Julia Gets a Life (43 page)

            ‘What do you think?’

            ‘I think we’re going to miss the champagne sorbet if we don’t get back soon.’

            ‘Fuck the champagne bloody sorbet.’

            Then he looks down. ‘Excellent choice of footwear. You’re a good four inches taller. And as you have rather long legs in relation to your torso.....yes. I think it might work. What do you think?’

            ‘About my footwear?’

            ‘About your
height
. In relation to...er...mine.’

            ‘Supposing...’

            ‘There’s no lock. I’ve checked. That’s the whole point. If
we’re
standing against the door then it serves the same purpose, doesn’t it?’

            ‘What about the noise?’

            ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sing. That should drown out your grunting.’

            ‘So the plan is to have it in the bookshops late November, early December. The release date for the album is December 1st, right?’

            We return separately to the table, to find that not only have our sorbets been and gone, but that our main courses have also been despatched back to the kitchen, to keep warm. Craig says,

            ‘Sorry. Bumped into a friend in the cloakroom.’

            A grinning Nigel calls the waiter to bring back our meals. Craig turns to me.

            ‘God, what happened to
you,
Julia? Your neck’s gone all red. Are you sickening for something?’

            O
kay
. Smart ass. Ha, ha. I get redder.

            But then I rally. ‘Warm air hand dryer. It’s a genetic reaction. I’m told it’s a little like prickly heat. My mum gets it.’

            ‘But not as often as you must do, I’ll bet. Ah, my T-bone. Top food here, eh, Nige?’

            And so on and so forth, until three glasses of wine later I make a decision.

            A decision not to make any further decisions about my life and rather, to go (again?) with fate’s own ebb and flow and to take something positive from every encounter, and spread love and happiness wherever I go. Or something like that, just as Howard advised. You never know when you’re number’s up, do you? I say so.

            ‘You’re wasted,’ remarks Craig as he heaves me into the car. Our publishing friends, apart from Colin, have gone now. He and Nigel look on benignly, like uncles.

            I smile a happy little smile as the car sighs away.

            ‘Not wasted,’ I correct. ‘Just euphoric.’

            Craig tells the driver to take us to his place, then slides the glass partition across. I still can’t get over the concept of having cars roll up whenever you a step out of a building. It seems so bizarre. So decadent.

            I arrange myself decoratively against the black leather as we slide smoothly along. There is space enough in here to pose for an old master. Craig remembers my seat belt, and the brush of his forearm against the front of my thigh reminds me that I just made love, standing up, in a cupboard full of brooms and cash and carry loo rolls. Or did I dream it? So vast and diverse has been the range of my sexual fantasies about Craig over the last ten days that a cupboard scenario
must
have been among them. But none, as I can recall, involve me making much noise, bar the odd tuneful sigh of abandon. I nudge him.

            ‘Do I grunt? Really?’

            ‘Well, it’s more of a low throaty moan, I suppose.’

            ‘Then why do you say grunt? It makes me sound like a pig.’

            ‘No, it doesn’t. I find it really sexy.’

            ‘
Oink, oink, oink
. You find
that
sexy?’

            ‘That’s not the noise you make. You do more of a ccrrraaaagch sound.’

            ‘
Do
I? That’s horrible.’

            ‘Believe me, it isn’t.’

            ‘That turns you on then, does it?’

            He slides a hand across my leg and traces a meandering route along the inside of my thigh.

            ‘
Everything
about you turns me on. Ah, here we are.’

            Craig speaks briefly to the driver and we clamber out. We are in Chelsea, in one of the wide, opulent, tree lined streets that connect the King’s Road to the ordinary world. There is a slight breeze which ripples the hem of my dress, and the bower of leaves sends a sprinkle of shade down. It forms charcoal puddles on the glittery pavement and the tops of the equally glittery cars.

            All rather grand. I scan the row of regency buildings. They seem to reach up to touch the plane-trail patterned sky. They put me in mind of
Mary Poppins
, or
Oliver,
and stairwells for tradesmen -
God bless you, missus
- and carriages and nannies and long-legged dogs. They have tiers of tall windows; four or five floors of them, and every single one has got curtains to die for - all swags and tails and ruches and tassels, and held in elegant sweeps by tie-backs the size of koalas. No Ikea voile on a broomhandle here. And no MDF either, I’ll bet.

            ‘This is all rather posh,’ I say, wondering what sort of soft furnishing arrangements Craig goes in for. ‘Some place to have a flat.’

            I haven’t up to now given much thought to Craig’s living arrangements. I recall him telling me he lived alone in London, but I hadn’t really thought beyond standard two bedrooms, South London most probably, with a futon perhaps, and a fridge full of beer.

            He takes my hand and points to a glossy front door.

            ‘Not a flat,’ he says proudly. ‘This is my house.’

