Babyville (5 page)

Such an intimate gesture teamed with such a childlike question, but Jason knows that small talk gets you precisely nowhere, and that nostalgia is a far better emotion with which to pave the way to a woman's heart.

Julia starts laughing. Relieved. A touch disappointed.

“I think they very definitely should be brought back,” she laughs.

“And do you or do you not think the Soup-Dragon ought to be seen far more often?”

“Oh my God,” Julia's eyes widen in delight. “I haven't thought about the Soup-Dragon for years.”

“But I bet you haven't forgotten her conversational prowess.”

Julia relaxes back in her chair, thinks for a few seconds, then leans forward again with a few Soup-Dragonish noises.

“Nope,” Jason shakes his head. “That doesn't sound like the Soup-Dragon at all.”

“Go on, then, you do it.”

“Can't. I can, however, do a rather good impression of a Clanger.” And with that he says in a singsong voice, “Du du? Du du du du du du. Du. Du du.”

“That's rubbish!” Julia starts laughing. “They whistled. Like this.” And she purses her lips together and whistles a conversation as the rest of the table stop talking and look at them.

“Clangers!” shouts Maeve, who has been sitting reasonably quietly on the other side of Jason. Evidently the plan was for Maeve and Jason to get together, but Jason's never been one for redheads, and thus far he's left it to Charles, one half of Charles and Claudia, to keep Maeve amused. “See?” Julia turns to Jason triumphantly. “Told you it was a whistle.”

“But it wasn't quite a whistle,” says Maeve.

“See?” Jason's turn to be triumphant. “Told you it was my du du.” He du du's a bit more for the benefit of the table, all of whom agree that it definitely wasn't a du du, was more like a whistle.

“Okay, okay,” Bella interrupts with a hand up in the air just as the main course is being placed in front of her. “What about
Hector's House
? That was always my favorite.”

“Hector's House!”
the whole table chorus in delight, all being roughly the same age, all having grown up with the same television programs.

“What was
Hector's House
about, though?” asks Jason, as everyone starts laughing, convinced that they loved it, despite no one fully remembering it.

“Mr. Benn!”
Julia shouts, aware now that this has become a nostalgia free-for-all.

“Now there was someone who really should have come out of the closet years ago.” Jason raises his glass in a silent toast to Mr. Benn.

Everyone has something to offer.
Crystal Tipps and Alistair; Mary, Mungo and Midge;
and then the pièce de résistance:
Pipkins.

“Oh God,” groans Julia. “I loved Pipkins. Remember what a snob Octavia was?”

“And what about Hartley Hare?” Nobody has noticed Sam and Chris making their way round the table to their seats, and everyone starts laughing. Hartley Hare. Who has even thought about Hartley Hare for years?

Bella stands up to give Sam a hug, although it's not easy with the ever-growing baby.

“Twins?” Bella cannot resist, and Sam hits her.

“Oh fuck off,” she laughs, because she knows that Bella knows how fed up she is with being told she must be carrying an entire rugby team.

“You look exhausted, Chris,” Julia says, turning to Sam's husband, who reaches over to kiss her on the cheek, then raises his eyebrows.

“Not bloody surprising, given that Sam is either lumbering out of bed to go to the bloody loo about thirty times a night, and not even trying to keep the noise down in the bathroom, or tossing and turning and making the whole bloody house rock.”

He looks terrible. Exhausted, but as he says this he gives Sam's shoulder an affectionate squeeze all the same.

“Why should I be the only one to suffer?” Sam huffs, sitting as close to the table as she can while pulling a giant-sized bottle of Gaviscon out of her bag, thumping it on the table next to her wineglass.

“What the hell is that?” Bella points at the green bottle with a look of horror on her face as Sam undoes the cap and takes a giant swig straight from the bottle.

“Heartburn,” Sam explains, sighing with obvious relief as it hits the spot. “Everyone says that if you have terrible heartburn—which I have—then you're having a very hairy baby.”

“Is that true?” Mark is fascinated.

“Apparently so, but it wouldn't surprise me. Like mother like daughter.” She catches Chris's eye. “Or son, but all I can tell you is at this rate I really am going to be giving birth to a monkey.”

