Julia Gets a Life

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  I agreed that there wasn’t. Then he coughed and went quiet. And then suddenly said,

  ‘Julia, look, you don’t have to answer this. But, I don’t know…I get the feeling you’ve…Look, have you found someone? I mean, someone, something…. you know, serious?’

  Oh, God. But he was right. I didn’t have to answer it. Wasn’t sure how I felt about answering it. Wasn’t even sure what it was that I’d found. I said, without hostility,

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I need to know where I stand. The lease on my flat runs out in a month. And I don’t want to renew it. I hate it here. I need to know what I should be planning. Plus I need to know if there’s….’

  I stopped him. I really couldn’t handle one of these conversations right now.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

  ‘Oh. I thought so.’

  I could hear him sigh, take a breath. Then a long, long silence. ‘Okay. Good. As long as I know where we are at. So. Okay.’

  When I put the phone down, I felt really, really, really guilty. But why? What did I have to feel guilty about? After supper I drove round to Howard’s for an hour. We didn’t talk much; just watched TV together. But when I left he said,

  ‘Funny. You know what I keep thinking about?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I keep thinking about how I’m the last. How I’m all alone now. You know? And how there won’t be any more. My genes will die with me. D’you know, last night in bed I realised that there is absolutely no-one else left. My only living relative now is a spinster aunt of eighty-odd who is completely demented. In a nursing home in Kent, somewhere. And my whole family is littered with childlessness and early death. It’s almost as if natural selection decided that we weren’t up to scratch. Look at me. I’m 29 and I haven’t got a soul in the world. And I’m gay, so I haven’t got a stake in the future, either. It’s going to take a lot of getting used to, I think.’

  I drove home and considered the enormity of what he was saying. He had nothing and no-one, except a guy who was cheating on him. It was so, so sad. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. You can’t fix other people’s lives.

  In the middle of the night I woke up in a panic, the depth of Howard’s loneliness suddenly clear. Supposing he thought his own life wasn’t worth hanging on to? I phoned him. Nick answered. Said,

  ‘Who the hell’s this?’

  ‘I was worried about Howard. He seemed very low, and I…’

  ‘For God’s sake! We’re asleep!’

  Then his voice changed. ‘Look, thanks for coming and that. But he’s fine. Really. I’ll let him know that you called. Everything’s fine.’

  Based on who’s criteria?

  Bastard. Thank heavens he isn’t a female. Lest Howard expect us to become girly friends.

  Butterflies. Big time.

  Tuesday. Time Of Your Life. (I don’t think so.) Big bad A.M. makes an unscheduled visit.

  ‘It has come to my notice,’ he says, without smiling (even nastily), ‘that you’ve been involved in some sort of public order offence.’

  Out comes the article, dog eared and smudgy. No more Mr Nice Guy. No more plaudits and praise.

  ‘No I haven’t,’ I say. ‘It was another photographer. Donna Talbot, her name is. Check with the Herald if you like.’

  ‘Your name is what’s written…’

  ‘But it’s not true. Like I told you…’

  ‘The point is that we’ve got an image to think about. The family image of time Of Your Life. It doesn’t say much for our family ethos if our staff are involved in criminal activities, does it?’

  ‘I have not been involved in any criminal activities, and I resent the implication that I have. I told you, if you would like to ring…’

  ‘But the damage is done now, nevertheless.’

  ‘But that isn’t my fault.’

  ‘It’s your fault for being involved.’

  ‘But I wasn’t!’

  ‘Are you trying to pretend that you haven’t been working with musicians and the like?’

  Musicians? As in international terrorists and all round scum bags? Oh, I see.

  ‘Only tame ones.’

  ‘Being flippant won’t help you.’

  ‘Being rude won’t help you.’

  Oops.

  Butterflies, Big time.

  But, boy, am I glad it’s Wednesday. What with feeling bad about Richard, and fretting about Howard, and then (of course) feeling bad about feeling like I needed to get away, it was all I could do to be nice to the children. And then I felt bad about feeling like that about them.

  There’s no doubt that the whole meet young, get married, have kids, stay married, men in fields, women home darning and suchlike lifestyle serves a purpose.

