My Secret Lover

what happened?’ I say when
we’ve all calmed down.
    ‘Well’, says Ethan, glancing at
Robbie, who’s got him fixed with a threatening stare, ‘Robbie was getting some
water to mix with the paint and...’
    Ethan falters in his story, I suspect
because Robbie didn’t have a chance to rehearse the whole thing with him.
    ‘...I accidentally tripped over a
chair, and the paint sort of threw itself over him,’ says Robbie.
    ‘That’s a good story, Robbie, but
paint doesn’t just throw itself—’
    ‘It does if it’s magic, Miss, and
Ethan made it magic because he’s got a wand at home...’
    He should really have stuck to the ‘I
tripped’ story. ‘Robbie, go and sit in Miss Goodman’s class.’
    Miss Goodman is head of the First School and teaches Reception. She never smiles. The children are still young enough
to be completely terrified of her. So am I, as a matter of fact.
    Going to sit in Miss Goodman’s class
is the ultimate deterrent and I’ve employed it on day one. I am a failure.
Still, I’ve set the rules for the term. If I threaten, they’ll know I mean it.
    Gwyneth’s crying.
    ‘What’s the matter?’
    ‘My boyfriend’s in there all on his
own!’
    I didn’t realize they were an item.
    It won’t last. She’s a nice,
middle-class girl and he’s, well, just not suitable, as my mother used to say
with pursed lips when I was a teenager.
    ‘Miss?’
    ‘Yes, Geri?’
    ‘Are we doing dancing?’
    ‘Not today. Today we are seeing how
many different shades of colour we can make with one colour mixed with white.’
    ‘You were dancing in the cupboard ‘I
wasn’t.’
    ‘You were!’
    ‘Can I remind all of you that
children are not allowed in the materials cupboard?’

2
     
    ‘The Americans have suffered their
first casualty in fighting near the Tora Bora cave complex...’
    The reporter is standing next to a
large khaki tent. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt which shows off his tan.
    ‘Tora Bora sounds like some romantic
place in a novel, doesn’t it?’ I say.
    ‘What happened to the dreadful Afghan
winters everyone was going on about last year?’ Michelle asks, putting a glass
of white wine on the nest of tables next to me.
    ‘Do you remember those shaggy coats
people wore in the seventies which smelled? Weren’t they called Afghans?’
    ‘Afghan coats,’ says Michelle, like
they’ve reminded her of something nice. ‘That must be where they came from.’
    ‘Why do you think all the burkas were
blue?’
    ‘Pardon?’ says Michelle.
    ‘All the burkas the women used to
wear in Afghanistan when it was still the Taliban. They were all quite a nice
shade of lavender.’
    ...For the Six O’clock News, Bagram airbase,’
says the reporter.
    ‘I wonder how he manages to iron his
shirts,’ says Michelle.
     
    Tuesday night is girls’ night.
Towards the end of last year, when we were sluggish with work-party white wine
and Ferrero Rocher, we resolved to do something healthy or improving on our
evenings together, but today is our first day back at work and we’re both too
exhausted to go to the gym.
    Michelle’s suggestion is that we
delay the official start of the New Year until next week and go out for a
pizza. I offer my bag of spinach, rocket and watercress salad to be eaten in
front of the News. We compromise with a frozen deep-dish pepperoni, which is in
a buy-one-get-one-free promotion at Safeway, so feels quite virtuous, News on
in the background, and both of us testing the samples of Age Reversal Under Eye
cream Michelle got in her Christmas-is-for-Giving freebie from the
manufacturers.
    ‘There’s a supply teacher at school
and guess what he’s called?’
    ‘Andy?’ says Michelle.
    ‘How did you know?’ I’m slightly
irritated with her spoiling my new piece of information.
    ‘Well, either it had to be something
really ordinary, or it had to be something weird, and I knew you’d have rung me
if it was something weird.’
    Michelle has known me for twenty-four
years. We met on the first day of big school. New Andy may just have been born.
    ‘I suppose you know what he looks
like as well?’ I say, with a touch of adolescent sarcasm. I sometimes wonder if
you stay the same age as you were when you met someone.
    ‘Attractive and a bit too young for
you,’ says Michelle.
    ‘Too young? How do you work that
out?’
    ‘Because you’re sitting with your
hands clasped round your knees trying to make yourself look like a teenager at
a slumber