Then, thinking that, I felt, as usual, as if I was just playing at being a proper grown up, and that all my emotions were inappropriate ones. How could I be in love with someone else only three months since I thought I was still in love with Richard? How?
I ran a bath. What was love anyway? It was simply lust with cuddly bunnies attached. I resolved to stop casting myself as a character in a romantic film and instead as a matur(ing) thirty-something with her feet on the ground, who would keep matters of the heart in their proper perspective and take whatever life had to offer, as was my right as a woman. With this in mind, I did the whole Cosmopolitan/She bit and organised a ‘bath as rejuvenating me-time’ activity, incorporating;
Glass of wine x 2
Scented candle (air freshener) on soap shelf
Church candles in egg cups around bath
Bath oil
Bath fizzer
Essential oil burner on windowsill
Sea sponge
Half tube of Pringles
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
Because I had already finished the Pringles when the phone rang, the tube was on the bathroom floor. And the bathroom floor was wet.
And I was wet as well.
‘Hi, Julia. Missed you again, ha ha. Er, Boro da! This is Howard…..’ Aarrrgh! Ouch! Oh, my bottom! Owwwww! No! Aarrgh! ‘.....I..er..suppose you must be out, so…er…well..er..perhaps you could give me a ring when..er…Well…’ Oh no, please don’t hang up, grunt! Urrgh, please. ‘..I..er..anyway. Give me a call. Bye.’
Bugger.
Lily was on the doorstep half an hour later.
‘So I had a brainwave!’ I told her. ‘I thought – I know! I can ring 1471, can’t I? So I did, and he wasn’t there of course, so I had to leave a message on his ansafone, which was so burbly and cringe-making it makes me shudder to even think about it, but then guess what? He called me back! He’d only gone out for a take away and was really pleased I’d called him and I explained about you coming over and – here let me see to that wine box. You French have no idea about bulk packaging – and so I said I was sorry but I wasn’t free tonight – well, what’s left of it – but that I did have a fairly quiet weekend, as it happened, and he said would I like to go and see a film or something tomorrow evening, or whatever, and I said yes – of course! – and so we’re going to the pictures tomorrow. Here – have a big glass – you’re looking wan, and it is Friday night after all – and so there you have it. Brilliant, or what? Do you know what’s on at the Odeon?’
‘Pshhh! Julia. Listen to me. I have a big problem.’ Gulp, slurp, swallow etc. ‘Problem?’
‘Big. And getting bigger and bigger. Julia, I am pregnant.’
‘Pregnant? By who?’
‘By Malcolm, of course. Who else would it be?’
Malcolm, as in tall stringy man in beige corduroy trousers and sweater. Malcolm as in woodwork teacher at adult education centre at college. Malcolm as in not-much-of-a-catch (apparently). Malcolm as in person who has surprisingly turned out to have had a sexual experience after all. And with Lily.
Cripes. This was a turn up.
‘Lily,’ I said, effortlessly donning a maternal tone and ushering her into the kitchen. ‘You shouldn’t be drinking. Getting drunk is definitely on the no-no list now. Oh and congratulations, of course. Come here and let me hug you.’
‘Pshhh!’
‘No. I mean it. Con-grat-u-lations. One thing everyone knows is that no matter how you feel about this baby now, in time you will come to accept the idea. Indeed, become thrilled and full of wonder at the mystery of conception, and the miracle of life that will be the baby you give birth to.’
Note. By now I had consumed three glasses of wine and no dinner, due to
Lurve etc. Privately rather taken with whole idea of making babies with Howard, even if I can’t.
She sat down. ‘But I don’t want it.’
‘Ah. You say that now…’
‘But I don’t. I don’t want a baby. I am twenty six, single, and the father is a dweeb.’
‘A dweeb?’
‘Definitely. It says so in the toilets at college.’
‘Oh, that’s just students for you.’
‘The staff toilets.’
Hmmm. What to say next. That I was only twenty four when I had Emma? Twenty four. Jesus. And in love with her father. And happy. And expecting to remain so. Indefinitely. Maybe not. I am probably a very poor role model indeed. More wine, perhaps.
