My Secret Lover

already she’s become an expert, talking as if she’s been dealing
with babies all her life.
    If Andy doesn’t say something like
Well Done! or Congratulations in the next thirty seconds, I shall kick him.
    ‘You look like a film star, Aunt
Lyd,’ says Michaela.
    I am rather proud of the dress I
bought in the Oxfam shop. It is a 1950s frock with a full skirt and tight
bodice and a pattern of yellow cabbage roses on white background. There are a
few rust stains on the skirt and the bodice is a bit too tight, but you can’t
have everything. It’s fine if I squash my breasts in the right direction and
hold my breath when I sit down. It’s gold, it’s approximately fifty years old
and a charity benefited.
    ‘Ouch!’ says Andy, rubbing his shin.
    I hand over the little blue outfit I
swapped this morning in Mothercare for the little pink outfit I had bought before.
I’ll have to have a rethink about the locket I was getting engraved.
    ‘So sweet!’ says Michaela, and gives
me a kiss.
    ‘Are you managing OK with the
feeding?’ I say, pointing at her swollen chest. I know that’s what you’re meant
to say because it’s sometimes difficult at first.
    ‘I’m feeding for England,’ she says.
    ‘So you won’t be calling it Lydia then,’ says Andy.
    ‘Chandler,’ says Michaela. ‘Chandler Joe.’
    ‘Nice,’ I say. ‘Sounds like an
American restaurant. You know, Chandler Joe’s Rib Shack.’
    ‘What are you like!’ says Michaela.
    Andy’s staring at the baby.
    ‘Perhaps you’d like to be godfather,’
says Michaela, trying to make him feel part of it.
    I feel really proud of her immaculate
manners even though she’s just given birth. She has been well brought up, and I
am partly responsible for that.
    If Andy doesn’t say thank you or
something appropriate in the next thirty seconds, I will call off our
engagement.
    ‘Can I pick him up?’ I say.
    ‘Of course.’
    Chandler Joe’s little head fits
almost exactly into the cup of my palm. His little lips open and close, like
men’s mouths sometimes do when they’re thirsty in their sleep. He is a little
person who has grown from a cell in my goddaughter’s tummy and whose life is
now in front of him. I cannot brush away my tears because even though he is
very light, he is so precious I need both my hands to hold him.
    ‘I don’t believe in God,
unfortunately,’ says Andy.
    I put Chandler Joe back in his pod.
    ‘I’ll come and see you properly
tomorrow,’ I give Michaela a kiss.
    ‘Happy Jubilee!’ she says.
    ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ I say, as Andy
pulls out of the car park.
    ‘They all look the same to me.’
    Andy twiddles the radio to Classic
FM.
    I hate it when he does that because I
like Capital in the mornings and he invariably forgets to twiddle it back. It’s
a bit like some people get annoyed about the toilet seat.
    I hate it when he sings along with
the duet from the Pearl Fishers.
    By the time we turn on to the A40 I’m
so furious, I scream.
    ‘Don’t you think we ought to at least
talk about having children?’
    ‘Is anything wrong?’ asks Andy,
turning the volume down.
    I must just have been screaming in my
head.
    Is this the right time for this
conversation?
    ‘We’ve decided on The Barber of
Seville, by the way,’ says Andy.
    There’s been trouble at the Metropolitan
Opera since the director quit in order to concentrate on more lucrative Gilbert
and Sullivan theme nights at the local mock Tudor hotel. I hear all about it
from Fern. Despite the resounding failure of Cosi, some of the senior
members headed by Andy and Fiordiligi, whose real name is Daphne, are in favour
of pursuing a classical repertoire with a bid for Arts Council funding. Others
want a self-financing Christmas production of Grease!. Fern is sitting
on the fence. It’s early days for her and she’s not expecting anything more
than a role in the chorus, however it pans out.
    ‘Will you be the Barber?’ I ask.
    What an idiotic question for a
grown-up person who’s a computer expert.
    ‘I shall have to audition like
everyone else,’ says Andy, a touch smugly. ‘It is quite a good role for Daphne
because she can sit on the balcony for the first act.’
    ‘How did her operation go?’ I ask in
my concerned voice.
    ‘Not as successful as they’d hoped.’
    We’re nearly at Joanna’s now, but it
usually takes at least half an hour to find a parking space near her.
    I take a deep breath.
    ‘I’ve been meaning—’ I