‘You going to come and hit this party?’ He seems ebullient and happy. A concerted effort, and I slip out of my reverie long enough to wonder how much private agony he carries behind those pale, shiny eyes. And I wonder also, if he’s just been to bed with Jacinta. She’s gone home now, Tim told me, her job done. Done in all senses? I wish she was still here to divert my attention.
‘I’m not sure,’ I begin. ‘I’m rather tired, actually. I got up so early to drive here, and….’
‘Pah! Believe me, you’ll get your best stuff tonight. They’re all on free hooch, don’t forget. And anyway, you can sleep till Thursday if you want to.’
I almost actually say, ‘No I can’t. Time Of Your Life are expecting me Monday. The Tweenies will fret it they’re left in their box.’ But I don’t. My whole lifestyle seems suddenly hopeless. A sad excuse for a life, in fact. And then there are the beach shots.
‘And hang on,’ he goes on, saying it for me. ‘What about…’
And reminds me that it was my bright idea to do a shoot on the beach in the first place.
Not mine at all, of course. Colin’s or someone’s. But I nod and recant.
And off we all go to the party.
Where I have decided to be pro-active. One can only be avoided if one is consciously striving to instigate contact. I am therefore intent to do anything but. Which isn’t, as it turns out, difficult. We come in two cars; him first, and me later, and by the time I arrive he is six deep in groupies. He couldn’t see me if his life depended on it. Too much glare from the lip gloss and ironed hair, and the dazzle of super sheer one denier tights.
I spend much of it pro-active in a far flung corner. By the time Colin and I decide we should go greet the dawn on the shingle, I feel crumpled, dejected and one hundred and seven.
Brighton beach, like any beach, is never quite so beautiful as when it is empty and lit by an oversized sun. There is a cloudscape so pink and so luminous that if one were to paint it one’s work would be considered childish. A pewter sea rolls carpets of foam on to the pebbles and the sharp caw of seagulls cuts through the cool salty air. It is beautiful. It makes all my senses tingle. And that I’m as far away from the drudgery of my normal working life that I could sit down and cry right now, this minute. I don’t want to go back to it.
‘Fuck me, it’s parky. Got a sweatshirt in there, Nige?’
Tim is striding about the shingle flapping his arms across his chest. Gusts of breath cloud his face as he speaks. Nigel produces some sort of wind-cheater type garment. One of several he has brought in a canvas holdall, for the shoot. As ever, prepared. As ever, organised. I recall what Jax said about Kite being his family. Far away from their relatives for much of the year, they could, I decide, do a lot worse.
Craig, who up till now has exhibited an absorbing attachment to a close study of the crusting of fauna attached to the groynes, (this after exhibiting an attachment to a close study of the paving stones of Brighton’s front) wanders over to be given one also. We didn’t bring Davey or Jon, in the end; the one was too pissed and the other too busy. Heidi Harris’s charms proved too alluring.
‘Right,’ I say, conscious of the sun’s upward progress and anxious to maintain the brisk (brusque, frankly) tone I’ve decided to adopt as another defence against falling back to fall back position. ‘Let’s get this sorted. Off you both go, up the beach. Over there’
Nigel, who is thankfully unaware of the pathetic tableaux being played out in front of him, says, ‘why don’t they skim some stones or something. Look like they’d rather be skimming than shagging ha, ha.’
And suddenly, we can hear sirens.
We all turn to watch, as headlamps arc whitely against the now pink washed buildings, and strobe as they flash past the promenade rails. There are four or five cars, all moving quickly along the empty road.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ says Nigel, picking up his holdall and setting off up the beach. Craig and Tim jog across, and we too make our way back up to the steps. The sirens have stopped now, but the blue-red still flashes, just off the main road.
‘Isn’t that the club we were at?’ asks Tim. ‘What’s can this be all about?’
By the time we too have reached the promenade, Nigel is already on his way back across the road towards us.
‘Drugs bust,’ he mouths. ‘It’s seething in there.’
‘So’s Davey and Jon,’ says Tim.
