My Secret Lover

in.
    Every single question right. Which
was just as well because I’d forgotten to buy parmesan.
     
    * * *
     
    ‘Champagne,’ calls Andy from the
sofa. ‘Are we celebrating something?’
    I’ve set the glasses out and found a
couple of red paper napkins left over from our Christmas mince pies and sherry
party. I’ve even lit a candle, and sprayed my scatter cushions with
Dioressence. The ambience in my knocked-through living room is distinctly
romantic.
     
    How are you supposed to cook
asparagus?
    It doesn’t fit into any of my
saucepans.
    Are you meant to wait until the end
bit goes soft and bend it in like spaghetti?
    I shall chop it up and serve it as a
vegetable. Or a warm salad, which sounds more professional.
    How did salads, traditionally
associated with hot weather, hard-boiled eggs and lettuce called iceberg
suddenly get warm, by the way, with no consultation period? Why did no-one say,
‘Warm? Are you crazy?’ Instead, we all just meekly handed over £6.95 for a few
wilted leaves and a soft-boiled egg as if we’d been doing it all our lives.
    Damn! I’ve sliced the pizza in
quarters and forgotten about the heart shape.
    Actually, it’s fine because quarters
of a circle are almost heart shaped. All I have to do now is cut a simple
couple of notches out of each edge, trim the corners (as they say on Blue
Peter) and hey presto! There will be four hearts, which is better than one
big one. Easier to eat, anyway.
    This little wheel pizza knife is
totally useless.
    Perhaps I should apply the principle
of reflective symmetry by folding the crust to make it even?
    Think I’ll leave it at two hearts.
    Just unstick the fold.
    And hey pres...
    Thin crust does taste better but it’s
that little bit more fragile.
    Wish I had ordered two regular pizzas
instead of one giant because then I could have practised. Here’s one I made
earlier!
    I take the pizza box through into the
living room and open it with a flourish.
    ‘Happy late Valentine’s!’
    ‘Did you tip the joker that delivered
it in this state?’ asks Andy.
     
    I know it’s the wrong way round. I’m
the one who’s meant to be in bed waiting for my lover on a Saturday night, and
he’s the one who’s supposed to be watching the Premiership, but it works for
us.
    I do feel a bit disloyal to Gary, but I’m sure its only a matter of time before football goes back to the BBC.
    We’ve had sex on my pine table.
Champagne always seems to make Andy want to do it somewhere different, although
I think technically you’re meant to be so carried away by passion that you
don’t worry about the washing-up first.
    Still, a lot of men wouldn’t do the
washing-up at all. Especially not a saucepan that’s black with burnt asparagus.
    ‘How about July?’ he said, neatly
wrapping his condom in one of the red paper napkins afterwards. ‘What?’
    ‘July for our wedding.’
    ‘After term breaks up?’
    ‘Obviously.’
    ‘Suits me,’ I said, feeling warm all
over.
     
    Now he’s asleep upstairs and I’m
happily watching today’s goals.
     
    Does Andy 42 like football?
    I do not want to know anything more
about Andy 42. Anyway, it’s probably wrong to think about him while Andy is
actually here. Even more wrong to talk. Especially since I’m practically a
married woman.
    Why wrong, though? It’s not as if
we’re DOING anything.
     
    There are no new messages in my
Inbox.

19
     
    ‘Look, Miss!’
    Dean opens his hand. On his
surprisingly small and innocent-looking palm are at least five entangled,
writhing worms. I don’t look long enough to count exactly.
    ‘Ugh! Put them outside at once.’
    ‘But they’re mini beasts, Miss.’
    ‘You’re right. They are. Well done,
Dean. Shall we find something to put them in?’
    Forgotten that half-term homework was
to find a mini beast and make some observations.
    Would not have had All Bran for
breakfast if I had remembered.
    ‘Has anyone else managed to find a
mini beast?’ Ethan has a caterpillar in his sandwich bag.
    ‘I thought he might get hungry. It’s
a long time to lunchtime, in caterpillar years,’ he says.
    Gwyneth has a square glass tank with
assorted foliage and several stick insects inside.
    ‘Are these your pets?’ I ask her.
    ‘No, I think they’re Daddy’s. He
bought them at Pet Store yesterday.’
    Typical competitive middle-class
parents.
     
    * * *
     
    Our specimens are lined up on the
table.
    ‘Well, now. What we’re going to do is
think of some questions we can