Julia Gets a Life (33 page)

            ‘You swore again!’

            ‘I didn’t.’

            ‘You did. You said shit.’

            I manage another laugh. I’m beginning to feel better. ‘For someone who swears every other word, you are really quite puritanical, aren’t you? Don’t you like me swearing?’

            His shoulders move. ‘It’s not that. It’s just...I don’t know...unexpected.’

            ‘That’s only because you see me as different from you. As someone older. As a mother and so on.’

            He knocks back some Coke, stands up, sits down again, looks petulant. ‘I don’t, you know.’

            ‘Yeah, you do. It’s not a conscious thing. You can’t help it. Like I can’t help being with all of you and being reminded of my children. Not because you’re children - you’re all twenty odd, aren’t you? But because your outlook is so much more like theirs. And I don’t mean that in any way as an insult. I guess it’s just that your worries are different to mine.’

            ‘I’m twenty four. And I don’t.’

            ‘Don’t what?’

            ‘I don’t see you as a mother. Someone older, yeah. Course I do, but..’

            ‘There you are, then.’

            ‘No. Not at
all
. As someone I...’

            And then (we are back to sitting side by side on the bench seat) he looks away, and then back, and then smiles and then shrugs. And seems to me more childlike and innocent than he can possibly imagine, yet when his arm snakes around me to finish what he is obviously finding difficult to put into words, the child is suddenly gone.

            The trailer door started rattling only seconds later, and then Nigel crashed in, with Jonathan Sky not far behind.

            ‘Right,’ Nigel said. ‘Fall in. Signing session in five. The tent between the main bar and the arena. We’ve got back access and Security’s got some characters organised for us. You ready?’

            To us. We nodded. Both stood.

            ‘.. just get my trainers,’ said Craig, bouncing off down the trailer. A rhapsody of ripples and tendons and chiselled shoulder blades and hamstrings and his flop-flopping hair shiny and bouncing as he walked.

            So. Here we go again. I felt;

            Strange

            Trembly (though low blood sugar, most probably)

            Confused

            A bit silly

            Like I needed a cold shower/ stern word with myself about all of the      above.

            But I didn’t do either. The tent
Kite
had been given to sign copies of their new album in (for the zillion strong queue that now snaked like a conga on The Day The Earth Stood Still across the grass) wasn’t far from the Earth Patrol one, so once I’d taken some pix of Craig and Jonathan with the first few of the adoring zillion, I nipped out.

            It was by now around five and the concert had developed a snoozy quality. The afternoon sets over, and the evening ones still to come, everyone over twelve seemed to be quietly milling, while the children hyperventilated over Heidi Harris in the arena.

And the Earth Patrol tent was clearly as convivial a place to hang out as any, and a welcome respite from the still hot afternoon sun. There were several people in there, most wearing appropriately grave and earnest expressions, and emitting the occasional tut-tut or sigh.

            I couldn’t give a stuff. Pamphlet man was nowhere to be seen, but Nick was in place at his souvenir trestle, dispensing ball points and rainbow erasers and badges, and urging anyone with facial hair or sandals to sign up as a member and help save the world. I strode up to him, my
Access All Areas
pass swinging, talisman like, to and fro across my chest. I said,

            ‘Howard sends you his love - oh, and a kiss and a hug as well - and says try to keep out of trouble, won’t you? And I just thought I ought to let you know that if I hear you’ve been anywhere near that sad excuse for a holiday romance boyfriend of yours, not only will I tell Howard, but I will also, personally, kick your face in, delicious bloody raspberry bloody coulis or not.’

            Nick blinked then started furiously arranging Polar Cap Snowstorms. He said nothing. I left. So did everyone else.

            I think it was the heat.

            Because I didn’t want to hang around looking fretful and irresolute, I had a word with Nigel and got
Kite’s
driver to take me back to the hotel for a while.

            Jax was sitting on one of the squashy sofas big Hotels seem to like scattering at random around their public areas, and scribbling in what I now came to see was characteristic fashion. She looked completely engrossed, but I felt a sudden compulsion to let her know that I understood about Nigel and her and his wife and so on, even though she new nothing of what I’d thought in the first place. She looked up at the sound of my approach. I took off my camera and lens and sat down beside her.

            ‘You staying here as well?’

            ‘Not really. Kind of. I’ve got my car. I might shove off later. See how it goes. What you up to?’

            ‘I thought I’d sleep for a couple of hours, have a shower and go back over later. They’re not on till last, and I’ve shot plenty of film.’

            Jax put her pad down and stretched.

            ‘Mmm. Sounds like a good idea. Hot, isn’t it? I’d go for a dip in the sea but I can’t even be bothered to walk across the road to the beach.’

