Julia Gets a Life (5 page)

            Coping with re-visit of mince-based cuisine (just)

            Not sure how feel about him
really

           
Those
last two are giving me some pause for thought, being a totally unexpected development, and related to a funny thing which happened to me the other day while I was waiting for Max outside school.

            I don’t get up to school much these days because I am an unwelcome fixture by the school gates at the best of times, and particularly so since I have become a tragic heroine/ cause for concern/ figure of fun etc. But the twin inconveniences of rain and cricket training finishing simultaneously with the start of
Neighbours
(even Max cannot run
that
fast ) mean that I have been permitted a once weekly loiter. In fact, I quite like it, because all the infant mothers who know me only as that woman who’s husband went off with Rhiannon De Laney are long gone to prepare their kids fishfinger suppers, and I am assured of meeting only those older stalwarts who have been associated with the school for as many years as I and who are not adverse to saying ‘that bitch Rhiannon - who does she think she is?’ etc. Which is all very encouraging.

            But the funny thing was this. I found myself leering at Howard Ringrose, who as well as being my friend, is Max’s teacher, head of PE and also God of Year Six.

            I have known Howard for a long time. Though he has been God of Year Six for a couple of years now, he has previously been God of years Five and Four and some years back he was even God of Reception - though in this incarnation, it has to be said, he was probably more cuddly-teddy-bear-figure-in-tracksuit than sex-deity, and attracted twigs, drawings, things made out of eggshells and so on from most of the class, regardless of gender, instead of the love tokens of orange Aeros that the female contingent of his class buy him now.

            But the whole
God
thing is pretty much part of the landscape. Mothers once noted for their adhesion to car seats during the three thirty chaos, have blossomed into perfectly groomed gate-hangers after catching sight of his shins, and it’s generally agreed that there is a small contingent of the after school rugby club every year that are not there wholly due to a love of mud and scrums.

            And we’ve always been pretty friendly. I’ve sold raffle tickets with him, manned cake stalls with him, sympathised about the National Curriculum with him. In short, we
got on
. And though I was fully able to appreciate his physical advantages, it never really occurred to me to fix him in my mind during a routine weekday quickie with Richard. Honestly. But now I’ve been leering at him.

            And I mean leering. Not just admiring any more, from a philosophical standpoint, but actually
leering
, in a blokey type way. Now I know women have been known to do that sort of thing (I’ve been to see the Chippendales, and if I was one I’d leave the theatre with a stout saucepan over my genitals) but there is now a tangible difference in the quality of my appreciation of Howard. It has become sort of breathless and wistful.

            Not a big thing, spelt out, perhaps, but to me it seemed to crystallise all the niggling little doubts I keep having every time I set myself up to have Richard back. I
really
am not sure I want him any more. As opposed to earlier, when I was saying I didn’t want him any more just because I hated him, which is completely different and more to do with his betrayal. Isn’t that dreadful? I’m really not sure if I still want to be married to him.

            I’ve given this a lot of thought just lately and I’m no nearer being in touch with my inner child than I was before I read the book that told me to go and find her. Lily told me she thinks it’s more to do with sex. She thinks a part of me resents the fact that Richard has had sex with someone else and I haven’t, and that I need to get even with him - level the playing field, kind of - before I can decide what to do with the rest of my life. Which is interesting, because accepted opinion seems to be more along the lines of two wrongs don’t make a right and suchlike, and that it will only make me feel worse. But surely that presupposes that one is
only
having sex with a third party in order to redress the balance? I actually
really
quite fancy Howard Ringrose. Come to think of it, I also actually rather fancy Emma’s best friend’s dad,
and
the Postman
and
the guy who mans the car park booth at work. So the tit-for-tat rule doesn’t apply, does it? I shall have to see what else I can find in the library.

Things To Do (shopping).

Find more books about female libido/sexuality with special reference to extra marital case histories etc.

Buy Lady Chatterley’s Lover (finally!) or similarly rude book.

            Of course, it may simply be that I’m not getting any sex. It’s all well and good sighing knowingly at girly get togethers along the lines of ‘oh, men! Never satisfied! How I long to be able to go to bed with a Curly Wurly and a cup of hot chocolate! Ho Hum!’ but the truth is, you do begin to miss it. I did, naturally, spend the first few weeks in a sexual limbo. I was far too busy feeling betrayed and unattractive and pathetic to even think about sex (except as related to the breakdown of my marriage in conjunction with what I’d like to do to Rhiannon De Laney given half a chance). But since the rediscovery of myself as a sexual being, I must admit I’ve thought of little else.

            Perhaps I should go and find some.

Chapter
5

            Okay. So we’re twelve and a half weeks post-marital-bliss now (as opposed to just post-marital, which would only occur at such time as we (I) decide that a divorce is the-best-way-forward). I am very gratified that I am able to say the D word without blanching, though I must confess to having certain misgivings about the whole post-ness of life generally. It sometimes seems that it is no more than a series of stages to be got through, culminating in dying and then having your body chopped up (according to circumstance, naturally). So far, I have been Post-pubescent, Post-graduate, Post-nuptial, Post-partum and Post-natal.

