Babyville (11 page)

“I can't believe how much she's taken to you.” Jackie—Alicia's mother—smiled fondly as Julia played with her daughter. “You said you didn't have children, but you look like you're really ready.”

Julia put Alicia down gently on the floor and smiled at Jackie. “You know what? I thought I was really ready too. I tried for nearly a year to get pregnant with my partner, but it didn't happen.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” Jackie is mortified.

“Don't be. I'm not. I thought at the time that the only thing that mattered to me was having a baby, but now I know it wasn't the right time. And it wasn't the right man.”

Jackie nods. “Your husband?”

“No. My long-term boyfriend.”

“I take it you're no longer together?”

“Not really. I came to New York just to get some space, but I've realized it's not working anymore. I know he knows it too, we just have to sit down and say the words out loud to one another.”

“That's tough.” Jackie nods thoughtfully. “But you know, you can't underestimate the importance of a strong relationship when you have children. I know too many people who've tried to use a child to steady a rocky relationship, and all it does is throw it off balance completely.”

“Did you have a strong relationship with your husband?”

“Thank God, yes, or we wouldn't have survived it. Nobody can really make you understand what the first year is like when you have a child. They tell you but you just can't understand until you go through it. The sleepless nights, the feeling of being trapped, the loss of self. I hated my husband for the first year. I resented him not understanding what I did. He'd go to work every day and then come back and just want to read the paper, and I'd be furious, because I'd been with the baby all day and up most of the night, and I knew he could never be as exhausted as me.

“I was way too tired to have sex, and we spent a year bickering and being nasty to one another. I'd lie in bed every night thinking, There's always divorce.”

“It sounds horrific.”

“It was. But you know what? Almost every new mother I know goes through the same thing. They all had a horrific first year, and none of them was prepared. All I can tell you is we nearly split up, and we have a strong relationship. There's no way we would have made it had we had basic problems in our marriage in the first place.”

“So what happened?”

“Amazingly we had a turning point toward the end of the first year. I guess it helped that Alicia started sleeping through the night. We both started to catch up on sleep, and we found the time to sit down and talk to one another. We were so busy trying to convince the other one how we were having the harder time, we'd stopped listening to one another.”

“And now?”

“Now I love my husband again. I remember why I married him, and I wouldn't change it for the world.”

Julia sits in silence for a few seconds, digesting what Jackie has just said. Eventually she looks up. “Your daughter is the most divine baby I think I've ever met, and seeing her makes my heart ache, but I also know that you're right. It's not enough for me to be ready to have a baby. My life has to be working and I have to be with the right man. And the truth is I'm not even sure I'm ready.”

“Right.” Jackie nods. “You're suffering from Grandparent Syndrome.”

“Grandparent Syndrome?”

“Uh-huh. You picture a baby and you think of the closeness and the cuteness and how wonderful it would be, but you don't think of the fact that you can't just hand them back at the end of the day. That's it. Hello baby, bye bye life.”

“You're right,” Julia laughs. “I've definitely been suffering Grandparent Syndrome, but, having heard you, I now never want a child.”

Jackie's face falls. “Please tell me you're joking.”

“Don't worry,” Julia laughs as Alicia toddles over and holds her arms out to her. “I'm joking.”

It's
a typical New York day. Cold and bright, just getting ready for spring. Julia scuffs her boots along the path and digs deep in her pockets as she walks through the park to the Boathouse.

“I'm not supposed to see you again,” she says as she approaches Jack, who is casually leaning against a tree by the entrance.

“You had that bad a time at Orsay?” He raises an eyebrow, unfazed by her direct approach, for he has, after all, been trying to reach her for nearly two weeks, and is delighted she's here at all.

He has left countless messages, both at home and at work, and finally resorted to turning up at her building this morning and refusing to leave unless she came down and talked to him.

