Something I'm Not (19 page)

My shoes meet the tapestry runner bisecting the chancel. To the left I come to the iron base of the lectern, and the wooden feet of the pedestal bearing the statue of the Virgin Mary. Each is in its place. Perhaps I didn't—? But then how to explain the broken hymn books—? And fragments of plaster—?

I reach out and trace the column of the lectern. The iron is cold to the touch. And I remember how extraordinarily light it had seemed when I picked it up; not top-heavy at all. Maybe it wasn't the same object— a parish as wealthy as Dylan's surely has several – one for each day of the week, maybe. My fingers reach the gold- plated casing. Then, higher, until my eyes are level with the feet of the burnished eagle resting his claws on a globe.

My mouth is dry as I trace the folds of his wings. And then there, on the left wing, I find what I'm looking for. A dent the size of a grapefruit. And blue paint stuck in the hollow. Flicking it with my fingernail, it drifts down before resting on one of my shoes. I am unable to move, as though the flake has skewered me to the floor. And it's then that I know I must examine the pedestal next to the lectern. A collar of cold sweat tickles my neck, as though a door has opened somewhere and ushered in a gust of fresh air.

The damage is obvious. Deep gouges disfigure the column. Large splinters the size of cigars jut out at odd angles. And the wooden shelf is empty where once stood the Virgin Mary. Only half the ledge remains, with a narrow ridge of cobalt alabaster clinging to the wood. But someone has stood the pedestal upright, in defiance of the rampage. If anything, it appears more holy without its statue. And across the vacuum I can see straight through to the altar.

Someone has replaced the covers and righted the candlesticks. Care has been taken to ensure that any torn cotton is at the back of the altar. In the centre, a candle in a goblet flickers before the cross.
Someone lit a candle for me
, I think, as I buckle to the floor. And, as my knees smash on to the stone, I have an image of myself swinging at the statue with the lectern, smashing the bronze eagle through the plaster, severing the statue from its plinth.

I am vaguely aware of hurried footsteps, of arms enveloping me. A hand strokes my hair. Something tweedy supports my back and I sink into it, with jerky sobs. Tears dribble sideways into my left ear. And a familiar voice is telling me that it's all right, that it will all be all right. Had someone been watching from the choir stalls, they might have mistaken Dylan for a parent soothing a child after a particularly virulent nightmare.

‘I'm so sorry,' I eventually croak.

‘I know,' said Dylan, still stroking my hair.

I brace myself to withstand anger, but it never comes. After a while, I pull away slightly. ‘How did you know?'

He takes a long time to answer. ‘I didn't,' he finally confesses. The stroking continues. ‘I thought you'd been gone too long. That maybe the vandals had come back. So I ran to find you. And then I saw you reach out to touch the broken pedestal and somehow it all fell into place. You're cold,' he adds, rubbing his hand vigorously up and down my arm.

‘I'm afraid.'

‘Of what?'

I am trying
, I want to say,
to stop myself unravelling
. My emotions feel as though they are spilling out all over the place. I am that sack of damaged hymn books. I think of Matt, and the man in the plane. I think of Audrey, losing Dad, and of me, losing Dad. And how I miss my chats with Nicole over coffee. Tears prickle in my eyes. Another memory swells in my mind.

‘You know when we—?'

‘What?'

‘You know.'

‘Oh, yeah.'

‘It hasn't—?'

‘What?'

‘You know. Us—'

Dylan laughs softly. ‘Oh my little Bambi-bunny. Why do you always fear everything will fall apart?'

As he takes me back to his kitchen, I feel more settled somehow. Without even realising I'd been knocking, a door has been opened to me, a marvellous portal into a glittering world, rich in the holy grails of empathy and forgiveness.

Chapter Twenty-six

T
HAT EVENING
, Dylan frogmarches me to the church hall for the first
Company
rehearsal. It's the last thing I feel like doing, which is why Dylan has ignored my increasingly outlandish excuses. I resent his smug faith in keeping busy at times of distress, all the more so because I know he's right. At university, I watched, baffled, as he threw himself into the hammam of his social life following aborted romantic liaisons, whereas I would mope around, feeling like a rounding error in the overheads – he practically had to carry me to that pub where he introduced me to Matt.

