Read Online My Secret Lover by Imogen Parker - Free Book Online Page A

and, frankly, it’s less than two copies of Harpers and
Queen, which I shall read sitting here for free, as well as Tatler,
Vogue and Elle Decoration at no extra cost. Nevertheless, I can’t
get over the feeling that it’s bad to bribe children. I put down the magazine
guiltily and pretend to be trying to go, when Joanna comes into her en suite to tidy her hair.
     
    If my life were a film, which it
wouldn’t be because nothing ever happens, Joanna would be played by Kristin
Scott Thomas. She has a fragile English beauty that’s hung on a skeleton of
steel. But she’s not just beautiful. She knows how to put on make-up without
looking orange, how to spray perfume so that it follows her around rather than
announcing her arrival like a liveried herald at a ball. She makes good, quick
jokes, she has an instant grasp of the complexities of conversation, she can
quote any number of poets, politicians, playwrights, and yet she still knows
exactly when to defer to her husband or guests. If she was anyone else’s
sister, I would hate her. But since she is mine, I am just crazily proud of
her.
    I should tell you that Joanna is
really good to me. She bought me my car. If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t
have chosen one of the new Beetles in lime green, but that’s mainly because I
would have been pushed to afford a second-hand Corsa with nought-per-cent
finance. She bought me my purple Power Mac and my fondant pink Smeg fridge. In
fact, she’s always buying me hugely expensive items in amusing colours.
    I sometimes wonder if she missed out
on childhood, or if I got a double dose, like I did chickenpox.
     
    *
     
    ‘That’s it. I’m ringing Lester first thing tomorrow.’ Joanna’s
speaking to my reflection in the mirror whilst peering at the top of my head
and miraculously applying a coat of mascara to her eyelashes without smudging.
    ‘Lester?’
    ‘My colourist. You’re going grey!’
    I touch the bit she is staring at, as
if that will restore its colour.
    ‘It’s just Creme Egg.’
    She looks at me oddly.
    ‘Creme Egg?’ she says, pronouncing
the cream the French way, as if it’s a new styling product.
    ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say, remembering
that the boys are not supposed to have sugar.
    ‘Come down when you’re ready,’ she
tells me, as she wafts out of the bathroom. ‘It will be nice for you to meet
some new people.’
    Joanna always manages to make it
sound like she’s doing me a favour when I babysit at zero minutes’ notice.
     
    ‘This is mv sister Lydia!’
    ‘Hello!’
    ‘Drink?’ Joanna’s husband Vladimir
asks.
    Vladimir sounds Russian, but is in fact American. It’s
the sort of exotic but eminently sensible combination that Joanna goes for.
They honeymooned in India, ferried from luxury hotel to Maharaja’s palace in a
white convertible Bentley. In the movie, Vladimir would be a younger Michael
Douglas because of the Slav cheekbones and the sheer wealth. Even though I can
see that Vladimir is perfect for Joanna, I don’t really like him. He thinks I
drink too much, which he wouldn’t if he were a real Russian.
    ‘Water, please. Sparkling, if you
have it.’
    It’s worth it just to see the
surprise in his slightly dangerous eyes.
    ‘Lydia’s simply brilliant with the
boys,’ Joanna says, as the guests look at me, waiting for my presence to be
explained. ‘I won’t bore you all with our au pair nightmare...’
    Cue three other couples relating
their staff horror stories, which includes one couple who recently found their
fourteen-year-old son giving cunnilingus to the French art student who does the
ironing.
    ‘While she was ironing?’ I ask,
trying to picture it. The assembled company stares at me.
     
    London dinner-party conversation is more like
conjugating verbs than actually talking. It goes something like this:
    My Croatian au pair has such
hangovers she can’t get the children up for school,
    Your French ironing lady has sex with
your son, His Macedonian gardener