My Secret Lover

ask about mini beasts. Who’s got a question?’
    ‘Miss?’
    ‘Yes, Geri?’
    ‘Are you happy?’
    ‘Yes, I am I think, thank you, Geri.’
    ‘I didn’t mean you. I meant my
woodlouse.’
     
    My passport has run out and I nip out
in my lunchtime to get a new photo done because it would be a shame, in the
unlikely event of Andy surprising me with a honeymoon in the Seychelles or somewhere, not to be able to travel.
    There is a new booth in the ticket
hall of the tube station. I wait while a gang of teenage girls get their
underage travelcard pix. They look at me as if they know I am a teacher. And
actually, they do, because I’ve taught two of them when they were innocent
little angels with plaits. Didn’t recognize them at first under the make-up. My
extremely unamused expression now only elicits a nostril exhalation from the
smoker and more defiant chewing from the one with bubblegum.
    I step inside and pull the curtain
across which gives the illusion that no-one can see me. Of course, they can,
but not my face. A bit like an open coffin. But the other way round.
     
    The coffee shop beside the station
exit has turned into an internet café.
    Click on COMPOSE.
     
    Re: What are you like?
     
    Put it this way. You know those photo
booths where you get your passport photos done? Well these days you don't just
get random flashes when you're least expecting them. Now there's a nice polite
computer who talks you through, and shows you the image, and if you don't like
it, you can readjust your expression and try again.
    'If you're happy, press 1 to print',
says your virtual friend. 'Or press 2 to try again.'
    I'm the sort of person who presses 2
again and again until eventually, the computer says, 'Look, I'm sorry, but this
is just the way you are, and there's nothing I can do about it.'
    Think Steffi Graf on a bad day, with
less expensive hair and heavier. I do have the legs, but I can't play tennis.
And let's face it, if you take away the tennis, the little white skirt and that
solemn way she smooths her hair back before she serves, you'd walk past her in
the street, wouldn't you? OK, she pulled Andre Agassi, but take away the tennis
from him and what have you got? You've got bald head and a mouthful of
improbably perfect teeth.
     
    Does that answer your question? L
     
    Questions about our mini beasts.
    I write a list on the board:
     
    1. What does my mini beast like to
eat?
    2. Where does my mini beast like to
sleep?
    3. Where can you find my mini beast?
     
    ‘Ethan, what does your mini beast
like to eat?’
    ‘Cabbage,’ he says.
    ‘That’s right. Caterpillars do like
to eat cabbage and sometimes if you’re growing cabbages in your garden,
caterpillars like to eat them a bit too much and there’s no cabbage left for
you to eat.’
    ‘I hate cabbage,’ says Robbie.
    ‘All the more for the caterpillar.’
    ‘He also eats strawberries and cherry
pie,’ says Ethan.
    ‘You’re thinking of the Very Hungry
Caterpillar, aren’t you? Does anyone remember reading that book last year? It
was about a caterpillar turning into a butterfly, wasn’t it? A beautiful
colourful butterfly. Yes, Geri?’
    ‘Will I turn into a butterfly if I
eat cabbage?’
    There are thirty innocent faces in
front of me. If I said yes, twenty-eight of them would probably eat cabbage
happily for weeks.
    It suddenly occurs to me that human beings
do things the other way round from caterpillars. We are beautiful, colourful
and quick when we are young and it’s only when we eat and grow that we become
sluggish and ugly.
    I sometimes have moments like this at
work which make me sad.
    ‘No,’ I sigh, ‘I’m afraid you won’t.
But perhaps when we’re writing a story next time, we can all imagine what it
would be like to be a mini beast, a beautiful bright butterfly fluttering round
a buddleia bush... Yes, Robbie?’
    ‘Can I be a head lice?’
    ‘Two head lice, one head louse.’
    ‘I’ve got lots!’
    I anticipate parental complaints.

20
     
    Michaela is already at a window table
in Café Rouge. She doesn’t look pregnant at all, which is a relief because we
won’t have to talk about babies all the time.
    ‘Apparently babies are the new
black,’ I say, giving her a kiss. ‘It’s official. I think it became official
when Kate Moss announced hers, although it must have been almost official with
Liz Hurley...’
    ‘Hello, Aunt Lyd,’ says Michaela
laughing.
    I like Michaela best of all my godchildren,
partly