My Secret Lover
Happy
Book.’
‘Who are you, Miss?’ says Geri.
She’s wearing a white bikini top and
leggings and carrying a yoga mat.
They’re a bit too excited to
concentrate on their stories.
‘Princess Anne.’
Boring I know, but I found it
difficult to think of any famous women who weren’t much younger, or much older
than me — there’s Cilia and there’s Atomic Kitten, but who’s in between? — and
I am one of the few people that jodhpurs flatter. I’ve always wanted a Ralph
Lauren polo shirt with the proper logo and not just an M&S imitation.
Choosing the colour was tough. I decided on cantaloupe finally, although they
never look as great on their own as they do fanned out in a rainbow in the
window.
‘Why are you wearing that stupid
hat?’ asks Dean.
He’s Buzz Lightyear again.
‘It’s a crash helmet for if you’re on
a horse.’
Vlad owns a polo pony.
‘Where’s your horse?’
‘I left him on the playing field.’
The entire class rushes over to look
out of the window.
‘Joke!’
‘You look really stupid,’ says Dean.
Not as stupid as I would have looked
if I had come in full hunting gear and a curly wig, as New Andy suggested. Did
he know about the television when he suggested Camilla Parker Bowles? Was he
trying to orchestrate a cat fight for the cameras? I’m not a monarchist by any
means but a tranvestite ghost of Princess Diana is pushing it for a First and
Middle. I suppose it’s his acting background.
‘Who are you?’ I ask Richard, which
is technically speaking to him again, although I’ve chosen the words to make
him feel slightly uncomfortable.
He’s stapled some tinsel on to his
jacket and is wearing a pair of huge orange specs with windscreen wipers which
he operates from a switch in his pocket.
‘Elton John,’ he says.
‘The hair’s far too natural,’ I
inform him.
There are a couple of children
wearing large hats and their mothers’ high-heeled shoes, but most of the girls
have come in midriff-baring tops with gold shorts or miniskirts and glitter on
their faces. Ethan has his cloak and wizard’s hat, but nearly all the boys are
wearing football strip.
‘Pop stars and footballers, the new
aristocracy,’ says Miss Goodman, with a sniff.
I like it that way. It’s more
democratic. They’re famous because they’re talented. Or at least good looking.
When the television crew arrive I
have the inspired idea of a look-alike competition, which doesn’t have to be
competitive, if you can think of enough categories.
‘Every picture tells a story,
darling,’ says Jasper. ‘You’ve got a natural gift for television.’
Nicole and Robbie win as Posh and
Becks, in the Celebrity Couples Category. He’s in full England strip, she has a crown on her head and a cushion shoved under her dress.
‘Can we have a kiss?’ the cameraman
shouts.
‘Certainly not,’ says Nicole, regally.
She’s really taken to the role.
Robbie plants one on anyway.
‘Robbie,’ I warn.
‘He told me to!’
Gwyneth, who is wearing a long pink
dress and won the Oscar Winners category bursts into inconsolable tears.
Then three children throw up their
fairy cakes and several others start whizzing around because of the food
colouring.
It’s all threatening to go wrong when
a downpour arrives and we adjourn to the Hall.
Some of the Year Five girls do an a
cappella rendition of ‘Whole Again’.
I don’t think we could have hoped for
better.
And we have raised almost £200 for
charity.
* * *
It’s my first time in a car showroom
and I’m not sure how to behave. Should I tap on the window of the glass office
where a man in shirtsleeves seems to be very involved in a telephone
conversation, or should I get myself a coffee from the machine and wait.
Are you actually allowed to have a
coffee if you’re just making an enquiry? I stare at the price card on a
convertible and walk round its perimeter. I give a black car a tentative stroke.
‘Can I help you?’
I jump like I’ve been caught doing
something wrong. I look around the grey carpeted walls of the showroom for a
door. Where did he come from, and how did he know I was here? Perhaps there is
a secret camera?
He’s wearing a shiny grey suit and he
smells as if he has just put out a cigarette.
‘I was wondering what my car was
worth?’ I say, pointing at my lime-green Beetle on the forecourt.
‘People want new cars. It’s as simple
as that,’ says the man in the garage.
‘But it
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