My Secret Lover

well as a chiropractor, an Indian head masseur, and, recently, a reiki
master. I’m sure it won’t be long before the plastic surgeons of Harley Street
welcome a new customer, because the last time I saw her she greeted me by
sticking her face very close to mine and saying, ‘Tell me honestly. Chemical
Peel or Botox?’
    As soon as Joanna’s got an idea in
her head, she does something about it. She had only had three months trying for
a baby when she lost patience with her body and went for IVF. The result was
twins Cy and Ry, which was typical of her efficiency. Why have two pregnancies
when you can do it in one? An instant family, as she put it, sitting up in bed
after the Caesarian, in a bower of wisteria, with a simple vase of blue irises
changed daily on the bedside table. Knowing they were boys, she had sorted the
arrangements beforehand with her florist, because she’d find congenital
deformity easier to look at than blue carnations.
    Joanna is something very big in Third
World Debt. Her husband is something even bigger in venture capital. They own a
house in Notting Hill which is worth something mad like two million pounds.
When Joanna was interviewed in the Financial Times she attributed her
success to an ability to delegate. ‘Trust the people around you to do the job,’
was her advice. The interviewer did not ask her what she did when the people
around her let her down, but I expect she would have said something like, ‘I
always have backup ready,’ by which she would have meant me.
    The children used to have two nannies,
one for day and one for night, but now they’re at school, they just have an au
pair, or me, depending on how badly Joanna has treated the au pair.
    Would it be very old-fashioned of me
to say that I don’t think Cy and Ry would need to see their paediatrician,
psychologist, neurologist or cranial osteopath if Joanna were to spend a little
bit more time with them?
    Time, says Joanna, is one luxury I do
not have.
    Actually it would be me being horrid.
I have so many negative thoughts about Joanna that I am putty in her hands when
it comes to babysitting because I feel so guilty. I love her very much too. And
I adore the children, especially during the holidays. Midweek, they can be a
bit wearing. The last thing you want when you’ve been dealing with children all
day long is more children to deal with (see what I mean about being a mother?).
    ‘...BBC Radio 4 News.’
     
    ‘Which one am I, Cv or Ry?’ says Ry.
    ‘Ry. Why?’
    ‘We’re identical twins.’
    ‘No, you’re not. You have dark hair
and Cy has fair. You don’t even look very similar.’
    ‘I mean our names!’ says Ry.
    ‘Oh I see,’ I say. I did think it a
little peculiar of Joanna myself, actually. Not just the rhyme, but the names
themselves. Unless they see it written down, everyone thinks Cy is short for
Simon, so Ry gets asked if he’s short for Ryman. It creates problems they could
do without. She wanted Cy because she thought it was the sort of name cool
American artists from the 1950s were called. She had a bit of a shock when
someone told her it was short for Cyril. I wonder what Ry’s short for? I don’t
think she’s dared ask.
    Joanna, of course, doesn’t know what
it is like to have an odd name. Not that my name is particularly odd nowadays
because it’s in fashion, but I was the only one I knew when I was growing up,
and I was Lydia Dustbin for so long, that in the end everyone forgot that it
was a puerile joke, not my real name, and shortened it to Dusty, or Bin, if
they didn’t like me. Nobody has called me that for some time, thankfully,
especially in the wake of September 11 th .
    ‘What do you say?’ I ask Cy, when
I’ve finally got them strapped in the back seats and eating Creme Eggs, which
they spotted as they went through the glove compartment.
     
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’ve come all this way across town
to pick you up from school. I’ve given you chocolate. What do you say?’
    ‘Were you going to eat them all
yourself?’
    ‘Not all at once,’ I say.
    ‘Four Creme Eggs all by yourself?’
    The petrol station had an offer on a
box of six.
    ‘You might say thank you. Or sorry
for hiding.’
    ‘We didn’t know it was going to be you picking us up,’ says Cy, not unreasonably.
    ‘You shouldn’t treat Jana any
differently from the way you treat me,’ I tell them, all politically correct.
    ‘It’s not Jana any more,’ says Ry.
    ‘It’s Nadia,’ says