She wouldn't come down—hung over and looking dreadful—but agreed to meet him later in the afternoon in Central Park. She has—thanks to the good old British cure of a fry-up (actually not very British at all, as there was probably more fat to be found in Julia's teeth than on her plate at the restaurant this morning)—recovered from her hangover, and has pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail, eyes shaded from the sun by a large pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses.

Julia sighs deeply. She still feels guilty about Mark. She shouldn't even be thinking about other men, not until things are resolved with him, but she has tried to avoid Jack, and really it's not her fault he's been so persistent.

It doesn't help that he's turned up looking all tall and sparkly-eyed and sexy. Oh no. It doesn't help at all.

“I had a wonderful time at Orsay.”

“But of course I knew that,” Jack says. “That's why you've returned all my calls.” Julia starts to apologize but Jack stops her. “Come on. Let's get a table.” They walk through the restaurant and outside to the riverbank. A few brave souls are dotted around, but it's far too cold for the Boathouse to be busy, and Jack leads the way to a table halfway between the bar and the edge of the river.

“I'll just go and get drinks,” he says, without asking Julia what she wants, and a couple of minutes later comes back from the bar with two steaming mugs of spiced wine.

“Here.” He hands her a mug and she gratefully wraps her hands around it. “This will keep out the cold.” They sit awhile, sipping slowly, and eventually Jack speaks. “If you had such a wonderful time at Orsay, why have you made it so hard to see you again, and more to the point, why are you not supposed to see me again?”

“I have . . .” Julia looks at him, then looks away, knowing she has to tell the truth but not sure how to say it. “. . . I have an unresolved situation.”

“Ah.” Jack nods slowly. “I have to say I did have a feeling it might be something like that. You're married, aren't you?”

“God, no!” The vehemence in her voice startles him.

“So what is it, then?”

And out comes the whole story.

Two
hours later Julia tails off. She's told him about her life before Mark; about then moving in with him and knowing that her life would now be mapped out: marriage, babies, although not necessarily in that order. She's told him about her increasing unhappiness; about Mark and her growing so far apart it wouldn't be possible for them to find their way back. She's talked about her obsession with children; about needing a baby to repair her relationship; and she has talked about coming to New York and finding herself again. About knowing that it really is over with Mark, but not knowing how to tell him.

And now she sits back and looks at him, waiting for his response, because even though she hardly knows him, even though this is only the third time she's met him, he is someone she'd like to get to know better.

Although having just poured her heart out, she feels this is unlikely.

Jack doesn't say anything for a while. He looks out at the lake for a few minutes, then turns to her.

“So what about New York? Are you staying?”

Julia nods. “For a while. I've been in the edit suite for the last week and the editor's now seen some of the stuff we shot and he's happy. They've offered me more work, on a freelance basis, but I figure it won't do my CV any harm to have worked for BCA. And I know this sounds nuts, but I'm happy here. Maybe just because it's the place where I've rediscovered who I am, but whatever the reason I feel very settled. Comfortable. A two-bedroom apartment's come up in Bella's building, and we're going to take it. So, yes.” She shrugs. “For the moment I'm staying.”

“I would imagine, from everything you've told me, that a relationship is the very last thing on your mind right now, but I would also guess that you could do with a friend.”

Julia suppresses a sharp pang of disappointment and covers it with a nod. “Friends. That sounds perfect.”

“Good,” Jack says, grinning, as he holds out his hand to shake on it. “Friends.” Julia puts her hand in his and they shake firmly, smiling at one another.

And they keep holding on to one another's hands. Their smiles fade as Julia's heart beats a little faster.

“Seeing as we're friends,” Jack says quietly, moving his head closer as he cups her chin in his hand and draws her head closer, “do you think it's okay if we do this?” He kisses her softly on the lips. Once. Twice. Three times. Pulling back slightly to check this is okay, he sees her eyes remain closed, her head inclined, and he smiles as he moves forward and kisses her again.

“Oh yes,” sighs Julia, when they finally break apart, as she smiles from ear to ear. “I'd say that's exactly what friendship is all about.”