Nigel shakes his head.‘ I couldn’t see either of them. With any luck Dave’ll be comatose somewhere, and Jon’ll be with Heidi.’ He pushes his hand across his forehead. The scar looks the colour of coral in the dawn light. ‘Look,’ he says. I’ll go and sort what I can. Best bet for you is to get back to the hotel. We don’t want your faces in this, if we can help it.’
He turns and runs back across the road, and we start walking the few hundred yards to the hotel.
‘God, what a long day,’ I say, to them both.
‘Fucking parties,’ says Craig, to no-one in particular, but least of all me.
Tim nods.
‘Fucking right.’
And hell, I’m fed up. At the start of today I was;
Happy
Optimistic
In control
Excited
Now, despite having done what I know is some seriously good work, I am
Miserable
Negative
Feeling dissatisfied with the life I have
Scared about the prospect of a new one
I’m also wide awake. I can’t relax, can’t sleep, can’t face watching a film. What I need, I decide, is a deep, bubbly, five star bath and to not stress myself about unsatisfactory encounters with boys. I can get that at home, thanks.
But wouldn’t you just know. I am in the middle of giving myself a ylang-ylang scented foam moustache and trying out shaver socket only (shaver socket on-ly, tra la la la la-la) as a new mantra, when I hear a soft knocking. It is almost six am, but I did not order a paper. Neither did I order breakfast, an alarm call, my shoes to be polished, ironing, a pedicure, or a complimentary aromatherapy massage.
But the knocking persists. I rise, meringue-like, from the water, and put my dripping self into the white five star robe. It is so heavy that I am stooping slightly as I answer the door.
And there he is.
T-Shirt, the ubiquitous boxers, and a carrier bag saying Cardiff Royal Hotel; For Your Laundry.
‘I er,’ he begins, as my fallback position (military tattoo pulse/goldfish mouth/tendency to pant/lose grip) promptly re-asserts itself.
‘I er,’ he expands, ‘...thought, I er, I ought to give you back these. Wasn’t sure what time you’d be off.’
As he stands before me, a rangy, sprung form against a sedate backdrop of flock and carved dado rail, all I can think of is this. How can someone who can get up and sing/jump about/play the guitar one handed backwards whilst doing the splits in mid air/act natural/ be composed/swagger, even, in front of thousands and thousands and thousands of people, have conversations with thirty eight year old women of no consequence that start (and seem to continue) with the words I, er?
He proffers the bag. I take it.
Of course. It’s easy. He is embarrassed. He had a quick snog in an unguarded (I’ve decided – compassionate) moment and then thought ‘ooh er, now I’m going to have this old bird hanging around thinking I fancy her.’ And he feels a bit guilty that he’s avoided me ever since. And so why is he still hovering in the doorway? Come to think of it, why didn’t he just have Nigel give me this? Whatever it is. What is it? I open the bag. Inside are my trousers. And something else. Two something else’s. Tubular. I put my hand in.
‘Pringles,’ he says.
‘So I see. Look, I, er…’ (Oh dear. I’m at it now.)
‘I wasn’t sure which flavour you liked so I had Nige get two.’
‘Oh. Well, thanks. I like both of these. I… (Why not torture myself a bit more
? hey, it’s only a lust thing) ...would you like to come in for a moment?’
‘Yeah, I would.’
I head for the mini bar while he closes the door. I think naked/robe/robe/naked, in roughly equal measure. Then I think stupid woman, shut up, don’t be ridiculous. Then I give up on thinking because my brain is whirring and despite everything logic is telling me there is something primeval going on in my stomach again. Daft.
Then he says, ‘Look. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have to, ‘I quip (a lie). ‘Do you want a beer or something?’
‘Yeah, okay. Yes. But I am. I was completely out of order, you know. Today.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ I say, crouched over the mini-bar and trying to hold the robe together while ferreting for lager. ‘It was just one of those things. I was upset. You were very kind. I…’
‘But I shouldn’t have…. you know…. here, there’s the bottle opener…tried it on, like.’
