But at least we’re talking. Which has to be good. A couple of glasses of wine down the line and Howard has jollied me out of my grouchy mood (which he hadn’t noticed anyway), and instead, we’re into philosophy, big time. I’ve never known a man so able to have a conversation about feelings without walking away or trying to incorporate football into the conversation.
Me; ‘Do you ever get the feeling that a person’s motivation for doing something is sometimes the opposite of what you thought, and that, in response, your own reaction can sometimes be counter productive to the effect you intended?’
Richard; It’s funny you should say that. I was reading Danny Baker in the Times yesterday, and he was saying something very similar about the Hoddle/ Gasgoigne situation. By the way, it’s the EUFA cup second round tonight. What’s for tea?’
Howard is different. Howard likes ideas. Howard is in touch with himself. Quite soon, I realise that our kebab plates (remnants of pitta welded to same by virtue of saturated fat solidifying etc) are gone and that he’s pouring me more wine and that he’s put something soft and twangy on the CD. And that we’re close together on the sofa and that the light is unaccountably dimmer and that the cushions (in a range of accent colours to complement the knick-knacks) are making their presence felt more as an embodiment of squashiness rather than of naffness, and that I have taken off my shoes.
‘It’s good to be with someone who you can feel completely yourself with,’ Howard is saying. He too is without footwear, having been finally persuaded that I am quite old enough to go home (eventually) by taxi so that he can have a glass of wine too. He has had four (absolute minimum), and has opened another bottle.
‘Oh, you’re so right, ‘ I agree. ‘Sometimes, you know, with Richard, I felt so much that I was channelling my focus so completely into my husband and family that I had lost – in a deep sense – what it was that I am. D’you know what I mean?’
‘Mmm. Sometimes a person needs a jolt, a sudden loss of equilibrium, in order to find the inner space they need to understand who they are, don’t they?’
‘And it’s hard when you’re married, because marriage is, by it’s very nature, an artificial state. You have to, like, compromise your identity; make life choices that are not necessarily those you would make for yourself. That must, by necessity, cause disruption to your psyche, and inner conflict. Yes. Inner conflict. D’you know what I mean?’
‘I don’t know about marriage. I don’t do that stuff. But inner conflict is a big thing with me. Some days, it’s like I’m, oh, I don’t know, under the surface all the time? And like I can’t break through it? I get glimpses of the person I could be and then – plunge! I’m back struggling for the light again. Whoever coined the phrase Existential Aloneness must have had me in mind. That really speaks to me. And…..more wine?’
‘I’m sorry? Oh, no thanks. I’m drunk.’
‘Drink your way through it. That’s what I always do.’
‘Oh, all right. Just a teeny, teeny splosh. To there! No! Okay. Thats all. Okay?’
‘Okay. Sir. You should be a teacher. You’re really quite a strong person, aren’t you? That’s what I’ve always liked about you. You are so in control of your life. So focussed. Even when all this business with Richard and that Rhiannon happened, and you came to me, and you cried, and so on… you had such dignity, such self possession, and I thought…’
‘Wait! You called her that Rhiannon. Why did you do that? I mean, it’s great that you did. I’m really pleased that you did because it says a lot for how you feel about me – in a way, sort of – but it’s like it’s been really interesting, because I’ve been reading all these books…’
‘Which ones?’
‘Oh, billions. All the ones in the health and lifestyle section in the Central Library, mainly. But it’s like I’ve been working really hard on trying to maintain my dignity by not sinking into the usual trap of just hating Rhiannon and wanting to hit her or something, and trying to get in touch with my finer feelings and understand that she did what she did because she is flawed and has crises or problems earlier in her life that have made her the way she is…’
‘What, a bitch, you mean?’
‘Yes! But, like, someone who I can pity and not hate. Do you know what I mean? And the whole ‘that Rhiannon’ bit is something I’ve been trying really hard not to think in terms of – for the children as much as anything..’
‘Of course.’
‘Of course. But it makes me feel so good that the result is that people I care about do it on my behalf instead. It’s sort of enriching. It enriches me to hear you say it, whereas it damages me to do it myself. You know?’
‘She’ll always be that Rhiannon for me now. Oh….. You’re such a lovely person, Julia.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Let me cuddle you. You’re so warm, I can almost feel the heat from you. Mmmmm. I’m so glad I’ve got to know you better. You’ve always been, well there, I suppose. A small glow in the day – on the days that I’ve seen you – but I don’t think it ever really registered with me before…’
‘Me neither. It’s been exactly the same for me! Why? It’s like, karma, or something…’
‘Karma, that fits. More wine?’
‘Should I? Should you?’
‘No, but isn’t that just a phoney restriction society imposes on us? Why can’t we just be? Why shouldn’t we…’
‘I mean mainly because I think we’ve had enough….I mean…I mean put your glass down, Howard. You’re right. I am a very strong person and I am in control of my life and I have decided that what I would most like to do now is kiss you….’
‘Would you? Then I should let you, shouldn’t I?’