  But not my purpose. Not at this time. At this time all I want to do is get to London, get the book sorted, get another commission (or, at least a bit of a sniff of one) get somewhere with Craig, get happy, get laid. I can’t think beyond that. It all gets too complicated. My mind will crash if I think even a moment too far.

  I fetch up at Paddington exactly on schedule and taxi it down (on flash bitch expenses) to Soho. The offices of the book publishing sector of the publishing empire Colin works for are just off a street of pornography vendors. Sex, it seems is everywhere today. It is just before lunchtime on a hot day and already I’m dizzy with desire. Now I’m here it’s as if the previous ten days didn’t exist; that I was dropped into a sitcom or comedy drama that turned out to be more of a play for today. And now I’ve slipped out; back to me-time, reality. Which is peculiar, as Brighton still seems like a dream.

  There is a small knot of people outside the company’s entrance and I have to ‘pardon’ and ‘excuse me’ and ‘I’m sorry’ continuously in order to make my way to the front. Once I am there though I am immediately admitted, because Colin has been waiting in the Foyer to meet me.

  ‘Sweet! Look at you! You look such a babe! Let me pick up your bag for you. Journey okay? Look at you! – here, we’ll take the lift up – are you hot? Can I get you a can of something?’

  ‘I’m fine, ‘ I say, pleased with my sartorial thinking. (The mauve, strappy, lace thing with a jacket on top.) ‘Is everyone here?’

  ‘All but Davey Dean, who’s shopping for a new electric toothbrush, for reasons best known to himself. He’s going to join us for lunch. Anyway, here we are.’

  Butterflies. Big time.

  And, finally, as if I’ve willed him into being by the power of longing alone, there he is again.

  He is half sitting, half standing at the edge of an illuminated desk, upon which are arranged swathes of transparencies. He is wearing a khaki Kite T-shirt (Why not? I recall him remarking. I get them free. And they’re good quality), a pair of dark, baggy jeans with rolled over turn ups, and green neon trainers that I recognise as being the ones Max would like. His fringe hangs in a flop over his brows, and the light from a sun shaft has painted a gilded stripe across it. The leg off the floor swings to and fro slowly, and one hand holds a pen, which he taps on his knee.

  He is too, too beautiful. I almost find myself hoping I can sneak in unnoticed, because my heart’s pumping blood round at such a great rate that I’m sure once our eyes meet, a log jam will happen, and I’ll fall in an ungainly heap on the floor.

  But I can’t sneak in unnoticed, because Colin makes a big fuss about letting everyone know I’ve arrived, and Nigel comes up and hugs me like we were in Nursery school together, and the rest of Kite (bar Davey) mouth friendly hellos. I’m introduced to Ffion and Patrick and Andy, who are all very friendly and are in charge of production and who’s names I immediately and completely forget. And all the while he’s still in place on the desk edge and his eyes are focused on me.

  And then there is some sort of meeting.

  Much of which I fail to take in. But unnoticeably so, it seems. Perhaps because of the diversity of humanity that
one finds in fields known as ‘creative’. It is only when everyone agrees ‘lunch’ and then move, that I re-focus my brain and move also.

  The restaurant is one of those favoured by celebrities. The clientele are mostly people with familiar but un-nameable faces, and business types striving to look like they couldn’t care less either way. Kite cause the smallest, politest of ripples then everyone gets back to not looking at each other.

  There is a lot of cheerful, self-congratulatory chit-chat while orders are taken and drinks are dispensed. Craig is seated two down on our big circular table, so I have him in profile, but our eyes cannot meet unless we turn to achieve it. I concentrate hard while one of the publishing trio (Patrick or Andy?) fill me in on the next stage of the production of the book. He’s talking about printing and paper coatings and covers, all of which floats straight up to the ceiling. (Though I do not worry. I have motherhood neurones that I know will not fail me. I can cope with any number of different inputs at once. And my swoon state is simply a filter.) I choose some sort of warm salad, then excuse myself and set off for the loo.

