My Secret Lover

polish
off another flute of champagne.
    Vlad shoots a glance from my glass to
Joanna. It’s something he often does when he thinks I’m about to embarrass him,
even though it’s only happened once.
    It was a mistake to do corporate
entertaining on a pool terrace if he didn’t want anyone to go in. I didn’t
actually need rescuing, anyway, because I’m quite a good swimmer, even in an
evening dress, as it turns out. Like a mermaid, was the way one of Vlad’s nicer
colleagues put it.
    Joanna just stares at him. Vlad is
the first to look away.
    I feel as if I’ve been caught
eavesdropping on an intimate conversation, although nothing was said. Joanna’s
gleaming eyes stare at his back as he walks away, leaving a whiff of menace
behind him.
    I wonder if all is well between them.
     
    ‘I’m thinking of selling my car,
actually,’ I tell her. ‘If you’ve no objection.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I’m trying to be a bit more aware of
the environment.’
    I like the way that sounds. Rather
grown up.
    ‘Why don’t I get you one of those
sweet little Smart cars,’ Joanna suggests, beaming with the prospect of a new
purchase. ‘I saw one the other day painted like a ladybird.’
    ‘No, thanks.’
    ‘But they only use about one tank of
petrol per year!’
    ‘I wouldn’t be able to get the
children in the back,’ I say.
    ‘But you don’t have any children,’
she says.
    I hate my sister.
    ‘Your children,’ I say.
    ‘Oh, that’s a point,’ she says.
    ‘I saw my new godson being born last
night.’
    ‘Where?’ she says.
    ‘Northwick Park Hospital.’
    ‘How ghastly!’
    ‘It was rather beautiful, actually.’
    ‘Oh Lyd, don’t.’
    Champagne does sometimes make me weepy, and I was up most
of the night.
    Joanna puts her arm briefly on my waist.
    We must look a rather odd pair, one
effortlessly chic, cool and pallid, one who’s raided the dressing-up box, with
heaving shoulders and a red face.
     
    And mascara everywhere.
    Think I have had enough champagne as
took a moment to realize that the person sitting on the opposite loo in the
chintz dress is actually me.
     
    *
     
    ‘What you have to remember about
Rossini...' Andy is saying to Greg in the hall where I left them.
     
    The cake’s got candles that spit and
fizz like fireworks lit on top. There are a couple of Wows before it’s
destroyed in a frenzy that brings to mind the French Revolution.
    And then the children depart with
their nannies.
    I take Cy and Ry up to bed.
     
    ‘We’re lucky in British Columbia...’
Greg is saying to Andy as I pass them on the way down.
     
    A giant television screen has been
erected in the garden so nobody has to miss the Party at the Palace. ‘Have you
said hello to Greg?’ says Joanna.
    ‘He and Andy are taking it in turns
to bore each other,’ I tell her.
    ‘I read an article about your
relationship with that man the other day...’ says Joanna.
    ‘Is there no limit to my fame?’
    ‘...in the Observer, or was it
the Guardian ? Apparently it’s called downsizing. You’ve achieved
everything you want in life without a man. Except for a man. So when Mr Spectacular
doesn’t come along, you choose someone reliable for sex and support.’ Being a
good hostess, Joanna is speaking just a little bit louder than normal
conversation thereby inviting any spare people into the conversation.
    ‘Apparently, all the supermodels are
doing it. Kate Winslet...’ she adds.
    ‘She dumped him for Sam Mendes,’ I
say.
    Actually, there are so many things
wrong with this analysis of my relationship with Andy, there’s no point in
starting.
    And I think I preferred it when
Joanna couldn’t understand why I was marrying him.
    ‘Forget sex and support,’ says an
American woman in black Donna Karan who is living proof that you can be too
thin, and too tanned. ‘I just need someone to do something about mould in my
bathroom.’
    ‘I must give you Vaughan’s number,’
Joanna tells her. ‘He came with the conservatory. Damp is his speciality!’
     
    ‘In Vancouver, you can swim in the
sea in the morning, and ski in the afternoon,’ Greg is saying.
    ‘I’m really more of a walker,’ Andy
replies.
    I hurry past in search of a waiter.
     
    ‘Do you think Canadians actually have
to sign a contract with the Tourist Board as part of their passport
application?’ I ask Joanna.
    ‘Actually, he’s not officially
Canadian. His parents moved there when he was fifteen.’ Joanna replies. ‘He’s
terribly rich,