Julia Gets a Life (38 page)

            ‘Oh,
no
,’ she cries. ‘Again!’

            Eventually, I persuade Lily to let Malcolm in, with his flowers and his apologies and his very patent distress. I finish making tea and then leave them to talk.

            Everything Lily says strikes a new chord in me. How can I
this
, how can I not
that
. I consider the dilemma she now finds herself in. Such a difficult choice, at such a young age. At that time of my life it was all so simple. I was happily married, I wanted my babies. There was no choice to make, other than to cut back, miss a holiday, stop work for a while.

            I try to imagine how it must feel to compromise on your heart so early on in your life. I think about Rani, and how she’s told me, in an unguarded moment, that she knows that eventually she’ll accept her parents wishes. Just
accept
them. And get on with it, whether she loves the man or not. No wonder she is so desperate to feel passion now. As if she needs to stoke up for a less heady future. Lily, I realise, doesn’t even have that.

            But it’s all academic. She and Malcolm could be as deeply in love as it is possible to be and their future would be no more certain. There are no easy choices where children are involved. Just sacrifices, one way and another. There is a price to be paid for the joy they bring.

*

            ‘But I don’t see your problem. Why can’t you carry on seeing him?’

            We are sitting in Howard’s flat, at either end of the sofa. There is something tinkly and soothing playing on the stereo and we’ve just finished sharing a (sex free) kebab. Lily and Malcolm are long gone, in his car. Détente, for the moment at least.

            I sip at my wine and shake my head.

            ‘How can I? He’s twenty four, for God’s sake! And he lives in London, and I live in Cardiff, and what about Max and Emma?’

            ‘What about Max and Emma? Why are Max and Emma a problem?’

            ‘Because it’ll be awful for them.’

            ‘But why?’

            ‘Because it will. Because you didn’t see Max’s face when he thought I was going out with you.’

            ‘But I am - was - his teacher. Of course he was embarrassed. This is completely different. I think you misjudge how much importance children place on age. They probably couldn’t care less. You’re both ancient to Max, probably.’

            ‘And then there’s Richard..’

            ‘What the hell’s it got to do with him?’

            ‘Well, nothing, but...’

            ‘But he’ll disapprove, right?’

            ‘Not that it’s any of his business...but..oh, I don’t know. I just can’t
see
it.’

            ‘So why don’t you try it on for size and find out?’

            ‘Because I’m all done with trying things on for size. And because, as soon as I think about it with anything approaching a rational mind, I can’t quite believe it. How can I feel so....so...
obsessed
about someone I have only met on two occasions? I’m thirty
eight
...’

            ‘As you are all too fond of saying...’

            ‘But it’s true! Far too old to be toying with notions of love at first sight or any of that nonsense..’

            ‘Quite right. That
is
nonsense. But that doesn’t mean you can’t feel intensely attracted to someone, does it?’

            ‘No. But I don’t trust that feeling. It’s just sex, isn’t it?’

            ‘I wouldn’t say that. I mean, it can be...’

            Sure can. I sigh.

            ‘That’s what Craig said, funnily enough.’

            ‘About you?’

            I shake my head and try not to look disingenuous. ‘We were just talking. He said sex was just sex. No big deal on its own.’

            ‘And you think that’s how he maybe feels about you, right?’

            ‘No. Yes. I don’t know. That’s what’s so hard. I don’t think so. But then....well, it’s not unreasonable, is it? Listen, did you ever have a one night stand?’

            ‘Once or twice.’

            ‘Well, it’s like, you know how if you do, then immediately after, or the next morning, or whatever, you think “what have I done?”’

            ‘Or just
ugh!’

            ‘
Yes! You realise straight away that you really don’t like them at all, don’t you? Or they you. Whatever.’

            Howard nods.

            ‘Well, after Craig and I...you know...the first time, we slept, and then when we woke up, I was
pleased
to be there. I wanted to do it all over again.’

            ‘I think I realised that much....’

            ‘No. But the point is, he obviously felt like that too, or he would have gone back to his room, wouldn’t he? End of story. So what we’ve got here is not
just sex
, is it?’

            ‘So, fine. Where’s the problem? You really like each other. That’s great.’

            ‘But if that’s the case, how can I keep this going? If I can’t pretend it’s just sex, then I can’t help thinking about the future, can I? It’s just what you
do
, isn’t it?’

            ‘Whoah! You’ve got to stop all this navel-gazing. You’re running rings around yourself. What does it matter? Just see how things shape up. You’re free, he’s free, what’s to stop you? It’s nothing to do with anyone else, end of story. Julia, Who is going to get hurt?’

            Do I really need to answer that?