Pish! goes the bottle top. P-i-s-h-!
Tried it on, like.
Someone – must be me – says, ‘I’m sorry?’
‘So, like I said, I’m really sorry.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I was well out of order.’
I can almost feel wheels turning. Doing a flip-through of file cards to find just the right one. The one that will put into some sort of order the idea that my (still goldfish) mouth wants to convey. Flip, flip, flip. Eventually, I light upon;
‘You weren’t out of order at all.’
‘Wasn’t I?’
He sits down on the bed with his beer and looks up. I shake my head.
‘No. Not at all.’
‘You mean…’
Now I nod, but say nothing. A girl has her modesty.
But I don’t need to speak. Craig James pulls the robe, plus me in it, and captures me in a warm, squidgey, lovely, crushing, breathless, scented, urgent, wonderful embrace. I am being held. Properly held, for the first time in months. How do people manage to live without this?
‘Fuck me, Mrs Potter!’ he remarks, without irony. ‘Fuck me!’
Watch this space, CJ.
*
Wow.
‘So you thought…’
‘I know! And you thought….’
‘Sure I did. I thought, God, you stupid fucker. She’ll think you’re a right derr- brain. I half expected you to slap me. When Nige came in…’
‘When Nigel came in all I thought was; oh, no! I want more.’
‘Did you? Really?’
‘I really did. I thought wow. I hadn’t actually realised up to that point that I fancied you. It just never occurred to me that you were an option.’
‘I suppose I felt the same. I mean, you know. Kids and all that. Except that as soon as I saw you again yesterday morning, I realised why I hadn’t got around to getting your jeans back to you.’
‘God, isn’t that strange? All along, I’ve been saying to myself, send Colin those jeans to get back to Craig James, but I always didn’t quite get around to it. Weird.’
‘Not weird. Karma. I realised straight away yesterday how attracted to you I had been.’
‘Attracted? I love that word. Go on. How attracted?’
‘Really attracted. This much attracted.’
‘Mmmmm. How much attracted?’
‘Incredibly attracted.’
‘Fantastically so?’
‘Fantastically attracted.’
‘Wow. Wow. Pringle?’
‘Sex.’
Chapter 23
So what now?
When I woke up it was quarter to four on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Strangely, Craig James was still in my bed, sprawled and in the sort of heavy, immobile sleep that eventually catches up with those who are physically sated. And boy, are we sated. But I couldn’t sleep any more. I’m already in that post-childbirth phase of life that insists that every waking moment is utilised in some sort of productive endeavour. So, instead, I spent several glorious minutes productively looking. Admiring his curves and his bumps and his contours. Fixating on hairs and on freckles and moles, and on the way the fine hair at the nape of his neck formed small waves and whorls, like a field of ripe wheat in a stiff summer breeze.
Happiness is capricious. But I had caught some at last.
I showered, slipped on a pair of my CK effect pants, then padded around for a bit in the room, catching glimpses of someone I’d lost touch with some time back and hugging myself with joy that I’d found her again.
There is nothing like a long bout of sexual athletics to make you feel thin and toned and gorgeous. Except, perhaps, long distance running. But as that usually involves scraping your hair back, scrubbing your face, and not having any orgasms (as far as I know – though it is a popular sport), sex wins hands down, any time. Especially sex with someone with plenty of youthful enthusiasm. Sod experience – give me a good slug of libido. I can explain all the twiddly bits.
Listen to me, I thought. What am I like?
Craig slept on, and I sat for a while on the balcony. Apart from the now familiar gaggle of teenage girls in the car park (who were privy, presumably, to some insider information about Kite’s movements – or lack of), there were few people moving along our pretty stretch of front, fewer still on the beach. All off retail-park shopping, no doubt, as people do on a Saturday; buying freezers and vacuum cleaners and new school shoes for next term. Doing, in short, all those deeply unsatisfying yet necessary chores which are the stuff of ordinary life. Not having sex with Young Pop icons. Not making love. Not feeling suffused with desire and abandon. Not being in touch with their inner children. Not exploring their G-Spots. Not feeling like this.
