My Secret Lover

clear-headed, I can’t imagine why I ever drink alcohol at all.
    Not drinking allows me not to sleep
at Andy’s. I’ve always found the sleeping together bit of having a relationship
the most difficult. Not the sex. I really mean the sleeping. There’s the
question of different body heats, the way the bottom sheet always seems to ruck
up when there’s two of you, and the fact that I like to sleep with the curtains
open, and Andy has to be in blackout.
    Then there’s the snoring. Finding out
that he snores like a pig was bad enough, but finding out that I do was worse.
Nobody ever mentioned it before Andy, which meant that I felt bad about the
present and doubly bad when I thought about past boyfriends snickering at me
behind my back. The more Andy told me not to worry about it, the more I
badgered him to demonstrate the exact volume. In the end we agreed to do
impersonations of each other’s snores. He was shocked by how ferociously loud
his were compared to mine. I did make him go first, which was probably a bit
sneaky.
     
    Not drinking allows me to drive home
when the roads are virtually empty, which, for some reason, always makes me
feel as if I am in a movie. Not drinking means I can stop at the petrol station
and buy a Cadbury’s Creme Egg at one o’clock in the morning.
    Not drinking allows me to participate
fully in the morning after, which Year One is spending with Jonah, a man from Senegal, who has come to school today to play the drums with us.
    There are a few minutes at the end
for our questions.
    ‘What is the difference between Senegal and England?’ Gwyneth reads out one of the questions we have prepared earlier.
    Jonah thinks about this one for quite
some time. So long that I wonder whether he has in fact heard.
    ‘I expect there are lots of
differences between our two countries,’ I say, in a loud clear voice.
    Jonah smiles, almost to himself,
closes his eyes, then laughs silently.
    I wonder if the constant drumming is
doing him any good.
    ‘Senegal and England. Two very different countries. It’s probably hard to know where to begin,’ I
prompt.
    ‘In England,’ says Jonah, ‘everyone
is in a big hurry. In Senegal we take our time.’
    I like Jonah’s attitude, but I was
hoping for something we could put in our Differences between England and West Africa wall chart.
    The bell goes.
    The children scramble to their feet,
looking hungrily in the direction of their lunch boxes.
    ‘Before we all rush off to lunch, can
we all thank Jonah very much for coming to see us today.’
    I start off the clapping.
    Then I take a picture of Jonah and
the class with the school’s new digital camera.
    ‘OK. Go and wash your hands, then
line up.’
    ‘I expect the weather’s a bit better
anyway,’ I say as I help Jonah carry his drums to his car. It’s pouring with
rain.
    ‘It rains,’ says Jonah. ‘It rains
every day, for two whole months.’
    ‘But then it’s nice and sunny.’
    ‘Too hot.’
    ‘I always wanted to go to Africa,’ I tell him.
    ‘Why?’ he asks.
    To travel and help people, obviously,
but I don’t want to sound colonial.
    ‘To teach,’ I say. ‘In a different
place. With different values and climate.’
    ‘To help the poor?’ he says.
    ‘Well, yes, sort of,’ I stammer.
    ‘I always wanted to come to England.’
    ‘Why’s that?’ I ask.
    ‘To get rich,’ he says, with a
wonderfully calm smile. ‘How far do you think Senegal can go in the World Cup?’
I ask him.
    I know they qualified because the
African Nations’ Cup was on late-night television a while back.
    ‘Let’s put it this way,’ he says,
suddenly animated, ‘Argentina’s not in our group.’
    We shake hands, glad to have found
some common ground.
     
    *
     
    ‘They’ve got me helping out with
drama,’ says New Andy.
    ‘Oh dear,’ I say.
    ‘I am an actor.’
    I laugh, then realize that he’s not
joking.
    Is it the age difference?
    ‘Why do they call actors resting when
they’re not working, instead of unemployed?’ says Richard, cracking open his
sandwich packet, which I notice is a very good example of a rectangular prism.
Usually the only one I can think of is a Toblerone box. A faint smell of boiled
egg drifts across the table.
    We didn’t really want Richard in our
gang today, but he caught us trying to sneak out of the side gate.
    ‘It’s ironic, Richard,’ I say.
    The mortified look on his face shames
me because Richard is a loyal friend. Also, I’m not keen on