‘Not so you’d notice. I passed out, actually.’
‘Good God.’
‘But it isn’t broken or anything. Though there was blood everywhere.’
‘Good God.’
‘Which is why I’m in these.’ I shake a leg. Richard frowns. ‘Mine are being laundered. I’ve had to borrow these from Craig James.’
‘Good God. Craig Who?’
‘The lead singer.’
‘Lead singer?’
‘Of Kite.’
‘Kite?’
‘The band.’
Richard shakes his head, slowly.
‘Good God,’ he says.
We are inhabiting separate worlds now, I think.
Chapter 19
Back to earth with a (literal) bump now. Real life must resume.
But this week I at least have a packed programme of events;
Work TOYL Face2Face finals (yawn)
School Max’s end of term party – make fairy cakes (yawn)
Social Invites x 2;
Moira Bugle’s charity buffet lunch for distressed hamsters (or whatever. Yawn plus eye contour concealer stick)
Dinner with Howard and Nick (High Point)
Pastoral Take Lily to Clinic (Low Point)
Marital Summit talk to discuss finalising of kids’ holiday arrangements with Richard (Flash Point)
Despite an immediate future that involves little in the way of glitz and nothing in the way of sex (given all that up now – am obviously past it), I am at least enjoying a fair amount of local attention, since my picture was in The Herald on Monday. Though I eventually ended up as plain old Photographer, Julia Potter and the headline turned into Heidi Harris in Party Punch Up, this was the national press, and I came out surprisingly well. Despite the blood situation, and the fact that most of me was folded up in an ungainly muddle of limbs on the floor, it captured, I feel, my derring-do.
The big news at work is that Angharad De Laney, the bitch’s offspring, has made the local finals of the Face2Face competition, which means not only will I be expected to be there at the judging, but may also be expected to take the publicity shots as well. I am harbouring a serious and completely low life desire to make her look as crappy as possible (which will be hard as she has a face-like-an-angel, though some bitch genes, obviously) and have to spend half an hour in the bath with my most strident empowering paperback, before I can cope with the prospect of her winning the final with anything less than a snarl. But I remind myself that I am now
Famous
In the papers
Friend to the stars
In possession of Craig James’s jeans and vest
and that I have not had an angsty thought – in fact, any thought – about the possible resumption of sex-thing between Richard and the bitch since the middle of last week, when I was still an unknown and feeling like shit.
Now why should that be?
Fairy cakes.
Making fairy cakes is absolutely de riguer for the year six end of term party. It’s up there with sewing in name tapes. As it should be. It has got to be the simplest culinary task on planet housewife. Four fat, four flour, four sugar, two eggs. Some icing, some smarties, some wax paper cases, a smile and a song and a pinny and done.
Except that I have none of those ingredients apart from some billion year old icing sugar, that has, in any case, turned itself into an attractive box shaped Damien Hurst type art installation, complete with petrified ants etc. This is by virtue of inter carton communication between said sugar and a plastic pot of glace cherries with an undiscovered hole.
All of which quite neatly defines my relationship with baking as an enjoyable pastime i.e one Dundee cake every five years.
So I popped into Sainsburys on my way home from work and almost collided with Moira Bugle, by the beans. She was travelling at some speed with a very full trolley and was clearly surprised when I leapt out and stopped her.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Shopping for your charity lunch?’
‘Hmm. Yes,’ she said, pushing bits of stray hair from her forehead and blinking at, but not asking about, my black eye. ‘Um, yes. How are you, lovely? All right, is it? Hmm. Oh dear, must dash…’
All very peculiar. One rarely escapes without at least fifteen minutes worth of posturing.
‘Oh, and you really must come round to dinner with me sometime soon,’ I said. Like you do.
‘Oh, no! Goodness me, no! No, my lovely. I wouldn’t want you to think…’
‘No, you must,’ I said brightly. ‘We’ll fix something up at the lunch.’
‘No, please…’
Curiouser and curiouser. My cooking’s not that bad. But perhaps, I thought suddenly, I am a social pariah. I decided not to push it. I didn’t want the old buzzard round anyway.