            And boy, will I get hurt. It’s all very well zapping about the place pretending to be a walking sex manual, but it’s actually a load of garbage. Doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself sex is just sex, it isn’t. Period. Not for
girls
. All this time I’ve spent feeling like a good shag would be just the ticket/give me back some self esteem/make me feel like I’ve got even with Richard/tone up my pelvic floor etc., and I’ve just been deluding myself. There is no such thing as having a satisfactory shag, then saying thank you very much and goodbye. You can either have an unsatisfactory shag (ta for nothing, I’m off) or you can have a very satisfactory shag, in which case you want to do it again. And again, and again, and again. Until such time as one of you goes off the idea, or you grow old, shrivel up and go to Bingo instead. It’s called love. It’s what happens.

           
If
you’re a girl. If you’re male, on the other hand, whilst you are still as much prey to the pull of love as of lust, you can also, if you feel like it, sling your todger pretty much where ever you damn well fancy without compromising the integrity of your finer feelings one jot. Which is not to say that’s what all men do. Just that they can. If they want to. I can’t help thinking how nice it would be if men all got pregnant, like seahorses.

            Similarly, I can’t help feeling that I’m not very well.

            ‘Howard, ‘I say (and the irony is not lost on me). ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

            I’m in Howard’s bed. At last!

            If he wasn’t so busy fetching iced flannels and washing up bowls for me to throw up in and such like, I’m sure we’d be having a really good, ironic type giggle about it. And Nick’s here now, of course, padding around being cringe-makingly helpful. So I can’t help but enjoy a small nugget of satisfaction that he’ll be getting none of
that
sort of thing in this bedroom tonight.

            The general consensus is that the Doner’s the culprit. And that there’s no way that I should be driving home. About which, if I didn’t feel so awful, I’d be pleased. My home feels right now like there’s nothing connecting me to it. No children, no food (bar Lily’s quiche), no duelling stereos, no-one stomping around bemoaning maternal ironing deficiencies, in short - no real life. So I’m going to spend the night here and abandon the idea of trying to drag myself into work tomorrow. Howard, he assures me, will take care of everything.

            It is comforting to drift in and out of sleep, listening to muted conversation, picking out the odd word from the hum of white noise from the TV. Nick brings me water. Says ‘how did the weekend shape up for you in the end?’

            I tell him ‘okay.’

            He says he’s glad he wasn’t arrested. That Earth Patrol are very pleased with the way everything went. That Brighton looked bombed on Saturday. Did I see it? (Did I see
anything
?) We skirt around references to things that may involve references to the thing we seem to have a tacit agreement not to refer to. Plus I really can’t be bothered. He knows what I think.

            When I get home again, finally, on Monday evening, it is to a house that now not only feels empty and lonely, but that also contains the pungent and bitter aroma of a bacon frying bonanza two days ago. I throw out the quiche (Sorry, Lily. Nothing personal), take myself up to bed, and lie, sleepless yet exhausted, trying to re-connect to some semblance of sanity.

            Of course, you can’t carry on like this indefinitely. God alone knows how people with roller coaster emotional lives ever get an iota of ordinary stuff done in their lives. I manage not the tiniest iota of sleep all night, and instead fill the hours with minute dissection of every thought, whim and emotion that floats into my mind. Statistics pop up to taunt me; his youth, my great age, my two children, our lifestyles, the roadworks on the M4, the availability of groupies, the fact that when he’s forty six I’ll be sixty, etc. That I’ve known him for a total of about forty nine hours, at least six of which we spent asleep, in my bed. (Come to think of it, it only takes forty five hours of flying to get a private pilot’s licence, doesn’t it? That must count for something - though goodness knows what.) That I’m actually just stupid.

             On Tuesday I’m feeling like I died and went to a pulpers, so I elect to allow myself another day in bed. Which is another thing. How many man hours are lost due to this sort of rubbish?

            When I arrive back at work on Wednesday (having taken only four days off sick in my
entire
employment with TOYL - these two, plus when Richard left, plus a septic laparoscopy scar) it is to be greeted not by Rani, but by the Area Manger, who seems to care little about the state of my health.

            ‘Ah, Julia,’ he trots out, ‘Glad you managed to join us. I wonder if you’d care to step into the office for a moment. I’d like a quick word before I move on to Bridgend.’

            I do not care in the least for stepping anywhere with the fat git, but needs must, so I follow him in. He sprawls (sort of
spreads
) in the swivel chair.

            One side effect of my burgeoning career re-birth is a permanent, low key, guilty undercurrent type feeling. Though what I have been doing for Colin can surely in no way affect the quality of my work for TOYL (apt acronym), it is almost as though my dissatisfaction and boredom might seep through my fingers, contaminate my equipment and freeze up my clients. At the very least affect relations with Milo and Doodles.

            But it is relations with the now virtually recumbent AM that clearly need sorting, though at this point I’ve not the slightest idea why.