Julia Gets a Life (3 page)

            I woke at seven, still dressed, with a dead arm and a headache, and reality seeped and then deluged my consciousness. I went downstairs to find a post-it note (one of mine, from the car, no doubt,) that he’d slipped through the letterbox, having, I assumed, failed to get in. It said,

            ‘
God, I’m so sorry. Please call me asap. I’m at the Pontprennau Road Inn. I don’t know how to
- I turned it over. It was a very small post-it note -
begin to tell you how sorry I am. Please call.’

            And he hadn’t signed it. Which was so unlike him. Or not, I suppose, given that I did not, as far as I knew, have any outstanding feuds with the milkman or the man who delivered household gadgets. I clutched the note, alert to the small sounds of my children surfacing. Then I crumpled it, hard, in the heel of my hand and launched it, inexpertly, binwards. Which, I have to say, was actually quite unlike me.

Chapter
3

            ‘What’s needed here is a cooling off period, and a chance to reassess your respective situations more objectively than you’re able to in the heat of the moment.’

            Which was all sound advice. The morning after I locked the doors on Richard, I held it together - just. As Richard generally left before the children came down, there was nothing, bar my own ravaged countenance, to alert them to the fact of their father’s dreadful betrayal. I made them both sandwiches, laid out their breakfast and pretended it had been a whizz of a PTA do. Max, having been party to much of it, was scathing as only an eleven year old could be.

            ‘When I’m old, I just won’t be seen
dead
doing what you do.
No
way.’ He launched a volley of Cocoa Pops at his bowl.    ‘In fact, parents shouldn’t be allowed to dance at these things. Should they, Em?’

            No, I thought wretchedly. They bloody shouldn’t. Emma, older, and (in matters of ambience) wiser, ignored him, and instead, said,

            ‘Are you alright, Mum? You look like the pits.’

            ‘I feel it,’ I said, conscious of her hand on my shoulder and the tears that were threatening to plop onto her toast. ‘All this manic…er…partying. But I’ll be okay. Really.’

            Her look said quite unequivocally that she didn’t believe me, but with what I immediately recognised as an instinct for self preservation, she put a lid on her anxieties and my own backed-up hysteria, and sat down instead with her brother to eat. We muddled on gamely till the clock crawled to eight thirty. I waited a further quarter of an hour before phoning Lily and unleashing the flood

            Lily has to be almost the most important female person in my life. She was our Au Pair for two years when we first moved to Wales and Emma and Max were tiny. I, suddenly displaced, and thus in a fit of possibly misplaced enthusiasm (or nappy-refusal, more like), was attempting to relaunch my fledgling photographic career. Okay, so all I actually did was a part-time job at Time-Of-Your-Life Family Photo Studio and a bit of advertising freelancing, but without Lily I would have been crafting a straight jacket for myself out of old muslins. Being French, and essentially stroppy, she was a right pain to live with (gravy? What is gravy? Oh, Mon Dieu! It is vile!) but she was efficient and loyal and made brilliant quiches, and never complained when I had to work late. I missed her dreadfully when she returned to Bordeaux, but happily, within months, she was back, with a real job. Teaching French A level to francophile adults, at the Continuing Ed. Dept at the University.

            ‘Exactly,’ she said now, waggling a finger at the television and scooping her thick coffee hair to one side. But the advice wasn’t actually for me. I had called in sick (a
first
) and we were sitting at my kitchen table; me feverishly removing Emma’s mauve ‘disco chick’ nail polish, while Lily, pragmatically, (friend’s crisis notwithstanding) kept half an eye on the Reggie Smartass Show. The words of wisdom were not addressed to my marital traumas, but to a middle aged woman with bad facial thread veins who was engaged in some sort of battle with her neighbour (an aggressive hag in a nylon shirt-waister dress, who kept going ‘Pah! Blewdy roobish!’ ). It was apparently over her right to herd yaks, or something equally life enhancing. I normally enjoyed a kind of low life pleasure on the odd occasion I got to watch these shows. There is something deeply therapeutic about comparing the smooth manageability of your own existence with people who write to television stations and take part in mid morning spleen-venting sessions.

            Today though, my brain kept returning to the astonishing fact that my husband had gone and had sex with someone other than me. And that was really, honestly, my principal reaction. Astonishment. We
had
a sex life. Had a rather good sex life, as far as I could tell. No-one really knows what sort of sex life anyone else is having, I suppose, but we seemed to be chugging along inside all the usual parameters; he enjoyed it, I enjoyed it, it seemed to happen quite regularly and naturally. So what the hell did he think he was doing? Just how much sex did Richard need?

            A new concept gripped me. Was this even
about
sex? Or about something else I had failed to provide? But what? My mind flipped through our marital log book. It hadn’t been one long uneventful cruise down the motorway, but such pitstops as we’d had had been generally productive; we functioned in all things, I’d thought, as a team. What now?

            Lily arched one of her dense gallic eyebrows. Then shook her head.

            ‘This is what happens,’ she told me. ‘You married too young, I think. And he is English.’

            ‘Half English. And so what?’