11

Funny, isn't it, how life
turns out. Just as I was beginning to seriously stagnate in Brighton (and yes, I do know how trendy it is, and yes, I have seen Zoe and Norman walking around town from time to time, and no, I'm not mad to have got thoroughly bored with how small it is and how everyone knows everyone else's business), along comes an offer from Mike Jones.

Bored with Brighton. Bored with work. Bored with men. Most of the time I feel like I've worked my way through all the available men in Brighton. And some of the unavailable. Occasionally the men fall for me, but I have to get myself out pretty damn quick, because I'm far too caught up in work to give a relationship a chance.

Although there are times when someone will brush the hair out of my eyes so tenderly it will make me want to cry, and I'll want to drop the act and curl up into their arms, feel safe, and warm, and rescued. But then I remember: I don't do relationships.

Once upon a time I did. Back when I dropped out of college I fully expected a strong man to whisk me off on his white charger, to a palace where I could live out my days in loved-up luxury, never having to work again. This sounds ridiculous now, I'm almost embarrassed to admit it, but I was so convinced that that was how my life would turn out, I didn't even bother to get a proper job.

Can you believe that?

God. Just awful. I was stagnating as a shop assistant in a sweater shop in a back street in Hove, praying for my prince to arrive, spending hours mindlessly folding sweaters and daydreaming about the great love of my life.

But then, much as Born Again Christians find Jesus, I found work. The sweater shop went under (no surprise, given they only had about ten customers the entire year I worked there), and I was left high and dry, with no sign of Prince Charming. I joined a temp agency and they sent me off to work for a local radio station. Ten months filing, making teas and coffees, showing guests from the green room (a cramped airless cubbyhole with an L-shaped filthy sofa that I swear was just huge bits of foam that were covered in fabric, a scratched glass coffee table with a few outdated copies of
Billboard
magazine, and an ashtray that was permanently overflowing) to the studio. Very very occasionally we'd get someone famous and exciting, but most of the time it was struggling bands who were on a university tour, or some town dignitary involved in a local dispute.

After ten months I was taken under the wing of one of the producers. Robert. It helped that I was sleeping with him, and even though I had grown very tired of him after a month, I carried on because, really, one had to think of the career.

Frankly, I've always said the old methods are best, and what's older, or better, than the casting couch? I proceeded quickly from all-round dogsbody to assistant producer on Robert's afternoon show. A few months later Robert left to join another, rival radio station, on the understanding that I would go too, continue as his assistant, and continue our desktop fucking sessions. I bade him farewell—the plan being I would leave a month later, just so no one would suspect—and ran straight down the corridor to the boss's office.

I don't think anyone was surprised that Robert's shoes were a perfect fit, and although Robert was understandably pissed off, I heard that it wasn't long before he found another nubile young dogsbody to train.

Making the jump from radio to television was easy. Admittedly I had to start almost at the bottom again, but by that time I had a few years and a few schemes on my fellow researchers, and again, it didn't take long. That time I didn't even have to sleep with anybody.

Although I probably would have done. The boss at the TV station will have to remain nameless, but he was extremely attractive, extremely funny, and extremely married. Just my type, except for the marriage bit of course. Maybe you're surprised. I know some of my friends are. They think I'm “prime mistress material,” particularly given my aversion to any kind of emotional attachment.

But I lived through that with my mum. Lived through the pain of a divorce, and I really don't think I could do that to another woman. Of course I have had the odd fling with an Unavailable, I'd be lying if I painted myself as an angel, but, generally, the flings I had, I didn't know anything about a wife. I'd only find out later, and by that time I would have moved on anyway.

I'm not a marriage-wrecker, you see. I never wanted anything from the men I slept with who belonged to someone else, and I'd never be stupid enough to fall for someone and daydream about him leaving his sad and dowdy wife for glamorous old me.

