My Secret Lover

this,’ says Michelle, picking up the portion of sardine paste. ‘Well, don’t eat
it.’
    ‘I do like it, but by the time I’ve
finished stuffing my face with bread and paste, I’ve got no room left for the
main course.’
    ‘It reminds me of tea after school,’
I tell her. ‘We always used to have paste. Whatever happened to paste?’
    ‘People got pate instead,’ says
Michelle looking out over the harbour.
    ‘I wonder if the Queen Mum had paste
in her sandwiches.’
    ‘She liked a proper tea.’
    ‘Paste’s probably a bit common for
her. Although Gentleman’s Relish is really just anchovy paste.’
    ‘She definitely had Gentlemen’s
Relish.’
    Michelle suddenly smiles at the piece
of bread she’s about to shove in her mouth, as if she sees it differently now
that it’s got royal approval.
    ‘It’s brilliant Michaela being
pregnant, isn’t it?’ Michelle says. ‘I mean, for the babysitting.’
    ‘You wouldn’t call them babies if
you’d seen Charlene with the bloke who does the banana ride.’
    ‘Beg pardon?’
    ‘He’s got this great big banana and
he takes people round the bay on it,’ I tell her.
    ‘That’s new,’ says Michelle.
    Michelle hasn’t been out much during
the day. She says it’s because the sun has a detrimental effect on the skin,
but it’s never stopped her before, and the first thing she did when we got to
the apartment was switch on the television. The shutters have rarely been open
since.
    We’ve seen the Queen Mother’s funeral
on BBC and CNN, Sky, in.French, Spanish, Portuguese and a language Michelle
assumed was German, but I think was probably Dutch. Her coffin’s now
disappeared into Windsor Castle and you’d think that we’d know everything we
ever wanted to know, but even in English, amazingly, there are still gaps, like
what does being Knight of the Thistle actually involve?
    Apparently she planned her own
funeral.
    Did she set aside a couple of hours a
week?
    Did her diary read:
     
    Thursday:
    Breakfast
    Open Chelsea Flower Show
    Lunch
    Funeral Planning Committee
    Proper Tea
    Thistle Duties
    Cocktails
     
    ‘When do you think she started?’
Michelle wonders. ‘Seventy-five, or eighty-five, or ninety? She could have
spent a quarter of her life planning, which must have been a bit depressing,
but she always kept a smile on her face.’
    ‘Do you think the plans changed over
the years?’
    ‘Must have done.’
    ‘Were there times when she favoured a
Brazilian carnival approach, with steel bands, flowers on the gun carriage and
the Guards dressed as peacocks?’ Michelle gives me a disapproving look.
    ‘Do you think that was the real
Koh-i-noor diamond?’ I ask.
    ‘David Dimbleby said it was.’
    ‘But he would, wouldn’t he?’
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘Well, they’re probably all geared up
for a terrorist attack. Probably secret service men mingling in the crowds,’ I
say.
    ‘At the Queen Mother’s funeral?’
Michelle’s visibly shocked.
    She’s very naïve at times.
    ‘Do you think the Queen’s hat was a
real Philip Treacy?’
    ‘It did look a bit cool...’
    ‘For a funeral.’
    We both sip our drinks thoughtfully.
    We’re drinking gin and Dubonnet as a
mark of respect. Actually, gin and port because the bartender didn’t have any
Dubonnet, but I think Her Majesty would have approved.
    ‘At least we’re not in England for it,’ says Michelle. ‘People will be going on about nothing else.’
    The sun is setting over the bay.
    We both stare at it, as if there’s a
tacit agreement to observe a minute’s silence before eating, and then the
waiter clatters knives, forks and plates of fish in front of us, and normal
life can resume, just like at a football match when the fans start cheering
again. I never know how they know that the minute is up.
    ‘Tell you what, let’s go to the
disco?’ Michelle says. ‘What’s to stop us? Michaela’s babysitting.’
    ‘Don’t you think we’re a bit old for
it?’
     
    Ironically, ‘Murder on the
Dancefloor’ is what’s playing when Michelle spots Charlene.
    I volunteer to take her back to the
apartment.
    ‘She’s old enough to look after
herself,’ says Michelle, scowling at her daughter.
    ‘If she’s not old enough to be here,
then she’s not old enough to walk back on her own.’
    ‘Who are you, all of a sudden, her
mother?’ shouts Michelle.
    It’s a bit of a holiday low point.
    ‘I did try to put her off,’ I tell
Charlene, as she kicks up a cloud of dust with