Tonight he is calling in the chips, making me do his bidding with that practised air of someone used to cajoling parishioners.

*

By the time Bea calls a break, the cast is in shock. An hour spent on just the first forty bars of the opening song (difficult rhythms, multi-part harmonies), and everyone's shoulders have dropped; Julian has vicious cramp in his hands. There are whispers that some of the old guard are planning to boycott the Sondheim and mount
HMS Pinafore
.

‘How did we
do
this all those years ago?' wheezes Harry, thumping his chest before biting into one of Serena's flapjacks.

‘We were young,' says Jenny, reaching in to Serena's Tupperware tub and smiling as she brings out two flapjacks stuck together.

‘And we didn't have work the next morning,' says Clive, wiping fizzy drink foam from his moustache. As he says this, he glances at me.

This is just the kind of sentiment I would expect from a management consultant. Practical, and to the point, and just a teeny bit dull. And then I remember the angular, waxed leg. And how difficult it had been not to reach out and touch it. An image of Clive's airbrushed limbs in stockings and suspenders rears up to revolt me.

‘Well, some of us don't have to worry about work, because I've been made redundant,' I say quickly, tearing off a piece of flapjack. ‘No, really, I'm fine about it,' I add. Everyone's faces are rouged with well-meaning concern. ‘Well, I'm a lot more fine about it than I
was
, let's put it that way!' And everyone laughs, as I hoped they would, so we can drop the subject.

‘Well, I think that Bea woman ought to be shot,' says Serena abruptly. ‘I don't care if she's Dylan's friend, or colleague, or whatever. She had no right reducing Nicole to tears.'

‘She was just trying to instil some discipline,' says Harry, licking his fingers.

‘Yes,' I say, ‘but there's a time and a place. We are amateurs, after all.'

‘“
Very
amateur”, she called us. Remember?' says Jenny, picking at the burrs of stray flapjack that have stuck to her jumper. We all nod.

‘Well, all except you, my darling,' says Clive. ‘You're her favourite.'

Jenny blushes, and reaches into the flapjack tub. ‘I've just got big lungs, that's all,' she says, chewing.

‘But, I mean,' says Serena, ‘fancy making Nicole stand while we were singing—'

‘It's all about breathing—'

‘Yes, Harry, thank you. I'm well aware of the theories. You think after giving birth to five kids I don't know where my diaphragm is? Or how to breathe effectively? Dylan should have told her that Nicole's pregnant and has just lost her job. She's hardly showing yet, lucky thing,' Serena added.

‘What should I have done?' asks Dylan, as he approaches us, his smile too bright to convince me. Serena explains at length, snapping the lid shut on her tub as she does so.

‘Well, I— It's a bit tricky you see, because—'

‘Believe me,' cuts in Serena, ‘there is nothing more tricky than having to function normally when you feel like throwing up all the time, and your back's killing you and your breasts hurt and you just want to curl up and sleep for ever. Can you really imagine what it's like to be pregnant?'

‘You know I can't—'

‘Right. So don't try and tell me—'

Harry takes hold of Serena's arm and urges her to calm down. The rest of us stand in silence. I've never seen Serena so vexed.

Dylan stares at the floor. ‘I just came to tell you that Bea wants Harry, Serena and Jenny for their song. So perhaps we can talk about this another time, eh?' And he turns on his heels.

‘She's hormonal,' mouths Harry over his shoulder as he escorts his wife to the piano.

‘Does he mean she's pregnant?' I say, almost to myself.

I hadn't meant to engage Clive in conversation. Now that he and I are effectively paired off, I am left with an obscure sense of unease. I stoop to sweep nonexistent flapjack crumbs into my hand, to obliterate persistent thoughts of waxed legs and suspenders.

‘I didn't mean to offend you,' Clive murmurs, crouching down beside me. He touches my arm. ‘Don't be cross with me. I know why you're no longer working.'

I stand up and, once again, in a silent square dance, his movements echo mine.

‘Yes, it's all very odd,' I say, briskly.

‘Not,' Clive says, reaching into a carrier bag for two cans of diet cola and offering me one, ‘for a woman your age.'

