Julia Gets a Life (42 page)

            ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

            ‘Oh. I thought so.’

            I could hear him sigh, take a breath. Then a long, long silence. ‘Okay. Good. As long as I know where we are at. So. Okay.’

            When I put the phone down, I felt really, really,
really
guilty. But why? What did I have to feel guilty about? After supper I drove round to Howard’s for an hour. We didn’t talk much; just watched TV together. But when I left he said,

            ‘Funny. You know what I keep thinking about?’

            I shook my head.

            ‘I keep thinking about how I’m the last. How I’m all alone now. You know? And how there won’t be any more. My genes will die with me. D’you know, last night in bed I realised that there is absolutely no-one else left. My only living relative now is a spinster aunt of eighty-odd who is completely demented. In a nursing home in Kent, somewhere. And my whole family is littered with childlessness and early death. It’s almost as if natural selection decided that we weren’t up to scratch. Look at me. I’m 29 and I haven’t got a soul in the world. And I’m gay, so I haven’t got a stake in the future, either. It’s going to take a lot of getting used to, I think.’

            I drove home and considered the enormity of what he was saying. He had nothing and no-one, except a guy who was cheating on him.     It was so, so sad. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. You can’t fix other people’s lives.

            In the middle of the night I woke up in a panic, the depth of Howard’s loneliness suddenly clear. Supposing he thought his own life wasn’t worth hanging on to? I phoned him. Nick answered. Said,

            ‘Who the hell’s this?’

            ‘I was worried about Howard. He seemed very low, and I...’

            ‘For God’s sake! We’re asleep!’

            Then his voice changed. ‘Look, thanks for coming and that. But he’s fine. Really. I’ll let him know that you called. Everything’s fine.’

            Based on who’s criteria?

           
Bastard
. Thank heavens he isn’t a female. Lest Howard expect us to become girly friends.

            Butterflies.
Big
time.

            Tuesday. Time Of Your Life. (I don’t
think
so.) Big bad A.M. makes an unscheduled visit.

            ‘It has come to my notice,’ he says, without smiling (even nastily), ‘that you’ve been involved in some sort of public order offence.’

            Out comes the article, dog eared and smudgy. No more Mr Nice Guy. No more plaudits and praise.

            ‘No I haven’t,’ I say. ‘It was another photographer. Donna Talbot, her name is. Check with the
Herald
if you like.’

            ‘Your name is what’s written...’

            ‘But it’s not true. Like I told you...’

            ‘The point is that we’ve got an
image
to think about. The
family
image of time Of Your Life. It doesn’t say much for our family ethos if our staff are involved in
criminal activities
, does it?’

            ‘I have
not
been involved in any criminal activities, and I resent the implication that I have. I told you, if you would like to ring...’

            ‘But the damage is done now, nevertheless.’

            ‘But that isn’t my fault.’

            ‘It’s your fault for being involved.’

            ‘But I wasn’t!’

            ‘Are you trying to pretend that you haven’t been working with musicians and the like?’

            Musicians? As in international terrorists and all round scum bags? Oh, I
see
.

            ‘Only tame ones.’

            ‘Being flippant won’t help you.’

            ‘Being rude won’t help
you
.’

            Oops.

            Butterflies,
Big time
.

            But, boy, am I glad it’s Wednesday. What with feeling bad about Richard, and fretting about Howard, and then (of course) feeling bad about feeling like I needed to get away, it was all I could do to be nice to the children. And then I felt bad about feeling like that about
them
.

            There’s no doubt that the whole meet young, get married, have kids, stay married, men in fields, women home darning and suchlike lifestyle
serves a purpose
.

            But not my purpose. Not at this time. At this time all I want to do is get to London, get the book sorted, get another commission (or, at least a bit of a sniff of one) get somewhere with Craig, get happy, get laid. I can’t think beyond that. It all gets too complicated. My mind will crash if I think even a moment too far.

            I fetch up at Paddington exactly on schedule and taxi it down (on flash bitch expenses) to Soho. The offices of the book publishing sector of the publishing empire Colin works for are just off a street of pornography vendors. Sex, it seems is everywhere today. It is just before lunchtime on a hot day and already I’m dizzy with desire. Now I’m here it’s as if the previous ten days didn’t exist; that I was dropped into a sitcom or comedy drama that turned out to be more of a play for today. And now I’ve slipped out; back to me-time, reality. Which is peculiar, as Brighton still seems like a dream.

            There is a small knot of people outside the company’s entrance and I have to ‘pardon’ and ‘excuse me’ and ‘I’m sorry’ continuously in order to make my way to the front. Once I am there though I am immediately admitted, because Colin has been waiting in the Foyer to meet me.

