My Secret Lover

stop. No further
questions. A husband would be even better.
    We don’t even have to see each other
that often.
    I didn’t mean that to sound like it
did.
    My job involves a lot of preparation,
and twice a week I go to my health club or see Michelle. Twice a week, Andy
rehearses with the Metropolitan Opera which is an amateur company named after
the tube line that divides the sprawling north London suburb in which most of
its members live. We have a tacit agreement that he doesn’t talk about it, and
I don’t tell him about the amusing things the children in my class have said.
    During the week our only real fixture
is quiz night.
     
    Last year, Andy and I were regional
champions in the North Herts and Middlesex league, which is pretty amazing since
it’s just the two of us, and we have never resorted to the use of mobile
phones. Andy is brilliant at facts, I am brilliant at trivia. We make an almost
unbeatable team.
    Andy and the lovely Lydia.
    That is what the publican called me
the night of our second date when we first won and it stuck. And so did we.
     
    We have not seen each other since he
dropped me back home after New Year, and I waved the taxi down the street, then
woke my elderly neighbours up trying to get my key into their lock.
    He has not replied to my e-mails
either, but he often doesn’t, so there is really nothing to worry about.
Everyone gets drunk at New Year, don’t they? I will not even bring it up.
    ‘Broken any resolutions yet?’
    ‘Never make any,’ says Andy. ‘How
about you?’
    ‘I feel much better without it,’ I
tell him solemnly. ‘Good,’ says Andy.
    So that’s that.
    ‘How was rehearsal?’ I ask him, as if
I am interested. ‘We’ve decided to go for Cosi fan tutte .’
    ‘ Cosi fan tutte ? by Mozart?’
    ‘Full marks.’
    ‘Bit more difficult than Gilbert and
Sullivan.’
    ‘Mozart was not considered highbrow
in his time,’ says Andy.
    ‘I was there when you rented the
video of Amadeus,’ I say.
    ‘Testing, testing,’ says the publican
into his mike. ‘Who received the best-actor Oscar in the film?’ I whisper.
    ‘Tom something?’ says Andy.
    ‘No, actually it was F. Murray
Abraham,’ I tell him. ‘The bloke who played the baddie.’
    ‘Salieri?’
    ‘One two, one two,’ says the
publican.
    ‘Did anyone mention New Year’s Eve?’
    It just slipped out.
    ‘No,’ Andy says.
    ‘I’m really sorry.’
    ‘You got drunk. You tried to play the
bagpipes. End of story,’ says Andy, fidgeting a bit in case we miss the first
question.
    God, the bagpipes! What can have
possessed me? The irony is I hate the sound of bagpipes, but I think I must
have seen one of the presenters on Blue Peter try it once.
    So that’s that.
    I’m sure there’s something further to
be said, but I don’t know what it is.
     
    Differences between men and women:
    1. Bearing grudges.
    If Andy were a woman sitting next to
me, the silence would imply that I have not yet paid my penance, and that I
need to prove myself in some way before being forgiven. But it is quite
possible that Andy is thinking nothing at all. When a man says he’s thinking
about nothing, he often really does mean it. If a woman says nothing when you ask
her what she’s thinking, it means there is an agenda as long as your arm.
    I think it must be genetic. If you
tell a six-year-old boy off, he’s forgiven you by the end of the next playtime.
If you tell off a girl, she’ll scowl at you until the end of term.
     
    What do I see in Andy? Michelle’s
always making me list the pros and cons as if he’s a spending decision. The
trouble with Michelle is that she’s never had a relationship that lasted beyond
the first trimester, so she doesn’t know about the matter of just getting
along, which is all most people want.
    He’s good looking enough, intelligent
enough. Presentable, is my mother’s word. He’s sensible with his money, but not
fundamentally mean like so many men. And when we win a quiz and he smiles at
me, it feels zingily right. When we win, Andy and I are ‘in love’, which is
great because it happens every week, so it’s a bit like renewing our vows, like
celebrities do in Hello! magazine when they’re stuck for a bit of cash.
Without the flowers and the priest and Caribbean island and all that stuff,
obviously, although the publican is Irish, and this week, because he’s had a
crate of Malibu delivered by mistake, he’s got an offer on cocktails and he’s
wearing a Hawaiian