Julia Gets a Life
Authors: Lynne Barrett-Lee
| Julia Gets a Life |
| Lynne Barrett-Lee |
| Bantam (2000) |
When Julia's husband has an affair with local siren Rhiannon de Laney, she feels as if her world is falling apart. Once the arguments have abated, and her husband has moved out, Julia realises she's well and truly on her own, a single parent with two teenage children, a bad haircut and no idea of what to do or where to go next. Gradually, however, Julia begins to recognise the benefits of being single: it's the chance to meet new people and make new friends, change her hairstyle, throw out her old clothes, experiment with a new image, resurrect her photography career, travel the country with a boy band and, in short, rediscover herself outside the context of loyal wife and dutiful mother. She also rediscovers the joys of dating. After a few false starts, she finds herself learning more about the talents, musical and otherwise, of the lead singer of Britain's most famous band. Julia's certainly got herself a life you wonder whether it is the kind of existence she wants to live permanently, or whether her ailing marriage is worth saving. Light-hearted, humorous and at times surprising, Julia's battles with this age-old dilemma prove instantly recognisable yet highly entertaining, with a twist in the tale that may surprise or perplex.
Julia Gets a Life
Lynne Barrett-Lee
Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2007
ISBN 1905170408 / 9781905170401
Copyright © Lynne Barrett-Lee 2007
The right of Lynne Barrett-Lee to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by her in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction.
Names and characters are the product of the author’s
imagination and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape,
mechanical, photocopying, recording
or otherwise, without the written permission of the
publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St,
Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6SA
Printed and bound in the UK
Cover Design by Anna Torborg
The publisher acknowledges the financial support
of the Welsh Books Council
For Peter, with all my love
Author’s Note
Back in 1998, when this novel was first written, both Julia and myself lacked a number of things, without which life today would seem bizarre. Mobile phones, for example. An internet connection. Any notion that the city of Cardiff might soon become such a hip and happening place. Thus most of what follows is very much of its time, and so would not easily accommodate too much authorial tinkering. That said, in the interests of connecting with today, I've put to bed both Julia's Teletubbies and Max's ubiquitous yo-yo, and replaced them with Tweenies and a Nintendo VS. Neither pleases me in quite the same way, but then one's maternal history is invariably wedded to the cultural markers of its day. Conversely, marital strife - happily - is timeless...
Lynne Barrett-Lee June 2007
Contents
I always start with a list.
Today’s list is written on the back of an old card. It reads;
Clothes/shoes etc.
Books - biogs.
Not
novels
Car/engineering mags
Wooden coat-hangers
Dumbells
Trouser press
I keep cards (I keep most things), though not efficiently so. Like anything paper based that is unsuitable for immediate binning, I tend to shove them anywhere I can find a suitable nook. This one I plucked from a wodge on my bedside table, that were stuffed between
Flat Stomach, Now!
and
Wild Swans.
Inside the card there is a poem. It goes;
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
What more could I need,
When I’ve someone like you?
Though real flowers were never much of a thing with him, Richard did do cards. Rubbish cards, mainly (this one is a montage of hearts, flowers, ribbons and what look like mouse droppings but are presumably buds, all buried under a crusty overspill of pearlised glitter), but personalised in his own sentimental, if rather prosaic, style. And there’s more. It says,
To my wonderful wife on our anniversary. Love you always. Kiss, kiss kiss.
It’s old, this one. From three, maybe four years back. But not longer, I estimate, because it was four years ago that we had the new carpet.
I know my list now so I rip it and bin it.
The thing about spring cleaning your bedroom is that it is tangibly different from cleaning, say, a kitchen. When you clear out a kitchen it’s simply a case of pulling everything out, chucking away anything that looks like it might be a useful addition to a biology lab, scrubbing off all the crusty bits, and then lobbing it all back. But with your bedroom it’s all start, stop, inspect, peruse, recall, smile wistfully, regret, start again, stop again etc., etc.
And filth, quite frankly, when you’re as slovenly as I am. For me spring cleaning is simply the conjunction of two entirely unrelated words; something that occurs when you’re flicking a duster and it just happens to be April.
Today though, I am spring cleaning proper. As well as the vacuum and a rag made of old pants (my Mum’s speciality), I have cans of polish, bin bags, a selection of cardboard boxes, labels and Sellotape, and carrier bags. I considered bringing up a cheese sandwich in a lunch box to keep me on task, but I couldn’t because we’ve run out of bread.
Which is a remarkably apt illustration of the quality of my housewifery skills generally. As I cast about me now I note that my bedroom is beginning to look rather like an extension of me - well intentioned, but tending towards disarray. This is because my possessions have all begun individual Triffid-like pilgrimages into previously uncharted regions. The top of the chest of drawers, for instance, was once home to just a lamp (horrible, wedding present), a photograph (of Richard and the children, by me) and a variable quantity of loose change. But now it looks more like Widow Twanky’s lost property corner; a sea of balled socks and odd socks, tights and frayed knickers, with two empty wine glasses coming up for air.
Good God, my junk is
everywhere
. I really must get my head together and dump some. Except that the slattern in me has already sussed that I’m about to have a whole load more storage available, so my forays into strict and sensible space management seriously lack commitment.
I move around to the floor under the other bedside table and transfer what feel like a hundredweight of
What Car
and
New Civil Engineer
into a cardboard box which I carefully label
Mags.
Then I pull out the drawer and inspect its neat contents; a hardback biography, a blister pack of aspirins, a
Rennie;
just one, with its wrapper intact. No cards in here, I note. No scraps of paper. No paper clips, shirt buttons, dry cleaning tickets. No nothing that makes him seem human and real. It’s so
sad.
He’s leaving today. I should write
him
a poem.
