Something I'm Not (3 page)

‘Only because he fancied the cox. Dylan couldn't move through water if you sewed on an outboard motor. But he's a
vicar
.'

‘Absolutely. And you have to be straight.'

‘Seriously?'

Nicole sets her drink down on my desk blotter and proceeds to finger-comb her hair. ‘Actually, I'm not sure about that one. He could go abroad, where the rules aren't so strict.'

I choke on a mouthful of coffee. ‘You mean, he might get a child from overseas?'

‘Absolutely!' laughs Nicole, picking up her cup again and noisily sucking a mixture of chilled milk and air through the straw. ‘But stop being so xenophobic, yaar? We foreigners aren't quite as awful as you might think. And Dylan's bound to make you godmother. How many would that make in your portfolio?'

‘Six, at last count.'

Nicole pouts her approval. ‘How on earth do you tell them apart?'

‘It's all on a spreadsheet.'

‘Achha? A spreadsheet.' We both laugh – Nicole because she assumes I'm joking, and me because I know I'm not.

‘Of course, it doesn't just feature godchildren. It records all the kids of people I know. Look.' I click my mouse and, when I've located the right file, swivel the screen to Nicole. I list out the columns: ‘Date of birth, full name (including Hebrew alternatives where appropriate), eye colour, presents bought, presents requested, hobbies, allergies—'

‘Ye-gods!' says Nicole, in that slangy, old-fashioned Hinglish of hers that I adore. ‘Boys' names in blue, girls' in red?'

‘And duplicates are underlined.'

‘Don't you get bored of being so anal?'

My skin prickles. I have to remind myself that Nicole is my friend. ‘Don't all godmothers do this?'

‘Dominic was made a godfather once, but he can't remember who to.'

‘Oh, right. You and Dominic still—?'

‘On and off, yaar. Can't remember why, but there we are. Probably something to do with the fact that he doesn't keep banging on about having kids.'

I smile. With that defiant, if suspiciously un-English, ‘e
'
(Nicole's parents spent their honeymoon in the former French colony of Pondicherry), Nicole was apparently often overheard as a child voicing a desire to grow up to be an expensive toy. A First in Psychology and a successful career appear not to have dimmed such ambition.

*

During the morning, my mood seesaws. Interviewing candidates, or phoning them to tell them they've got the job, are absorbing tasks. Also, my dad rings, to let me know that he and Audrey got home safely this morning. We chat, although I steer clear of mentioning Dylan's announcement. But, between one task and the next, panic flares up like toothache in a cavity. Dylan is planning to have children. How could he! And, how could he – in the sense of how will it happen? I grip the sides of my desk until my knuckles are tinged with white.

My friends fall into two camps: not gay and straight, as Matt once scientifically observed, but child-ful and child-free. On the one side, I'm aware of an ever-increasing regiment of wailing, overtired creatures, whose self-obsessed behaviour is acted out in the name of their demanding offspring. On the other side stand Matt and me.

Our outriders are Dylan and Nicole, flanked by Jenny and Clive, who, despite being the first of my college gang to marry, have never seemed inclined to spawn. Which we all tease them about, since one would fear for children born to a father with such a droopy, unfashionable moustache and a mother who has a penchant for bright, voluminous knitwear. Clive is a skinny management consultant. There is something of the angle-poise about him. Jenny is not skinny. She has an amazing singing voice, mellifluous with a rasp to it, honey dripping over the honeycomb. But she is one of life's mice; and I have always been privately intrigued, given her size, how easily someone as talented as Jenny can recede into the background. Perhaps that's why she favours such raucous jumpers.

That Dylan is now switching sides constitutes, in my humble opinion, an act of extraordinary selfishness and betrayal.

*

‘So, yaar, what have you bought the twins?' asks Nicole, extracting a pack of moist tissues from her bag and wiping her manicured fingers before tackling her sandwich. (W
e regret to inform you of the temporary closure today of the staff canteen due to staff training
.)

‘They asked for guitars,' I reply, as I prise open a tub of salad and select the one cherry tomato. We have both had our respective client lunches cancelled and are relishing the freedom of eating without cutlery. ‘Serena and Harry will kill me.'

Nicole shakes her head. ‘Serena won't. With five daughters in the house, another hundred decibels won't make that much difference. And Harry won't notice – he's a teacher. He's congenitally oblivious to group disruption. Nicole dabs at the corners of her mouth. ‘Now, ask me what I've bought them. I have bought', she continues excitedly, ‘a bead kit for Eloise to braid her hair, and glittery playing cards for Esme. And, unlike you, I'm not even their godmother. I am so kind!' she laughs. ‘Those children will remember my presents for the rest of their lives.'

‘Don't be daft. Do you remember what your godparents gave you when you were five?'

‘Not much need for godparents, given that several generations of my dad's family all lived together in the same compound in Delhi.'