            ‘Sweet! Look at you! You look such a
babe
! Let me pick up your bag for you. Journey okay? Look at you! - here, we’ll take the lift up - are you hot? Can I get you a can of something?’

            ‘I’m fine, ‘ I say, pleased with my sartorial thinking. (The mauve, strappy, lace thing with a jacket on top.) ‘Is everyone here?’

            ‘All but Davey Dean, who’s shopping for a new electric toothbrush, for reasons best known to himself. He’s going to join us for lunch. Anyway, here we are.’

           
Butterflies. Big time
.

            And, finally, as if I’ve willed him into being by the power of longing alone, there he is again.

            He is half sitting, half standing at the edge of an illuminated desk, upon which are arranged swathes of transparencies. He is wearing a khaki
Kite
T-shirt (Why not? I recall him remarking. I get them free. And they’re good quality), a pair of dark, baggy jeans with rolled over turn ups, and green neon trainers that I recognise as being the ones Max would like. His fringe hangs in a flop over his brows, and the light from a sun shaft has painted a gilded stripe across it. The leg off the floor swings to and fro slowly, and one hand holds a pen, which he taps on his knee.

            He is too, too beautiful. I almost find myself hoping I can sneak in unnoticed, because my heart’s pumping blood round at such a great rate that I’m sure once our eyes meet, a log jam will happen, and I’ll fall in an ungainly heap on the floor.

            But I can’t sneak in unnoticed, because Colin makes a big fuss about letting everyone know I’ve arrived, and Nigel comes up and hugs me like we were in Nursery school together, and the rest of
Kite
(bar Davey) mouth friendly hellos. I’m introduced to Ffion and Patrick and Andy, who are all very friendly and are in charge of production and who’s names I immediately and completely forget. And all the while
he’s
still in place on the desk edge and his eyes are focused on me.

            And then there is some sort of meeting.

            Much of which I fail to take in. But unnoticeably so, it seems. Perhaps because of the diversity of humanity that one finds in fields known as ‘creative’. It is only when everyone agrees ‘lunch’ and then move, that I re-focus my brain and move also.

            The restaurant is one of those favoured by celebrities. The clientele are mostly people with familiar but un-nameable faces, and business types striving to look like they couldn’t care less either way.
Kite
cause the smallest, politest of ripples then everyone gets back to not looking at each other.

            There is a lot of cheerful, self-congratulatory chit-chat while orders are taken and drinks are dispensed. Craig is seated two down on our big circular table, so I have him in profile, but our eyes cannot meet unless we turn to achieve it. I concentrate hard while one of the publishing trio (Patrick or Andy?) fill me in on the next stage of the production of the book. He’s talking about printing and paper coatings and covers, all of which floats straight up to the ceiling. (Though I do not worry. I have motherhood neurones that I know will not fail me. I can cope with any number of different inputs at once. And my swoon state is simply a filter.) I choose some sort of warm salad, then excuse myself and set off for the loo.

            Like many of its ilk, this toilet is themed. And the theme seems to be something like ‘consider the twig.’ Once I am able to find a stretch of mirror that isn’t fronted by a spidery arrangement in a frosted glass specimen bottle, I take heart from the fact that I don’t, astonishingly, look in the least how I feel. By rights I should be flushed, a touch sweaty, with my pupils dilated and my hair stuck to my face. In fact I look fine. Sort of mauve and wispy and of a Cadbury’s Flake-ad persuasion. But with the appropriate power line of the jacket in place. I touch up my lipstick - a tedious ritual - but my copy of
Female
was clear on the point. Women-who-win wouldn’t dream of having bare lips - akin, it seems, to going to a meeting with your breasts hanging out. Or, horror, hair on your legs.

            I emerge to continue my trial by endorphins (or
is
it pheromones, or is it estrogen, perhaps?) to find the chief executioner loitering outside.

            ‘Gotcha,’ he says - though quietly, and (thankfully) not sounding in the least like Noel Edmonds.

            He takes both my hands in his and weaves our fingers together.

            ‘How are you. How
are
you?’

            ‘Actually, I’m trembling.’

            ‘I can feel it.’ He pulls our joined hands around his back so that our bodies are pressed closely together. He smells of soap powder and clean hair and some kind of deodorant. I want to
eat
him.

            ‘I can’t stop it. I think I’m going to run out of adrenaline soon. Either that or die. Which wouldn’t be very timely, as I haven’t made a will or made love to you yet.’

            He lets go of my hands and winds his own around my shoulders.

            ‘Actually, I’ve done a recce. There’s a cupboard right here, Mrs Potter, if you’re desperate.’

            ‘Aren’t you?’

            He presses me tighter against him.