            ‘And so expect the worst, I think.’

             ‘Why?’ Why indeed? Was there something I’d missed here?

            ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you are both bored as well.’

            ‘I’m not!’

            ‘You are. You are always going on.’

            ‘Going on?’

            She flicked up some fingers. ‘Will Young, Liam Neeson, that man who does the nature programme-’

            ‘Bill
Oddie
?’

            ‘Oh, I don’t know. The one in the jungle. Makes boats.’

            ‘
Bushcraft
, you mean. That’s not Bill Oddie. It’s Ray Mears.’

            She slapped a hand down on the table.‘There! You see?’

            ‘But that’s not the same, Lily. Not the same at all. That’s normal. This is -’

            ‘And that woman was
available
. And if Ray Mears was available, would you not -’

            ‘No, I wouldn’t! Because I’m married. You don’t -’

             ‘Well Richard
did
. Actually, I think I would kill him,’ she decided. ‘So what now?
Will
you kill him? Or tell him to come home and stop being silly when he rings?

            ‘
If
he rings’ I corrected, exasperated. There’d been the Post-it, of course, but so far the phone had been silent. And I bloody well wasn’t going to ring him. Which was another thing.
Why
hadn’t Richard rung? Why wasn’t he on the doorstep right now grovelling at me? Or proffering petrol station flowers or something? But then I realised I didn’t really have any yardsticks for infidelity. This wasn’t a row. Wasn’t something that held much scope for debate. I could jump about on my bit of moral high ground all I liked, but it would be a hollow victory - he wasn’t about to argue, was he?

            So then why wasn’t he simply asking me to forgive him? Did he really think I was going to ring
him
? Surely not. And was the Post-it the best he could manage by way of apology? If it had been me, I would have been round like a shot. I would have grovelled, big time. I sipped at the cup of disgusting coffee that Lily placed in front of me and made faces at the old bitch in the Crimplene.

            Richard telephoned only moments after Lily had gone. Had he been in the hedge, perhaps?

            ‘We need to talk,’ he said. Then, ‘Oh, God, I’m so Sorry, Julia.’

            ‘Stop saying “oh, God, I’m so sorry”,’ I said.

            I didn’t like the ‘Julia’. It made me feel cold. I was never Julia; he’d always called me darling or Ju. Being called Julia was spooky and horrible. Nevertheless, I agreed that he drive round, and that we should talk and that most importantly (his suggestion) we should conduct our summit meeting in good time so as to be all sorted out (as if) before the children got home from school.

            Because we were either going to fight, or I was going to cry some more. Or both. But though neither sounded particularly appealing, there was still the small glow was my innocence and his guilt. I cleared away Lily’s lunch and washed up the dishes. I would have him back, of course. It would be ridiculous not to.

            Coolish, calmish and almost collected, I ushered him in at a quarter past two.

            At two sixteen I immediately regretted my earlier compulsion to clear everything up. I took up my usual hostilities position (sinkside) but had nothing to do there other than flap a dishcloth around.

            ‘So,’ Richard said, hands in jeans pockets, rocking slightly in the kitchen doorway. He looked vulnerable, boyish and yet so handsome and masculine - male in a way I hadn’t recently connected with. Someone another woman might set her sexual sights at. Separate from me. It was frightening.

            ‘Did you go to work in those clothes?’ I asked him. Had he been to work at all, in fact?

            ‘Of course I bloody did. What else was I supposed to do? I’ve got a bloody hotel to get built, haven’t I?’

            He looked ready to give me a left hook as he said this, but then made a small adjustment to his face and said, ‘I’ve taken the rest of the day off.’

            ‘Oh, ‘I said. Then, ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

            ‘No. I don’t want a cup of tea.’

            He yanked out a chair - plus the very same seat pad I’d hammered his face with - and sat down abruptly. I put the kettle on.

            ‘So,’ he said again. ‘Where do we go from here?’

            Which I thought was quite laughable as an opening line, except I didn’t know then what he was going to say next. For one gut-wrenching moment, I thought he was going to tell me he wanted to leave
me
. Which was something that had never crossed my mind up until this point. But no, that couldn’t possibly be the case, could it?

            ‘Where?’ I said, eventually. ‘You tell me.’

            ‘Julia, you’ve got to believe me when I tell you I am so, so,
so
sorry about what I’ve done.’ He put both his hands up. ‘I have no excuses. I’m not about to make any. I am truly sorry. You believe that, don’t you?’

            I swallowed the lump that was beginning to form in my gullet. Crying so
early!
Drat, bloody drat.

            ‘I’m sure you are,’ I said, leaning against the draining board and folding my arms across my chest. I sounded, I knew, like a wool shop proprietress in the
People’s Friend
. ‘But it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? I bet you were feeling sorry while you were screwing her, weren’t you (he had the grace to hang his head and nod a bit at this), but it didn’t stop you, did it? How could you? How
could
you? What’s wrong with me?’

            He rose from the chair then seemed to think better of it. ‘Nothing,
nothing.
Nothing at all,’ he said. ‘I love you. You know how much I love you. I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid...’