Sam and Bella are soon catching up on all their news, and Julia is only slightly pissed off that she is not sitting with them, but then she is sitting next to Jason, who is proving to be the perfect wedding companion, and she is having such a lovely time, feeling so sexy, and flirtatious, and alive, that for a few moments she genuinely wishes she were single.

But she isn't. She is living with Mark, trying for a baby, and this thought sobers her up for a few seconds. Jason sees her pull back and tries a new tack, and soon Julia is laughing again as they try to recall the words to one-hit-wonders from their youth.

“Whatsa matter you, hey,” Julia sings. “Why you looka so sad. Whaddya think you do, hey, itsa nicea place, da da da da da, ah shuddupa ya face.”

“What exactly does da da da da da mean?” Jason is smiling.

“Probably the same as”—Julia affects his Clanger voice—“du du du du du,” and they both laugh. If you didn't know better, you would think they were the perfect couple.

Mark sits back in his chair and watches Julia. He knows she is flirting, but he doesn't mind. He likes to see her have fun—he trusts her—and he likes to watch her like this: animated, sparkling, alive. The Julia he first met four years ago. With a stab of pain he wonders why he can't make her feel like this anymore.

As soon as the meal ends, the bride and groom take to the floor for their dance. “It Had to Be You” comes on, and the men at the table groan at the cheesiness of it, while the women smile even as their eyes well up at this first flush of love and the romanticism of it all.

And then it's back to the seventies for Adam and Lorna, and Mark stands up and pulls Julia to the floor during the Jackson Five's “ABC”; they continue throughout Patti LaBelle's “Lady Marmalade,” on through “White Lines” by Grandmaster Flash, finishing with “Night Fever” by the Bee Gees, by which point they're so exhausted they need a water break.

Jason has moved on by the time they get back to the table. He has realized that Julia is with Mark, and is currently busy prowling the other tables, looking for suitable prey. Julia and Mark sit back down and smile at one another.

“I'm having a good time,” Julia says, managing to keep the surprise out of her voice.

“I know.” Mark touches the end of her nose, an affectionate gesture he hasn't made for many, many months. “So am I.”

It
is near the end of the evening, and only the hard core remain. Lorna has spent almost the entire time glued to her seat at Top Table, clearly terrified that the moment she leaves her throne she will stop being queen for the day, but now she is able to let her hair down, and she and Adam are intertwined on the dance floor, both gazing into one another's eyes as they sway gently, softly talking and kissing, laughing at the fact they are now man and wife.

Most of the elderly relatives have gone, and a few people stop, on the way out, to turn and watch Adam and Lorna, remembering their own wedding days, thinking how very long ago it all feels now.

As the people file out, the room starts to look frayed round the edges. Several flower arrangements have already disappeared, guests managing somehow to whisk them home unseen, and crisp white damask tablecloths are now shown up as grubby and slightly gray.

Chris and Sam went home hours ago. Sam ran out of Gaviscon, and after three pints of milk and a vanilla yogurt that one of the waiters was kind enough to run out and buy for her, she realized that this was one fight she was not going to win. They left, Sam easing herself up from the chair with trouble, one hand supporting the small of her back as she groaned with effort.

Julia watched her with love. And envy. Bella, now sitting next to her, looks at Julia's face and takes her hand.

“It must be tough for you,” she says.

“You can't even imagine.” Julia forces a smile, followed by a sigh. “I would give anything, anything, to be in Sam's place right now. I love her, and I'm thrilled for her, but I can't even think that there is a living breathing baby inside her. I can't believe that I haven't got one too.” Tears fill her eyes as she finishes this, and a huge sob, fueled by champagne, hangs in the air as Julia runs out of the room, engulfed by disappointment and loss.

Mark stands up to follow her, but the look on his face is one of weariness, and Bella shakes her head and says that she will go; that it's okay; that Julia will be fine. Mark sits back down, grateful for not having to deal with this display of emotion, for not having to deal with the blame, because of course he knows that Julia blames him.

