Julia Gets a Life

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  I don’t think I’ve ever been punched on the nose. I’d certainly no idea how much it hurts. But if you’re going to be punched, who you’re punched by does matter. I did, I concede, do rather well. I got punched on the nose by Heidi Harris, no less; heroine and pin up and Queen of the Teens – the presenter of Saturday! Happening! Live! Max and Emma would be pleased.

  Heidi Harris, (as I find out much later) has a bit of a lurve thing with Jonathan Sky. Except that so has one Kayleigh Wilson, who is Jonathan’s girlfriend (and childhood sweetheart, allegedly) and to whom he is due to become engaged. Last month, it seems, at some music award bash or other, Heidi Harris was spotted moving in for some serious mouth action, by a secretary (and spy) from Gig magazine, who passed on the good news to the incandescent Kayleigh, and then sat back to watch, as the two of them squared up to each other tonight.

  Stop Press! Headline News! Potter’s Best Snap!

  Leading pop photographer, Julia Potter, narrowly escaped permanent disfigurement tonight, when she stepped in to separate two warring women at the glitzy aftershow that mega-group, Kite, put on, after their sell out gig in Cardiff’s CIA.

  Fearless Potter (a young looking 38) found herself slap bang in the middle of a blazing row between Kayleigh Wilson, longtime girlfriend of the band’s charismatic guitarist, Jonathan Sky, and the delectable teen pin-up, Heidi Harris, who’s name has been linked with Sky’s recently and who, it is rumoured, has romantic designs on the musician.

  Wilson (21) said, ‘the woman’s a vampire. She should crawl straight back into the hole she came out of. If she thinks she can get her fangs into Jonathan, she’s got another think coming.’

  Potter recalls that the fists were certainly flying. ‘I stepped in to try and separate them,’ she told us, ‘but they seemed intent on hurting one another. So I got myself between them, and just at that point Heidi lashed out. The punch knocked me senselss.’

  Her only regret? That, actually being in the picture, she wasn’t able to capture the moment herself. ‘The last thing I remember was hearing a snap. And then I passed out,’ she said, ruefully. It wasn’t her nose, fortunately, only her camera – but this is one snap she wont forget for a while!

  And what of Harris? Word is she’s, ahem…gone to ground.

  Okay, so it’s a touch tarted up, but what’s the point in having friends in high places if you can’t make the most of your connections once in a while?

  I didn’t really pass out when she punched me, of course. Just fell in a heap while they carried on fighting. Jacinta, a roadie and Craig James broke them up.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Craig said, mainly to Heidi. Kayleigh, by now, was down on the floor with me, sobbing and clutching the side of her face. I suppose a left hook to rival Prince Naseem is a mandatory requirement for Children’s television presenters these days.

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’ spat the unrepentant celebrity. Though in not quite the same chirpy tone that reverberates around our kitchen on a Saturday morning, it had to be said. ‘This bloody mad cow just started on me…’

  ‘And I’ll bloody well start on you again if you so much as expel air in his direction, d’you hear me?’ Kayleigh was back on her feet and about to launch another offensive when the him in question came jogging across.

  ‘God, can’t you just chill?’ he said (rather unhelpfully, I thought, under the circumstances), then he bundled the scowling Kayleigh away. I was just staggering to my feet, in an effort to be noticed at all, when Craig James said,

  ‘Christ, look at her! She’s bleeding! God! You all right, Judith?’

  ‘It’s Julia….’

  ‘Christ, give her some room, will you? Fucking bloody parties. Christ. Come on! Clear a space, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Uurgh…’ I began, seeing blood on my camera, and all down my vest and in drips on the floor. ‘Uurgh…’ I went on. And then Jax took the picture.

  ‘Uurgh,’ agreed Craig.

  And then I passed out.

  *

  Guess where I am now?

