My Secret Lover

they were my children I would let
them have toy guns, but no television in the bedroom. Joanna says she doesn’t
want to encourage violence, and apparently you have to be a parent to
understand the benefits of Japanese cartoons in the mornings at weekends.
    ‘But we’re going to blow her up
first,’ Ry reasons.
    ‘Bedtime,’ I say firmly.
    ‘Do we have to go to school
tomorrow?’
    ‘You do.’
    ‘I hate school,’ says Cy.
    ‘I hate it more than you,’ says Ry.
    I wonder if the children I teach say
this every evening, or whether it’s just the independent sector.
    ‘What story do you want?’
    ‘Can we have We’re Going on a Bear
Hunt ?' asks Cy. They must be tired. It’s one of the books they had before
they knew about guns and bombs and terrorism. They just want the rhythm of a
story to lull them off to sleep.
    Cy and Ry have two modes.
    Full Volume and Off.
    I kiss their heads, breathing the
wonderful smell of innocence and L’Oreal for Kids shampoo.
     
    ‘Linda!’ says the bald Canadian
neighbour who’s standing at the door, holding out a glossy magazine called Beautiful
British Columbia.
    ‘Working tonight?’
    ‘In a manner of speaking,’ I whisper.
    ‘I brought this round for Joanna.’
    ‘I’ll give it to her when she gets
back,’ I put my index finger to my lips.
    He actually tiptoes back down the
steps.
     
    ‘Asleep?’ says Joanna, when she comes
in from work. She looks tired.
    ‘Yes. And as sweet as the day they
were born.’
    ‘The day they came out of the special
unit, you mean,’ she corrects me. ‘The day they were born they looked like two
pieces of tandoori chicken.’
    She takes off her mac, drapes it over
the back of the sofa, and sighs.
    ‘Heavy day?’ I ask, like a solicitous
wife in a headache pill advert.
    ‘It was just bloody meetings all day
long and then I had to get my eyebrows done.’
    ‘You have someone to pluck your
eyebrows?’
    ‘Not pluck, thread. She’s a wonderful
Indian woman called Min. You should have her. Lasts so much longer, and it’s
only thirty quid!’
    I’m glad I’m not beautiful. It’s
cheaper.
    ‘Why have you got a dishcloth on your
head?’ Joanna asks.
    I remove it.
    ‘Shall we have a bottle of
champagne?’ she asks.
    ‘I’m driving.’
    ‘Oh go on! Vlad’s in South Africa. We haven’t had a girls’ night for ages!’
    I know that I shouldn’t because I’m
certain there’s something important going on tomorrow that I need to be on top
form for.
    It can’t be very important if I’ve forgotten.
    Actually, I’ve never found that an
entirely reliable rule.
    Oh to hell with it. It won’t be the
first time I’ve been to work with a hangover!
     
    ‘What happened to Conchita?’ I say.
    ‘Don’t ask,’ says Joanna. ‘That’s
definitely the last from South America. Mimi’s got a boy from the Czech Republic. It may be the solution. Do you think Cy and Ry would like a man about the
house?’
    ‘What would Vlad think?’
    I try to remain neutral on the
subject of child care.
    ‘Vlad would not like it one little
bit,’ says Joanna, firing the cork off the champagne bottle, which sounds like
a gun.
    ‘What were you watching?’ Joanna
peers at the television.
    ‘It’s a look-alikes competition. The
bloke just said that some of them are getting so famous they’ll soon have
look-alikes of their own, which I thought was rather funny.’
    ‘Who’s that one supposed to look
like?’ Joanna goes closer to the telly. She’s always been a bit short sighted
but she won’t wear specs.
    ‘Chris Tarrant.’
    ‘Doesn’t look a bit like him.’
    ‘Perhaps they should have a programme
about how they came to think they did look like someone. Was it looking in the
mirror, or did people keep asking them for autographs? You could interview
their mates from work. Call it Before they were Look-alikes. I might
write to the head of ITV,’ I tell her.
    We drain our champagne glasses.
    ‘Wasn’t it meant to be the end of
trivia?’ says Joanna.
    ‘What?’
    ‘September 11th. Everyone said it was
the day that trivia died. But I think there’s more trivia now.’
    On serious consideration, I think
she’s right.
    ‘Terrorist nuclear attacks and
biological warfare are probably too frightening for the human psyche to
contemplate,’ says Joanna.
    ‘So we glide over War on Terrorism
and click on Beckham’s foot?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    I’m glad to know there’s a proper
psychological explanation for it all.
    ‘Where