My Secret Lover

them on the 28 th December, because she wasn’t daft enough to pay full price, and just as well
really, because the contents weren’t much different to the Superior ones she
bought the year before, except for the folding scissors — also in my handbag — and
the magnetic address book in the shape of a credit card, which made a useful
change from the pack of miniature playing cards made of paper.)
    Using the same toothbrush makes it
feel more like we’re a couple than having sex does, in a funny kind of way.
    We’ve shared a bed and a tent, but
we’ve never actually been to a hotel together before. So it does have an
illicit feel, even though you don’t have to sign the register as Mr and Mrs
Smith any more. Still, I would have done, if Andy hadn’t taken charge.
    We’ve had great sex, and finished in
time to watch the last guest on Parkinson. Now Andy’s snoring and I’ve
crept out on to the balcony with his coat on.
    I’ve still got that
boiling-hot-after-sex feeling. If I were naked, there’d be clouds of steam
coming off me like a satisfied customer emerging from the sauna in the Centre
Parcs advert.
    There’s a silver path across the sea
to the moon.
    Does life get better than this?
    I am in Bournemouth, with my lover
(always felt a bit silly calling him that before, but now it’s appropriate).
    The sky is brilliant with stars.
    I can hear the sigh of sea on sand.
    I think this may be what happiness
feels like.
    Still haven’t mentioned the ch word,
but not the right time on a dirty weekend, especially so soon after Honey.
    Are there people standing on
balconies all over the world thinking about the meaning of life?
    Are human beings united by a
primitive wonder at the sea and the universe, and the sense of being part of
something unimaginably huge, but nevertheless totally alone?
    Is Andy 42 somewhere out there
looking at the same moon?
    How did he get into my perfect moment
uninvited?
    He probably doesn’t even have a
balcony, and even if he does, it’s a pretty cold night.
    It’s perfectly possible that Andy 42
is just a normal guy who got a couple of mad e-mails from me, which was hardly
his fault.
    Anyway.
    That’s another story.
    One day, I’ll tell my Andy, and we’ll
laugh about it.
    Or perhaps not.
    You had to be there.
    I’m standing in my underwear in a lit
window, but I have my Andy’s coat around me.
    That has a nice metaphorical feel to
it.
     
    Anyway, nobody could see me unless
they were on a boat.
     
    Actually, it’s freezing out here.

17
     
    How to make a Valentine’s Card:
     
    1. Outline the principle of
reflective symmetry.
    2. Fold a small piece of red card.
    3. Demonstrate how cutting a half
heart shape will give you a whole heart when you unfold. Put small red heart on
one side.
    4. Now, fold large rectangular piece
of white card in half.
    5. Cut two snips about two
centimeters long and a centimetre apart into folded edge.
    6. Push the hinge you have formed
into inside of fold.
    7. Stick your red heart onto the
hinge with glue.
    8. Write a message in your Valentine
pop-up card!
     
    ‘Miss?’
    ‘Yes, Gwyneth.’
    ‘My Valentine pop-up card doesn’t
open.’
    ‘That’s because you put too much glue
on and it’s stuck together. Don’t cry. Miss Green will help you do another
one.’
    ‘Miss?’
    ‘Yes, Dean? Oh, that’s lovely.’
    ‘It’s got a hole in it, Miss.’
    ‘That’s the pop-up bit.’
    Trust him to spot the design fault.
    ‘You don’t get holes in ones you
buy.’
    ‘No, but I bet your mum will be
happier with one you’ve made.’
    ‘I’m not sending it to my mum.’
    ‘Who’s your Valentine?’
    ‘Not telling.’
    ‘You’re quite right. Valentine’s
cards are normally secret, aren’t they? What’s the matter, Ethan?’
    ‘I’ve written “love from Ethan”, in
my card.’
    ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m sure your mum
would have a pretty good idea who it was from.’
    ‘I’m not sending it to my mum. I
don’t know where she is.’
     
    9. Make note not to bother with
Mother’s Day cards.
     
    ‘Are we on for the quiz?’ asks
Richard Batty, incautiously shovelling a spoonful of shepherd’s pie into his
mouth, then making a big O with his lips as the microwaved mince sears through
his mucous membranes.
    ‘You bet,’ I say. ‘Andy asked if you
wanted to join us from now on. He was very impressed with Trent, I can tell
you.’
    You’ve got to be cruel to be kind,
but I still feel terrible, especially since it’s a