Julia Gets a Life (35 page)

            ‘I er,’ he begins, as my fallback position (military tattoo pulse/goldfish mouth/tendency to pant/lose grip) promptly re-asserts itself.

            ‘I er,’ he expands, ‘...thought, I er, I ought to give you back these. Wasn’t sure what time you’d be off.’

            As he stands before me, a rangy, sprung form against a sedate backdrop of flock and carved dado rail, all I can think of is this. How can someone who can get up and sing/jump about/play the guitar one handed backwards whilst doing the splits in mid air/act natural/ be composed/
swagger
, even, in front of thousands and thousands and thousands of people, have conversations with thirty eight year old women of no consequence that start (and seem to continue) with the words I, er?

            He proffers the bag. I take it.

            Of course. It’s easy. He is embarrassed. He had a quick snog in an unguarded (I’ve decided - compassionate) moment and then thought ‘ooh er, now I’m going to have this old bird hanging around thinking I fancy her.’ And he feels a bit guilty that he’s avoided me ever since. And so why is he still hovering in the doorway? Come to think of it, why didn’t he just have Nigel give me this? Whatever it is. What
is
it? I open the bag. Inside are my trousers. And something else. Two something else’s. Tubular. I put my hand in.

            ‘Pringles,’ he says.

            ‘So I see. Look, I, er...’ (Oh dear.
I’m
at it now.)

            ‘I wasn’t sure which flavour you liked so I had Nige get two.’

            ‘Oh. Well, thanks. I like both of these. I... (Why not torture myself a bit more? hey, it’s only a lust thing) ...would you like to come in for a moment?’

            ‘Yeah, I would.’

            I head for the mini bar while he closes the door. I think naked/robe/robe/naked, in roughly equal measure. Then I think stupid woman, shut up, don’t be ridiculous. Then I give up on thinking because my brain is whirring and despite everything logic is telling me there is something primeval going on in my stomach again. Daft.

            Then he says, ‘Look. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.’

            ‘You don’t have to, ‘I quip (a lie). ‘Do you want a beer or something?’

            ‘Yeah, okay. Yes. But I am. I was completely out of order, you know. Today.’

            ‘Don’t apologise,’ I say, crouched over the mini-bar and trying to hold the robe together while ferreting for lager. ‘It was just one of those things. I was upset. You were very kind. I...’

            ‘But I shouldn’t have.... you know.... here, there’s the bottle opener...tried it on, like.’

            Pish! goes the bottle top. P-i-s-h-!

           
Tried it on, like
.

            Someone - must be me - says, ‘I’m sorry?’

            ‘So, like I said, I’m really sorry.’

            ‘
Sorry
?’

            ‘I was well out of order.’

            I can almost feel wheels turning. Doing a flip-through of file cards to find just the right one. The one that will put into some sort of order the idea that my (still goldfish) mouth wants to convey. Flip, flip, flip. Eventually, I light upon;

            ‘You weren’t out of order at all.’

            ‘Wasn’t I?’

            He sits down on the bed with his beer and looks up. I shake my head.

            ‘No. Not at
all
.’

            ‘You mean...’

            Now I nod, but say nothing. A girl has her modesty.

            But I don’t need to speak. Craig James pulls the robe, plus me in it, and captures me in a warm, squidgey, lovely, crushing, breathless, scented, urgent,
wonderful
embrace. I am being held. Properly held, for the first time in months. How do people manage to live without this?

            ‘Fuck me, Mrs Potter!’ he remarks, without irony. ‘Fuck me!’

            Watch this space, CJ.

*

            Wow.

             ‘So you thought...’

            ‘I know! And
you
thought....’

            ‘Sure I did. I thought, God, you stupid fucker. She’ll think you’re a right derr- brain. I half expected you to slap me. When Nige came in...’

            ‘When Nigel came in all I thought was; oh, no! I want more.’

            ‘Did you?
Really
?’

            ‘I really did. I thought
wow
. I hadn’t actually realised up to that point that I fancied you. It just never occurred to me that you were an option.’

            ‘I suppose I felt the same. I mean, you know. Kids and all that. Except that as soon as I saw you again yesterday morning, I realised why I hadn’t got around to getting your jeans back to you.’

            ‘God, isn’t that strange? All along, I’ve been saying to myself, send Colin those jeans to get back to Craig James, but I always didn’t quite get around to it. Weird.’

            ‘Not weird. Karma. I realised straight away yesterday how attracted to you I had been.’

            ‘Attracted? I love that word. Go on. How attracted?’

            ‘Really attracted. This much attracted.’

