My Secret Lover

Andy.
    ‘It’s not Chicory Tip. They did...’
    Suddenly I can’t remember the name of
the song that Chicory Tip did. I could hum the intro. The intro went on for
ages. But what was it called?
    ‘Which group had a hit with “Tie a
Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree”?’
    ‘Chicory Tip,’ says Andy.
    ‘Hang on!’ I say.
    ‘Final answer?’ says Chris.
    ‘No!’ I’m screaming, but nothing’s
coming out of my mouth.
    ‘Final answer,’ says Andy.
    A bell rings.
    ‘Andy and the lovely Lydia have got £64,000, they can win £125,000 if the answer’s right. But we’re out of time...’
    The audience laughs.
    I cannot bring myself to look at
Andy.
    ‘Find out tomorrow...’ says Chris.
    The doorbell rings again.
    Normally on Millionaire, it’s
a hooter.
    I wake up sweating profusely.
     
    ‘OK, OK,’ I shout, getting out of bed
with the duvet still wrapped around me, which proves a bit of a problem going
downstairs because I’ve got a wrought-iron spiral staircase from my landing
straight into my living room and the duvet gets all tangled up in it.
    ‘What are you doing?’ Michelle’s
saying on the other side of the front door. I remember that she promised to
deliver my car back.
    ‘I’m stuck,’ I call.
    ‘I’ll shove the key through the box.
I’m late for my lymph drainage, and Michaela’s on a double yellow.’
    ‘What if I can’t free myself?’ I
call, sitting down on the second-to-top step. I can feel the cold metal pattern
imprinting on my bum. I’m clammy all over but also shivery, from a combination
of the dream and last night’s wine. How much did I have? I tug at the duvet,
but it only makes things worse. I’m almost weepy with hangover and failure and
bloody Andy losing us all that money over Chicory Tip. Chicory Tip, for God’s
sake! At least if you’re going to lose on Millionaire, do it with the
orbits of the planets, or something Biblical.
    ‘Who sang “Tie a Yellow Ribbon”?’ I
shout to Michelle.
    ‘Tony Orlando and Dawn.’
    I was right!
    We were not on Millionaire and
we have not actually lost any money.
    If I go back up the staircase the
duvet will come with me.
    There is no need to get to the door
because Michelle has pushed my car key through and it is waiting for me on the
mat.
    Michelle was right. We should
postpone the official start of the New Year until next week. That way I can
start my detox properly, on a Monday when it’s easier to keep to resolutions.
    My clock says I have just ten minutes
to shower and dress, but I have done it in six before, and anyway, I always set
the clock five minutes fast to give me the impression that I have to hurry.
    If the traffic’s not too bad, I may
even be early.
     
    The more I relax, slow down and
schedule in time for pure enjoyment, the more I accomplish every day!
    Fern told me I should say this to
myself in times of stress, while kneading my kidneys.
    I’m not actually sure where my
kidneys are.
    Think I am meant to say it out loud.
    The children in the back of the Volvo
in front are staring at me. I jig around a bit in my seat, pretending that I’m
singing along to the radio, which has the added advantage of a random massage
of most of my back.
    Amazingly the words go quite well
with the rhythm of ‘Murder on the Dance Floor’.
     
    The more I slow down da da,
    And schedule
    In time for pure enjoyment. Hey Hey
    The more I accomplish every day, hey
hey!
     
    The Volvo kids are watching very
intently as if lip reading when I remember that this may have been one of the
life affirmations I was meant to write down.
    I scrabble around in the glove
compartment for a piece of paper.
    The more I...
    The biro has dried up but if I press
hard enough the impression of the words stays on the paper which must count.
    The car behind is beeping at me.
    There’s air and tarmac where the
Volvo was.
    I only just make it through the green
light. In fact, it’s red when I go through but several cars follow me, so
that’s all right.
    The biro is rolling round the floor.
I reach down with one hand to pick it up because Andy once told me that a fatal
accident can be caused by a can of Coke rolling around the floor and getting
stuck under the brake pedal. Debris on floor while car is in motion is second
only to talking on mobile phone in Andy’s directory of car crimes, but how much
harm could a biro do?
    Beep! Beep!
    Oh F off your F-ing self!
     
    Four hundred children watch me
attempt to reverse into my space three