I twist my lens cover round and round and round. Is this really something I should be talking about?
‘Nothing,’ I finish.
‘What? Tell me.’
‘Well, it’s just that I just found out the guy he is with is seeing someone else. Here. Now. That’s all. And I don’t know if I should tell him, you know, with his Mum…’
‘So he’s gay, yes? So I wouldn’t bother. It’s probably no big deal. Or maybe…’
‘Which is just what he said. That it was nothing. Bastard.’
‘Then maybe it isn’t. You know, maybe they are both okay about that sort of thing..’
‘Okay? How can it be okay? Howard loves him, and he’s screwing some other guy.’
‘So what. Sex is just sex. If he says it means nothing then maybe he’s telling the truth. I’d keep schtum, if I were you.’
‘Sex is just sex? You sound just like my husband did. Let me tell you, it may be nothing to the person doing it, but is sure as hell is something to the one who gets betrayed.’
He spreads his palms.
‘Which is just what I’m saying. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. But if he’s going to be hurt it’s going to happen anyway, isn’t it?’
I stare at him, realisation dawning. I’m just not in step with the world any more. Sex is just some cheap commodity. And if nobody knows, then…
I stand up, and realise I’m shaking. Shouldn’t have turned down the burger earlier.
‘Like your manager’s wife, I suppose. While he’s having sex with Jacinta Cave? No problem, eh? Just a bit of fun?’
‘What are you on about?’
‘I guess if everybody’s doing it, why not, eh? Eh?’
‘What the hell do you know about it?’
‘Everything I need to, by the look of things. I guess I’m just some sort of dinosaur…’
He stands as well, towering over me.
‘Julia, Nigel’s wife’s two hundred miles away in hospital, for fuck’s sake. Has been for almost three years now. She’s quadriplegic. We don’t even know if she’s….Look, I thought you knew about the accident…..’
‘Accident? What accident?’
‘The car smash. Look, you didn’t….’
But he doesn’t get a chance to tell me what it is I didn’t, because tears muscle in and rearrange my face for me, and I start (infuriatingly) weeping and wailing all over him.
He, of course, does the only thing to do in such circumstances, and puts an arm around me. We sit back down, and while I sniff and snuffle and sob and suchlike, he says,
‘Bloody hell! What the fuck did I say?’
I shake my head and accept the sweet-wrapper sized swizzle of pink tissue he’s found for me.
‘Nothing!’ I cry, ‘Oh, God. I feel awful. I’m just so bloody – so fucking fed up.’
‘Whoah! You swore!’
‘I’m sorry.’ I feel my face begin to redden.
He smiles. ‘Hey, but it’s not such a big deal, is it? Your friend will be fine. He’s a grown up. He’ll sort it.’
‘Oh, I know. I’m just so, oh, I don’t know, disappointed, I guess…’
‘Hardly something to cry about.’
‘I know. I’m not crying about that, I suppose.’
‘What then?’
I blow gingerly into my pink scrap.
‘Life.’
He laughs. ‘Ah. Only a little thing then.’
I laugh too, despite myself.
‘My life, and how it doesn’t seem to be shaping up quite how I imagined it. I suppose I’ve been deluding myself. I thought that once I got over what Richard did life would be different, somehow. All excitement and adventure and new possibilities and old lost opportunities coming around again, and, and..’
He glances up as a muffled cheer fills the caravan momentarily. Then turns back to me.
‘And?’
‘And it’s all the same shit.’
‘You swore again!’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You did. You said shit.’
I manage another laugh. I’m beginning to feel better. ‘For someone who swears every other word, you are really quite puritanical, aren’t you? Don’t you like me swearing?’
His shoulders move. ‘It’s not that. It’s just…I don’t know…unexpected.’
‘That’s only because you see me as different from you. As someone older. As a mother and so on.’
He knocks back some Coke, stands up, sits down again, looks petulant. ‘I don’t, you know.’