            ‘Mmmmm. How much attracted?’

            ‘Incredibly attracted.’

            ‘Fantastically so?’

            ‘
Fantastically
attracted.’

            ‘Wow.
Wow
. Pringle?’

            ‘Sex.’

Chapter
23

            So what now?

            When I woke up it was quarter to four on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Strangely, Craig James was still in my bed, sprawled and in the sort of heavy, immobile sleep that eventually catches up with those who are physically sated. And boy, are we sated. But I couldn’t sleep any more. I’m already in that post-childbirth phase of life that insists that every waking moment is utilised in some sort of productive endeavour. So, instead, I spent several glorious minutes productively looking. Admiring his curves and his bumps and his contours. Fixating on hairs and on freckles and moles, and on the way the fine hair at the nape of his neck formed small waves and whorls, like a field of ripe wheat in a stiff summer breeze.

            Happiness is capricious. But I had caught some at last.

            I showered, slipped on a pair of my CK effect pants, then padded around for a bit in the room, catching glimpses of someone I’d lost touch with some time back and hugging myself with joy that I’d found her again.

            There is nothing like a long bout of sexual athletics to make you feel thin and toned and gorgeous. Except, perhaps, long distance running. But as that usually involves scraping your hair back, scrubbing your face, and not having any orgasms (as far as I know - though it
is
a popular sport), sex wins hands down, any time. Especially sex with someone with plenty of youthful enthusiasm. Sod experience - give me a good slug of libido. I can explain all the twiddly bits.

            Listen to me, I thought. What am I
like?

            Craig slept on, and I sat for a while on the balcony. Apart from the now familiar gaggle of teenage girls in the car park (who were privy, presumably, to some insider information about
Kite’s
movements - or lack of), there were few people moving along our pretty stretch of front, fewer still on the beach. All off retail-park shopping, no doubt, as people do on a Saturday; buying freezers and vacuum cleaners and new school shoes for next term. Doing, in short, all those deeply unsatisfying yet necessary chores which are the stuff of ordinary life. Not having sex with Young Pop icons. Not making love. Not feeling suffused with desire and abandon. Not being in touch with their inner children. Not exploring their G-Spots. Not feeling like
this
.

            And across the twinkling jade water, in a fusty gallic gite, my husband and children were no doubt already stoking an elderly barbecue, on which to cook strings of horrible French sausages with bits of twig in.

            Knock knock.

            ‘Who’s there?’

            ‘It’s me.’

            ‘Me who?’

            ‘Me who have big white chief randy bastard to collect. Open the fuck up.’        

            Nigel looked fresh and rested and full of his usual verve. And showing not the slightest surprise at the whereabouts of his musical prodigy. He came in and kicked Craig while I called Room Service for coffee. I had added a large T-Shirt to the pants. It said ‘
Kite
-Hard and Happening tour. Which was rather appropriate.

            And get this;

Time to call time on ‘Charity’ Drug-ins?

           
Thirty seven people were arrested last night at Brighton’s fashionable Swank Bar, including Game Show supremo Ted Bunting, Pop goddess, Minxie and children’s TV presenter, Heidi Harris. The raid, organised at short notice following an anonymous tip off, also netted drugs with an estimated street value of eight thousand pounds.

            Derek Handel, of Brighton and Hove constabulary, said ‘ We were all very disappointed to find so many high-profile celebrities indulging in such antisocial practices. Some of these people are heroes to young children. They look up to them and they deserve better.’

            The arrests, which were all on drugs related charges, were made in the small hours of last night, during a party organised for the participants of the Rock Up Front concert, the music industry’s annual fund-raising fest.

            ‘It’s disgraceful,’ commented Councillor Geraint Ogilvy, the councillor who brought Rock Up Front to Brighton in the first place, despite concerns from some residents about noise levels and hooliganism. ‘We were thrilled to be able to host such a forward thinking event, and, like everyone, full of admiration for the stars who gave freely of their time and their talent. That a few of them went on to disgrace themselves is something we deeply regret.’

            Regret today too, perhaps, for the usually effervescent Ms Harris, who spent a night in the cells and has now been released on bail. Harris (25) was in the news recently, after a fight at a popular London nightspot, over her relationship with Kite bassist Jonathan Sky. On that occasion she scuffled with the musician’s former fiancee, and broke the nose of the on-duty ‘Depth’ photographer (ironically also arrested last night.) The question now is how much of a role Harris’s alleged drug habit may have played in that incident, and what sort of Media future she now has. TV bosses, however, were unavailable for comment.