My Secret Lover

did a Gardening Summer School last year.
    ‘You’re brilliant!’ Jasper tells her.
    ‘You have to expand your personal
horizons, don’t you?’ says Fern, blushing.
    After five rounds we edge into the
lead.
    The tension is mounting.
    It’s all going to hang on the final
round which is: Karaoke.
    I have a brief sickening flashback to
New Year.
    I remember with relief that Andy
never actually received my New Year’s Resolutions! So, really, I never made
any! All that self-control for nothing!
     
    My suspicions that the Martyrs have
tried to rig the quiz against us are confirmed when our team’s random selection
is ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ when all the others have ABBA songs.
    Fern is a surprisingly convincing
Freddie Mercury. The rest of us are loud and enthusiastic, even without Andy,
who has declined to join us on stage because he doesn’t want to damage his
vocal chords this near to performance.
    We win!
    Some of us cannot resist a brief
chorus of ‘We are the Champions’!
     
    ‘So, what do you think?’ I ask, as we
come in the door. ‘About what?’ says Andy.
    ‘The colour. I’ve painted this room
turquoise.’
    ‘What colour did it used to be?’
    ‘Yellow. Really bright, lemon-curd
yellow.’
    ‘Is that right?’
    Andy just does not notice things.
    ‘Drink?’ I ask.
    ‘Why don’t we take the bottle
upstairs,’ says Andy.
     
    *
     
    I know I should be happy lying next
to my future husband and half a bottle of Rioja.
     
    There are no new messages in my
Inbox.

28
     
    ‘Welcome to our Easter parade!’ I say
into the mike.
    ‘Welcome to our Easter parade!’ This
time it’s switched on.
    Fern presses PLAY on the tape deck.
    The children all walk onto the stage
trying to balance their hats on their heads and looking very serious about
their performance.
    There is a collective ‘Ahhh!’ from
the parents followed by the whirr of video cameras and some flash photography.
    All credit to Fern, the children do
look wonderful. Even though my class have all opted for the top-hat shape which
I demonstrated, whereas Mrs Vane’s have a mixture of bonnets, boaters and
Chinese, they’ve each managed to get their personality into it. Dean’s has bats
for decoration. Ethan’s has an owl perched on the brim. Not very Eastery, but
actually more attractive than the cross that Gwyneth has on hers. I think she
must go to Sunday school.
     
    It is a beautiful spring day. The
sunshine bathes the dingy hall in light so bright it makes the miracles Miss
Goodman is talking about easier to believe.
    We sing the song we’ve been
rehearsing all week.
    ‘It’s a beautiful day in springtime
    I wonder how it is that children’s
voices are high and flat at the same time.
    ‘...it’s a wonderful feeling...’
    Why does hearing children sing always
bring tears to my eyes?
    ‘It’s a happy, hoppy, healthy
springtime DAY It is almost the Easter holidays.
    I’m as happy and hoppy and as healthy
as anyone could be expected to be after ten weeks in a methane chamber.
    There is no reason at all for me to
cry.
    Especially not in front of the
parents.

29
     
    ‘What axe we going to do today?’ Andy
asks.
    One of the great advantages of Honey
was that they used to go for long walks together on Saturday mornings leaving
me to snooze in bed surrounded by the week’s celebrity magazines.
    I open one eye.
    ‘It’s the holidays,’ I say groggily.
‘We don’t have to do anything.’
    Andy draws back the curtains and
sunlight floods into the room.
    ‘I had a Creme Egg for breakfast,’ he
says, ‘you’ve got enough.’
    ‘They were reduced,’ I say, yawning
and turning over.
    Andy picks up the tube of Rescue Me
gel from my dressing table and reads the ingredients out loud, then he winds
the musical box in the shape of a Swiss chalet which my dad brought me back
from a school trip.
    It’s the theme tune from Dr
Zhivago.
    He’s got that frisky look that says
he’s not going to leave me alone until I get up.
    ‘Actually, I’ve got a party to go
to,’ I tell him.
     
    * * *
     
    ‘I’m sorry but there’s no adults
without children,’ the girl at the entrance announces without looking up.
    ‘I was invited.’
    ‘I’ve got no names on the door.’
    ‘Look, would you mind if I just nip
in and have a look? I am a primary school teacher,’ I say.
    ‘Anyone could say that though,
couldn’t they?’ There’s something unmistakably surly about her. ‘Kylie? It is
Kylie, isn’t it?’
    Robbie’s