            ‘If you want to use my shower you’re very welcome.’

            She shook her head.

            ‘Thanks. But no probs. I’ve got Nige’s key.’

            I nodded.

            ‘Have you known him a long time? You seem very close.’

            ‘Couple of years. We met at a St John’s Ambulance first aid course, of all places.’

            ‘How come?’ It seemed a rather unlikely venue.

            ‘I was staff writing for
Gig
magazine at the time. Company policy. Someone had to be a trained first aider in the office. I was the newest. I got lumbered. And Nige - well, you know about his wife, don’t you.’

            I nodded again.

            ‘I know she was involved in some sort of car accident.’

            ‘They both were. A bad smash. Head on. He had a bad time afterwards - you know, blaming himself - though it wasn’t his fault at all. I think, with the course, he was kind of exorcising his demons - you know, he feels if he’d had some sort of training, then - well, you know. Anyway, we got talking - him and I both being in the music business, and then we met up again when I covered
Kite’s
first tour. We always had this rapport, you know.’ She laughed. ‘Despite him being such a wrinkly!’

            ‘It must be so hard for him...’

            ‘Yeah. I think it is. He lives for the band now, pretty much. They’re like his surrogate family. He and Vicky didn’t have any kids. They were waiting - ironic, isn’t it? - until his lifestyle was a bit less hectic. With
Kite
just taking off and everything, they didn’t expect to be seeing too much of each other for a while. Funny how life works out. Make you realise how much you’ve got to live for the moment. Still...’

            She stood and picked up her pad. ‘..I never did have any problem doing that. You going to the party?’

            ‘I guess so,’ I said.

            After Jax had gone I sat in the foyer for a while longer, letting the air conditioning cool me, and thinking about Richard and the children speeding under the sea on their way to the uncharted territory of their first holiday alone. And me, who would normally be with them (checking my lists to confirm I packed tea towels and ant powder, most likely) sitting instead in a five star hotel, wearing jean shorts and trainers, having just been kissed by a pop star.

            Funny, like Jax said.

Chapter
22

            ‘So why
Kite
, then?’

            It is almost two in the morning. We’re in the marquee where the people with the right accessories (i.e. the
Access All Areas
passes) get to come and chill out after the days endeavours, before moving on to some trendy club or other, where the serious aftershow will really begin. With some eight bands and solo artists performing, plus an army of TV presenters, radio stars and music industry big wigs, there are a fair few people in the tent. The place is seething and hot and is beginning to smell more like compost than meadow. And there is now a definite sponginess underfoot.

            The voice is that of Donna Talbot. I don’t know quite how she wheedled her way in here, seeing as she is only covering the gig freelance for
Sound
magazine, but she did and she has and we haven’t up to now spoken. She is livid, I know, that Colin gave me this job. That I’m in with the in-crowd. That I’m here at all. She called me a provincial (provincial what?). It breaks my heart, therefore, that I do not have an answer for her.

            ‘Because...’ I begin, and here, fortuitously, is Tim Linseed to help me.

            ‘Because it’s what we got paid for our first proper gig.’

            ‘Oh, how
clever
, ‘she says, clearly not thinking so at all. ‘I always think it’s fascinating to find out how bands got their names.’ She angles her back very slightly towards me before addressing him. ‘Did you know that
Symbiosis
called themselves that after the bassist found he had contracted roundworm?’

            ‘No, I didn’t,’ says Tim. ‘By the way, Julia, Nige wanted me to ask if you still wanted to do this beach thing. He thinks if we aim for four-ish or five-ish, we’ll have it to ourselves, and have some half-decent light. He wanted to run it by you. You’re the expert. What d’you think? I don’t mind, and I don’t think Craig does. And Davey’s rat-arsed already, so he’ll do whatever we tell him. Don’t know where the fuck Jon is, though.’

           
Yes!
Donna’s face has fallen in on itself. And she has something on a cocktail stick in freeze frame on the way to her mouth. Hah! SHR!

            But it’s a short lived delight, because I don’t really want to do it. And the reason (pathetic) I don’t want to do it is because;

            a) I’ve been kissed. I’ve been kissed by Craig James. I’ve been
kissed
by
Craig          James
. (Though he may well call it snogging.)

and;

             b) Craig James is now avoiding me.

            Bugger, bugger, bugger. What the hell do I do now? Given only a) I could just about manage. Given just b) I don’t suppose I’d have noticed. But given them both is just about the worst thing that can happen to anyone, let alone someone who has turned not reading other people’s (presumably screamingly obvious) signals into a Turner-prize-winning installation. I feel like a hot tap that’s been left on. Fluid and steamy and relentlessly emptying, till the tank dries up and shrivels and eventually rusts. It’s really no wonder that I want to go home.