  Like many of its ilk, this toilet is themed. And the theme seems to be something like ‘consider the twig.’ Once I am able to find a stretch of mirror that isn’t fronted by a spidery arrangement in a frosted glass specimen bottle, I take heart from the fact that I don’t, astonishingly, look in the least how I feel. By rights I should be flushed, a touch sweaty, with my pupils dilated and my hair stuck to my face. In fact I look fine. Sort of mauve and wispy and of a Cadbury’s Flake-ad persuasion. But with the appropriate power line of the jacket in place. I touch up my lipstick – a tedious ritual – but my copy of Female was clear on the point. Women-who-win wouldn’t dream of having bare lips – akin, it seems, to going to a meeting with your breasts hanging out. Or, horror, hair on your legs.

  I emerge to continue my trial by endorphins (or is it pheromones, or is it estrogen, perhaps?) to find the chief executioner loitering outside.

  ‘Gotcha,’ he says – though quietly, and (thankfully) not sounding in the least like Noel Edmonds.

  He takes both my hands in his and weaves our fingers together.

  ‘How are you. How are you?’

  ‘Actually, I’m trembling.’

  ‘I can feel it.’ He pulls our joined hands around his back so that our bodies are pressed closely together. He smells of soap powder and clean hair and some kind of deodorant. I want to eat him.

  ‘I can’t stop it. I think I’m going to run out of adrenaline soon. Either that or die. Which wouldn’t be very timely, as I haven’t made a will or made love to you yet.’

  He lets go of my hands and winds his own around my shoulders.

  ‘Actually, I’ve done a recce. There’s a cupboard right here, Mrs Potter, if you’re desperate.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  He presses me tighter against him.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think we’re going to miss the champagne sorbet if we don’t get back soon.’

  ‘Fuck the champagne bloody sorbet.’

  Then he looks down. ‘Excellent choice of footwear. You’re a good four inches taller. And as you have rather long legs in relation to your torso…..yes. I think it might work. What do you think?’

  ‘About my footwear?’

  ‘About your height. In relation to…er…mine.’

  ‘Supposing…’

  ‘There’s no lock. I’ve checked. That’s the whole point. If we’re standing against the door then it serves the same purpose, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What about the noise?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sing. That should drown out your grunting.’

  ‘So the plan is to have it in the bookshops late November, early December. The release date for the album is December 1st, right?’

  We return separately to the table, to find that not only have our sorbets been and gone, but that our main courses have also been despatched back to the kitchen, to keep warm. Craig says,

  ‘Sorry. Bumped into a friend in the cloakroom.’

  A grinning Nigel calls the waiter to bring back our meals. Craig turns to me.

  ‘God, what happened to you, Julia? Your neck’s gone all red. Are you sickening for something?’

  Okay. Smart ass. Ha, ha. I get redder.

  But then I rally. ‘Warm air hand dryer. It’s a genetic reaction. I’m told it’s a little like prickly heat. My mum gets it.’

  ‘But not as often as you must do, I’ll bet. Ah, my T-bone. Top food here, eh, Nige?’

  And so on and so forth, until three glasses of wine later I make a decision.

  A decision not to make any further decisions about my life and rather, to go (again?) with fate’s own ebb and flow and to take something positive from every encounter, and spread love and happiness wherever I go. Or something like that, just as Howard advised. You never know when you’re number’s up, do you? I say so.

  ‘You’re wasted,’ remarks Craig as he heaves me into the car. Our publishing friends, apart from Colin, have gone now. He and Nigel look on benignly, like uncles.

  I smile a happy little smile as the car sighs away.

  ‘Not wasted,’ I correct. ‘Just euphoric.’

  Craig tells the driver to take us to his place, then slides the glass partition across. I still can’t get over the concept of having cars roll up whenever you a step out of a building. It seems so bizarre. So decadent.

  I arrange myself decoratively against the black leather as we slide smoothly along. There is space enough in here to pose for an old master. Craig remembers my seat belt, and the brush of his forearm against the front of my thigh reminds me that I just made love, standing up, in a cupboard full of brooms and cash and carry loo rolls. Or did I dream it? So vast and diverse has been the range of my sexual fantasies about Craig over the last ten days that a cupboard scenario must have been among them. But none, as I can recall, involve me making much noise, bar the odd tuneful sigh of abandon. I nudge him.