‘Yeah, you do. It’s not a conscious thing. You can’t help it. Like I can’t help being with all of you and being reminded of my children. Not because you’re children – you’re all twenty odd, aren’t you? But because your outlook is so much more like theirs. And I don’t mean that in any way as an insult. I guess it’s just that your worries are different to mine.’
‘I’m twenty four. And I don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘I don’t see you as a mother. Someone older, yeah. Course I do, but..’
‘There you are, then.’
‘No. Not at all. As someone I…’
And then (we are back to sitting side by side on the bench seat) he looks away, and then back, and then smiles and then shrugs. And seems to me more childlike and innocent than he can possibly imagine, yet when his arm snakes around me to finish what he is obviously finding difficult to put into words, the child is suddenly gone.
The trailer door started rattling only seconds later, and then Nigel crashed in, with Jonathan Sky not far behind.
‘Right,’ Nigel said. ‘Fall in. Signing session in five. The tent between the main bar and the arena. We’ve got back access and Security’s got some characters organised for us. You ready?’
To us. We nodded. Both stood.
‘.. just get my trainers,’ said Craig, bouncing off down the trailer. A rhapsody of ripples and tendons and chiselled shoulder blades and hamstrings and his flop-flopping hair shiny and bouncing as he walked.
So. Here we go again. I felt;
Strange
Trembly (though low blood sugar, most probably)
Confused
A bit silly
Like I needed a cold shower/ stern word with myself about all of the above.
But I didn’t do either. The tent Kite had been given to sign copies of their new album in (for the zillion strong queue that now snaked like a conga on The Day The Earth Stood Still across the grass) wasn’t far from the Earth Patrol one, so once I’d taken some pix of Craig and Jonathan with the first few of the adoring zillion, I nipped out.
It was by now around five and the concert had developed a snoozy quality. The afternoon sets over, and the evening ones still to come, everyone over twelve seemed to be quietly milling, while the children hyperventilated over Heidi Harris in the arena.
And the Earth Patrol tent was clearly as convivial a place to hang out as any, and a welcome respite from the still hot afternoon sun. There were several people in there, most wearing appropriately grave and earnest expressions, and emitting the occasional tut-tut or sigh.
I couldn’t give a stuff. Pamphlet man was nowhere to be seen, but Nick was in place at his souvenir trestle, dispensing ball points and rainbow erasers and badges, and urging anyone with facial hair or sandals to sign up as a member and help save the world. I strode up to him, my Access All Areas pass swinging, talisman like, to and fro across my chest. I said,
‘Howard sends you his love – oh, and a kiss and a hug as well – and says try to keep out of trouble, won’t you? And I just thought I ought to let you know that if I hear you’ve been anywhere near that sad excuse for a holiday romance boyfriend of yours, not only will I tell Howard, but I will also, personally, kick your face in, delicious bloody raspberry bloody coulis or not.’
Nick blinked then started furiously arranging Polar Cap Snowstorms. He said nothing. I left.
So did everyone else.
I think it was the heat.
Because I didn’t want to hang around looking fretful and irresolute, I had a word with Nigel and got Kite’s driver to take me back to the hotel for a while.
Jax was sitting on one of the squashy sofas big Hotels seem to like scattering at random around their public areas, and scribbling in what I now came to see was characteristic fashion. She looked completely engrossed, but I felt a sudden compulsion to let her know that I understood about Nigel and her and his wife and so on, even though she new nothing of what I’d thought in the first place. She looked up at the sound of my approach. I took off my camera and lens and sat down beside her.
‘You staying here as well?’
‘Not really. Kind of. I’ve got my car. I might shove off later. See how it goes. What you up to?’
‘I thought I’d sleep for a couple of hours, have a shower and go back over later. They’re not on till last, and I’ve shot plenty of film.’
Jax put her pad down and stretched.
‘Mmm. Sounds like a good idea. Hot, isn’t it? I’d go for a dip in the sea but I can’t even be bothered to walk across the road to the beach.’