            Inside, of course, despite the stately home curtains and carpets so dense you could lose yourself betwen their creamy fronds, Craig’s house, though obviously an order of magnitude bigger than many, is exactly what you’d expect the home of a twenty four year old single man to be like. What appears to be the main living room could pass as a small branch of Dixons. There is an enormous plasma screen TV, with the usual satellite paraphernalia, some sort of mega-stereo system, and speakers and amps and guitars and guitar stands and a necklace of cabling running round the walls. There is also a computer and printer, a fax, a scanner, and lots of other unidentifiable metal ware with knobs on. It is functional, lived in. An organised muddle.

            I take off my shoes and flop down on a sofa.      ‘How long have you lived here?’

            ‘Just under a year. I was actually quite happy where I was, but I had a load of dosh sitting around in the bank and I was told I should invest some. I’ve got six bedrooms here and it’s handy for everything. Ha. When I bought it I thought ‘great, Chelsea, handy for the tube’ but of course, it fucking isn’t, and anyway, I can’t use the tube these days, can I? But it’s a nice house. There’s plenty of room for my Mum, and a family, I suppose, eventually. But it’s empty half the time, as you can imagine.’

            What I’m imagining is how big a load of dosh you need to have in the bank to buy somewhere like this. Then I remember what I keep forgetting; that Craig is (must be) a millionaire. Probably makes money every second of every day. Every time a
Kite
song gets played on the radio, each time a CD or download is sold. Every T-Shirt that’s ordered, every poster and calendar. It is awesome to contemplate.

            He puts on some music that I don’t recognise.

            ‘Truth is, I get dead bored sitting around here. I’d rather be round at Nige’s, or my Mum’s. The neighbours are okay but mainly foreign, mainly old.’

            ‘Isn’t there a part of London where all the Pop stars live, then?’

            He kneels on the floor and starts flicking through a pile of papers. ‘Not that I know of, and I’d steer well clear of it if there was. Like I told you, I don’t like parties and all that crap, and I think I’d particularly hate having showbizzy neighbours. Couldn’t stand all that in-crowd stuff . All that A-List celebrity crap.’

            I recall what he’d said in Cardiff. ‘Liggers and sycophants and slappers.’

            ‘Dead right. Only worse, in some ways. Everyone wants to know you once you’re successful in the music business. Everyone wants to be
seen
with you. And you get a bit twitched about people’s motives, you know? At least, I do. I’ve never been that gregarious - apart from on stage, of course - I’m happiest with the mates I always had. And with girls...’

            ‘They must queue up.’

            ‘Exactly! It’s fucking
awful.
I mean, I’m a bloke, right, so I make the most of the better than average pulling power
Kite’s
given me. Course I do. We all do. But it gets mindless after a while. That’s why with you it’s so good. You know? You couldn’t give a stuff who I was. I was just work, you know?’

            ‘Not strictly true. I was very excited at having the opportunity to hob-nob with pop stars. But it never even
occurred
to me that I’d end up in bed with one.’

            ‘Precisely. So when you realised you were attracted to me it was because it was me, an ordinary bloke. Not some Pop Idol. Trouble with most girls I’ve met is that they know so much about me before I know anything about them. It’s creepy.’

             ‘You’re
not
ordinary. And I don’t feel I really know anything about you. That’s what makes it exciting.’

            I kick off my shoes, then walk over to him. My feet feel like they’re crossing a sea of mini-trampolines. I kneel down beside him. On a low chrome table just by where we are sitting, there is a cluster of photos in plastic frames. The face in one is familiar.

            ‘Who’s that?’

            ‘My old man.’ Craig stabs a finger at the photograph. ‘He’s another one. Couldn’t give a damn when I was growing up. Treated us both like shit. And my Mum just put up with it because she was worried about me not having a Dad around. Didn’t throw him out until a couple of years back. He’s all about now, though. Now his son’s rich and famous. Surprise, surprise.’

            ‘You’ve got his photo here. You can’t hate him that much.’

            ‘Oh, that’s Mum. She’s very sentimental about that sort of crap. Family really matters to her. Hence the little gallery. But no, I don’t hate him. I’m just sad I can’t have any sort of functional relationship with him. I tell you, when I have kids I’m going to make damn sure I’m around for them.’

            ‘I’m sure you’ll make a great Dad.’ Then I laugh. ‘Listen to me! I sound like your Mother!’

            He leans across and says, ‘Believe me, you are
nothing
like my mother.’

            Then he kisses me, slowly and gently and softly, and the undergrowth carpet pile rises to meet us.

*

            ‘So I’m going to play it for you again now. Plus lyrics.’

            ‘These lyrics.’

            ‘Those lyrics. I’m sorry it’s not, you know, a love song or anything, but Jonathan can listen to exactly the same melody I do, and while I’m thinking angst, loss, depression or something, he could be just as likely to think ‘seize the day’.

            He reaches for an acoustic guitar. His favourite, he says when he’s playing with tunes. We are in his bedroom now. The sun is just setting and through the west facing windows the treetops are burnished and the sky looks like it has been tipped upside down and dipped in blue ink.