Julia Gets a Life (15 page)

            ‘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.

            But at least we’re talking. Which has to be good. A couple of glasses of wine down the line and Howard has jollied me out of my grouchy mood (which he hadn’t noticed anyway), and instead, we’re into philosophy, big time. I’ve never known a man so able to have a conversation about feelings without walking away or trying to incorporate football into the conversation.

            Me; ‘Do you ever get the feeling that a person’s motivation for doing something is sometimes the opposite of what you thought, and that, in response, your own reaction can sometimes be counter productive to the effect you intended?’

            Richard; It’s funny you should say that. I was reading Danny Baker in the Times yesterday, and he was saying something very similar about the Hoddle/ Gasgoigne situation. By the way, it’s the EUFA cup second round tonight. What’s for tea?’

            Howard is different. Howard likes ideas. Howard is in touch with himself. Quite soon, I realise that our kebab plates (remnants of pitta welded to same by virtue of saturated fat solidifying etc) are gone and that he’s pouring me more wine and that he’s put something soft and twangy on the CD. And that we’re close together on the sofa and that the light is unaccountably dimmer and that the cushions (in a range of accent colours to complement the knick-knacks) are making their presence felt more as an embodiment of squashiness rather than of naffness, and that I have
taken off my shoes.

            ‘It’s good to be with someone who you can feel completely yourself with,’ Howard is saying. He too is without footwear, having been finally persuaded that I am quite old enough to go home (eventually) by taxi so that he can have a glass of wine too. He has had four (absolute minimum), and has opened another bottle.

            ‘Oh, you’re
so
right, ‘ I agree. ‘Sometimes, you know, with Richard, I felt so much that I was channelling my focus so completely into my husband and family that I had lost - in a
deep
sense - what it was that I
am
. D’you know what I mean?’

            ‘Mmm. Sometimes a person needs a jolt, a sudden loss of equilibrium, in order to find the inner space they need to understand who they are, don’t they?’

            ‘And it’s hard when you’re married, because marriage is, by it’s very
nature
, an artificial state. You have to, like, compromise your identity; make life choices that are not necessarily those you would make for yourself. That must, by necessity, cause disruption to your psyche, and inner conflict. Yes. Inner conflict. D’you know what I mean?’

            ‘I don’t know about marriage. I don’t do that stuff. But inner conflict is a big thing with me. Some days, it’s like I’m, oh, I don’t know, under the surface all the time? And like I can’t break through it? I get glimpses of the person I could be and then - plunge! I’m back struggling for the light again. Whoever coined the phrase Existential Aloneness must have had me in mind. That really
speaks
to me. And.....more wine?’

            ‘I’m sorry? Oh, no thanks. I’m drunk.’

            ‘Drink your way through it. That’s what I always do.’

            ‘Oh, all
right
. Just a teeny, teeny splosh. To there! No! Okay. Thats
all
. Okay?’

            ‘Okay.
Sir.
You should be a teacher.
You’re really quite a strong person, aren’t you? That’s what I’ve always liked about you. You are so in control of your life. So focussed. Even when all this business with Richard and that Rhiannon happened, and you came to me, and you cried, and so on... you had such
dignity
, such self possession, and I thought...’

            ‘Wait! You called her
that
Rhiannon. Why did you do that? I mean, it’s
great
that you did. I’m really pleased that you did because it says a lot for how you feel about me - in a way, sort of - but it’s like it’s been really interesting, because I’ve been reading all these books...’

            ‘Which ones?’

            ‘Oh, billions. All the ones in the health and lifestyle section in the Central Library, mainly. But it’s like I’ve been working really hard on trying to maintain my dignity by not sinking into the usual trap of just hating Rhiannon and wanting to hit her or something, and trying to get in touch with my finer feelings and understand that she did what she did because she is flawed and has crises or problems earlier in her life that have made her the way she is...’

            ‘What, a bitch, you mean?’

            ‘Yes! But, like, someone who I can pity and not hate. Do you know what I mean? And the whole ‘
that
Rhiannon’ bit is something I’ve been trying really hard not to think in terms of - for the children as much as anything..’