‘If you want to use my shower you’re very welcome.’
She shook her head.
‘Thanks. But no probs. I’ve got Nige’s key.’
I nodded.
‘Have you known him a long time? You seem very close.’
‘Couple of years. We met at a St John’s Ambulance first aid course, of all places.’
‘How come?’ It seemed a rather unlikely venue.
‘I was staff writing for Gig magazine at the time. Company policy. Someone had to be a trained first aider in the office. I was the newest. I got lumbered. And Nige – well, you know about his wife, don’t you.’
I nodded again.
‘I know she was involved in some sort of car accident.’
‘They both were. A bad smash. Head on. He had a bad time afterwards – you know, blaming himself – though it wasn’t his fault at all. I think, with the course, he was kind of exorcising his demons – you know, he feels if he’d had some sort of training, then – well, you know. Anyway, we got talking – him and I both being in the music business, and then we met up again when I covered Kite’s first tour. We always had this rapport, you know.’ She laughed. ‘Despite him being such a wrinkly!’
‘It must be so hard for him…’
‘Yeah. I think it is. He lives for the band now, pretty much. They’re like his surrogate family. He and Vicky didn’t have any kids. They were waiting – ironic, isn’t it? – until his lifestyle was a bit less hectic. With Kite just taking off and everything, they didn’t expect to be seeing too much of each other for a while. Funny how life works out. Make you realise how much you’ve got to live for the moment. Still…’
She stood and picked up her pad. ‘..I never did have any problem doing that. You going to the party?’
‘I guess so,’ I said.
After Jax had gone I sat in the foyer for a while longer, letting the air conditioning cool me, and thinking about Richard and the children speeding under the sea on their way to the uncharted territory of their first holiday alone. And me, who would normally be with them (checking my lists to confirm I packed tea towels and ant powder, most likely) sitting instead in a five star hotel, wearing jean shorts and trainers, having just been kissed by a pop star.
Funny, like Jax said.
Chapter 22
‘So why Kite, then?’
It is almost two in the morning. We’re in the marquee where the people with the right accessories (i.e. the Access All Areas passes) get to come and chill out after the days endeavours, before moving on to some trendy club or other, where the serious aftershow will really begin. With some eight bands and solo artists performing, plus an army of TV presenters, radio stars and music industry big wigs, there are a fair few people in the tent. The place is seething and hot and is beginning to smell more like compost than meadow. And there is now a definite sponginess underfoot.
The voice is that of Donna Talbot. I don’t know quite how she wheedled her way in here, seeing as she is only covering the gig freelance for Sound magazine, but she did and she has and we haven’t up to now spoken. She is livid, I know, that Colin gave me this job. That I’m in with the in-crowd. That I’m here at all. She called me a provincial (provincial what?). It breaks my heart, therefore, that I do not have an answer for her.
‘Because…’ I begin, and here, fortuitously, is Tim Linseed to help me.
‘Because it’s what we got paid for our first proper gig.’
‘Oh, how clever, ‘she says, clearly not thinking so at all. ‘I always think it’s fascinating to find out how bands got their names.’ She angles her back very slightly towards me before addressing him. ‘Did you know that Symbiosis called themselves that after the bassist found he had contracted roundworm?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ says Tim. ‘By the way, Julia, Nige wanted me to ask if you still wanted to do this beach thing. He thinks if we aim for four-ish or five-ish, we’ll have it to ourselves, and have some half-decent light. He wanted to run it by you. You’re the expert. What d’you think? I don’t mind, and I don’t think Craig does. And Davey’s rat-arsed already, so he’ll do whatever we tell him. Don’t know where the fuck Jon is, though.’
Yes! Donna’s face has fallen in on itself. And she has something on a cocktail stick in freeze frame on the way to her mouth. Hah! SHR!
But it’s a short lived delight, because I don’t really want to do it. And the reason (pathetic) I don’t want to do it is because;
a) I’ve been kissed. I’ve been kissed by Craig James. I’ve been kissed by Craig James. (Though he may well call it snogging.)
and;
b) Craig James is now avoiding me.