‘All right then. But canapés,’ I quipped.
‘Canapés?’
‘For your lunch.’ She’d say no, of course.
‘Canapés. Yes, lovely. You make some canapés. Must dash now. Byeeee.’
Bugger.
But I’m glad I offered to make the canapés now, because I’ve quite enjoyed playing with my canapé cutter and have made a selection of quite exotic looking little fishy thingies, as a sort of dry run. And I have decided to bring these round to Howard’s tonight, because I think homosexual men are probably far more appreciative of that kind of detail than straight ones. And I am right.
Howard, who has become even more handsome since love and happiness have visited his chiselled features, falls upon my tray with delight and enthusiasm and an altogether different timbre to his voice than his previous, non-gay one.
‘These are brilliant, Julia! I didn’t know you could do this sort of thing.’
‘I try not to shout about it, ‘ I say, casting about for signs of Nick as I shrug off my coat. ‘Doesn’t really suit my image. I wouldn’t want it thought that I’m too domesticated. It’s hardly sexy, is it?’
Howard laughs (ditto timbre) and squeezes my shoulder. I am so glad we have managed to develop such a wonderfully secure and honest relationship. I feel we are growing together. And there are so few people in my life that have so little expectation of me, except as a person they’d like to spend time with. What a shame we couldn’t do this before. He says,
‘I don’t know. I suspect there’s a man out there that would think so. Food can be very sexy. Can’t it, love?’
And here’s Nick.
I had thought it would be very easy to spot who was the man and who was the woman, and that with Howard being such a hunk, Nick would have to be the girl. But he is not at all what I expected. He looks rather like Howard, all biceps and eyebrows, and his hair, much like Howard’s, is wavy and dark. He shakes my hand, then pulls me in for a cuddle.
‘Well, hello,’ he says. ‘So. Let’s do this dinner thing, shall we?’
So we do. And though my canapés are completely outshone by Nick’s berry soufflés with raspberry coulis, it’s actually really enjoyable to sit back and watch them together. All the signs, the little looks, the little touches and glances – the signals that weren’t there between Howard and I. They are all now in place. As they would be. These two are in love. And I find I don’t mind in the least about the thing I had about Howard. Funny, but it doesn’t seem real any more.
I drive home with a real sense of pleasure. Having Howard and Nick as my friends matters far more than I imagined it would. Like having two extra children, which is quite ridiculous, yet that’s how I feel. I can see myself striding about on gay marches, protecting them from all the ills of the world, campaigning to raise money for Aids research, and feeling terribly modern and permissive and in touch with finer thoughts and feelings than most people. And I didn’t once think about what they do in bed together, even when they had a quick kiss.
My canapés don’t go down half so well at Moira Bugle’s charity lunch. Suffering from total amnesia and clearly horrified tha
t anyone has had the bare faced cheek to bring a party food item across her threshold, she gives me a wild-eyed stare, before swiping them from me and marching out to the kitchen, bellowing a terse ‘you shouldn’t have’ over her shoulder. I suspect they are in the bin before I have even removed my jacket, and been hustled into the fray.
I don’t really know why I come to these things. All my books tell me I shouldn’t do this stuff if I don’t want to – there is probably even a chapter in one, headed, How To Say No To Mrs Moira Bugle. Yet I do. I suspect it fulfils some very deep seated need that I have not, as yet, identified. Or perhaps I just fear that if I don’t play a part, I will become ostracised by all the women I may end up having to share a rest home with one day. Though standing at the edge of the buffet table looking for someone who I both know and who isn’t already engaged in intense debate about something entirely unimportant, I feel a bit ostracised already. Moira certainly doesn’t want to talk to me any more.
