Julia Gets a Life (27 page)

            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 marginally 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.

            We have twelve children and babies on the shortlist, one of which will get a rosette (and complimentary sitting, naturally) then go forward to the national finals. The winner of this prestigious event then gets a brief (off-season) trip to Walt Disney World, and their face on the cover of
Family Choice
.

            Angharad has to be odds-on favourite - many of the characters that looked so cheerful and cutesy mid morning are now showing the strain of their post-bedtime outing, and, if not actually bawling, keep threatening to.

            Our rotund Area Manager - an ageing clown like figure who shows up once a month to ‘gee us up’ and grope bottoms, calls everyone to order, and assembles the children for a publicity shot - one in which he also appears, holding a randomly selected two year old, and also the cheesiest grin imaginable. Which is no joke if you are being repeatedly kicked in the crotch. SHR.

            Then we mill, and re-group, then mill some more and then disperse, until it is time for the winning child to be announced. And wouldn’t you know it? Angharad wins.

            ‘Julia!’ chortles the Area Manager. ‘Why don’t you do the honours for us!

We’re terrifically proud of Julia,’ he explains, reverentially, to the children, ‘because she has recently been doing some very exciting photography, taking pictures of the very, very famous pop group,
Bike,
for a book. Isn’t that exciting? Who’s heard of
Bike
?’

            Am I in some sort of trouble for freelancing, or is this torrent of gush loins-related? I wonder vaguely who I should berate for this misinformation but I’m cringing so much by now that I don’t even bother to correct him. The children remain stony faced and silent, until one pipes up with a chorus of
Round and Round the Mulberry Bush
. While I take the proffered rosette, I find myself humming a few bars of
Kite’s
latest single, and wish myself, fervently, back in that other world. Then I advance on Angharad, shake hands with Rhiannon, and actually manage to walk back to my tripod
without
wiping my hand.

            At the end, Rhiannon comes over to me.

            ‘Look..’ she begins to say, hands out, palms upwards. I look down at them, then at Angharad, who is standing right beside her. I shake my head.

            ‘I’d rather not,’ I reply.

*

            We’re being so terrifically grown up and mature and all that stuff, that I’ve actually agreed to have Richard round for an hour or two, so that we can discuss the kids’ and our holiday plans. Not that they much care. For Max, any enforced absence from his Playstation (and new Nintendo VS, of course) is torture and Emma has a permanent face on at the very idea of being separated from the boyfriend that she is continuing to maintain isn’t one.

            But
I
want to go on holiday, and Richard wants to go on holiday, and we obviously can’t go together.

            I’ve been having a few thoughts about Richard since seeing Rhiannon again, last night. I’m becoming frighteningly disinterested in him. In fact, I’m also confused about exactly why becoming disinterested should be something to be frightened about. We’ve split up, so surely that’s a good thing, isn’t it?

            What I’ve mainly been doing though, is realising that me being so upset about the possibility of a Richard/Rhiannon thing resurfacing wasn’t really about Richard at all. It was what Rani said. I don’t want him but I still want him to want me. And I’m not even sure that I care about that now. Mad, eh? No man, no sex, no
nothing
in that department, so why do I feel so together?

            ‘By the way,’ I say, chattily, over some of that nice coffee Howard recommended, ‘did you hear about Angharad winning the face2Face final?’

            He gives me one of his looks.

            ‘I’m not surprised. She’s a pretty girl,’ I add.

            ‘Hmmm,’ he says, getting his diary out.

            Max is upstairs in his room and Emma is at a friend’s house, so we can get on with the business of planning their school holidays without the fag of having to actually refer to them. Richard is keen to take them to the rainy corner of France for a week (no surprise there, then) and I am still undecided.

            The main problem is that we both want to go away the week after next, having both, independently, booked the time off from work.

            ‘So change it,’ he says, smiling nicely. ‘It’s much easier for you.’

            ‘No it isn’t. It’s harder. I’m not high up, like you.’

            ‘But I’ve projects to see to and meetings already scheduled. For me to change involves inconveniencing lots of other people.’

            I smile nicely too.

            ‘And for me to change puts me in a difficult position with my boss. It’s a very busy time. You know that.’

            He continues to smile. ‘But you are surely not so indispensable that you cannot change your holiday without the whole Time Of Your Life empire crumbling.’

            I continue to smile also. ‘Like your five-years-late millennium pod thing will, you mean?’

            He politely ignores ‘five years late millennium pod thing’. ‘I mean that you are not going to lose your job just because you ask for a different week off.’

            ‘But suppose Rani and Greg have already booked holidays? And I
might
lose my job. Now my extra-curricular activities are common knowledge, they might decide to kick me out and get a trainee in instead. And then where would we be?’

            Less smile, more grimace. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

            ‘Children cost money to bring up, Richard. With only one income...’

            ‘Mummm!’ this is Max. ‘Colin someone on the phone!’

            Richard sits and taps his pen on the table, tap, tap, tap, while I go out to the hall to answer the phone.

            When I finally return he is looking less tense. He is drinking more coffee and smiling agreeably. He must have been doing deep breathing exercises or something. As per his own post-marital guidance literature, perhaps?

            ‘I think…’ he begins, but I hold up my hand.

            ‘Don’t worry, ‘ I say. I
will
change my holiday. We’re going to go away next week instead.’

            ‘Oh!’ he says. ‘Where?’

            ‘To Croydon.’

            ‘Croydon?’

            ‘To Croydon. To spend a week with my Mum.’

            Which, as it turns out, is probably going to be the best place for us.

            Richard is just about to ask me what possible reason I could have for wanting to spend a week in a drab South London suburb eating entrails, when the rattle of the gate heralds Emma’s return. She comes in flushed, which is usual these days, and heaves her school bag from her shoulder.

            ‘Good day?’ I enquire.

            ‘Good enough,’ she replies. ‘What are you doing here, Dad?’

            ‘Organising our holiday.’