My Secret Lover

friend, and my best best friend.’
    She hugs me tight.
    ‘But I never see you,’ I smile
through my tears. ‘Come to dinner next week.’
    ‘I hate your dinner parties.’
    ‘Well, come to lunch. As a matter of
fact, why don’t you stay over tonight, and come to lunch tomorrow? Greg’s
coming.’
    ‘Greg?’
    ‘He’s asked Vlad twice about your
job.’
    ‘I thought Vlad was shafting him?’
    ‘No that was the stick woman. Greg’s
our new next-door neighbour.’
    ‘But he’s Canadian!’
    ‘Well, you know what they say...’
says Joanna with a wink.
    ‘No, what do THEY say?’
    ‘Oh sorry, I was thinking about his
baldness. That’s most women’s objection. Anyway, I must run. Have a wonderful
time!’
    Joanna knows that I would never just
stomp out of the house slamming the front door and get into my stupid
lime-green car and screech off in a cloud of pulverized rubber. For one thing,
I’m a cautious driver. For another, there are two small boys with no front teeth
grinning at me from between the banisters. ‘There are going to be ground
rules,’ I say.
    ‘Ohhh...’
    ‘Otherwise we’ll stay here.’
    ‘OK.’
    They are capable of being sweet and
acquiescent. But only in captivity.
    ‘And don’t try to smash down the
model village this time. You’re not at home.’
     
    * * *
     
    There are lights on in many of the
houses which haven’t yet been compulsorily purchased at the side of the A40. So
I am not the only one doing nothing on Saturday night.
    Legoland is closed in February. We
didn’t find out until we reached the entrance, although I should probably have
been alerted by the absence of a queue. Vlad offered me his ticket to the Opera
to make up for it, but it was Cosi fan tutte.
     
    My mouse glides over:
    Paralysed woman's delight at being
allowed to die
    and clicks on:
    Get Ready for the Oscars!
    I score above average in the Oscar
History Quiz.
     
    There are three messages in my Inbox.
    They’re all from Andy. The headings
are:
     
    Well done!
     
    I miss you!
     
    Can we try again?
     
    Number 1 says:
     
    Well done at the quiz. Did you get Carousel ?
If I've offended in some way, sorry. You've certainly made your point. Back to
normal next week?
     
    Number 2 says:
     
    L. I miss you. I expect you're cross
with me, but in my favour, I needn't have written at all. How long would it
have taken you to discover your mistake then? A
     
    Number 3 says:
     
    L. OK, so you're probably feeling
like you've stood at a lit window in your underwear, but it was great
underwear. Can we stay in touch? AX
     
    Sometimes people have been driven
insane by a broken heart. If it isn’t CJD then Andy has depths I haven’t even
dreamed of.
     
    ‘Have you voted yet?’ says Michelle,
as she opens the door.
    I get the horrible guilty feeling I
had the morning of the last election when I realized I had failed to fill in my
electoral register form and inadvertently disenfranchized myself. And that was
after several sessions trying to explain to a class of five- and six-year-olds
that democracy meant more than just a day off because of the school being a
polling station. I pretended to vote, of course. I don’t mean actually going to
the polling station, but wearing a T-shirt with a red rose on it and staying up
late to watch Peter Snow. They increased their majority in my constituency, so
it didn’t really matter anyway.
    Of course, it’s not just a Saturday evening,
it’s the Saturday evening.
    No wonder people are staying in up
the A40.
    Michelle hands me the phone and I
ring Gareth’s number.
    ‘Gareth?’ says Michelle.
    ‘I thought we wanted Gareth.’
    ‘But it’s cool to like Will.’
    ‘Says who?’
    ‘Charlene.’
    Normally I wouldn’t set much store by
Michelle’s second daughter’s advice, but she’s probably right on this.
    ‘But I don’t like the way Will just
stands there singing. Why doesn’t he move around a bit more?’
    ‘Will’s going to win,’ says Michelle.
    ‘He won’t need my vote then.’
    Just like the real election.
    ‘The tension’s mounting. Crack open
those Pringles,’ says Michelle, as I hand her a bottle of Cava I picked up on
the way over.
    ‘How long till the results come in?’
    ‘One hour and counting,’ says
Michelle.
    ‘Can I show you something on the
computer?’
     
    I don’t know how I missed the obvious
when Michelle spots that the e-mail addresses are different straightaway.
    Andy’s latest e-mail address was
meant to be