Julia Gets a Life (16 page)

            Strong

            A warm person

            So lovely

            A small glow in Howard’s day

            Focussed

also, that I have

            Dignity

            Self possession

            It’s a pretty scrumptious collection of things to be described as. Even if most
[JAH2]
 
of it (no, only a
bit
of it) is not true.

            Anyway, being in possession of all these fine attributes (plus only half the hangover I expected – or is my liver showing signs of acclimatisation to its recently increased alcohol intake?) led me to spend a happy hour this morning compiling yet another list. A list of
Things I have never done
(two columns; a. wish I had, and will try to / b. don’t intend to, if can help it).

            And it was spooky that I got the career development phone call just then because whereas my b. list included such unappetising items such as
changed bulb in outside carriage lamp
and
cleaned out dustbins,
my a. list was in danger of turning into fiction/utter garbage;
become character actress/children’s TV presenter or similar,
and
be rock star
(more of which later!).
The only sensible items on it were
had own flat (room in hall of residence does not count)
and
be more considered/grown up generally.
(Howard’s comments notwithstanding - Howard is in
lurve
with me and thinks I am perfect.)

            But now something really exciting has happened to me, I also find myself feeling passionately wistful (if that is strictly possible) about not having led a more driven and achieving life up to now. Not that I feel my life has been any more unexciting than most people’s. Just that I feel there is a potential for greatness inside me which I have chosen to ignore. Or am I just arrogant?

            Note; definition of being passionately wistful; standing at bedroom/Time Of Your Life Photo Studio window wringing hands/sighing heavily and saying oh, why didn’t I stay in the New Malden Junior Theatre Club? Why? Why? I have so much to
give
.

            At least I am achieving one item on my list. I am being considered, ordered and reflective in my thinking. Indeed, I am thinking at a rate previously unheard of in this house. But I must take care not to become over analytical and introspective. No one will like me any more if I go around prattling on about being in touch with my real motivations unless I am drunk and with like minded person i.e. Howard.

            Anyhow, stuff profundity...
something really exciting has happened to me.YYYYesssssss!!!!!!!

           
And it’s all thanks to Colin. I could kiss that man. Actually, I doubt that I could
.
But Colin’s a darling, an absolute darling. If it hadn’t been for getting married, having kids, wanting to spend a chunk of every day watching
Neighbours
and eating Hob Nobs  I could have really been someone, photographically speaking. I could have been famous, rich, and also well stocked with classic quality separates from Harvey Nichols. Colin would have seen to it, because Colin was my mentor.

            Richard’s definition of Colin; a camp, slimy hack with nicotine stained teeth.

            My definition of Colin; all of the above, plus very nice bloke and good mate.

            To say that Colin discovered me would be a tad melodramatic, but nevertheless, he did. He really did. He will definitely get a mention on the jacket when my first collection of photographs is published.

            Colin was, and still is, editor of
Depth
magazine, a kind of middle brow Sunday supplement. You know the type. Wouldn’t tackle anything as stressful as genocide in obscure African states but equally, wouldn’t stoop to what minor celebrities like to eat for TV dinners. Think; unusual careers - pub sign painters or people who make handbags out of smoked salmon. And that’s pretty much the mark. Lots of moody black and white photography, four to five features per week type thing.

            Anyway, what Colin did was judge a photographic competition; a sort of bright new star type thing that they held every year. And I won it. I was nineteen and already at college and, kicking around a bit during the summer break (and feeling a bit full of myself) I entered. I did a whimsical kind of collage picture called ‘the garden gate’. For it, I assembled;

            My mum’s cat, Tiddle

            My old dog, Piper

            A washing up bowl full of water (splashed, dirty)

            An empty milk bottle (on its side)

            A squashed football

            A Sindy Doll Punk Rocker that my mum had strangely kept as the main token    of my childhood (food colouring plus bits of bin bag and safety pins)

            I shot it in black and white at sunset (for the shadows; shadows are
good
) and fortuitously, Mrs Belvedere (my mum’s next door neighbour) happened by with her shopping trolley and her hair in a head scarf that looked like a tea towel, just as I was about to go click. Then the cat spat and made a grab for her stockings.

            Colin said ‘...shows an outstanding flair for composition coupled with impressive technical ability....’ and a lot more encouraging stuff along those lines. And
Depth
were, I recall, particularly impressed by the ‘juxtaposition of disparate images (squalor/old lady/fluffy pets/aggression etc) that captured the very essence of modern urban life’.