I am rescued (if you like) by Caryl Phelps. She spots me as she moves in for a tuna vol au vent and makes a beeline. Caryl Phelps, now that she is conversant with the details regarding Richard and Rhiannon, is anxious, it seems, to become my new friend. And to put her head on one side a lot and look compassionate and understanding. And to say ‘but are you really’ when I say I’m all right. I short change her a little, of course, by moving on to Oscar’s recent lack of success in the Face2Face competition, but we both agree, ever so sweetly, that Rhiannon’s Angharad has a very good chance, and wish her well, even if her mother has done a very sad and selfish (Caryl’s words) thing.
‘And what about Moira?’ I say, steering the conversation away from how hard it must be, and how betrayed I must feel, by reaching for a brie and grape bridge roll and pointing. ‘She seems a little distracted at the moment. Is she all right?’
‘You don’t know, then.’
I’ve obviously missed a lunch somewhere.
‘No, I don’t. Tell me. What?’
‘Oh, she’s in a complete state. It’s so funny.’ (Which is how friendship works, sometimes, in suburban circles.)
‘What?’
‘About Damon. The condoms.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The condoms that fell out of his wallet. Oh, it was so funny. Right in the middle of one of her big dinner parties. And apparently Richard…oh, I’m sorry..’
Oh. I get it.
‘Don’t be. Go on.’
‘Well Richard was talking about taxis or something. He’d had some problem with some local firm always letting him down. I don’t know, exactly. Anyway, Damon was just on his way out – it was still early. I think everyone had only just arrived. Anyway, Moira said that Damon had this friend in the chess club who had just started up some taxi company – can’t imagine that, can you? Chess playing taxi drivers. You sort of associate them with bicycles and woolly jumpers and so on – Anyway, Moira apparently told Damon to give Richard one of their cards. So he got his wallet and pulled a card out for Richard, and a packet of three fell on the floor. Right in the middle of everyone. Can you imagine?’
I can.
‘So what did he do?’
‘Well, he went scarlet, apparently. As he would. And of course Moira bent down to pick them up, not knowing what they were – though everyone else did apparently – and then she realised and just frog-marched Damon out of the room.’
‘I can see it now. But isn’t she over-reacting a little? I mean, he’s sixteen, isn’t he? With normal, healthy sixteen year old urges and suchlike.’
‘Oh, I know. But I think it was just the shame of it. You know how prissy she is. She’s just terminally embarrassed about it. And of course she’s been telling everyone they belonged to his friend, which just makes it worse, really. And I think she just can’t bear to think her little baby’s having sex.’
‘If he is. He might just be hoping. In which case he sounds like a responsible young man.’
‘I agree, though the general consensus is the former. But who would have thought it? Damon Bugle. I mean, he’s so…’
‘Geeky,’ I whisper. ‘According to Emma.’
At which point we are stopped in our tittering by a cough and some clapping, and Moira addresses us with a clipboard and pen.
‘Now ladies, ‘she says. ‘The destruction of the Wetlands. I’m sure you’ll agree that we need to do more…..’
That night I had a dream about Damon’s condoms. Except that it wasn’t Damon, but Craig James who had them. We were in his hotel room, and he was blowing them up – multicoloured ones, lots of them – and tying them with guitar strings. I was dancing on the bed in my pants, I think. Then we climbed up onto the hotel roof and let them go, one by one, into the night sky. Craig said,
‘Sex isn’t safe any more, Mrs Potter.’
The alarm woke me before I could reply.
* * *
‘So what we’ll do is take you, Lily, inside for a chat, while your friend here has a coffee and a read. Okay?’
Lily nods.
‘And did you bring your urine sample?’
Lily nods again.
‘And after that, we’ll see the Doctor. Okay?’
Lily nods a third time.
‘And if Lily feels she’d like you to come in and join our discussions at all, later, then we’ll call you. Okay?’
I nod as well.
The clinic is on the second floor of a rather neglected looking office block in the centre of town. It has armchairs and lots of displays of silk flowers, and a lady who sits in a glassed off reception (violent visitors?), who looks just like a picture-book grandma, and for all the world as if she should be knitting baby clothes.