And so now we’re kissing. Being, as we are, in a cuddling position already, I have simply tilted my head back a little, pulled Howard’s head forward a little, and moved our faces together (slightly juxtaposed, naturally) so that our lips touch. As soon as they do, I am conscious of an almost unbearable surge of a familiar chemical reaction (I just can’t help but analyse!) that starts deep in my stomach and moves outwards and downwards, so that within seconds my body, from navel to knee, is throbbing, pulsating, and quite possibly glowing – a sort of physical version of the bleepy red spot on those futuristic tracking maps the baddies use in James Bond films, to keep tabs on his Aston Martin.
I am also (and doesn’t this just tell you everything about how crummy it is to be a self-conscious teenager) struggling mightily with a desire to put my hand in Howard’s trousers. As if! Richard aside (our sexual history is an entirely different matter) if someone told me twenty years ago that I’d be anxious to grab a man’s equipment while kissing him, I would have guffawed. Putting your hand on your boyfriend’s trousers and feeling his willy was something girls did solely because if they didn’t they might get chucked. Or was I missing something somewhere? In my case, by the time I had discovered that there were feelings you got in your stomach that caused you to behave in that way of your own volition, I was already at the clothes off and in bed stage, with Richard.
I tighten my hand around Howard’s neck and open my mouth around his warm, moist lips. His lips part also, though sluggishly, it must be said, and his hands move in languid circles over my back, bumping into one another occasionally and snagging, here and there, on the fabric of my top. But they do not seem to be exhibiting any pressing need to grapple with my breasts or make a stab at broaching my waistband. So I stop kissing him.
‘Are you all right?’ I say. I sound just like my mother.
‘Mmmm….um, actually, no. I feel sick.’
Grrreat.
Chapter 14
I am in control of my life. I am in touch with;
Humanity (have taken charge of Lily’s unexpected pregnancy crisis)
Reality (have squared up to Richard re. ansafone squabble and am mentally prepared for future ownership disputes)
Sexuality (am so horny am ram
pant, and cannot wait for Howard to recover from his stomach bug/hangover combi)
And now I have an amazing career development too. Excitement, and big time.
In actual fact, I am a tad irritable with Howard. If he thinks I’m so great then why the hell was he sloshing Chianti down his face at such a lick last night? Where was his self control? (drink wise). And where was his loss of control? (sex wise). Perhaps it was just youth and inexperience (oh, come on, Julia). Or, or, OR – maybe he was nervous! Yes. That must be it. He is shy. Of course! Perhaps I need to offload Max and Emma for paternal overnight bonding session, and have Howard (have Howard) round here.
But I am buoyed enough by today’s exciting development to recall that I am;
Strong
A warm person
So lovely
A small glow in Howard’s day
Focussed
also, that I have
Dignity
Self possession
It’s a pretty scrumptious collection of things to be described as. Even if most [JAH2] of it (no, only a bit of it) is not true.
Anyway, being in possession of all these fine attributes (plus only half the hangover I expected – or is my liver showing signs of acclimatisation to its recently increased alcohol intake?) led me to spend a happy hour this morning compiling yet another list. A list of Things I have never done (two columns; a. wish I had, and will try to / b. don’t intend to, if can help it).
And it was spooky that I got the career development phone call just then because whereas my b. list included such unappetising items such as changed bulb in outside carriage lamp and cleaned out dustbins, my a. list was in danger of turning into fiction/utter garbage; become character actress/children’s TV presenter or similar, and be rock star (more of which later!). The only sensible items on it were had own flat (room in hall of residence does not count) and be more considered/grown up generally.(Howard’s comments notwithstanding – Howard is in lurve with me and thinks I am perfect.)
But now something really exciting has happened to me, I also find myself feeling passionately wistful (if that is strictly possible) about not having led a more driven and achieving life up to now. Not that I feel my life has been any more unexciting than most people’s. Just that I feel there is a potential for greatness inside me which I have chosen to ignore. Or am I just arrogant?
Note; definition of being passionately wistful; standing at bedroom/Time Of Your Life Photo Studio window wringing hands/sighing heavily and saying oh, why didn’t I stay in the New Malden Junior Theatre Club? Why? Why? I have so much to give.
At least I am achieving one item on my list. I am being considered, ordered and reflective in my thinking. Indeed, I am thinking at a rate previously unheard of in this house. But I must take care not to become over analytical and introspective. No one will like me any more if I go around prattling on about being in touch with my real motivations unless I am drunk and with like minded person i.e. Howard.
Anyhow, stuff profundity… something really exciting has happened to me.YYYYesssssss!!!!!!!
And it’s all thanks to Colin. I could kiss that man. Actually, I doubt that I could. But Colin’s a darling, an absolute darling. If it hadn’t been for getting married, having kids, wanting to spend a chunk of every day watching Neighbours and eating Hob Nobs I could have really been someone, photographically speaking. I could have been famous, rich, and also well stocked with classic quality separates from Harvey Nichols. Colin would have seen to it, because Colin was my mentor.