  I came to a few moments later to find I’d been transferred to a sofa, where I lay in a light mist of dizzy exhaustion, while someone well meaning tipped mineral water over my face. Then someone else trundled up with a wheelchair – they have just everything in these five star hotels, don’t they? – and I was dispatched( the lead singer of Kite, no less, pushing) to a suite of rooms up on the hotel’s top floor. Then a doctor appeared (do they keep him in the same cupboard, I wonder?) and pronounced the only fracture to be that of a camera lens cover. No trip to casualty. No ambulance home.

  So they gave me an aspirin and left me to sleep. Which I did, for a while – being bashed up is knackering – and woke up an hour later to find Craig James in the room.

  Now you can say what you like about money and privilege being unimportant, but there is simply nothing like waking up in a very big bed, with very crisp sheets, in a very grand room, with a very wide view, on the very top floor of a very posh hotel to make you rather covet some. But it a tad unsettling to then realise that it is the middle of the night, that you are barely dressed (Jacinta had taken off most of my clothing – I am in my own pants but an unfamiliar man’s vest), and that you are alone in a room with a (male) virtual stranger. Who is probably at the apex of his virility curve and who is also, I notice, only in pants again. And, moreover, someone who is young enough not to have close acquaintance with stretch marks, cellulite, and stomachs that move like undercooked omelettes, and who would probably vomit if offered the chance.

  I know this, incidentally, because just before I met Richard I had an aborted flingette with a lecturer from a neighbouring college. He was forty two, but he may as well have been ninety once he removed his Aran sweater. Shockingly hairy, and his skin didn’t fit. Does the same apply the other way around? Will Craig James – who can obviously get his leg over at the drop of a eyelid – try to take advantage of me? Will he part-ravish me then get a dekko at my lower abdomen, and go Yeuch? And be sick? And which would be worse? The assault on my person, or the humiliation of proving too grotesque to be worth it?

  I watch Craig James while I get my bearings. He is draped over an armchair, his long legs flopped over one arm, in front of the biggest TV screen I have seen outside of an American diner themed restaurant, on which there is some sort of ball game in progress. He is wearing headphones, and has a half empty beer bottle plugged by a finger and dangling over the other side of the chair. He looks so young, yet completely at home in his palatial surroundings; like the child of a diplomat, perhaps. I recall that I read that Kite is comprised of four working class lads born in working class London. Yet the young guy here with me looks like he knows he belongs.

  Wide awake now, I rustle the covers a little. He catches the movement, and turns around. Pop! goes the bottle, as he pulls out his finger. He yanks off the earphones and grunts an acknowledgement.

  ‘Party over?’ I say.

  He picks up a small games console – like Max’s but different – from the reproduction desk, and switches it on, absently, as he talks. (Good God, these things must be breeding.)

  ‘Christ, no,’ he says. ‘It’s only just started. They’ll be at it till dawn.’ He scratches his chest. It is now half past three.

  ‘Oh. Don’t you want to…’

  ‘No, I fucking don’t. I can’t stand aftershows. Can’t stand fucking parties at all.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Fucking hate them. It’s all bloody liggers and sycophants. And arseholes who just happen to know your auntie’s next door neighbour, and slappers who want to shove their tits in your face. Wanna beer?’ He stands up and stretches muscular arms. Guitar player’s arms, I suppose.

  Rock stars want to have sex with anything going, don’t they? Or maybe he’s gay. Which would be a waste. If I was a young slapper I think I’d probably feel the same.

  ‘Oh. Yes, please, and could I use your er….’

/>   ‘Help yourself. It’s just through there.’ He reaches into a very maxi mini-bar.

  ‘I’ve..er..got nothing on. Do you have something I could borrow, maybe?’

  I feel like I’m asking for a napkin at a tea party. But he shrugs and says,

  ‘So? I’m not looking,’ and turns ostentatiously back towards the TV.

  He does look, of course. I catch sight of him in the bathroom mirror as I pull the light cord. He waves as I shut the door. A ‘how about it?’ wave or an ironic wave? A wave that says ‘so what’, perhaps?

  So what, for definite. I look the pits. And so old. I would be relieved if it wasn’t so depressing. Even Colin wouldn’t fancy me looking like this. Even an octogenarian with inoperable cataracts and a stick would make a run for it.