What kind of elderly lady ends up doing voluntary work in an abortion clinic, I wonder? Does it require some sort of missionary zeal to prevent unwanted babies from having life foisted upon them, or do they just spot a small ad in Pensioners Weekly or something and think ‘ah, abortion – now that would make a change.’ For this is very much an abortion clinic. Women come here because they do not want to be pregnant, and because they know they will not be made to feel any worse about things than they already do. But the air of sadness in the place is still almost palpable. And there are boxes of tissues on all three of the tables – more, no doubt, in the consulting rooms.
I scan the journals – obviously carefully selected. There is no place in here for family magazines; beaming children, whimsical scenes involving trikes and puppies. There is, though, a small box of toys in the corner. Clearly some of the people who come here are mums. I wonder how much more easy or difficult that would make it, then pick up top one of a small pile of pamphlets. Termination, it reads. What Happens Next. Though it is carefully written in terms that are neutral, it makes for uncomfortable reading. And more uncomfortable still is the arrival some minutes later of what is clearly a mother and daughter combo; mother about my age, daughter about Emma’s. Both are red-eyed – the young girl is still crying. I smile but they studiously avoid any eye contact. Anonymity, maybe? Or simply that this is just no place for smiles.
A half hour passes. I am just beginning to wonder about the depth of Lily’s indecision, when there is a small banging sound and a very big cry. It’s Lily’s voice and for some seconds I hover half in and half out of my seat. Should I burst in, sheriff-style? Is she in the grip of a particularly physical form of therapy, or something? Has she hit the counsellor? Has the counsellor hit her? I decide, in the end, to do nothing, having read (where?) that both therapist and therapee can become quite agitated during counselling sessions and though I think I recall the book was more slanted towards reversion therapy for dysfunctional victims of domestic cruelty than aggressive pregnant French girls, I am anxious not to exacerbate an already distressing situation.
I wait on for several moments. The banging seems to have stopped. I prepare myself for a distraught and tearful scene. But then there is another almighty bang, followed by an only mar
ginally less emphatic crash. And then a cheer goes up. A cheer. And then silence again. I glance up and catch the mother and daughter exchanging fearful looks. The receptionist comes in, clicking her biro.
‘All right?’ she enquires, casting anxious glances across at the firmly shut door. The others nod. I shrug. The receptionist goes away. More minutes pass, and then the door is swung open. I scan them, but don’t see any signs of a struggle.
Though both Lily and the counsellor are smiling (though only very slightly, to do more would be inappropriate) neither exchanges a word of explanation with me as we prepare to leave.
‘That’s it, then,’ she says, as we emerge onto the high street.
‘That’s it, what?’ I demand.
‘That’s it, I’m keeping it. What else did you think?’
‘Oh, Lily! I’m so glad. I knew you didn’t really want to get rid of it.’
‘Not it, Julia. She. Yes, I looked at that lady and straight away I burst into tears. It was just as if I was going in there to be told that someone had died. Do you know? And I knew that I would keep feeling just like that for always. So she’s staying. Pah! I am so stupid. You know, I even have a name! She is Aurelie.’
I don’t dispute her logic, but instead hug her and then pat her stomach.
‘Hello, Aurelie. Lily, you’ll make the best mother. I know it was hard, but you really did make the right decision…’
Lily loops her arm through mine.
‘So let’s look at baby things. Mothercare, maybe?’
‘A brilliant idea. But listen, what did she say to you? I mean, were you really that agitated? It sounded like there was a war going on in there..’
‘That’s because there was.’
‘There was?’
‘When the wasp flew in the window.’ She shuddered. ‘You know what I’m like about wasps.’
So now we’re into a rather tedious Thursday, full of snivelling starlets and pushy mothers and no chance of respite until far into the evening.
Still, I’m mildly euphoric about the prospect of becoming a Godmother-to-be, and feel ready and willing to face (2Face) Rhiannon, and even to be sickly sweet to her child. Both in confections of cream and lace (Rhiannon’s only marginally less OTT than Angharad’s) they form a natural focal point – like an ornamental pond.
Julia Gets a Life Page 15