And across the twinkling jade water, in a fusty gallic gite, my husband and children were no doubt already stoking an elderly barbecue, on which to cook strings of horrible French sausages with bits of twig in.
Knock knock.
‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Me who?’
‘Me who have big white chief randy bastard to collect. Open the fuck up.’
Nigel looked fresh and rested and full of his usual verve. And showing not the slightest surprise at the whereabouts of his musical prodigy. He came in and kicked Craig while I called Room Service for coffee. I had added a large T-Shirt to the pants. It said ‘Kite -Hard and Happening tour. Which was rather appropriate.
And get this;
Time to call time on ‘Charity’ Drug-ins?
Thirty seven people were arrested last night at Brighton’s fashionable Swank Bar, including Game Show supremo Ted Bunting, Pop goddess, Minxie and children’s TV presenter, Heidi Harris. The raid, organised at short notice following an anonymous tip off, also netted drugs with an estimated street value of eight thousand pounds.
Derek Handel, of Brighton and Hove constabulary, said ‘ We were all very disappointed to find so many high-profile celebrities indulging in such antisocial practices. Some of these people are heroes to young children. They look up to them and they deserve better.’
The arrests, which were all on drugs related charges, were made in the small hours of last night, during a party organised for the participants of the Rock Up Front concert, the music industry’s annual fund-raising fest.
‘It’s disgraceful,’ commented Councillor Geraint Ogilvy, the councillor who brought Rock Up Front to Brighton in the first place, despite concerns from some residents about noise levels and hooliganism. ‘We were thrilled to be able to host such a forward thinking event, and, like everyone, full of admiration for the stars who gave freely of their time and their talent. That a few of them went on to disgrace themselves is something we deeply regret.’
Regret today too, perhaps, for the usually effervescent Ms Harris, who spent a night in the cells and has now been released on bail. Harris (25) was in the news recently, after a fight at a popular London nightspot, over her relationsh
ip with Kite bassist Jonathan Sky. On that occasion she scuffled with the musician’s former fiancee, and broke the nose of the on-duty ‘Depth’ photographer (ironically also arrested last night.) The question now is how much of a role Harris’s alleged drug habit may have played in that incident, and what sort of Media future she now has. TV bosses, however, were unavailable for comment.
Sky himself was arrested also, but released without charge shortly after.
‘And get this,’ Nigel said. ‘Guess who phoned with the tip-off?’
We both shook our heads.
‘It was Kayleigh, of course.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because she’s already been on the phone to Jon, this afternoon. She’s cock-a-fucking-hoop. She’s one of a kind, that one.’
Craig bounced out of bed, naked, and unconcerned to be so. He took the paper from Nigel.
‘Christ, I wouldn’t rate her chances if Heidi Harris finds out.’
‘I don’t think Jon has even the smallest intention of telling her about it. And you two keep schtum, won’t you?’
‘Hey, ‘I said, re-reading the piece over Craig’s downy shoulder. ‘Hang on! What about this? It says I had my nose broken! And…and that I’ve been arrested as well! How did that happen? I wasn’t even there!’
‘Your name’s not actually in it. I shouldn’t worry. Depth have plenty of photographers, don’t they? It’s just bog standard crap reporting. Quite normal.’
‘But anyone could look at an old copy of the Herald and find out my name. And think I was on drugs or something. Like, people I know. And where on earth did they get the idea to put that in the first place?’
Nigel moved to the doorway to help the breathless waitress who had just arrived with the coffee tray, while Craig simply sat on the bed with a pillow over his groin. Cups rattled furiously, as Nigel went on,
‘I shouldn’t worry about it. I doubt it will hit Cardiff. It just made a good link with the punch up last month. And who’s going to be arsed to find out your name when they’ve got Heidi Harris and Ted Bunting in the frame?’
I poured out the coffee while Craig did his little dog cartoon on the Room Service slip. Such a thoughtful touch. God. Lurve alert, and how.
Julia Gets a Life Page 20
