My Secret Lover

must be safeguards. Data
protection, and all that,’ I say.
    Never quite understood what data
protection is. I always tick the box that says I don’t want unsolicited mail,
but I still receive half a bin liner each week. Only this morning there was a
catalogue featuring things to make life easier, like a hot-water bottle you can
heat up in the microwave and a pack of three bra extenders.
    ‘We guarantee you will be happy!’ it
said on the front, but I think it may take more than a plastic egg that absorbs
unpleasant fridge odours, and some soft silicone toecaps to guard against
chafing sandals. Not that they’re not both excellent ideas.
    ‘I may look old and vulnerable,’ my
mother is saying, ‘but I play bridge three times a week.’
    ‘You don’t look old and vulnerable,’
I say, which seems to please her.
    Certainly not vulnerable anyway. Not
in the piercing royal blue suit she’s bought for the Jubilee and the new perm.
    ‘How about a pizza for lunch?’ I say.
‘Or there’s baguettes...’
    ‘Impossible with my teeth.’
    ‘Indian?’
    There are so many choices in the Food Court.
    But none of them suits my mother.
    ‘Tell you what, why don’t we drive
out to the Harvester?’ I suggest.
    It only takes a little effort to be a
better person.
    And I’m rewarded for my selfless
gesture, by the sound of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ from my mobile.

43
     
    There are so many staircases, up and
down, and corridors to get to the delivery room, by the time I reach the
entrance I am not sure whether it’s on the top floor, or underground.
    In fact, it’s on the ground floor,
which is probably an advantage from the ambulance point of view.
    ‘It’s for security,’ says the nurse
in charge.
    She’s one of those women who makes me
feel as if I’ve no right to be here. The receptionist at the health club is
another. I always make the mistake of trying to befriend them.
    ‘I suppose I do look exactly like the
sort of person who would steal a baby,’ I say. ‘Mid to late thirties, single,
desperate!’
    The nurse doesn’t laugh.
    ‘In fact, I’m engaged, and not sure
I’d want children anyway,’ I explain, but it only feels like I’m digging myself
in deeper.
    There’s a horrible shriek close by.
    ‘I’m a teacher. I see enough of them
all day!’
    ‘You’re here for?’ says the nurse.
    I give Michaela’s full name.
    ‘I am her birth partner.’
    She closes the door and comes back
with a file.
    ‘You’re not on the plan.’
    ‘Not on the written plan, no, but she
has just called me on her mobile, because her real birth partner couldn’t
handle it.’
    Whatever is the matter with Michelle?
    Another eardrum-piercing cry for
help.
    ‘Mobiles should be switched off,’
says the nurse.
    ‘I know,’ I say, trying to meet her
halfway, ‘but her mother has let her down. Frankly, I would have liked to
arrive after the baby myself, but here I am, godmother in waiting, presenting
myself for duty.’
    ‘You’re for the one with the mother?’
says the nurse. ‘All right, you’d better come through,’ she says.
     
    Giving birth is absolutely appalling,
and nothing like it is on television.
    It’s not sweat and a brave smile
through a tear-streaked face.
    It’s horrible contortions of
death-throes pain with lots of blood and poo.
    I didn’t know about the poo. I
haven’t seen Michaela’s poo since I changed her nappies.
    Now I know why she called me, because
there are friends, and there are people who you’re so close to you don’t mind
them seeing everything.
    ‘Aunt Lyd!’ screams Michaela.
    ‘I’m here now,’ I say, as if that
will solve anything.
    I wonder if Michelle knew about the
poo. She had three caesarians, so it’s possible she didn’t. That’s possibly why
she collapsed. Or she couldn’t bear all the attention being on someone else.
     
    The agony goes on for hours, although
it’s always difficult to tell in hospitals, with the blinds down so that people
passing can’t gawp. Which is one of the disadvantages of being on the ground
floor.
     
    ‘Push!’ shouts the midwife.
    ‘Don’t fucking shout at me,’ says
Michaela.
    I didn’t mention the swearing. Lots
of it. Very unlike Michaela, who’s always had lovely manners.
    ‘Don’t fucking shout at her!’ I shout
too. ‘Now, Michaela, breathe and let’s have a big push.’
    Michaela pushes really hard.
    ‘I got her through her GCSEs,’ I say
to the astonished midwife.
    ‘Good girl. Come on, I