Julia Gets a Life (39 page)

            ‘I’m feeling much better now,’ I say. (And thanks, toad face, for not asking.) ‘No more kebabs for me for a while!’

            ‘Kebabs?’

            ‘The food poisoning....’

            ‘Julia, the details are of no consequence. What is at issue...’

            At issue? Of no consequence? What gives here?

            ‘...is the fact that it simply isn’t good enough. If you are unwell then you must telephone and let somebody know. We had a completely full appointment book - you
know
what it’s like during the school holidays - and only one photographer. We had to turn people
away
- and you
know
how I feel about
that
. Especially given that we’re
completely
snowed under with enquiries about our
Captured for Christmas
media initiative.’

           
More
crappy offers to have to stitch people up with.

            ‘Hold on, ‘I said. ‘You
were
telephoned. My friend called first thing on Monday morning....’

            ‘There was no call. No message. Nobody had the slightest idea where you were. And given that you’d also just finished a week’s leave, you could have been in Timbuktu for all we knew..... ’

            ‘But he
did
call. Of course he called. Why would he tell me he was going to call and then not?’

            ‘Hmmm. Well, whatever. I consider it
your
responsibility, and I am, frankly, disappointed.’

            ‘Well, I’m sorry you feel like that. It won’t happen again.’

            (Too bloody right, it won’t. Because you can shove your job up your fat behind, and stick a zoom up there as well.)

           
‘Forget it,’ says Rani. ‘And don’t take it personally. He’s in a strop because he ended up having to get behind the camera himself for a change, instead of farting about on fact finding missions and expense account lunches. And guess what?’

            ‘What?’

            ‘Not a single one of the pix he took Monday came out. We just found out.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘Lens cover still on.’

            When I get home Wednesday night I call Howard and tell him what happened.

            ‘I did call,’ he assures me. ‘Though I did have to leave a message on their ansafone. Which might explain it.’

            Ah.

            ‘Well, I guess it never got there,’ I say. ‘But don’t worry. They can’t function without me, so there’s not a lot the old sod can do.’

            ‘Hang on, here it is.’ He reads out the number. I don’t recognise it.

            ‘Where d’you get that?’

            ‘Directory enquiries. I didn’t want to rummage in your bag.’

            Later, I call it myself, out of interest.

           
‘Welcome!’
it prattles,
‘To Time Of Your Life. Is there someone special you’d like to capture for Christmas?’

            I stick out my tongue, purse my lips and blow.

            And Craig, Craig, Craig, Craig,
Craig.

           
Why haven’t you rung me?

            I have become so detached by now from normal circadian rhythms (in subconscious preparation for rock-wife lifestyle? no, no, NO!) that I elect to cut the grass on Thursday morning, before work.

            The postman therefore finds me in shorts, vest and flip flops when he comes to deliver such post as a sad, lonely person like me can expect. And it’s paltry. A postcard of the channel tunnel, of all things.

            ‘You know you’re risking a toe, don’t you?’ the postman observes.

            I glance down at my feet, wondering if he’s mistaking my Calypso Blue nail polish for some sort of tropical infection.

            ‘Erm...’

            ‘One slip of that mower and you’ll lose a digit. You mark my words.’

            Oh, I see.

            I said,

            ‘I’m very careful.’

            ‘Hmm. You can never be too careful where electricity’s concerned. Got a power breaker, have you?’

            ‘Erm...’

            ‘Friend of mine’s sister in law would have died if she’d not been in wellingtons, you know. Hover mower slipped - just like that - swish! - and the cable was cut. Could’ve died. Just like that. Third degree burns right up her legs. Bad business...’

            ‘Erm...’

            ‘Still. Nice day for it. Bye.’

            I turn over the postcard.

           
Julia!

            The big news is a trip. We are driving to Bordeaux to meet my mother (with Malcolm) before next term begins. I couldn’t get you on the phone and I couldn’t find a time to come to you. Then I remembered on the journey here - I have switched your telephone ringer off (you know why!!!!!). Oops! So now I know why you were not at home! You were! Sorry! I will see you soon - and much fatter!

