‘And yours.’

            ‘I shall have to keep my shorts on. Can’t afford to be recognised, remember? there’s fuck all space for an autograph session in here.’

            I pulled him towards me. ‘Come on, be serious. Now you’ve got me here I expect to be ravished. Indeed I
demand
to be ravished...’

            ‘So stop talking and let me get on with it.’

            He hooked his thumbs under the hem of my T-Shirt, and slid it up over my head. Cool air brushed my nipples and I thought I might implode.