All Mark wants is to be happy. If Julia wants to have a baby, if it will make her happy, Mark wants it too. If Julia wants to see a fertility expert, Mark wants it too. If Julia wants to not have children for the rest of their lives, that will also be fine.

The problem is that Mark has never sat down and thought about what he wants. Perhaps it's time he did.

5

Work hasn't been going
too well for Julia recently. She spends more and more time lost in a daydream; her researchers have to fight to get her attention, force her to make a decision.

On Monday her phone rings on her desk, disturbing her latest reverie.

“Julia? Mike here.” Mike Jones. Director of Programming. Her mentor.

“Hi, Mike. Everything okay?”

“Julia, I'd like you to come and see me. Have you got a moment now?” In the old days this would have set her pulse racing: Perhaps she was being given an exciting new project. In the very old days, when she was young and inexperienced, and not part of the furniture here, her pulse would have been racing for fear of being sacked.

Today her pulse doesn't even bother to speed up.

She stands up wearily and scrapes her hair back as Johnny, her protégé and right-hand man, looks at her sadly, wondering what happened to the bright, vibrant woman who had employed him and steered him from runner to producer. They used to laugh all the time, she and Johnny, but she is too distracted these days to even crack a smile. He knows about the baby stuff. God, who doesn't. But he doesn't understand why she's letting it get to her so much.

Sometimes he thinks he should tell her about the rumors. Tell her that people are muttering that she's lost it, that it won't be long before she's given the boot, but then again, these are only rumors, and if they're not true he's one messenger who doesn't want to get shot.

That's another thing. She never used to have a temper. Her team used to adore her, they'd go out regularly after work and drink themselves stupid, and Julia was always up for the crack. Now she's far more likely to shout, or belittle, or patronize. The worst thing is that most of the time he can see she has absolutely no clue she's doing it.

Her friends at work have turned against her, and Johnny's only sticking by her because of a shared history, and because he's praying that this is temporary, that one day soon she'll be the old Julia again.

“Off somewhere?” he says, as she starts slowly walking out, a far cry from the dynamo of old, so busy she didn't walk anywhere, she whirled.

“Oh.” She turns, blinking her eyes to bring her back to reality. “Just up to see Mike. Shouldn't be long. He probably wants to give me a bollocking about all those complaints.” Her last show,
Summer Fling,
sent singles off to the Mediterranean in search of love, but most of the time they ended up with booze and sex, and more than a smattering of bad language. Although the ratings were great, the complaints had gone through the roof.

“I hope you're right,” Johnny says, almost under his breath as he turns back to his computer screen.

Julia turns at the door. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing.”

The
lift doors open, Julia steps in, deep in thought, and as the door closes she looks up.

“Shit. I thought this was going up,” she mutters.

“Julia?”

She struggles for a few seconds to remember the face, then the name, because it is not a face she associates with work. “Oh, hi,” she says, placing her. “What are you doing here? It's Maeve, isn't it?”

Maeve nods. “You're never going to believe this, but I've just had a job interview. I was going to call you, actually, when I heard, but then I got so busy preparing for this I never had a chance.”

“What a small world. I didn't even know you were in this game. And aren't you living in Brighton?”

Maeve shrugs and smiles as if to say there is a lot Julia doesn't know. “That's the only thing I can't get my head round. London rents. If I get this, I'll have to move back, and the rents have gone crazy since I last lived here.”

For a second Julia contemplates inviting her to move in with them. God knows they have enough space, but she hardly knows this girl, and Mark would go crazy. “You could try the noticeboard,” she volunteers eventually, and breathes a sigh of relief as the lift doors open and they are on the ground floor.

“If you get the job and you need anything just call,” Julia manages, just before the lift doors close. “Nice to see you again. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Maeve smiles a warm smile. “And to you too.”

As soon as the doors close, Julia turns and looks at herself in the mirrored wall of the lift. Christ, she looks awful. Her hair's greasy, her eyes are bloodshot, and she could pretty much carry the weekly shopping home in the bags under her eyes. At the beginning of the sleepless nights she tried to disguise it with cleverly applied makeup, but she rarely even does that these days. She sighs as the lift opens out on to the twelfth floor, and walks into Mike's office.