  My hair is not so much spiky as just a wodge of felt, and my face looks just like it should do. Dirty, pasty, puffed up and slightly bloody still around the nose, and with the beginnings of a monster black eye. I pinch one of the selection of toothbrushes on offer – for guests of the guests? – and give my mouth a good going over, then decide that I’m filthy and strip off my top for a wash. Under the downlighters, my boobs look like two peeled bananas. I put the vest back on and shuffle out again then I sit back down on the end of the bed. It doesn’t cover my bottom, but the cellulite problem seems largely academic. He is, in any case, involved in some sort of complex on-screen manoeuvre. He hands me a beer, then sits back in his chair.

  ‘Your face,’ he says, snorting . ‘Do you get stuck in like that a lot, then? I suppose you have to be a bit handy in your line of work.’

  ‘Erm..yes,’ I agree, thinking of the fist fights I frequently referee over Jake and Fizz.

  ‘But she’s a slag, that one.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘A slag. That Harris bird. Jon’s a prat.’ He shakes his head then tips it back and takes a swig of his beer.

  ‘It’s true, then.’

  ‘Course. He’s always putting it about. Don’t know why Kay sticks by him…’ Which shows his age. And his innocence. Which is nice, I suppose. But the reality is that having a rich rock star fiancé probably isn’t too tough an existence, particularly if you’re feisty enough to repel all boarders. But perhaps she’s met her match in the Valkrie-like Heidi. I go along though.

  ‘Perhaps she loves him.’

  ‘Bollocks. It’s dosh.’

  Oh, all right then. Bollocks it is. I drink some beer, which tastes like nectar. I realise I haven’t drunk anything in ages. Or eaten. The alcohol is giving me a buzz.

  ‘I guess I should think about getting home.’

  ‘Oh, aren’t you staying?’

  ‘Um, I don’t think that would be…’

  He snorts again. He’s a laugh a minute, this one. ‘In the hotel.’

  Cringe on cringe. ‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course. No, I’m not. I’m local. I only live… oh! And I’ve got Jacinta Cave staying with me. I wonder what’s happened to her? I should find her, shouldn’t I? She’ll be wondering…’

  Craig James puts a hand up and shakes his head. Then he leans forward in his chair, legs apart, elbows on knees, hands on the bottle between his legs, expression suddenly engaging. He looks just like he does in one of the pictures on the album, and I wish my camera was handy so I could capture it myself, for Emma.

  ‘Jax,’ he says, ‘will be wondering nothing. Except for perhaps where the KY is.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘She’ll be shagging old Nige about now.’

  ‘Oh.’ The manager.

  ‘They’re mates.’

  ‘Mates?’

  ‘Yeah. Like, good friends.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And they usually meet up if we’re touring.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And his wife’s not around, so it’s good for him.’

  ‘Oh.’ Oh. I’ll bet. For ‘engaging’, read leering. I stand up.

  ‘Another beer? Or are you going? And are you taking that with you?’

  He means the sheet, which I’ve inadvertently caught in my knickers. I pluck it out and thrust it back down on the bed.

  ‘I think I’m going, actually. Except that I don’t know where my trousers are.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘You having a moody?’

  ‘No. I just think it’s time I got back to my children.’

  ‘Children?’

  Hah! Thought that would floor him.

  ‘Two.’

  ‘No kidding.’

  He looks vaguely animated and even impressed. Despite myself, I’m pleased.

  ‘Eleven and fifteen.’

  ‘No! Cool. You don’t look it at all.’ (Note: Young people are notoriously bad at guessing older people’s ages. Note two: What constitutes ‘at all’?) ‘So, where are they?’

  ‘At home, with my friend. Who is staying the night.’

  ‘No dad?’

  ‘Ex. I mean, not ex-dad. But ex- husband. I mean separated. I mean…Anyway. Trousers?’

  ‘I expect they’ve been sent down to be laundered by now. Why separated?’