  ‘Do I grunt? Really?’

  ‘Well, it’s more of a low throaty moan, I suppose.’

  ‘Then why do you say grunt? It makes me sound like a pig.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. I find it really sexy.’

  ‘Oink, oink, oink. You find that sexy?’

  ‘That’s not the noise you make. You do more of a ccrrraaaagch sound.’

  ‘Do I? That’s horrible.’

  ‘Believe me, it isn’t.’

  ‘That turns you on then, does it?’

  He slides a hand across my leg and traces a meandering route along the inside of my thigh.

  ‘Everything about you turns me on. Ah, here we are.’

  Craig speaks briefly to the driver and we clamber out. We are in Chelsea, in one of the wide, opulent, tree lined streets that connect the King’s Road to the ordinary world. There is a slight breeze which ripples the hem of my dress, and the bower of leaves sends a sprinkle of shade down. It forms charcoal puddles on the glittery pavement and the tops of the equally glittery cars.

  All rather grand. I scan the row of regency buildings. They seem to reach up to touch the plane-trail patterned sky. They put me in mind of Mary Poppins, or Oliver, and stairwells for tradesmen – God bless you, missus – and carriages and nannies and long-legged dogs. They have tiers of tall windows; four or five floors of them, and every single one has got curtains to die for – all swags and tails and ruches and tassels, and held in elegant sweeps by tie-backs the size of koalas. No Ikea voile on a broomhandle here. And no MDF either, I’ll bet.

  ‘This is all rather posh,’ I say, wondering what sort of soft furnishing arrangements Craig goes in for. ‘Some place to have a flat.’

  I haven’t up to now given much thought to Craig’s living arrangements. I recall him telling me he lived alone in London, but I hadn’t really thought beyond standard two bedrooms, South London most probably, with a futon perhaps, and a fridge full of beer.
r />   He takes my hand and points to a glossy front door.

  ‘Not a flat,’ he says proudly. ‘This is my house.’

  Inside, of course, despite the stately home curtains and carpets so dense you could lose yourself betwen their creamy fronds, Craig’s house, though obviously an order of magnitude bigger than many, is exactly what you’d expect the home of a twenty four year old single man to be like. What appears to be the main living room could pass as a small branch of Dixons. There is an enormous plasma screen TV, with the usual satellite paraphernalia, some sort of mega-stereo system, and speakers and amps and guitars and guitar stands and a necklace of cabling running round the walls. There is also a computer and printer, a fax, a scanner, and lots of other unidentifiable metal ware with knobs on. It is functional, lived in. An organised muddle.

  I take off my shoes and flop down on a sofa. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Just under a year. I was actually quite happy where I was, but I had a load of dosh sitting around in the bank and I was told I should invest some. I’ve got six bedrooms here and it’s handy for everything. Ha. When I bought it I thought ‘great, Chelsea, handy for the tube’ but of course, it fucking isn’t, and anyway, I can’t use the tube these days, can I? But it’s a nice house. There’s plenty of room for my Mum, and a family, I suppose, eventually. But it’s empty half the time, as you can imagine.’

  What I’m imagining is how big a load of dosh you need to have in the bank to buy somewhere like this. Then I remember what I keep forgetting; that Craig is (must be) a millionaire. Probably makes money every second of every day. Every time a Kite song gets played on the radio, each time a CD or download is sold. Every T-Shirt that’s ordered, every poster and calendar. It is awesome to contemplate.

  He puts on some music that I don’t recognise.

  ‘Truth is, I get dead bored sitting around here. I’d rather be round at Nige’s, or my Mum’s. The neighbours are okay but mainly foreign, mainly old.’

  ‘Isn’t there a part of London where all the Pop stars live, then?’

  He kneels on the floor and starts flicking through a pile of papers. ‘Not that I know of, and I’d steer well clear of it if there was. Like I told you, I don’t like parties and all that crap, and I think I’d particularly hate having showbizzy neighbours. Couldn’t stand all that in-crowd stuff . All that A-List celebrity crap.’