            Which, as well as post-marital (if applicable), leaves Post-modernist*, Post-feminist*, Post-menopausal (Eeek!), Post-office (and post-office savings account) i.e.
old,
and Post-mortem.

            (* Look those two up.)

            But thinking such dismal and unedifying thoughts is just a reaction to stress and boredom. And something to use up the time that I would, under normal circumstances, fill with having sex. (None on horizon as yet.) It’s also the time of year when Time-Of-Your-Life does it’s annual in-store snap-fest of under five’s, so I am spending a tedious amount of time in traffic jams/unfamiliar underground staff car parks/consultations with floor managers who don’t want to dismantle seasonal displays of nappy boxes to accommodate us/conversations with shoppers about where the toilets are. All this to find the face that will launch some rash cream or other, and drum up a substantial amount of business for my employer. God, I hate my work sometimes. I wish I was famous and rich and could go back to the simple joys of shooting brooding treescapes and clusters of scowling adolescents.

            Today, we’re based at
Planet Kid,
a new and, it has to be said, fairly groovy baby and kids store in the soft underbelly of Cardiff’s retailing fringe.
Planet Kid
, the local paper said when it opened, is the last word in state-of-the-art retail outlets, having five kinds of toilet, computerised shoe fitting and electronic tagging for small escapees. In fact, such is its popularity that a species of human quite outside my comprehension queued to get in
from dawn
on opening day.

            We’ve been allocated a spot in the middle of a kind of causeway, from which shoppers can plunge down ramps into a number of themed purchasing areas. But this is also the only route to Chews (the café), News (the information desk), Blues (the place to hang out while your child - as it most certainly will - is having a tantrum) and Loos (five kinds) - and though it feels a little like we’ve set up shop on the hard shoulder of the M4, it at least means every single person in the store will probably pass it at some point, during our ten to four stint.

            I’m here with Rani - a definite plus-point. Rani has worked at Time-Of-Your-Life for almost as long as I have. Her real job is acting as secretary cum receptionist cum babe, but in truth she is the linchpin of the whole operation. On sorties like these it is Rani who organises the paperwork, deals with the money, negotiates advantageous deals with store managers and drags people away from their retail therapy with a spot of ‘oh, what an
amazingly
lovely baby - I can’t
believe
you haven’t considered professional modelling for her’ inducement garbage. Never fails.

            Except that it’s Monday morning and there are precious few people around to accost. So we decide we both need a fortifying
Bob the Builder
bun, and Rani heads off to Chews to acquire them.

            And it’s then that I see her. Or, rather, I don’t
actually
see her, at first. What I see is Caryl Phelps (baby Oscar, plus four year old, Emmy, married to a local tree surgeon stroke garden designer) cruising an underwear stand. I don’t know Caryl Phelps
that
well, but certainly well enough to accost her. I’m just about to try and attract her attention when a familiar arrangement of bouncing auburn curls, cream blur clothing ensemble and lip-liner, slides up alongside her to compare knicker crotch durability or something.

            Help, help, help, help, help!!!! What do I do? What do I say? There is a brick in the pit of my stomach, the likes of which I have not felt since I was twelve and lobbed a conker through our next door neighbour’s cloakroom window. How
pathetic.
But what
do
you do in this situation? What do you
do?
And why does this have to happen while Rani is buying us cakes?

           
But they don’t see me for the moment (thank you, God) so I have time to collect my thoughts. Which are;

            What clothes am I wearing?

            What shoes am I wearing?

            What make up am I wearing?

            Which earrings did I put on this morning?

            Should I zip to the loo and put blusher/eyeliner/more mascara on?

            Have any flakes of nail varnish dropped off?

            How many days post-hairwash am I? Eeek! Three!

            Is there time to plunge my head into a basin, wash my fringe and blow dry it       under the warm air dryer?

            Might there be lipstick on my teeth?

And;     Bitch, bitch, bitch. Oh God. Bitch.

            How dare she come in
Planet Kid
! How
dare
she! And how dare she have Caryl Phelps as a friend still. And how dare Caryl Phelps still associate with her! She should be ostracised in the whole of the Wales and told to shove her
Seedlings
books up her cream g-string. She should be made to feature in an exposé in the Cefn Melin newsletter, or put in some stocks by the war memorial. She should be beaten about the head with rotting fish and have a baguette stuffed up each nostril. She should be.....

            ‘Julia! Hi!’

            Eeek! Caryl Phelps!

            ‘I didn’t know you worked in here.’

            ‘I don’t. I work for Time-Of-Your-Life. We’re running our annual ....’ Where is she? Where
is
she? ‘....portrait competition. Face2Face...’

            ‘Of course.
Now
I remember. You’re a photographer, aren’t you? How glamorous!’