  ‘He slept with someone else. So I dumped him.’ I’ve got that off pat now, I notice. Wordage, tone, style etc. He says,

  ‘Fucking bastard. I’m sorry,’ and, incongruously, he seems to mean that as well. ‘Look,’ he says suddenly. ‘Why don’t you stay and have another beer? If you’re friend is staying over, then why don’t you make the most of it? I would.’

  ‘You sound like you know all about it.’

  ‘I do. My old man wrote the guide book.’

  I take the beer he hands me. We sit again, and I have the horrible feeling I’m about to take on the mantle of Mother Substitute. Again.

  ‘Got any Pringles?’ I say.

  So I stayed a bit longer and we talked about how his old lady was completely ‘fucked about’ by his old man and about bastards generally. There weren’t any Pringles but there was a breathtaking selection of savoury nibbly things, and lashings of beer. Then he lent me some jeans, and did an elaborate autograph for Emma on the hotel notepaper, which put me in mind of the experimental signatures we used to try out at high school. His involved a little dog, with floppy ears. He then let me take a couple more shots of him, gave me the playstation portable- that-wasn’t – just like that! – for Max, and called me a taxi. And then I went home.

  *

  ‘But what’s he like?’

  ‘He was nice. He was a very nice young man.’

  ‘God, Mum, you sound just like Gran, do you know that?’

  ‘But he was! That’s exactly what he was.’

  ‘But was he gorgeous?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes. If you’re fifteen he’s a nice looking guy. They all are. Well, maybe not that Sky bloke, so much. But he obviously doesn’t seem to have any shortage of admirers…’

  ‘And his jeans. Can’t I have them, Mum. Please?’

  ‘Wow! A VS! Yes!’ says Max, quite possibly computing rental charges as we speak.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ I say. ‘I shall be giving them back to him.’

  ‘But look what Max got. It’s not fair. And he’s got yours.’

  ‘The hotel has. And they know where to send them..’

  ‘Oh, but please. He won’t miss them. He’s probably got millions.’

  Which is true, and, in fact, as I left, he said keep them. But I won’t. I will wash them, and send them back via Colin.

  ‘So. How was last night?’ I say. ‘Everything okay?’

  Max points at his sister. ‘Except that she was on the phone for an hour. To her boyfriend.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t!’

  ‘Yes you were.’

  ‘Yes, she was. One hour and ten minutes, in fact.’ Lily shuffles into the kitchen and sits down. She is wearing my dressing gown. ‘But it was him that phoned, so where is the problem, Max? Yeurrgh, I feel sick. Good God! Your eye!’

  By the time Lil
y has inspected it another taxi pulls up, with Jacinta inside. I’d decided, given my knowledge of her probable activity and location, that she could find her own way home once she was ready. Which she has. And bar the black eye, she looks worse than me. Which was striven for, probably. And, if not, as Moira Bugle would doubtless say, SHR.

  ‘You know what’s worse than starting the day with a hangover?’ she says, chattily. I consider quipping about guilty consciences, but can’t be bothered. I shake my head instead. ‘Starting the day still pissed up, because you know it’s all still to come. Jesus, that’s some black eye you’ve got there. Ha, ha! Let’s get some copy rung through to Colin, shall we?’ She waggles her hand in her pocket. ‘I’ve got the film here, and I’ll be back in town by lunchtime. We could make Monday’s Herald, with a bit of luck.’

  ‘What? Mum in the paper?’ clamours Emma. ‘Cool!’

  Max sighs.

  ‘I just can’t believe Heidi Harris would do something like that,’ he says sadly.

  Richard, naturally, arrived not too long after, and I had to let him come in because the kids weren’t ready. We’d all been too busy helping Jax (who I provisionally/temporarily forgave) with her copy, and deciding which superlatives to shower upon me.

  ‘What on earth have you been up to?’ he asked, clutching a mug of coffee and looking like he was round to try and flog double glazing.

  ‘I got involved in a fight,’ I said, grandly. I was beginning to rather enjoy my celebrity status.

  ‘A fight? You?’

  ‘Yes, me. I was trying to separate two women who were having a punch up and I got this for my trouble.’

  ‘Hmmm. And did you?’

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘Separate them.’