My Secret Lover

company,
which means that he is quite rich, on paper. (What does he need to do with the
paper to get the money? I’ve never really understood finance, and there comes a
point when you’re too old to ask.)
    There is an orange-and-brown-tartan
sofa left behind by the previous owner, which is so seventies it would have
some value as a retro item if it were in good condition, but as Andy says a bit
tearily, there’s really no point in buying a new one while Honey is still
around. You can’t criticize a man for not expressing his emotions and then haul
him round IKEA every other weekend, can you?
    The other piece of furniture is a
pouffe with a woven pattern, which his mother threw out when she got the free
footstool with the sofa from Courts. (What is the correct pronunciation of that
word, by the way? Is it poof, like homosexual, or is it poofay, which Andy’s
mother calls it, because she thinks it sounds more refined? I sometimes wonder
whether she knows that couple who live in the other half of her semi-detached
are gay. She always refers to them as the boys next door, with an indulgent
smile as if they’re Men Behaving Badly flat-share types.)
    I bought Andy one of those blobby oil
light things for Christmas, as a kind of ironic statement, but he has not taken
it out of its box. Andy is just not interested in interior design, which is another
plus because it means that I will have as free a hand in our new house as
Laurence and Diarmuid do on television. Not Changing Rooms, obviously.
(See what we can do for £500? Yes, I do. Tie-dye a sheet and paint your floor
grey.) I mean Home Front, where money’s no object to curving cupboards
painted chartreuse and cobalt kitchen surfaces custom-made of volcanic rock.
Michelle’s videoing it so we can see what sort of house they haven’t done yet,
which might just influence my plans about what and where to buy.
    ‘How about Rickmansworth?’ I ask
Andy, as he puts his arms around me.
    I’d love a cup of coffee, but I
daren’t venture into the kitchen. Not that Honey would ever bite, but she does
jump up and try to lick my face, and even though these days, she doesn’t reach
much further than my knees, that would still mean a trip to the dry-cleaners
with these trousers.
    ‘Meteorologically, it’s the coldest
place in Britain,’ Andy replies as if it’s a quiz question. I don’t know
whether this is because he genuinely thinks that I have asked him one, or if
it’s his way of ducking the issue.
    ‘It can’t be,’ I say. ‘There must be
places in Scotland colder than Rickmansworth. Or Yorkshire.’
    ‘I read it somewhere,’ says Andy. He
kisses me.
    He’s not bad at kissing. Quite dry.
People who say that dogs are like their owners or vice versa, are wrong about
Andy. Quite urgent. I kiss him back. We topple onto the bed.
    ‘Shall we?’ I ask.
    Andy’s undoing his zip, undoing mine,
sighing in a quite passionate way.
    ‘Rickmansworth?’ I say, trying to sit
up.
    It’s not as if it’s the first time
it’s come up. We discussed Rickmansworth on Christmas Day. It’s still on the
Metropolitan Line, so easy for Andy’s commute, but feels a bit more like the
country than Harrow, which, if we’re ever thinking of... as soon as that bit
loomed, we moved on to the third type of brandy butter. Andy’s family Christmas
always involves a taste test of some sort, which I was asked to buy for this
year, partly because I’m nearly one of the family, and partly because nobody
could face Andy’s different brands of stuffing mix again.
    ‘Rickmansworth,’ Andy murmurs, sort
of muffled.
    His face is so close to mine, I can
see my reflection in his eyes.
    ‘Have you forgiven me for snogging
the paramedics?’ I whisper.
    ‘Paramedics, mmm,’ he says.
    ‘I think they’re used to it at New
Year,’ I say.
    ‘New Year,’ Andy echoes.
    ‘All forgiven?’
    ‘All forgiven.’
    Andy has a condition that means that
when his mind is on sex, he is incapable of conversation except to repeat the
last words of any sentence I utter. I call it penis brain.
    Sometimes I find it quite flattering,
actually.

5
     
    The sun is shining in through my
bedroom window. I must remember never to drink again because mornings are so
much better. In my twenties, I used to be able to drink anyone under the table
and still be bright and buzzy at work the next day, but when I turned thirty, I
started having to get good at making up excuses for being late. This morning,
I’m so