My Secret Lover

temporary lights and braking distance is much harder to judge
with sling-backs.
     
    Oh F off your F-ing self!
     
    I am a calm, grown-up, apologetic
person who smiles when she gets out of the car to exchange numbers with the
driver in front.
    ‘What the hell are you smiling about?’
shouts the man in the navy-blue pinstripe suit. It’s one of those
double-breasted things and he’s got a handkerchief in his pocket.
    ‘I’m not smiling.’
    ‘Yes you are!’
    ‘Not consciously. Probably an
involuntary reaction because I’m nervous.’
    ‘Do you even know the word sorry?’
    ‘I was going to get on to that, but
you started in on the smiling.’
    ‘Were you asleep?’
    ‘Look, this obviously isn’t getting
us anywhere. Why don’t we start again and try to be civilized.’
    ‘Are you accusing me of being
uncivilized?’
    ‘Oh for God’s sake, it’s only a
bloody Toyota.’
    ‘Don’t you swear at me, young lady.’
    I know it’s not the right time, but
it’s rather nice to know I’m not past the age of being ‘young lady’.
    ‘Don’t you start smiling again. If I
weren’t already late, I’d call the police.’
    ‘As far as I know, smiling is not a
crime.’
    He sniffs the air suspiciously.
    ‘Have you been drinking?’
    I summon my extremely unamused face,
and offer to furnish him with my details.
    I am a calm, mature person who knows
how to behave with dignity in a minor traffic accident.
    Surely six hours is long enough for a
half a bottle of champagne to wear off? Even a whole bottle?
    I am a clever person who, even though
she’s lost a bit of time, parks a couple of streets away from the school where
she’s being interviewed so no-one will see her trying to reverse into a space.
     
    I am late, but it doesn’t matter
because I am third on the list to be interviewed, and the first one has only
just gone in.
    The other candidate is a very petite
woman. So short that I mistook her for a pupil standing by the notice-board
reading the fire drill, until I noticed she was wearing a red suit and tiny
high black patent leather pumps.
    What on earth made her want to be a
teacher when she must have known the sort of remarks people would make? She’s
wearing a wedding ring. I wonder if her husband is short too, or whether he’s
one of those hugely tall men who fancy petite women because they’ve got an
inferiority complex, or a problem with willy length.
    Did she wear white? She’s so tiny,
she could probably have got away with a First Communion dress, which would have
been cheaper because there’s no VAT on children’s clothes.
    She has the unfortunate affect,
although I don’t think she intends it, of making me feel gargantuan.
    I move as far away as the room will
allow, but I’m still taller than her.
    Even sitting down, the ceiling is
closer to my head than hers standing.
    I inadvertently pick up OK! magazine rather than the G2 Education bit, and then I don’t know whether
to put it down quickly, or keep reading it as if there’s no shame involved in
case there’s a hidden camera and it’s some sort of trick psychological test.
    I can hear murmurings of laughter in
the interview room. Obviously getting on very well in there.
    Then there’s silence, and I realize
I’m bracing myself for the whizz of a high-speed drill.
    I remind myself that I am not in a
dentist’s waiting room.
    The door opens.
    The tiny woman is called. She has a
French name. She glances at me as she goes in. Tiny little steps.
     
    *
     
    ‘Lydia?’ says a voice above me.
    ‘Richard! What are you doing here?’
    He looks reassuringly huge, and as
guilty as sin. Bloody Hell!
    ‘How did it go?’ I ask, as if I’ve
come to pick him up after some nasty root canal work.
    ‘Not too bad.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Good luck, then!’ he says, walking
out of the room sort of sideways, as if he’s afraid to turn his back on me.
     
    I might as well leave now. Unless
they have some reason for particularly wanting a woman, in which case, I must
have an advantage over a French pixie.
    I try to think of some of the
considered and articulate answers I have prepared, but the only words I can
remember after thirty-six years on this planet, are the lyrics of ‘Thumbelina’.
     
    ‘Thumbelina, what’s the difference if
you’re very small?’
     
    I go over on my heel as I walk past
my rival on her way out.
     
    I am a calm and sensible person who
has suddenly become Dick Emery.
     
    ‘When your heart is full of