My Secret Lover

receiving
the gold chocolate coins they got as medals from a woman in an orange top. They
all smile and wave at the camera.
    ‘There you are,’ says Michelle.
    ‘Where?’
    ‘...in Lambeth they got a visit from
a different sort of Queen...’
    ‘There!’ she says, pointing at the
Pearly Queen waving a Union Jack who has taken my place on the screen.
    ‘Was that really me?’
    ‘Was there anyone else wearing a
riding hat?’
    I have made it to the screen, and I
didn’t even recognize myself.
    Actually, I didn’t look as bad as I
thought.
    My mobile rings.
    ‘You’re on the news,’ says my mother.
    ‘Hang on a minute, there’s a call
waiting!’ I tell her.
    ‘We saw you on telly!’ shouts Cy.
    ‘Hang on!’
    I go back to my mother, but there’s
only the dialling tone.
    I’ve never quite got the hang of the
technology. Michelle’s phone rings.
    ‘It’s Michaela!’
    I wonder how Andy Warhol knew that
everyone except me watches the local bit that’s on after the News!
    ‘The contractions have started,’ says
Michelle.
     
    * * *
     
    There are no new messages in my
Inbox.
    Click on COMPOSE.
     
    Hi! 4 questions still in hand, but
I've got it! Well done, by the way. I thought about VSO myself after
university. Talk soon. LX
     
    I wait, but there’s no reply.
    It’s a bit early in the day.
    And he’s got work to do. Important
work.

42
     
    June
     
    I am standing outside the toilets in
the St Anne’s Shopping Centre. My mother seems to be taking an inordinately
long time, but she always does. I wonder how many hours of my life I have spent
outside public lavatories waiting for my mother, and why it is that we never
want to go at the same time. I wonder if she feels the same way when she’s
waiting for me? Does a quick wee seem quicker to the person who’s doing it than
the person who’s waiting? Joanna always pops in with her, chattering away
companionably, even when they can’t get adjacent cubicles. Then, as they wash
their hands, they swap tips on beauty products and make faces at themselves in
the mirror, checking for mascara speckles and lipstick that’s bled.
     
    ‘Can you spare a couple of minutes?’
    It’s one of those charity people with
neon bibs.
    Normally, I avoid eye contact and
walk on quickly, but I can hardly pretend I’m rushing somewhere when I’ve been
standing here for at least five minutes, and, actually, I’ve been meaning to
get round to signing up for a direct debit. It wouldn’t be my charity of
choice, but it’s the principle that counts, and at least it’s got nothing to do
with dogs.
    ‘What do I do?’ I ask him.
    ‘Nurse?’ he guesses.
    I laugh. I think they’re trained to
engage, but nobody’s ever told me I look like a nurse before. For men, it
usually denotes an attractive combination of caring and a bit dirty. He’s got
quite a nice smile.
    ‘I meant, how can I help,’ I say,
pointing at his clipboard.
    ‘It’s only two pounds a month, but if
everyone were prepared to make that commitment, we could reduce our overheads
by eighty per cent...’ he begins.
    ‘All right, where do I sign?’
    ‘What does two pounds a month buy you
these days? A cappuccino maybe...’
    ‘OK, I’m convinced.’
    ‘A cappuccino can pick you up, yes,
but think how much better you’d feel if you knew that—’
    ‘Stop!’
    I hadn’t even thought of a cappuccino
until he mentioned it, and now I’m gagging for one.
    I think he’s surprised. It must be
quite refreshing after hours of spieling to people like my mother, who are
longing to talk because they’re old and lonely, but adamantly opposed to
parting with a single digit of their debit card number.
    ‘You put your details here,’ says the
man, pointing. ‘And sign here.’
    ‘It is a registered charity?’ I say.
    ‘You’re right to check,’ he says.
    I sign with a flourish.
    ‘That’s my good deed for the day!’
    Not quite true, actually, because I
consider shopping with Mum a good deed as well. I really am a much better
person!
    My mother eventually appears,
smelling of face powder and looking less tense than she was when she went in.
    ‘Why don’t we have a coffee?’ I ask
her.
    ‘Can I interest you...?’ says the
charity man.
    ‘No you can’t,’ says my mother.
    ‘They’d get more money with a
collecting tin and stickers,’ she says, as we make our way to the Food Court. ‘Who’d be stupid enough to hand over their bank details to a complete stranger?’
    ‘There