Richard’s definition of Colin; a camp, slimy hack with nicotine stained teeth.
My definition of Colin; all of the above, plus very nice bloke and good mate.
To say that Colin discovered me would be a tad melodramatic, but nevertheless, he did. He really did. He will definitely get a mention on the jacket when my first collection of photographs is published.
Colin was, and still is, editor of Depth magazine, a kind of middle brow Sunday supplement. You know the type. Wouldn’t tackle anything as stressful as genocide in obscure African states but equally, wouldn’t stoop to what minor celebrities like to eat for TV dinners. Think; unusual careers – pub sign painters or people who make handbags out of smoked salmon. And that’s pretty much the mark. Lots of moody black and white photography, four to five features per week type thing.
Anyway, what Colin did was judge a photographic competition; a sort of bright new star type thing that they held every year. And I won it. I was nineteen and already at college and, kicking around a bit during the summer break (and feeling a bit full of myself) I entered. I did a whimsical kind of collage picture called ‘the garden gate’. For it, I assembled;
My mum’s cat, Tiddle
My old dog, Piper
A washing up bowl full of water (splashed, dirty)
An empty milk bottle (on its side)
A squashed football
A Sindy Doll Punk Rocker that my mum had strangely kept as the main token of my childhood (food colouring plus bits of bin bag and safety pins)
I shot it in black and white at sunset (for the shadows; shadows are good) and fortuitously, Mrs Belvedere (my mum’s next door neighbour) happened by with her shopping trolley and her hair in a head scarf that looked like a tea towel, just as I was about to go click. Then the cat spat and made a grab for her stockings.
Colin said ‘...shows an outstanding flair for composition coupled with impressive technical ability….’ and a lot more encouraging stuff along those lines. And Depth were, I recall, particularly impressed by the ‘juxtaposition of disparate images (squalor/old lady/fluffy pets/aggression etc) that captured the very essence of modern urban life’.
Well, crap it may have been, New Malden it may have been, but it paid rather well; I got £500 plus a Pentax to die for and best, a commission from Depth magazine to take photographs for a feature on what punks got up to down the King’s Road on a Saturday afternoon.
(Which was, it turned out, mainly things like buying refill pads and half pounds of mince, pretty much like most students. But they didn’t put that in the feature, of course.)
I’ve been doing stuff for Colin on and off ever since. Didn’t land a job on Depth as soon as I came out of college (as if!), but, while I beavered happily at a small advertising photography studio (anything from tampon tests to trainers), Colin would give me the odd freelance commission, and made it clear that a little way down the line there’d be significantly more. But Richard and I were pretty much welded by then. By this time he was making his mark in the sludgy concrete of town planning, cutting a swathe through the beaurocratic mush. He was going places. And he was my hero. Does a Good Housekeeping gene get expressed in young women? That makes weddings and carpets and domesticity so desirable? Scary but, in my case, undeniably true. So I married, got pregnant, got a baby, got sidetracked. Somehow career plans seemed largely irrelevant; like pension provision, a next-year-perhaps kind of thing. By the time Max came along, of course, I’d all but given up freelancing; Richard had been offered his partnership in Cardiff, and having moved one hundred and forty miles westwards, I wasn’t very handy for an impromptu shoot. Even if I’d been able. Richard worked long hours, and there was a clear if unspoken division of labour in our marriage; to have breached it would have involved not being a-proper-mother, and guilt, and Richard sulking and so on. But (thank God!) I did the odd thing for Depth still; kept the pilot light going, kept a smidgen of career aspiration alive.
And now this. This! This one’s in a completely different league. On a completely different planet. In a parallel universe even, with aliens and lots of different sized moons. I am so excited. Who shall I tell first?
In fact, I am going to tell no-one. I have read that the need to tell other human beings about one’s successes and excitements is a Victim Behaviour. It involves becoming reliant on other people for understanding/fulfilment/happiness etc, which in turn gives them power to make you unhappy, based o
n their response – or lack of. Apparently. If they should ask, fine. But it is of no consequence either way.
‘Mum?’
‘Julia?’
‘Mum!’
‘Hello dear. I’m glad you called. I telephoned last night and that French girl of yours was there. And you know I can’t make head nor tail of anything she says. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, of course it is.’
‘So where were you?’
‘I went out.’
‘Went out? You went out last week, didn’t you?’
Great heavens above. What is it with people?
‘Yes, and I went out again this week. To see a film.’
‘But I thought your French girl said you were seeing Max’s teacher.’
Hmmmm.
‘I went to see a film with Max’s teacher.’
‘Oh. Is this a school thing, then?’
‘Well, no. Not exactly. Except that Mr Ringrose and I thought we’d like to go and see a film together. If you’ve no objections.’
‘All right. Don’t get testy with me, dear. Anyway, you’re all right. That’s all I wanted to know…...’
Hmmm.
‘Okay.’
‘So why did you telephone? And how’s Richard?’’
Hrrruummph.
‘Julia?’
Julia Gets a Life Page 9