My Secret Lover

love
someone. Can we meet? I've got so many things I want to talk to you about. A
     
    Actually, I think I prefer it this
way. It's much easier talking to someone you've never seen. L
     
    You may have seen me. Even though you
may not have realized it's me. Intrigued? A
     
    Not really. Goodbye. L
     
    Clearly a stalker after all. Which is
what I suspected all along.

54
     
    ‘How about stories on the corkboard
and boats on that table?’
    ‘How about boats hanging from the
ceiling?’ Fern asks.
    ‘Great idea!’
    I love stuff hanging from the ceiling
on Open Evening. It gives the impression that you’ve done so much work, there’s
not enough room to display it all. It makes parents say ‘Wow, it’s like
Aladdin’s cave!’ as they come in.
    ‘What about the mini beast games?’
    ‘We could laminate the mini beast
games so they don’t get torn, then put them out on the tables so that parents
can play.’
    ‘Like a casino?’ I say, getting
slightly carried away. My classroom is going to turn into a gaming grotto, and
Mrs Vane’s will still look like a classroom.
    ‘Sunflower graphs over there, with
the sunflowers that haven’t died,’ Fern suggests.
    ‘Goodness, haven’t we done a lot of
work this year?’ I say. ‘Cup of tea before the hordes arrive?’
    ‘I’ve got to get going,’ says Fern.
‘Audition night.’
    ‘I’ve got Red Zinger,’ I say,
temptingly.
    ‘Just a quick one then,’ she says.
    We’re such a good team in the
classroom, I sometimes forget that whenever Fern and I try to venture further
into the realms of friendship, we have very little in common. And the trouble
with herbal tea is it takes so long to cool down. You can’t just slap in some
cold milk, and make a quick getaway.
    ‘How are you feeling about Andy?’
says Fern, eventually.
    ‘Andy and Daphne?’ I say, with
studied bright-and-breeziness.
    ‘Yes,’ says Fern.
    ‘The irony is that if I hadn’t made
her do Sandie Shaw properly, she wouldn’t have cut her foot and they never
would have become close at all,’ I say, blowing on the surface as regularly as
politeness allows.
    ‘Sandie Shaw?’ says Fern.
    ‘Hasn’t anyone told you about the New
Year’s Eve party?’
    ‘No.’
    Perhaps if I re-live it just one more
time, the dreadful shame will go away?
    ‘The scene is a church hall,’ I tell
her. ‘A mostly teetotal crowd of amateur singers has gathered around a piano. A
significant percentage of the men are wearing kilts. Enter Pissed Woman, who,
in vain search for more alcohol, discovers in the adjoining kitchen, a karaoke
machine which the WI have forgotten to return after their Christmas party.
After a word-perfect rendition of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon”, she hands the mike to
a fat lady
    God, I didn’t say, ‘It won’t be over
until you sing!’ did I?
    Yes I did.
    ‘When Fat lady starts singing “Puppet
on a String” in a ridiculously pretentious soprano, Pissed Woman boos and
insists she takes off her shoes for authenticity. You can guess the rest.’
    ‘It’s an ingrowing toenail,’ says
Fern.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Daphne has an ingrowing toenail so
bad they had to operate, and then she contracted one of those superbugs. Denise
is the one who cut her foot, but it soon cleared up after an aromatherapy foot
bowl.’
    ‘Denise was the fat one at your
party?’
    ‘She’s comfortably covered,’ says
Fern, who never likes to criticize.
    ‘She wasn’t Fiordiligi?’
    ‘No, she was Despina.’
    ‘Cosi fan fucking tutteV I say. ‘You mean I’ve been feeling
guilty all this time for nothing?’
    ‘Anyway,’ says Fern, ‘I hope it goes
well tonight!’ She hurries down the corridor.
    ‘You too!’ I shout after her. ‘Break
a leg!’
    That’s what you say to people about
to go on stage, isn’t it?
     
    Robbie’s dad is the dad from Hell.
His tattoo says so.
    I’m trying to explain tactfully the
need to help Robbie with his maths, when he snaps the workbook shut.
    ‘So, he’s all right with his sums.
But what about his behaviour?’ he asks, leaning forwards on his elbows.
    The table shudders. I’m surprised
that the little children’s chair he’s sitting on doesn’t buckle under his
weight. It’s not a particularly hot evening, but his biceps are glistening.
Call me old-fashioned, call me middle class, but is a black vest really
suitable attire for a parents’ evening?
    ‘His behaviour is usually fine,’ I
say.
    ‘Usually?’
    I think he must take anabolic
steroids