‘Have a Pringle,’ I offered. Then, sniffing a challenge, ‘Okay, then why did you sleep with him?’
She stuffed about twelve in. Then shrugged. ‘He made a lot of shelves for me. I was grateful.’
‘Lily! How could you!’
‘ I don’t know! Ask Richard. Hah! And I’m sorry, but I am drinking. I have to drink to forget.’ So she did.
‘Did you drive here?’
‘I’ll sleep over. Oh, Julia, why did I do this?’
‘God knows. Why didn’t you use contraception, you twot?’
‘What’s a twot?’
I considered.
‘Like a dweeb, but more affectionately thought of.’
She ignored this. ‘So. How do I get an abortion? And do you have any more Pringles?’
‘Lily, don’t panic. We have to think this through. Let me get some paper.’
Saturday breakfast.
Max. Three pop tarts (weekend splurge).
Emma. Grapefruit on muesli (why are teenage girls so predictable?).
Me. Nothing (bulk of winebox still sloshing about and taking up space).
Lily. Peanut butter on digestive biscuits plus tuna fish, plus glass of milk with mashed up banana in it. Lily has a face like a day old scone.
‘So. What is this exactly?’ says Emma, knowing very well.
‘Give me that,’ I snap (bulk of winebox still etc.etc.).
She doesn’t. Instead she reads;
‘Options. 1. Keep, plus advise Malcolm, but ? future of relationship
2. Keep, plus advise Malcolm plus end relationship (firmness. ? Paternal rights etc.)
3. Keep, but tell no-one who Father is. (?work problems/
potential psycho. damage to child etc.)
4. Have abortion. Big step. Think Think!
Mum, this is gross! And who’s Malcolm? And what exactly is going on around here…’
‘Emma, it is not your mother. It is me.’ (Lily.) ‘ Max! Go and fetch me a piece of toilet paper, please. I need to blow my nose.’
‘But..’
Me. ‘Do it.’ He does. Lily slides her eyes after him and then snaps them back to Emma.
‘Pshhh! Okay, Emma. I am pregnant. I do not want a baby. I do not know what to do. I am a fool. I am…’
‘Oh, Lily! A baby! Oh, but that’s brilliant! Oh, how could you not want it? We’ll help you, won’t we? Mum? I’m old enough to babysit now, and I could help look after it after school, couldn’t I, Mum? We’re doing baby and childcare next term anyway, aren’t we, Mum? And it would be like, cool – you know. With you having looked after us, and… Oh, Lily, it’s so brill!’
Oh God.
Oh God. Why can’t I be more careful about leaving incriminating scraps of paper around the house? Why didn’t I learn my lesson after last Christmas’s game of dirty words scrabble? (Consequence of which was that Max woke us on Christmas morning not to ask if he could open his presents, but to ask us instead what ‘fellatio’ meant and to query the ‘d’ in todger.)
But Abortion. Oh dear! What a horrible thing to have to have an opinion about. What a stressful thing to have to take a stance on. What a crushing weight of responsibility to have dumped on me on a day when all I wanted to do was moon around thinking about what to wear for Date 2 with Howard tonight.
Okay. Have sent Lily back to bed to help pull her face/body/psyche into shape. Now think.
Ummm.
Put yourself in simil
ar position and consider best available option.
Ummm.
Imagine you’re pregnant now, by Howard.
No, no, NO! Straight back to fluffy bunnies etc. plus opportunity to buy really nice buggy (had buggies and changing bags and cot duvets during that long, miserable ‘pastels only’ baby merchandising decade.)
Imagine number of unwanted children in western world, coupled with spiralling family planning crisis in developing world. Consider ramifications of Mother Only as childrearing option (football, satellite programming fluency, doing ‘absolute last word on subject’ type discipline etc.). This is more like it.
Termination – for and against (eat, for security purposes, after considering)
For
Doesn’t want a baby
A woman’s right to choose
Career/home/lifestyle difficulties
Will not have to marry (co-habit/share in upbringing with etc) unsuitable man.
Unwanted child bad thing to bring into world
Against
Wrong/ act of murder etc. Foetus is living thing
Will scar conscience horribly etc.