            Lily (and Malcolm). xxxx

            Yes!
So
that’s
why Craig hasn’t rung me! Or rather, why I haven’t
realised
that Craig
has
rung me. And he
has
rung me. Of that I am in absolutely no doubt at all.

            I shower, go to work, hate work, take fifteen minutes for lunch in which I do not eat, but instead stare absently out of a far flung toilet window (just off haberdashery), hate work some more, put the Tweenies to bed (last client nauseating Mrs Worthington-type Mother with offspring catatonic at concept of Bella being shoved in old banana box), and, finally, stomp off to the multi-storey.

            It is there, among the exhaust fume and urine scented air pockets, that a new thought pops unexpectedly into my brain.
If
he had phoned and it hadn’t been answered, he would surely have left a message on the answering machine. But he hasn’t.
He hasn’t
. I drive home dejected.

            Once again, my house is empty and my fridge is empty, and as soon as the word ‘Pringle’ springs to mind, it is joined by a rasping sob, a pathetic flurry of tears and a bout of hand-wringing so intense that I must force myself to watch East Enders, to get affairs of the heart into some sort of perspective. I wish my children were home.

Chapter
26

            Fifteen minutes later, my wish is granted. I am trying to lose myself in yet another programme involving handsome young vets and cows’ bottoms (what
is
it with the British that a conjunction of this kind is such a perennial favourite?) when there is not so much a knock as a clamour at the front door. And some ringing; ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong!!!!!!!!!

            ‘All right, I’m coming!’ I call out, somewhat irritably. A woman in the throes of emotional distress does not want to get embroiled in conversations about novelty in-fridge air fresheners or flexible rubber drain covers. And then I open the door. It is not Mr Gadget.

            ‘Mum, you’re here!’ (Max)

            ‘Where else would I be?’

            ‘In prison, of course!’ (Emma)

            ‘For what, exactly?’

            ‘For drugs!’ (Both)

            Oh.

            And then Richard comes trundling up the path, bearing backpacks, and we all go inside.

            Where I am immediately subject to the kind of interrogation one would usually associate with an international money laundering and extortion type enterprises.

            Richard sits wearily on a kitchen chair. It is, I’ll allow, a long drive from Quimper.

            ‘And we have been,’ he assures me, ‘worried
sick
.’

            ‘But why?’

            He rolls his eyes and tuts irritably. ‘Because we thought you’d been banged up in jail somewhere.’

            ‘In jail?’

            ‘Yes. After that drugs bust.’

            ‘You mean the one in Brighton? I wasn’t even there.’

            Richard chucks me a look of naked suspicion, then whips a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket, in the manner of someone who’s serving a writ.

            ‘We thought you’d been sent to prison, Mum,’ says Max gravely.

            I take it and unfold it. It is a newspaper cutting. Dated Monday.
The Herald
.

            I read it, agog. It is an almost exact copy of the piece in the Saturday night
Brighton
Reporter.
Except with one important addition. My name.

            ‘Good God, someone did!’ I said. ‘Someone did what I said they would! Oh, this is awful! What will everyone think?’

            ‘What do you mean? Did what?’

            ‘Put my name in the paper. Nigel and Craig said they wouldn’t. But how did this end up in here anyway? This is an almost word for word copy of the report in a local paper, in Brighton. Oh, this is awful! Suppose...’

            Richard waves a hand to stop me. ‘Julia, what are you talking about? Nigel who? And were you there or weren’t you?’

            ‘I
wasn’t
there. Not by then, anyway. We were on the beach, doing a shoot. We saw the police cars and everything, and Nigel...’

            ‘Craig?’ asks Max. ‘Craig
James
? Cool!’

            Richard stabs a finger at the paper. ‘It says here that you were.’

            ‘But it didn’t in the Reporter. And why would the
Herald
put this in anyway?’

            ‘It happens all the time. Parliament’s in recess, everyone’s on holiday, there’s no real news to report. And
Depth
is the
Herald’s
supplement, isn’t it?’

            I nod.
Awful.

           
 ‘God knows how
your
name got in there, then. But the point is that we’ve been trying to get hold of you since Tuesday. Where on earth have you been?’