I don't care to reflect on what he means, but I suddenly feel rather hot. I accept the drink, and take a long swig, staring into middle distance, as if expecting to see Rex there, gloating.

‘And I'd like to help you, if I may.'

If Clive had been an employment lawyer, I could have understood his proposal; as a management consultant, he's unlikely to be offering me a job. Perhaps he plans to ‘define a strategy' or ‘devise a rebranding', or whatever it is that management consultants do. I turn. His eyes have an odd glaze to them, and only one side of his moustache smiles. I look away again, barely able to swallow the liquid in my mouth. ‘Let me help you,' he says.

‘I don't know what you mean,' I say, stepping back.

‘Oh, I think you do,' he replies, taking a step towards me.

He stands so close I can see the droop of his eyelids, smell the glucose on his breath. There are droplets of drink on the hairs of his skunk's tail of a moustache. I'd think him drunk, were it not for the fact that he and Jenny are infamously teetotal. I move to place my can on one of the stacks of chairs along the wall, but he grabs my arm.

‘Believe me. I'm the man to help you.'

I glance over at the piano. Harry, Serena and Jenny are scrutinising the score. Bea stands with her hands at the place where her waist once was. I shake my arm free.

‘And I know what you and Matt must be going through.'

‘Don't drag him into this. Leave me alone.'

‘It's OK. He need never know.'

I turn to face him. ‘What on earth are you talking about?' I can guess, but I want to hear him say it. Or to prove myself wrong – presumptuous, even.

‘I can give you the baby you want. That's why you're leaving work. Yes?'

‘No,' I reply, coldly. ‘Rex has done a bunk with the firm's money.'

Clive ignores my denial. He is smiling. ‘It's nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of couples try for years. You and Matt are not alone. I would guess Matt is firing blanks—'

‘Clive!' I seethe. This is not the man I thought I knew. ‘Shut up.'

‘—because, you know, you need someone to make you relax. Matt's a great guy, but hey! Who ever heard of a laid-back shrink?' He laughs too loudly. Maybe he doesn't get much laughing practice in his office.

‘Have I missed the joke?' asks Jenny, approaching us.

Jenny and Clive stand side by side, the gap between them the shape of an empty wineglass.

*

Matt is sprawled on the bed, the TV remote on his stomach and his soft penis in his hand. He finds my account of Clive's proposition hilarious. Matt is especially tickled by the idea that he is thought uptight. Somehow the fact that another man thinks he's firing blanks bothers him not at all. Matt knows he's not, and that's the end of it.

I stomp into the bathroom. My husband's quiet self-confidence can be bloody annoying. I want to shake him, and say that his ability to body-swerve might be an asset on the rugby pitch of life, but could he just try to imagine once in a while what it's like being me, head down in the scrum, covered in mud and constantly losing control of the ball. In the bathroom, I slam the cabinet door shut. All the lipsticks inside topple over.

Matt comes to me, switching off the television. I could hear the commentary – his team was about to score an equaliser. ‘Heyyy!' he says, and slaps one of my buttocks. Our row the other day is but a mouse's breath in history; Matt has an enviable ability not to bear grudges. He opens his robe and envelops me, and we stand for some time inhaling each other's good scent. Outside, the familiar timbre of Big Ben spreads its tonal security blanket across slumbering central London. He wraps his arms around my naked waist and leans his chin on my shoulder. We stare at us in the bathroom mirror. Matt is tanned, his sandy hair bleached by the sun. I am shorter, and my brown roots are showing.
Isn't it warm? Isn't it rosy, Side by side, By side? Ports in a storm, Comfy and cozy, Side by side, By side?

Chapter Twenty-seven

M
OTHER'S
FEATURES
hover inches from my own. She is so close I can see the crossed wires of broken veins on her cheeks. Her mouth is a fish gasping for air, opening and closing without sound. I wince.

‘Your solar plexus is gritty this morning,' says Ginny, brightly, as she grinds her thumb knuckle into my right foot. The image of my mother is replaced by the sight of my own feet.

‘Yeah, well, my life's full of what you might call
grit
at the moment.'
Still
, I think,
pearls are made from specks of grit, aren't they
?