Father’s right to have child also
Will possibly regret
May damage reproductive system
Oh, this is awful. Especially given that I always had such a solid set of opinions in place about abortion. But it’s like everything else, isn’t it? For the majority, opinions are not informed by experience. I’m not qualified to advise Lily because I haven’t been in that position myself. When I found myself (accidentally) pregnant with Emma, I couldn’t have been more delighted a) because I was working at Arseface and Letcher (not their real names, obviously) Portrait Studio and hating it passionately and b) because my then best friend had a baby and therefore didn’t have to get up and go to work in the mornings, and could instead stay in wearing only a dressing gown and day old mascara. Always (still is) my idea of heaven. Also, I loved my husband deeply, and was infused with all the usual sentimental feelings about having his genes intermingled with mine to produce a super-being.
Then I think of Malcolm Woodwork Teacher and can visualise a part of Lily’s plight.
Lily woke up again at about midday, and we ate Pringles and taramasalata for lunch. Then, based on her estimate of being six weeks pregnant, we decided on a provisional plan of action. This would involve;
Doing another pregnancy test
Visiting Doctor with view to counselling or similar
Giving all options deep and reflective thought
Making firm decision in next two weeks
Telling another significant person in her life (think who) for balance of opinion
Not panicking.
She left at half past two (having offered to come back and babysit M and E, in case of extreme lateness, i.e. sex with Howard) and said;
‘I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to have an abortion. Can you help find me a clinic?’
Chapter 12
After Lily left, I looked in the Yellow Pages and was astonished to see that Abortion Advice was the second entry. Just like that, as bold as you like. It said to look under pregnancy, which I did, and there were about a zillion to choose from. Abortion, it seems, is now part of the social landscape, like the National Lottery and supermarket loyalty cards.
I rang the one with the small display ad, as per Richard’s usually failsafe system (lineage: cheapskates, big display: sharks, and never call AAAA1111 plumbing/ taxi/ emergency gas repair ltd – very big sharks with £150 call out charges). I told the lady (who sounded very old – Marie Stopes maybe?) that I was enquiring for a friend.
‘Yes, dear,’ she said in that very predictable knowing way. I was about to add ‘really, I actually am’ but decided that would make her even more likely to think it was me with the unplanned pregnancy. So I asked her to send me a pamphlet instead.
‘But don’t you want to make an appointment?’ she asked.
‘But it’s not…not yet, thank you.’
And then I felt really guilty for even being embarrassed to have someone who didn’t even know me thinking that I was considering having an abortion, as if having an abortion was a nasty wicked thing to do (even if from some perspectives, and to some people, it patently is, but then they don’t know the circumstances, do they?) And who was I, the lady at the abortion clinic or anyone else to judge what a woman did in those circumstances? Given that it was they that were going to have to live with whatever decision they took. And so on.
And all I wanted to do was arrange my date with Howard, spend at least three and a half hours getting ready for it, and sing.
Chapter 13
We’ve just been to see The Devil Wears Prada.
I was secretly quite astonished that Howard agreed to come and see something so blatantly girly (Richard would not have gone in a zillion years – not even if Sharon Stone was in it – though other, more perfect husbands would, of course, to be kind to their wives). But Howard seemed really keen. I had expected him to suggest something involving car chases/ male bonding/ petty criminal activity etc., but he said,
‘Great! I’ve been meaning to catch that for ages.’
It has been out for ages, of course, but our local cinema now has so many screens that they are probably still running Born Free in screen 87 at 4.35 am on the last Friday of every month with an R in it, or something. Such progress! I love the pictures.
I didn’t take any Pringles (fledgeling relationships are sensitive to overt displays of anti social behaviour – which sneaking savoury snacks into cinemas clearly is), but instead said I’d like a small bag of salted popcorn. Which was a big mistake because it was only then that Howard said he wouldn’t have anything, as he wasn’t hungry. Typical! I then had to eat them as unobtrusively as possible (by sucking, mainly) so that he wouldn’t have my piggery thrust in his face.
But it was a great film. One of those films where the audience all come out feeling like they love one another. Which would explain, I suppose, about orgies and so on when people went to shows like Hair! in the sixties.