            Well, crap it may have been, New Malden it may have been, but it paid rather well; I got £500 plus a Pentax to die for and best, a commission from
Depth
magazine to take photographs for a feature on what punks got up to down the King’s Road on a Saturday afternoon.

            (Which was, it turned out, mainly things like buying refill pads and half pounds of mince, pretty much like most students. But they didn’t put that in the feature, of course.)

            I’ve been doing stuff for Colin on and off ever since. Didn’t land a job on
Depth
as soon as I came out of college (as if!), but, while I beavered happily at a small advertising photography studio (anything from tampon tests to trainers), Colin would give me the odd freelance commission, and made it clear that a little way down the line there’d be significantly more. But Richard and I were pretty much welded by then. By this time he was making his mark in the sludgy concrete of town planning, cutting a swathe through the beaurocratic mush. He was going places. And he was my hero. Does a Good Housekeeping gene get expressed in young women? That makes weddings and carpets and domesticity so desirable? Scary but, in my case, undeniably true. So I married, got pregnant, got a baby, got
sidetracked.
Somehow career plans seemed largely irrelevant; like pension provision, a next-year-perhaps kind of thing. By the time Max came along, of course, I’d all but given up freelancing; Richard had been offered his partnership in Cardiff, and having moved one hundred and forty miles westwards, I wasn’t very handy for an impromptu shoot. Even if I’d been able. Richard worked long hours, and there was a clear if unspoken division of labour in our marriage; to have breached it would have involved not being a-proper-mother, and guilt, and Richard sulking and so on. But (thank God!) I did the odd thing for
Depth
still; kept the pilot light going, kept a smidgen of career aspiration alive.

            And now this.
This!
This one’s in a completely different league. On a completely different planet. In a parallel universe even, with aliens and lots of different sized moons. I am
so
excited. Who shall I tell first?

            In fact, I am going to tell no-one. I have read that the need to tell other human beings about one’s successes and excitements is a Victim Behaviour. It involves becoming reliant on other people for understanding/fulfilment/happiness etc, which in turn gives them power to make you unhappy, based on their response - or lack of. Apparently. If they should ask, fine. But it is of no consequence either way.

            ‘Mum?’

            ‘Julia?’

            ‘Mum!’

            ‘Hello dear. I’m glad you called. I telephoned last night and that French girl of yours was there. And you know I can’t make head nor tail of anything she says. Is everything all right?’

            ‘Yes, of course it is.’

            ‘So where were you?’

            ‘I went out.’

            ‘Went out? You went out last week, didn’t you?’

            Great heavens above. What
is
it with people?

            ‘Yes, and I went out again
this
week. To see a film.’

            ‘But I thought your French girl said you were seeing Max’s teacher.’

            Hmmmm.

            ‘I went to see a film
with
Max’s teacher.’

            ‘Oh. Is this a school thing, then?’

            ‘Well, no. Not exactly. Except that Mr Ringrose and I thought we’d like to go and see a film together.
If
you’ve no objections.’

            ‘All right. Don’t get testy with me, dear. Anyway, you’re all right. That’s all I wanted to know......’

            Hmmm.

            ‘Okay.’

            ‘So why did you telephone? And how’s Richard?’’

            Hrrruummph.

            ‘Julia?’

            ‘Hello, Richard. What can I do for you?’

            ‘I’m just calling about the outside of the house. I’ve had the quote from Evans’s and I’ve told them to go ahead because it really needs doing as soon as possible. I noticed the other day that there was already a lot of peeling on the kitchen sill. I’ve said to use the walnut again. And I said next week would be okay, weather permitting. Is that going to be okay with you?’

            ‘Yes, I suppose so. Except that I’m going to be in London on Wednesday.....’

            ‘Oh. Are you? Well. I suppose that doesn’t matter. They don’t actually need access. As long as you leave the gate open so they can get to the back...’

            ‘I’ll make sure I remember to unbolt it before I go. er..to
London
.’

            ‘Good. Well. Anyway. Everything all right?’

            ‘Fine.
Particularly
fine.....’

            ‘Good. Kids okay?’

            ‘Same as they were last time you saw them.’

            ‘Good. So. Er. Back to work then. Er. Listen, Julia, are we going to talk soon, or something?’

            Big sigh.
Big
sigh.

            ‘Or something, Richard.’