“You look fucking awful.” Mike's first words, allowable only because they are friends. And because it is true. “What the fuck is going on?”

Julia smiles. “Lovely to see you too, Mike. And how are you?”

“I'm serious, Julia, you look like shit.” Mike shakes his head and sighs, sadness and sympathy combined in his eyes.

Mike Jones is not the sort of man you would expect to work for a major television company, even less to see behind a large beech desk in an executive office, on the executive floor.

He's dressed as he always is (unless of course there's a big meeting with the ITC and Mike has to explain away explicit language or programming, in which case he wears the one suit he has in his wardrobe; the suit's Hugo Boss, except he wears it with Hush Puppies, which kind of destroys the effect), in jeans and T-shirt. Mike would describe himself as a geezer. Others, who didn't know him, might describe him as a thug. Short, crop-haired, stockily built—Julia always used to tease him by saying she was surprised she hadn't spotted him in the latest football violence videos.

His “genuine Larndan accent,” penchant for football shirts, and liking for more than a few pints with the boys belie a brilliant creative genius. He is a man who is loved by everyone who's ever worked with him, hated and feared by other television companies.

He didn't go to university (“university of life, mate, university of life. Rest of that stuff's for fuckin' ponces, innit?''), started off at London Daytime as a post boy, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Mike Jones is famous for his mind, his constant use of expletives and his—somewhat inexplicable until you get to know him—ability to pull women. Six years ago, at a Christmas party when Julia was very drunk and still found his power something of an aphrodisiac, they went to bed together. It was never discussed again, but Mike has always had something of a soft spot for her, and he is the only one who is actually willing to talk to her about what is going on.

“So come on, what's it all about? You look like shit, your work's going down the pan, I've got researchers in here every other day complaining about you throwing a tantrum, and I'm wondering why the fuck I still employ you. Would you like to enlighten me?”

Julia has turned as white as a sheet. “Are you serious?” she whispers. “Do my researchers really come in here and complain about me?”

“Never mind about them. I want to know about you. I know you're trying for a baby and I know you're having problems.” Julia blanches, but Mike carries on regardless. “I feel for you, I really do, and I can't even begin to imagine the shit you must be going through, but you have to find a way of leaving it behind you when you come to work.”

“I thought I had.” Julia is on the brink of tears, and Mike's voice softens.

“Look, we think you need some time off.”

Her head jerks up. “What?”

“Yeah. Take a few months to get your shit together. Go to a doctor. Go to a health farm. Go on holiday. Fuck, I don't know. Just do whatever you need to do to get back to the old Julia again, and maybe you'll have that bun in the oven by the time you get back.”

Julia sits there, stunned. She wants to cry, to shout, to scream, but she knows Mike, and knows it won't do any good. And finally she realizes that he's right. She's exhausted and she feels as bad as she looks.

And suddenly the prospect of a few months off starts to sound really rather nice.

Eventually she looks up at him. “Okay. I think I probably need the time. But what about my new series? What are you going to do about finding someone for
Loved Up
?”

“Just found someone,” Mike says triumphantly. “Used to hear about her when she worked at Anglia, but I wouldn't think you'd know her. Lovely girl. Irish. Redhead,” and he winks at Julia, who is already aware of his fondness for Gillian Anderson.

“It's Maeve, isn't it?” she sighs.

“I don't fucking believe it,” Mike barks. “You know fucking everyone! Maeve's coming in on short notice, and she knows about you, and she's happy to take over. Your team met her briefly—”

“She met the team? Jesus, Mike, I'm not even out the door and you've been sneaking around behind my back. I suppose all my team loved her? I suppose they thought she wouldn't be the type to throw tantrums.” This last word is spat out, the smell of betrayal suddenly in the air.

“Julia, relax. No one's done any sneaking. She came in for the first time a couple of weeks ago for another show, and I called her back today because I had
Loved Up
in mind. There was nothing to tell you, and your team hasn't really met her properly. Although Stella met her while you and Johnny were off doing that recce in Swindon.”

