My Secret Lover

on?’
    ‘Try saying this,’ says Fern. ‘I
accept myself and cherish every wonderful aspect of myself.’
    ‘But I don’t accept my hip
measurement at the moment.’
    Munch, munch, munch. This constant
chewing is doing nothing for my ribs.
    ‘I think I may have a problem with
sharing,’ I tell Fern.
    ‘Do you want to share it?’
    ‘Not really.’
     
    The island looks pretty in the
brochure.
    I wonder about Greece for our honeymoon. Trouble is, I once had a wonderful holiday in Greece, and it’s never the same when you go back, especially with someone who burns easily.
    We should probably go somewhere grown
up and educational like Florence or Prague, but if I try to picture us
wandering around narrow dark streets pointing out interesting old buildings,
Andy’s always looking at the map and saying he thinks we’ve gone the wrong way.
    If I see us sitting in a café which
smells deliciously of coffee and warm pastries, he’s got his Palm out and is
searching the Net for the current sterling/Euro exchange rate.
    If the Government ever wants a hand
with the campaign to promote the Euro, I have a great idea for an advert: a
couple are sitting at a pavement café somewhere recognizably foreign like Venice or Salamanca. She’s got a load of designer carrier bags on the ground around her
feet and has her face tilted towards the sunshine. He’s crouched over the menu
and a calculator with a frown.
    The slogan is: ‘Imagine a holiday
where he doesn’t say “How much is that in real money?” ’
    You’d certainly win the female vote.
    Another one might be the same table,
but with more shopping bags and two women with cocktails. ‘Imagine a holiday
without the credit-card bill for £3,000 afterwards.’
     
    It happened when Michelle and I went
to Milan for the weekend.
    Trouble with lire is (was, I suppose.
Can the Italians really have got it together to convert?) there are just too
many noughts, especially if you’ve been drinking aperitifs. We thought the
shoes were such a bargain for Gucci that we both bought three pairs each and
matching handbags.
     
    I should write to Tony Blair, or
Gordon Brown. I’m never sure which one is in favour of the Euro and which
isn’t.
    That’s before they start on the
economic tests. Whatever they are. Does anyone know? Or is it just me?
     
    *
     
    Another bus stops. The doors hiss
open.
    ‘It’s tempting, isn’t it,’ I say to
Fern. ‘To just get on and see where it takes us.’
    ‘I think it’s Harlesden,’ says Fern.

34
     
    ‘It’s a long and arduous climb for
the Marines. First they have to find the caves and then they have to put them...’
cue footage of a bit of mountain exploding, ‘...beyond use.’
    The nice reporter is standing in a
remote and unidentifiable spot, wearing a flak jacket. There’s an explosion
behind him. He ducks. I wonder if they fired that one especially for the
camera?
    What is the point of him being there,
putting his life at risk to tell us what we already know, which is that the
Marines are clearing some caves somewhere secret in Afghanistan?
    And how on earth does he manage to
shave in those conditions?
    Also, does he carry his own rucksack
like the Marines do, or is there a Sherpa type of person out of sight of the
camera who lugs all the equipment around? And what is a satellite phone? They
suddenly appeared when Afghanistan became news and then everyone was using
them. Terrorists, journalists, the Army, as if there’s always been satellite
phones and everyone knew what they were. Perhaps everyone does, and it’s only
me. Too late to ask now anyway. I can see the advantage if there aren’t many
masts around. The reception in part of North London is bad enough, but how do
you charge them? Especially if you’re living in a cave?
     
    Cy and Ry are making exploding noises
from inside their custom-made Thunderbird wardrobes.
    ‘We’re Al Quaeda, and we’re hiding in
the caves. Come and blow us up.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You be Al Quaeda then.’
    I switch the News off.
    ‘What do I have to do?’
    The boys are wearing Action Man
pyjamas.
    ‘Get yourself a beard and a
machine-gun!’ says Cy.
    I find an umbrella and a dishcloth in
the utility room.
    ‘Will this do?’ I ask.
    ‘Have you got a beard under there?’
Cy pulls at my headdress.
    ‘Watch it,’ says Ry, ‘she could be a
suicide bomber.’
    ‘What’s a suicide bomber?’
    ‘It’s when they strap bombs to their
bodies and blow themselves up.’
    If