            ‘Of course.’

            ‘Of course. But it makes me feel so good that the result is that people I care about do it on my behalf instead. It’s sort of enriching. It enriches me to hear
you
say it, whereas it damages me to do it myself. You know?’

            ‘She’ll always be
that
Rhiannon for me now. Oh..... You’re such a lovely person, Julia.’

            ‘I’m sorry?’

            ‘Let me cuddle you. You’re so warm, I can almost feel the heat from you. Mmmmm. I’m so glad I’ve got to know you better. You’ve always been, well there, I suppose. A small glow in the day - on the days that I’ve seen you - but I don’t think it ever really registered with me before...’

            ‘Me
neither
. It’s been
exactly
the same for me! Why? It’s like, karma, or something...’

            ‘Karma, that fits. More wine?’

            ‘Should I? Should you?’

            ‘No, but isn’t that just a phoney restriction society imposes on us? Why can’t we just be? Why shouldn’t we...’

            ‘I mean mainly because I think we’ve had enough....I mean...I mean put your glass down, Howard. You’re right. I
am
a very strong person and I
am
in control of my life and I have decided that what I would most like to do now is kiss you....’

            ‘Would you? Then I should let you, shouldn’t I?’

            And so now we’re kissing. Being, as we are, in a cuddling position already, I have simply tilted my head back a little, pulled Howard’s head forward a little, and moved our faces together (slightly juxtaposed, naturally) so that our lips touch. As soon as they do, I am conscious of an almost unbearable surge of a familiar chemical reaction (I just can’t help but analyse!) that starts deep in my stomach and moves outwards and downwards, so that within seconds my body, from navel to knee, is throbbing, pulsating, and quite possibly glowing - a sort of physical version of the bleepy red spot on those futuristic tracking maps the baddies use in James Bond films, to keep tabs on his Aston Martin.

            I am also (and doesn’t this just tell you everything about how crummy it is to be a self-conscious teenager) struggling mightily with a desire to put my hand in Howard’s trousers. As if! Richard aside (our sexual history is an entirely different matter) if someone told me twenty years ago that I’d be anxious to grab a man’s equipment while kissing him, I would have guffawed. Putting your hand on your boyfriend’s trousers and feeling his willy was something girls did solely because if they didn’t they might get chucked. Or was I missing something somewhere? In my case, by the time I had discovered that there were feelings you got in your stomach that caused you to behave in that way of your own volition, I was already at the clothes off and in bed stage, with Richard.

            I tighten my hand around Howard’s neck and open my mouth around his warm, moist lips. His lips part also, though sluggishly, it must be said, and his hands move in languid circles over my back, bumping into one another occasionally and snagging, here and there, on the fabric of my top. But they do not seem to be exhibiting any pressing need to grapple with my breasts or make a stab at broaching my waistband. So I stop kissing him.

            ‘Are you all right?’ I say. I sound
just
like my mother.

            ‘Mmmm....um, actually, no. I feel sick.’

            Grrreat.

Chapter
14

            I am in control of my life. I am in touch with;

            Humanity (have taken charge of Lily’s unexpected pregnancy crisis)

            Reality (have squared up to Richard re. ansafone squabble and am mentally       prepared for future ownership disputes)

            Sexuality (am
so
horny am rampant, and
cannot wait
for Howard to recover    from his stomach bug/hangover combi)

            And now I have an amazing career development too. Excitement, and big time.

            In actual fact, I
am
a tad irritable with Howard. If he thinks I’m so great then why the hell was he sloshing Chianti down his face at such a lick last night? Where was his self control? (drink wise). And where was his loss of control? (sex wise). Perhaps it was just youth and inexperience (oh, come
on
, Julia). Or, or, OR - maybe he was nervous! Yes. That must be it. He is shy. Of course! Perhaps I need to offload Max and Emma for paternal overnight bonding session, and have Howard (
have
Howard) round here.

            But I am buoyed enough by today’s exciting development to recall that I am;