So now we’re in the car, in the queue to get out of the car park, and the sky is all big and spangly and velvety and full of the mysteries of the universe and the stars of all the dead souls who’ve gone to heaven, and though neither of us has acknowledged it yet, we have arrived at the pivotal moment. I say,
‘Meryl Streep was brilliant, wasn’t she?’
‘Oh, she always is, isn’t she?’ says Howard, negotiating the exit bollard/young shrub landscaping arrangement and glancing across to check the road is clear. His eyes are so shiny. ‘Did you see her in The Hours? So compelling.’
And so on and so forth till we approach the area in which Howard lives and which is on the way to where I live, and where it will be necessary for one of us to make reference to if and where we will have coffee and sex. But instead, Howard says.
‘Do you fancy a kebab?’
I don’t. I love kebabs, of course, and have been denied them as a marital food choice since Richard found a chargrilled weevil in a shish, in ‘85. But I have sucked and chewed popcorn so carefully and for so long that my stomach thinks it has been fed a five course meal (which proves what they say about sucking chocolate) and I want a kebab now like I want to undergo liposuction under local anaesthetic. Also, I am a garlic free environment and wish to remain so for the duration. Ditto chilli, cabbage and that particularly pungent liquid fat that seeps out of the meat and soaks into the pitta bread. Which is dreadful, because everyone knows that men really can’t stand women who don’t enjoy their food. Especially ones that pick bits out of anything foreign with their faces wrinkled up in disgust.
‘Mmm, yes. Why not? Do you know somewhere good?’
Of course Howard knows somewhere good. He is a single young buck with limited cooking ability and a big, mansize appetite to deal with. He knows exactly the sort of kebab house you’d expect him to know. Open half
the night, manned by two chirpy Cypriots (father and son – son doubles as Psychology lecturer at the University, by day, apparently), Awesome Kombat Death Zone arcade game blinking in the corner, row of metal bowls full of (surprisingly fresh looking) salads, and starburst fluorescent stickers saying Chips £1.00! With Mayo £1.20! Currey Sauce’s Available! etc. But no rum-babas. Kebab houses always had rum-babas in the seventies, I tell them, but they look at me as though I have recently beamed in from planet twit. Not in Wales they didn’t, apparently.
‘Shall we take them back to mine?’ Howard suggests. ‘Oh, yes. I’ll have that, that, that and that, but not that. And I’ll have a chilli, but no lemon. Oh and the garlic sauce too. And can you make sure it’s on the meat but not the salad? Thanks.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘And I’ll just have cucumber. No. No onion thanks. And no sauce.’
No sauce?’ Howard exclaims. ‘Are you sure?’
See?
Once we get back to his flat he has me open a bottle of wine (bought for the purpose?) while he bustles about and clears away the endearing combination of mess, papers and abandoned trainers that have added an attractive ambience to his flat. He then says ‘I really need to take myself in hand,’ without the smallest hint of irony in his voice.
‘Where do we eat?’ I ask.
Howard smiles fetchingly. ‘Let’s pig out on the sofa.’
But I can’t help feeling that we’ve lost the plot, sex wise. Call me old fashioned. Call me a fuss pot. Call me something derogatory out of a psychology textbook, if you will. But I can’t see having a kebab as an arousing prelude to doing it. In fact, I can’t see having a kebab as any sort pre-sex activity, unless it is a posh kebab, in a restaurant, with baclava for afters followed by a slow stroll through a sodium enhanced urban landscape before laying on a sofa listening to an old Genesis album and smoking a joint while taking each others clothes off as part of an elaborate sensual dance which evolves naturally into the mystical and spiritual conjoining of two beings. All of which may well be just nature’s way of ensuring that parents recall their university days in such a way as to ensure they encourage their children to go but, hey, it was cool. It was sexy! Even Richard did it! Or did he? Or was it someone else? Or did I dream it, perhaps? Whatever. One thing’s for sure. Sitting on Howard’s sofa with the main light on is not sexy. A kebab, in this situation, should be something you fall upon ravenously afterwards, while sharing, by means of gaze, sigh and giggle, the rapturous high of the orgasms you just had. At the same time, of course.
Julia Gets a Life Page 8