“No one told me,” she says miserably. “They all hate me, don't they?”

“No one told you because no one knew who she was. They probably all thought she was my latest shag.”

Julia manages a smile.

“There you go.” Mike smiles too. “And no, for your information your researchers don't hate you.”

“Thanks, Mike. I feel better now.”

“They're fucking terrified of you.”

“You wanker.” And Julia starts to laugh.

They talk a bit longer, then Mike walks her to the lift, the subject now his beer session of the night before. They stand, listening to the rumble of the lift as it approaches, and Mike turns to face Julia again. “Listen,” he says, giving her an awkward kiss on the cheek. “If there's ever anything you need, anything at all, you just call me, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, giving him a grateful smile. “Okay.”

There's
no point in sitting around the office all day. Not now. Not when she's supposed to be working on her new series. Maeve's new series. She doesn't even have the energy to say good-bye properly. She tries to phone Mark when she gets back, not to explain, not on the phone from this open-plan office, but to see whether he'll meet her in the bar so she can tell him, but he's not around. She doesn't bother to leave a message on voicemail. She'll tell him later.

At lunchtime, when everyone's out, Julia goes through her drawers, selecting the few odd things she wants to take home. A quick raid on the stationery cupboard and she's ready.

“Is everything okay?”

Bugger. Johnny's come back into the office just as she's leaving. He looks at her, standing there holding a large cardboard box, incomprehension written all over his face.

Julia stops in her tracks. “I need a break,” she says slowly. “I just had a long chat with Mike. We've agreed that I'm going to take a sabbatical.”

Johnny doesn't know what to say.

“It's okay, Johnny. I know what everyone's been saying, and I know I've been a bit of a bitch recently, but I do need to, as Mike put it, get my shit together.”

Johnny's face is crestfallen as Julia carefully puts the box on the corner of a nearby desk, then comes back to put her arms around him and give him a hug.

“You'll be fine without me,” she says into his ear. “Plus you've got a gorgeous redhead taking my place,” and when she pulls back she is slightly pissed off to see that Johnny looks the tiniest bit excited at this prospect. His allegiances clearly aren't that strong after all.

The
door slams and Julia hears Mark swearing in the hallway. He hates the door slamming behind him, is terrified the wood or doorframe will get damaged, but has no choice when he brings work home and has to negotiate the door with arms full of files.

“Julia?” he shouts from the bottom of the stairs. She walks slowly down to him, toweling her hair dry, stopping a few steps from the bottom as Mark puts his files down, straightening up to look at her.

“Is it true?”

Julia nods.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so. I suppose everyone's already gossiping about it?”

Mark makes a face. “If I believed everything I heard, I'd have come home expecting you to be carried off in a straitjacket by the men in white.”

“You are joking.” She's horrified.

“Only just. People do seem to think you're in the middle of a nervous breakdown.”

“Fuck it, Mark. Why do you have to say things like that? Jesus, you're so bloody insensitive at times.”

“Julia, you asked me, for Christ's sake. Why are you having a go at me? God, can't we just have a civilized evening for a change and actually talk about this? All I know is what I've heard in the office and I've been trying to get you all afternoon. Johnny said you left at lunchtime and your bloody mobile's been switched off all day.”

Julia is silent. Resentful. She doesn't blame him for anything.

She blames him for everything.

She
left the office at lunchtime, took a cab straight home, and then was stuck. Alone, in this huge house that she hates, she wandered from room to room, trying to work out how she felt. Was she relieved? Happy? Angry? Disappointed?

Empty. That was how she felt. That was all she felt. All the time.

Switching on the TV, just to have some background noise, she found herself watching a daytime show about problem children. Hyperactive, disobedient, unruly children, none older than seven, and she wanted to hit the despairing parents. How dare you complain, she thought in fury. How dare you say anything against your children when you are so privileged to even have them in the first place.

She switched off the TV in disgust, grabbed her coat, and stepped outside, bracing herself against the cold January air. Julia hasn't been for a walk for ages. She used to walk a lot, when she was single, and had time.