My Secret Lover

say.
    ‘That’s lucky,’ says Andy, with
lightning response on the indicator. ‘One right outside.’

46
     
    Joanna has gone for gold rather than
Union Jacks. There’s very clever lighting that makes it look as if the house is
swathed in gold silk curtains, and the balustrade on the roof terrace has
become a giant crown.
    Inside, minimalist is out and palace
kitsch is in. Red carpet, gold banisters, sculpture on pedestals and panelled
walls with trompe l’ceil portraits. There are liveried waiters, carrying
platters of canapes with little curls of gold leaf on top, and flutes of
champagne.
    The dress code was Gold, but all the
other females I can see are wearing black. Joanna herself has a little sleeveless
shift and some heavy gold Chanel jewellery. Being the perfect hostess she’s
gone almost as soon as she’s greeted us, leaving only a fleeting trace of her
perfume.
    ‘Linda!’
    Greg pops out from behind a
sculpture.
    ‘I don’t think you’ve met my fiancé?
Greg this is Andy.’
    It’s at times like this when a fiancé
comes in very useful.
    ‘Greg,’ says Andy, holding out his
hand.
    ‘I used to be known as Andy myself,’
says Greg.
    If he weren’t Canadian, I would think
he was taking the piss.
    ‘Why?’ I ask.
    ‘There were four Gregs in my class at
school, and my surname is Andrews.’
    ‘Well, Andy is his first name,’ I
say, taking my second glass of champagne, ‘So you will have to be Greg for
tonight.’
    ‘Whatever you say, Linda,’ says Greg.
‘You’re a lucky man, Andy.’
    ‘Thank you, Andy,’ says Andy.
    ‘Are you a performer too?’ says Greg.
    ‘I dabble,’ says Andy, with due
modesty.
    ‘Excuse me, I must say hello to the
children,’ I attempt to float off like Joanna does, but I’m wearing a small
heel.
     
    Cy and Ry and their friends are in the
garden throwing red, white and blue jelly at each other across the trestles
table that’s been set out for their tea.
    ‘Totty’s done such a beautiful Buckingham Palace cake,’ says Joanna, pausing for a moment beside me. ‘Seems a shame to cut
it.’
    Joanna never really liked getting
toys out of their original wrapping when we were little.
    She gazes at her offspring in a kind
of bewildered disbelief.
    ‘Totty?’ I ask.
    ‘The children’s caterer.’
    ‘Do you have an adult caterer as
well?’
    ‘Eddie did all the sub-contracting.’
    ‘Eddie?’
    ‘My party organizer. Darling, how
lovely!’
    She air kisses another woman in black
and they waft off together.
     
    *
     
    A couple of men are discussing England’s prospects against Argentina.
    ‘I don’t think Batistuta is the force
he was,’ I say. ‘I’m Lydia, Joanna’s sister, by the way.’
    They look at me like, yes, and what
is the reason for your interrupting our conversation?
    Parties always used to be about
meeting new people, but I think it must change when you’re successful or
married. Or perhaps it’s my dress.
    If I stand nearer the children I will
look as if I have a role.
    ‘Are you the entertainer?’ asks one
little girl, who has jelly in her hair.
    ‘No. I’m just a helper. What’s your
name?’
    ‘Matilda,’ says the girl.
    ‘She’s our aunt,’ says Cy.
    ‘You look like my gran’s armchair,’
says the girl.
    ‘I don’t want this!’ Ry hands me his
plate.
    ‘When is the entertainer coming?’
says the girl.
    ‘I don’t know if there is an
entertainer coming,’ I say.
    ‘When can I go home?’
     
    ‘Doesn’t three thousand pounds a term
buy you kindness and respect for other people as part of the syllabus?’ I ask
Joanna on her next waft.
    ‘I know, I know,’ she says both bored
and impatient at the same time. ‘But you should see the state schools round
here.’
    ‘Did you actually see them?’
    ‘It’s different when you’re a
parent,’ says Joanna. ‘Mimi! You made it!’
    More air kisses.
    ‘Whose idea was it to have a Jubilee
party?’ I ask.
    ‘Vlad’s of course. So American of
him!’
    Is it just the mood I’m in, or is
Joanna particularly sparkling tonight? I mean, if I’m honest, a little
oversparkling. Her eyes have a gleam. It may of course just be the flaming
torches, which are a bit dangerous when there are children throwing things, but
they do make my silhouette look very slim against the back wall of the garden.
    ‘Lydia,’ says Vlad behind me, ‘will
you move your car? It’s blocking the projection on the front of the house.’
    ‘Tell Andy. He’s driving,’ I