Julia Gets a Life (19 page)

            ‘I know. Don’t worry. It’s been a long day, one way and another...’

            ‘Mmmm. So. Successful? Your trip?’

            ‘Yes. it was. I..’

            ‘So. I’d better get back.’

            So he did.

            There were two messages on the ansafone. One from Emma, to say she’d be back about eight - having detoured to her friend’s for homework and supper. And one from Howard.

                        ‘Hi, Julia. It’s me. Great news! It all sounds very exciting. Listen. How about you, me... I don’t know - pasta or something. At my place? Friday night? Or would you like to go out somewhere? Call me a.s.a.p.’

            That ‘pasta or something’ is a bit of a bother. Despite everything I know about healthy eating - and the carnal athleticism of Italian men, for that matter - I find the idea of males in relation to pasta a bit off-putting. In novels, the hero never cooks pasta. He always knocks up a steak or an omelette, serves it with green salad, and makes
great
coffee.

            But life is not art and art is not life. Food choices in fiction are not a realistic representation of things as they really are. Take picnics. Why do fictional picnics never include a pork pie? When I was young we always took pork pies on picnics. I wonder where Howard stands on pork pies.

            I called him back.

            ‘Do you want to go out then?’ he asked.

            ‘No. I’m happy to come to you. I just thought you told me you couldn’t cook, so I...’

            ‘Oh, I can’t. But anyone can do pasta, can’t they.’

            Eeeek!

            ‘I can’t. Well, that’s not true. I can. I do great spaghetti bolognaise. And I don’t call it spag bol, or spag bog, or anything cringy like that. Ha, ha. And I have been known to make lasagne if pressed. But, no. If you’re sure...’

            ‘But the food’s not important, is it? We can just have penne or cappeletti with some pesto. How does that sound?’

            Oh
God.

            ‘Great. Eightish?’

            The world has gone mad, that’s what it is. Nobody does sex for it’s own sake any more. Just when I want to catch up with all the fun my un-hitched friends were having in their twenties, I am entirely out of step with the nation’s sexual conscience. And women now write whole magazine features about how liberating and life-enhancing periods of celibacy are. But they generally have spots or hate men or are going through a fulfilment through creative handicrafts life-phase. They have a lot to answer for. Specifically, they have hunks like Howard thinking that it would be inappropriate to ask me for sex without first observing some sort of culinary ritual. And there was me thinking that grown ups just did it.

            I have not had sex for almost fifteen weeks. Which is over three months. Which is almost a third of a year. Which is a very long time, considering that for almost the whole of the past two decades I have been having sex once, twice, sometimes three times, and occasionally(generally after feeling inadequate reading those surveys that say
everyone
has sex at least three times a week) four times a week.

            In fact, the only times I can recall having little or no sex are my two post partum embroidered periods and when Richard went on a business trip to Brussels and got caught up in a lorry driver’s dispute at the docks for four days. And after that - well. We certainly made up for it.

            Which makes me sound like I’m sex mad. Which I’m not. Not when I’m getting some, anyway. Which is interesting in itself, because, though I blithely say I’m not
that
interested in sex, it is entirely from the perspective of someone who has not (up to now) known what it’s like not to have any. I’ve been doing it since I first allowed Richard to make inroads into my flimsy barricade of girlish defences.

            How do I know I’m not a nymphomaniac? I could be, easily. I’ve never been tested. Or rather, I am being tested now, and I seem to think about little else.

            I am even thinking about it as I list the ingredients I’ll need for the Pavlova I have rashly offered to take round to Howard’s. I am thinking;
Rude Food
. I am thinking whipped cream, strawberries, oral gratification etc. I am visualising us sitting on Howard’s sofa, putting fingerfuls of pavlova into each other’s mouths.

            And the perfect end to a perfect day? Emma arriving home one hour after her message said she’d be, and looking
flushed
.

            I know
flushed
, of course. There are two kinds of flushed; the kind I’ve been feeling of late (frustrated, angsty, up one minute and down the next, wanting to have sex with Howard and so on). And the other kind. The kind that is generally associated with snogging and boyfriends and tussles with fastenings. Oh dear. I just don’t feel ready for this.

Chapter
16

            What possessed me to make a pavlova?

            What possessed
me
to make a pavlova? I just don’t
do
that stuff. I really don’t know what has got into me. Just because Howard wants to spend half the evening cooking and the other half washing up doesn’t mean I have to follow suit, does it? Surely all I need to do is
look
good enough to eat. In fact, what I should be doing right now is some serious grooming, and making a decision, underwear wise. In keeping with my new role of photographer to the stars, I have invested in a couple of sets of Calvin Klein effect crop tops and knickers but can’t decide if Howard would prefer black or grey marl.

            But instead, I’m making a Pavlova, because I simply cannot resist the opportunity to show Howard that not only do I look good, but I cook good as well. It’s so hard to escape the shackles of middle class suburban housewifery.

