My Secret Lover

but
apparently she’s got the house on the market,’ says Joanna.
    ‘On the market? She never told me.’
    ‘She says whenever she tries to talk
to you about the future, you clam up.’
    I shall have to have words with my
mother. Or not speak to her again. Depending on how I feel.
    ‘Why has she got her house on the
market?’ I ask.
    ‘She’s planning to get a little
sheltered place, and spend the rest on a round-the-world cruise.’
    ‘Round-the-world cruise?’
    ‘Why shouldn’t she take advantage of
the property boom?’
    I can’t think of an answer to that.
Except I think I’ll be a bit lonely without her round the corner.
    ‘Why can’t you stay in one of your
own houses?’ I ask Joanna.
    ‘Norfolk’s too far to commute, and
the children still have two weeks school. Ditto Tuscany. Vlad will obviously
keep the Hamptons.’
    ‘Don’t you want us to stay?’
    Cy and Ry are standing in the arch
that leads from my kitchen to my living room.
    ‘Of course I want you to stay!’ I
say, bending down and hugging them with one arm each.
    Over their heads, I give Joanna an
I’m-not-at-all-happy-with-the-situation-but-we’ll-talk-about-it-when-the-children-are-asleep
sort of look.
    ‘Where’s our tent?’ says Ry.
    ‘Tent?’
    ‘Mum said it would be like camping,’
says Cy.
    Joanna is conveniently hunting in one
of my high cupboards for the proper coffee she bought me last Christmas.
    ‘I haven’t got a tent, but the sofa
is magic,’ I improvise.
    ‘Does it fly?’ asks Ry.
    God, they’re so spoilt!
    ‘No, but it becomes a bed if you tell
it to, so you can camp down here,’ I say.
    Cy looks doubtful.
    ‘Sofarus bedibus!’ he says, pointing
at it.
    We all watch it as if something’s
going to happen.
    ‘You have to have the magic wand,’ I
say. ‘But I’ve forgotten where I put it. I’ll try to remember when you’re in
your bath.’
    They’re clearly not convinced.
    ‘You’ll be in the same room as the
television,’ I say in desperation.
     
    I know I should be pleased, flattered
even, that my successful older sister chooses to land on me when she is in
trouble, as opposed to, say, getting herself a suite in a five-star hotel. It’s
just that the Big Brother highlights have become a bit of a habit, and
the language is far too strong for seven year olds.

52
     
    July
     
    ‘Are you coming to the wedding?’
    There’s great excitement in my
classroom.
    ‘Who’s getting married?’ I ask.
    ‘Gwyneth and Robbie!’ says Nikita.
    She runs outside.
    Usually, I go straight to the
staffroom at morning break, but I can’t miss this ceremony.
     
    In the far corner of the playground,
Gwyneth and Robbie are standing in the shade of an oak tree facing each other
holding hands.
    ‘You have to promise to love me for
ever,’ Gwyneth prompts.
    ‘Yes,’ says Robbie.
    ‘You’ve got to say, I do.’
    ‘I do,’ says Robbie.
    ‘I promise to love you for ever,’
says Gwyneth.
    ‘You didn’t say I do.’
    ‘I do. Then you say, till death us do
part.’
    ‘Till death us do part.’
    ‘Till death us do part,’ Gwyneth
echoes.
    A respectful silence has fallen on
the whole class.
    I look at these children whose lives
have coincided with mine in the second year of the twenty-first century and I
wonder how long we’ve got until death parts us all. Strange to be living in an
era where the technology will soon exist to prolong our life expectancy almost
indefinitely (I think that’s what I heard on Radio 4), or eradicate us in
minutes.
    I always feel a bit gloomy at
weddings.
    I think it’s the rites of passage
element.
    ‘The science of hope over experiment,
that’s what my mum always says,’ Nicole tells me wearily.
    ‘Oh, I made you a ring,’ Robbie
remembers, taking what looks like a blob of Blu-Tack out of his pocket. ‘It’s
got a bit squashed.’
    It could be the most valuable diamond
in the world as far as Gwyneth’s concerned.
    The solemnity of the occasion is
curtailed by a chorus of ‘Snog Time Snog Time Snog Time!’ from the rest of the
class.
    As Robbie kisses her, Gwyneth closes
her eyes.
     
    I always cry at weddings.
     
    ‘Hay fever?’ Richard asks.
    ‘End-of-year blues,’ I tell him. ‘I
don’t know if it’s the perilous state of the world that’s depressing me, or the
end of the World Cup.’
    ‘At least it was Brazil,’ he says.
    ‘I mean, what have we got to look
forward to?’ I ask. ‘Henman could win Wimbledon,’ he says.
    ‘Dream on,’