Julia Gets a Life (25 page)

            ‘Oh.’

            ‘And his wife’s not around, so it’s good for him.’

            ‘Oh.’
Oh
. I’ll
bet
. For ‘engaging’, read leering. I stand up.

            ‘Another beer? Or are you going? And are you taking that with you?’

            He means the sheet, which I’ve inadvertently caught in my knickers. I pluck it out and thrust it back down on the bed.

            ‘I think I’m going, actually. Except that I don’t know where my trousers are.’

            His eyes narrow. ‘You having a moody?’

            ‘No. I just think it’s time I got back to my children.’

            ‘Children?’

            Hah! Thought that would floor him.

            ‘Two.’

             ‘No kidding.’

            He looks vaguely animated and even impressed. Despite myself, I’m pleased.

            ‘Eleven and fifteen.’

            ‘No! Cool. You don’t look it at
all
.’     (Note: Young people are notoriously bad at guessing older people’s ages. Note two: What constitutes ‘at all’?) ‘So, where are they?’

            ‘At home, with my friend. Who is staying the night.’

            ‘No dad?’

            ‘Ex. I mean, not ex-dad. But ex- husband. I mean separated. I mean...Anyway. Trousers?’

            ‘I expect they’ve been sent down to be laundered by now. Why separated?’

            ‘He slept with someone else. So I dumped him.’ I’ve got that off pat now, I notice. Wordage, tone, style etc. He says,

            ‘Fucking bastard. I’m sorry,’ and, incongruously, he seems to mean that as well. ‘Look,’ he says suddenly. ‘Why don’t you stay and have another beer? If you’re friend is staying over, then why don’t you make the most of it? I would.’

            ‘You sound like you know all about it.’

            ‘I do. My old man wrote the guide book.’

            I take the beer he hands me. We sit again, and I have the horrible feeling I’m about to take on the mantle of Mother Substitute.
Again.

            ‘Got any Pringles?’ I say.

            So I stayed a bit longer and we talked about how his old lady was completely ‘fucked about’ by his old man and about bastards generally. There weren’t any Pringles but there was a breathtaking selection of savoury nibbly things, and lashings of beer. Then he lent me some jeans, and did an elaborate autograph for Emma on the hotel notepaper, which put me in mind of the experimental signatures we used to try out at high school. His involved a little dog, with floppy ears. He then let me take a couple more shots of him, gave me the playstation portable- that-wasn’t – just like that! – for Max, and called me a taxi. And then I went home.

*

            ‘But what’s he
like
?’

            ‘He was nice. He was a very nice young man.’

            ‘God, Mum, you sound just like Gran, do you know that?’

            ‘But he was! That’s
exactly
what he was.’

            ‘But was he gorgeous?’

            ‘I suppose so. Yes. If you’re fifteen he’s a nice looking guy. They all are. Well, maybe not that Sky bloke, so much. But he obviously doesn’t seem to have any shortage of admirers...’

            ‘And his
jeans
. Can’t I have them, Mum.
Please
?’

            ‘Wow! A VS!
Yes
!’ says Max, quite possibly computing rental charges as we speak.

            ‘No, you can’t,’ I say. ‘I shall be giving them back to him.’

            ‘But look what Max got. It’s not fair. And he’s got yours.’

            ‘The hotel has. And they know where to send them..’

            ‘Oh, but
please.
He won’t miss them. He’s probably got millions.’

            Which is true, and, in fact, as I left, he said keep them. But I won’t. I will wash them, and send them back via Colin.

            ‘So. How was last night?’ I say. ‘Everything okay?’

            Max points at his sister. ‘Except that
she
was on the phone for an
hour
. To her
boy
friend.’

            ‘No, I wasn’t!’

            ‘Yes you were.’

            ‘Yes, she was. One hour and ten minutes, in fact.’ Lily shuffles into the kitchen and sits down. She is wearing my dressing gown. ‘But it was him that phoned, so where is the problem, Max? Yeurrgh, I feel sick. Good God! Your eye!’

            By the time Lily has inspected it another taxi pulls up, with Jacinta inside. I’d decided, given my knowledge of her probable activity and location, that she could find her own way home once she was ready. Which she has. And bar the black eye, she looks worse than me. Which was striven for, probably. And, if not, as Moira Bugle would doubtless say, SHR.

            ‘You know what’s worse than starting the day with a hangover?’ she says, chattily. I consider quipping about guilty consciences, but can’t be bothered. I shake my head instead. ‘Starting the day still pissed up, because you know it’s all still to come. Jesus, that’s some black eye you’ve got there. Ha, ha! Let’s get some copy rung through to Colin, shall we?’ She waggles her hand in her pocket. ‘I’ve got the film here, and I’ll be back in town by lunchtime. We could make Monday’s Herald, with a bit of luck.’

            ‘What? Mum in the paper?’ clamours Emma. ‘Cool!’

            Max sighs.

            ‘I just can’t believe Heidi Harris would
do
something like that,’ he says sadly.

            Richard, naturally, arrived not too long after, and I had to let him come in because the kids weren’t ready. We’d all been too busy helping Jax (who I provisionally/temporarily forgave) with her copy, and deciding which superlatives to shower upon me.

            ‘What on earth have you been up to?’ he asked, clutching a mug of coffee and looking like he was round to try and flog double glazing.

            ‘I got involved in a fight,’ I said, grandly. I was beginning to rather enjoy my celebrity status.

            ‘A fight? You?’

            ‘Yes, me. I was trying to separate two women who were having a punch up and I got this for my trouble.’

            ‘Hmmm. And did you?’

            ‘Did I what?’

            ‘Separate them.’

            ‘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.