            If not parenting. Max is in a complete strop because he has been starving since he got home from school, but I can’t cook his pizza until my meringue comes out, which won’t be till seven, at least. And as his father is due to be picking him and Emma up at half past, he will have to shove the whole thing down his throat in about eight minutes. Or take it in a bag. Or eat crispbreads, like Emma, which is useful, at times.

            ‘And why do you keep going out all the time?’ he says. Other people’s Mums don’t go out all the time like you do. And who is that cake for, anyway?’

            Max does not know that I am going to Howard’s tonight. I have decided not to tell him, in the interests of his mental health. Also because I hope I will be coming home rather late, and in a state of sweaty satiation, and do not wish to be interrogated about my movements. Hence the overnight stay.

            ‘For a party,’ I say.

            ‘What party?’

            ‘
A
party.’

            ‘
What
party?’

            ‘Yes,
what
party?’

            Surprise, surprise. Emma is here.

            ‘I’m going round to a friend’s house for a party,’ I say, again. ‘A girl from work...’

            ‘Rani?’

            ‘No. Someone else. You don’t know her. She’s new. Listen, you two. Why don’t you make sure you’ve got everything you need and bring your bags down ready. I don’t want a last minute panic when dad gets here.’

            As they shuffle out, I catch bits of their conversation.

            Emma says, ‘You are such a derr-brain, Max. Mum’s going round to Mr Ringrose’s, no question.’

            ‘Oh, ye-
uck
,’ groans Max. That is
so
sick.’

            In the end I decide not to take the Pavlova. If I leave it in the oven until a week next Wednesday, it will probably firm up sufficiently to form the basis of something I can send Max in to school with for his end of term party. Instead, I take a bottle of wine and the punnet of strawberries. I can’t take the cream as it’s half fat cream substitute and I wouldn’t want Howard to think I was naff.

            ‘You look good,’ he remarks as I hand him my offering. ‘And I’m glad you didn’t go to a lot of fuss with dessert.’ To which I want to reply ‘
I
am the dessert, ta ra!’ But I don’t, because he immediately turns and starts re-arranging the contents of his fridge to accommodate my punnet, and I have missed the moment.

            He has laid the kitchen table with a cloth and some flowers and has various pots on the go on the stove.

            ‘How’s your mum,’ I say.

            ‘Oh, up and down. Bearing up. She has chemo next week, which sounds grisly, but, you know. It’s better than.... She’ll be fine. Want some wine?’

            So we plunge into dinner. Howard is all about tonight. The genial host, the perfect gent, the man about colour supplement ad, the glittering prize. He is wearing a roll neck sweater, and looks just like James Bond And his pasta is perfect - how
could
I have held it against him! And we talk again. Lots. About all sorts of things. Boy can we talk! Hope we can make love with such verve and intensity, and with the same sort of effervescent ping-pong enthusiasm.   

            And I’m glad I abandoned the Pavlova in the end. The strawberries turn out to be just right. Say what you like, but you just can’t eat a puffed up, meringue based dessert and look sexy. But you can
suck
strawberries. You can dip them in sugar (and the drop of fromage frais Howard had in his bountiful fridge) and kind of slide them between your lips..... This dinner is no place for a pie slice and crumb showers.

            We take our coffee into the lounge and Howard does his usual bit with the CD player. It seems like only moments, rather than almost a week, since we were here before, on the very same sofa, our minds (my mind, anyway) on the very same thing. Except this time we haven’t drunk nearly as much. He’s had three, I’ve had two.( I’ve been keeping an eye.) I am ready for action. I have got the grey marl on. I have not eaten garlic. I have paused to re-tousle and re-sculpt my blond spikes. I have touched up my lip gloss and checked my teeth for pesto. This is it. This is it. This
has
to be it.

            ‘So.’ Howard says, and though he looks just like he has a licence to kill, he sounds just like Richard (licence to stand about looking pensive and reflective). ‘The weekend at last.’ He flips down the lid of the empty CD case.

            ‘What are you up to?’ he asks.

            ‘I’m at your place,’ I tell him. ‘Sitting on your sofa, enjoying...’

            ‘No, I mean...’

            ‘Oh, I don’t know yet. We’ll see. What about you?’

            He shrugs. ‘Marking, marking...oh, and a bit of marking...ha, ha.’ He then points. ‘Is that coffee okay? It’s a new Columbian blend. I wasn’t sure how much to put in.’

            Howard looks like he wants to get things together tonight but doesn’t quite know what angle to take. How did someone so handsome get to be so shy? He must have had women pawing him since he was twelve. But it isn’t just looks, of course, it’s self esteem, confidence, ego. Maybe he just needs some encouragement. I put my coffee down, kick my shoes off and swing my legs up underneath me.

            ‘Mmmm,’ I say, sliding them out along the sofa (almost black stockings under a mid thigh Little Black Dress - my mother always said; if in doubt, go for a classic look. I think she was thinking more knitted separates than sex kitten, but the principle is sound). The light catches the gloss on the stockings just right. My legs don’t look half bad. ‘Mmmmm..’ I say again. ‘This is really nice...’