Bugger, bugger, bugger. What the hell do I do now? Given only a) I could just about manage. Given just b) I don’t suppose I’d have noticed. But given them both is just about the worst thing that can happen to anyone, let alone someone who has turned not reading other people’s (presumably screamingly obvious) signals into a Turner-prize-winning installation. I feel like a hot tap that’s been left on. Fluid and steamy and relentlessly emptying, till the tank dries up and shrivels and eventually rusts. It’s really no wonder that I want to go home.
But I can’t. I’m at work. And I have a) plus b) to contend with. It’s bad enough having this development happening in the first place. (Just when I’ve got used to celibacy and reading articles about post-menopausal women learning to hang glide). Don’t know how to feel about it. Don’t know how to deal with it. Except that I am beginning to realise that my body/Id/hypothalamus or whatever, is clamouring for a return to my fall back position of last thirty eight years (well, thirty three odd – Patrick Borrell in Reception class was the first.)
Fall back position is patently bad. Fall back position involves becoming completely focused on the object in question plus suffering impaired sensory reception for all other stimuli. Fall back position also involves endless analysis of every tiny thing the subject does, appears to do, looks as though he might consider doing, in relation to perceived interest/lack (eek!) of interest in self. Fall back position involves total inability to concentrate on anything else at all. In short, fall back position is to be avoided at all costs.
I am thirty eight. Why does this still happen to me? I should have grown out of this by now.
Funny, isn’t it? When I was seventeen, I thought it was simply a function of being seventeen. When I fell in love with Richard, I thought it was simply a function of being in love. When I lighted upon Howard as a sex-object, as opposed to just having him as a friend whilst fall back position still channelled, if sluggishly at times, towards Richard, I thought it was simply a function of being a (stressed and lacking any self esteem type) cuckold and/or being short of sex.
Now, in a tent (sober) at ten past tw
o in the morning, I realise a simple and elegant truth. It is simply a function of being me.
Undesirable me?
Halitosis me?
Wrinkled me?
Desperate/clingy looking me?
Ancient me?
Two paper bag me?
Richard-joke: Went to bed with a new bird last night. I wouldn’t say she was ugly, but I had to wear a paper bag over my own head, just in case hers fell off.
Boom bloody boom. One of Stuart’s, no doubt. Drawn from that deep, deep well of crap jokes that men tell, to put shagging and birds in their proper perspective. Ho, ho.
I keep telling myself that Colin fancies me, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it makes me feel marginally worse. Like I did when, at sixteen, I had a bubble cut perm. I was asked to dance no less that five times that evening. But each man that tried sported some sort of hair loss. And here I am, whipping myself up into a frenzy of dithering vapours about a child-man of twenty four!
Why, oh why can’t it just happen the way it is supposed to? Why can’t I meet someone, find myself fantastically attracted to him, find that he’s fantastically attracted to me as well, have sex, have a lurve thing, and kind of take it from there? Why?
Well, it sure as hell ain’t gonna be happening tonight, Ju. Whatever slant I try to put on things, Craig James does not want to be anywhere near me.
All the little details are in place. I’m here, towards the back of the tent, with a rag-taggle, loosely Kite based ensemble. And Craig is up the front with goodness knows who. There seems an almost endless procession of people (TV, radio and generally beautiful people) who want to be inside the aura – an aura I hadn’t really, up to this moment, acknowledged, but which, boy! am I suddenly noticing now. Who are these people? I make out Heidi Harris, Jonathan Sky, a sometime presenter of the National Lottery, and a weather girl who looks as clued up about isobars as I am about the physics of nuclear fission.
And our eyes are failing to meet.
And failing at every reasonable opportunity they would normally have for meeting. Every scan of the room involves a blink just about then, every pass to and fro involves a careful detour, every reason to connect involves a third party. One such arrives now. It is Nigel.
Julia Gets a Life Page 19
