My Secret Lover

you know. And rather sweet.’
    We both look at the giant screen.
    ‘Whatever has happened to Paul
McCartney?’ says Joanna. ‘I used to dream about him. I used to think he was
singing “When I’m Sixty-Four” just to me, and now he is almost sixty-four and
honestly, I don’t think I’d even want to have him over to dinner.’
    ‘Not much of an advert for being rock
stars, were they, the Beatles?’ I say. ‘One murdered, one dies of a
smoking-related illness, one does the voice over for Thomas the Tank Engine, and one, well...’
    ‘All that winking was fine when he
was a cheeky lad in a suit, but now he’s like an uncle who thinks he’s a bit of
a character, and you have to laugh at his jokes because otherwise he won’t slip
you a tenner when he goes home,’ says Joanna.
    Just sometimes I get a glimpse of
what it must be like to sit across a negotiating table from her.
     
    ‘Plenty of walking in beautiful British Columbia,’ says Greg. ‘And a fair few nightclubs for Linda.’
    ‘It’s Lydia,’ says Andy.
    Quite forcefully, as a matter of
fact. I suddenly feel enormously affectionate towards him.
    ‘Shall we go now, darling?’ I say,
like proper people in grown-up couples do.
    ‘Darling?’ says Andy, as if it’s the
first time I’ve called him that.
    Actually, it may well be.
    ‘I’ve been trying to persuade Andy to
come to Vancouver,’ says Greg, the moment we’re alone together. ‘You can swim
in the sea in the morning, and ski in the afternoon.’
    ‘But who would want to, unless they
were training for a triathlon?’ I challenge him.
    That wipes the orthodontic grin off
his face.
    ‘I have actually been to Vancouver,’ I tell him. ‘And to me, a much more attractive feature was the number of good
sushi restaurants, but nobody ever mentions those. In fact, I had no idea how
good the food would be, because it’s always this skiing and swimming stuff. You
ought to take it up with the Tourist Board.’
     
    ‘Are you trying to be a better
person?’ I ask Andy in the car on the way home.
    ‘I think you’ve had a bit too much
champagne.’
    He switches on Classic FM.
    I reach forward and switch it off.
    ‘Better than what?’ he says, seeing I
mean to have a conversation.
    ‘Do you have a monthly direct debit
to charity, for instance?’
    ‘No. Do you?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘I pay my taxes. I reckon that’s my
debt to society paid in full.’
    ‘So, are you actually in the forty
per cent bracket?’
    Couldn’t stop myself. He looks a bit
taken aback. Which certainly means he is. Or he isn’t, and he’s embarrassed
because anyone who works in computers should be.
    ‘It’s not just about money, is it?’ I
say.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Being a good person.’
    ‘You tell me.’
    He’s very guarded. Almost as if he
has something to hide.
    ‘It’s about reaching out and touching
somebody else. It’s about trying to make this world a better place,’ I say.
    Am I quoting Tony Blair? Or Nelson
Mandela. I can’t remember.
    ‘Let’s have a CD,’ says Andy.
    The one that’s in the player is The
Greatest Juke Box Hits in the World compilation.
    The words are actually Diana Ross’s.
But no less wise.
     
    ‘Shall I come in?’ Andy asks, when we
reach my place.
    ‘I’m really tired,’ I tell him. ‘And
I’m going to the hospital first thing.’
    ‘We haven’t had sex since May 3rd,’
says Andy.
    ‘What happened on May 3rd?’ I ask.
    ‘We had sex.’
    ‘I meant why do you remember the
exact day? Do you make a note in your diary?’
    It’s a joke, but he doesn’t laugh.
    ‘I don’t believe it! You do, don’t
you? What do you use? A star?’
    ‘You’ve had too much wine,’ says
Andy.
    ‘But is it a star?’
    ‘If you must know, I just put a B,’
he says.
    ‘B?’
    ‘For bonk,’ he says.

47
     
    My mouse glides over:
    US Envoy in bid to reduce Kashmir tension
    and:
    Police estimate 2 million to
celebrate Jubilee
     
    There is one new message in my Inbox.
     
    Re: sacrifice
     
    Who is this fortunate baby? By the
way, I think you have me down as something more noble than I am, but I have
been having similar thoughts myself. Although, possibly a bit more Bob Dylan. A
     
    My godson. It's probably the age
difference. For me, profound means full orchestra, wall of sound, words you
don't really understand, but seem really meaningful, which you can belt out in
the car with the windows closed. Motown also very good.
    You're more protest poetry and