I am neither that stupid nor that self-deluded. I only appear glamorous because of my red hair, and even that isn't, ahem, entirely natural, although that's not something I make a habit of telling people, and my great-grandmother did come from Cork so I can just about get away with it. I've even been known to adopt an Irish accent from time to time, despite having grown up in West Sussex, but I only do that if there's no one Irish around because it isn't very good and I'd be caught out pretty damn quickly.

But it's amazing how fast you can proceed up the career ladder if your hair is “rich russet red” and almost reaches your waist; if you adopt a uniform of tight trouser suits and killer stilettos; if you forgo the friendship of your equals in the office and concentrate on the people with true power.

Oh but how I missed those friendships with equals. I knew exactly what was said about me. I was a ball-breaker. I was a tough, uncompromising bitch. I was only interested in myself. Of course most of that was true. But no one ever said I could be thoughtful. No one said I was straight and honest. No one talked about the love I have for my friends and family. In fairness perhaps they never saw that side. Perhaps I was too busy furthering my career to concentrate on showing off my better aspects.

I learned very quickly that being nice didn't do it. Being nice won friends, but didn't influence anybody. I craved the influence far more than the friends, but there were times I thought I wanted the friends: when I'd walk into the office and silence would descend as if we were in a Wild West saloon; when everyone would go to the local pizza place for someone's birthday and I wouldn't be invited; when no one offered any help or assistance if, say, one of my guests dropped out at the last minute.

I told myself the benefits were worth it. While they were eating pizza, I was in a local upscale wine bar with the heads of the department. While they were getting pissed on beer and cheap white wine at a party in someone's flat, I was mingling with other television people in beautiful country houses, sipping champagne and making amusing small talk.

It's not what you know, it's who you know, my mother used to say, and nowhere is this more true, I discovered, than in the media.

Every job I ever had, every program I'd ever worked on, every promotion I'd ever been given was, directly or indirectly, as a result of mixing with the higher powers.

And that includes Mike Jones, Director of Programming for London Daytime Television, because I'd reached about as far as I was going to reach at Anglia, and I'd set my sights on something higher.

London Daytime Television.

I know all about Mike Jones, of course. Who doesn't, for Chrissakes? I've spent years listening to tales of Mike Jones's legendary drinking sessions, his womanizing, so I have to say it was something of a shock to hear him on the phone. Not an assistant, not some flunkie. Mike Jones himself.

“We need a producer,” he'd said, “last minute. Urgent as fuck. Can you come tomorrow?” As if there were anything to think about.

I contemplated one of my signature trouser suits, and then decided on more of a floaty number. Less of the power-dressing, more of the flirtatious. Less Cindy Crawford, more Pamela Anderson.

But with a hint of seriousness, naturally. I wore a camel knee-length skirt with a lace hem, a pale pink cardigan over a Wonderbra that did a wonderful job of creating a cleavage I don't really have, and the obligatory killer stilettos. In caramel, of course. Shimmery tights, as it was far too cold to go naked-legged, and my delicious red winter coat with a huge fringed collar. I was ready.

I could see immediately what everyone was talking about when they talked about Mike Jones. His power definitely makes him attractive, and I noted him giving me a slow, cool once-over when I walked in.

We talked for a while about the job. He told me the situation, that the producer in question was about to take a sabbatical and was trying for a baby, and that they were looking to fill her shoes.

There was no question about whether I could do it. Standing on my head with my eyes closed.

“We haven't actually discussed the sabbatical with the producer yet,” he said, clearly uncomfortable. “In fact, I'd be much happier if everything we discussed in this office is kept strictly between us.”

“Of course,” I said, nodding. “And what if she, um, decides not to take a sabbatical?”

He was being indiscreet. He knew it. But the television industry thrives on gossip, and he couldn't resist. “I love this girl,” he said. “I've worked with her for years and I think she's talented as hell, but she's lost the plot. She's having the sabbatical whether she likes it or not, because she's one of the best people we've got and I can't afford to lose her permanently. But,” he continued quickly, “this series is a year. If we like you and you want to stay, we'll move you on and the sky's the fucking limit here as far as I'm concerned.”

Now this really was music to my ears.

“So tell me about you,” he said suddenly, leaning forward, holding eye contact far longer than most, so long, in fact, I broke a cardinal rule and broke his eye contact first. Something I never do.

“I started working in radio,” I said, telling him about my quick progression to producer of my own show, but, obviously, omitting Robert.

“Nah,” he said after a few minutes. “Tell me about you. What makes Maeve tick. I need to know if you'll fit in with the team.” He looked at my expression and started laughing. “Fuck, I can't believe I just said that. What makes Maeve tick,” he mimicked as we both laughed, the ice now broken. “What a wanker.”

“I'm glad you said that,” I ventured boldly, buying time, because I hate being put on the spot like that. I never know what to say.

“Seriously, though,” he said, grinning. “What, for example, is your favorite film?”

I smiled back and relaxed for the first time. “
The Great Escape,
” I shot back.

“Interesting choice.” He raised an eyebrow. “More of a bloke's film, I would have thought, unless it's because of Steve McQueen.”

“Steve McQueen is a factor, but I'm more of a Brando kind of gal. The early days of course.”

“Of course.” He smiled, enjoying the conversation. “Not George Clooney, then?”

“Oh, please.” I grimaced in disgust at the obviousness. “So what's your favorite film?” I took a chance.

“
Sleepless in Seattle,
” he said, very seriously, as my mouth dropped open and hit the floor. “Oh, all right, then.” He was enjoying my reaction. “I lied. My all-time favorite film is
Easy Rider.
”

“Good choice. I take it you have a motorbike?” He nodded. “Let me guess. I'd say Harley but that doesn't seem quite you.”

“So what does seem like me?”

“I'd guess at a Norton, even though you're probably more of an Indian man, but I can't see you paying the money.”

The phone started to ring and Mike stood up, extending a hand. “Maeve,” he said, “you're undoubtedly a girl after my own heart.” He picked up the receiver as he shook my hand. “Thank you for coming in to see us. I'll be in touch by Friday at the latest, but I would say be quietly confident.” Quietly confident? I was more than quietly confident. When the conversation turns personal and, better yet, becomes fun in a job interview, you know you're in. No question.

On the way out I bumped into Julia, Lorna's friend, whom I'd met at the wedding. I'd liked her then, thought she was the sort of person I could be friends with, but Jesus, she looked so terrible now I barely recognized her. We had a brief insincere conversation in which I told her I was going to call her (which, actually, I would have done, except I completely forgot she even worked there, but that doesn't sound too good), but she was so spaced out she barely registered what I was saying.

It was only as I reached the tube that I was hit by the realization that it might be Julia whom I'm replacing. There, after all, was a woman who appeared to have very definitely lost the plot.

I must phone Lorna when I get home, I thought.

I move
down to London a week before I'm due to start. My contract with London Daytime Television is such that I can afford substantially more than I have been paying in Brighton, which is rather lucky, considering that the rent for my house in Brighton would enable me to live in a pea-sized hovel in London.

I end up with a flat in Belsize Park. It belongs to a single woman, Fay, about my age, who is traveling for a year; I met her through a friend of a friend. Her home could not be more perfect: A tiny bedroom is more than compensated for by a vast living room with twelve-foot ceilings and a bay window that opens on to a flat roof just big enough for a table and two chairs.

Her furniture is also perfect for me: Conran-style minimalism via a touch of Habitat and a large dose of IKEA. (Cubed bookshelves: IKEA. Television stand: IKEA. Dining table: Habitat.) Everything is shades of nothing, with white walls and those wooden floors that property developers seem to adore, even though they're actually just plastic.

The rooms are filled with clothes, boxes, and suitcases. Fay tells me she thought she had found someone to rent it, another friend of a friend, but was let down at the last minute. She is leaving in three days and has been in something of a panic. She apologizes for the mess, for the clothes and the cases, but I can see past that. I can see that it is, thanks to the ceilings and windows, an impressive flat. It could very well be home for a successful television producer living in London.