I struggle to imagine what having lots of relations around must feel like. Both my sets of grandparents died in the war, neither my dad nor my mother has siblings, and by the time I was four my parents had lost touch with the couple they'd made my godparents.

‘But that's not the point,' continues Nicole. ‘These girls will remember me—'

‘—when they're in therapy with Matt,' I laugh, ‘whingeing about the stereotypical presents they got as kids. We scar them for life! We buy them the presents we wish we'd had as children. And, when they grow up, they'll do exactly the same.'

‘At least we
give
presents and bother to show up for parties, na. Remember last year? Very bad form to forget a godchild's birthday. Still, Ed was single back then. I wonder if he'll make it to the party this afternoon in person, or simply delegate to the lovely Louisa.'

I stop chewing. ‘Ed won't be at the party.' I fork my salad leaves lazily, whilst Nicole prods my arm, demanding clarification. ‘You and I are collecting Louisa
en route
.'

‘So he's coming on later?'

‘Ed's left Louisa.'

‘Achha! When? How?'

‘Last week. On a plane. With his new woman.'

‘Ye-gods! Typical Ed. He's so fickle.'

‘And Louisa's so pregnant.'

Nicole's beautiful brown eyes widen. ‘So that's why we haven't seen them for months!'

We pick at our meal in silence, although my appetite, at least, has dwindled. It seems the only thing to do.

Chapter Five

T
HE NIGHT
I wore my white jeans and cooked him
coq au vin
, Matt told me about his sister. When he was six years old, nearly seven, his parents told him they were going to have a lovely surprise, a miracle – which turned out not to be the genuine Springboks rugby shirt he'd been begging for, but instead a brother or sister, and Matt could choose the name. He called the baby-to-be Lesothosaurus, after his toy dinosaur, but his parents said it had to be a proper name, and began calling the bump Carl or Hannah, depending on whether it was kicking in Mummy's tummy or just fluttering. But Matt did get to help paint the room overlooking the orange orchards as a nursery, and got to tell all his friends at school that a baby was coming in time for Christmas.

And one night the baby came, although Harvest Festival was only just over. Matt woke to the sounds of a wounded animal groaning, and people running up and down the corridor. When he opened his door, the maid Phoebe rumbled past him in a blur of blue cotton, carrying the huge saucepan she used for making stews, and slopping water on to her large maroon slippers and the carpet. The howling got louder, followed by low moans, and seemed to be coming from his parents' bedroom. Lesothosaurus in his hand, Matt was about to check out the source of the noise, when his father burst out of the room, pushing Phoebe in front of him, and screaming at her to get more water, more towels. Phoebe heaved her frame down the corridor and, when she passed Matt standing in his doorway, the tears streaming down made her black face all shiny.

‘Don't shout at Phoebe,' he yelled at his father, and slammed shut his bedroom door. He went to sleep with his hands over his ears.

In the morning, his father came and sat on his bed. His hair was all messed up and his eyes were bloodshot, the same as when he and the farm manager would return from a day in Johannesburg, selling oranges at auction. His father said he was sorry for shouting and he hoped that Matt would forgive him. And then he screwed a clump of blanket in his fist, and told Matt about his little sister, a delicate angel too good for this world, who had come for a visit and then gone away.

His father was looking at the wall. Matt had an uncomfortable churning feeling in his tummy. So, with his hand clutching Lesothosaurus under the bedclothes, he asked in a whisper whether he was going to be sent away soon, too. And his father had fled the room.

Chapter Six

D
EARLY BELOVED
.

Dylan married Matt and me in his church. The building squats in a cul-de-sac like a toad, between a 1960s tower block and a derelict candle factory. Carbon black from decades of grime, its buttresses and stumpy spire are as warts on a natterjack. But appearances can be deceptive. Inside, there's a reredos of beaten gold beneath a dado of carved alabaster. From the nave, one's eye is drawn high above the altar to a triptych of stained-glass windows, representing in glowing colours the Father, Son and Holy Ghost of the Trinity. In their design are patterns of such richness and dreamlike unreality that each window blends into one harmonious composition. They are windows of such beauty they feature in guidebooks.

Dylan enjoys the mismatch between inside and out. It symbolises for him the essence of religion, how the inner is more important than any outer show. I've never really taken much notice of the architecture. I'm drawn instead to all the drama – what Dylan calls the smells and bells. I don't have faith, as such. Haven't had since my early childhood prayers went unanswered.

My faith is in Dylan.

Do you, Amber?

We met at university, reading English. Dylan, with his explosion of ginger curls, favoured contemporary writers, and embraced deconstruction. Back then I wore my hair in a ponytail, and found comfort in the formal social codes of Dickens and James. Dylan read voraciously, scribbling frantic notes and disagreements in the margins, cracking the spines as he splayed the books, the better to devour and digest the words. I bought little plastic covers for my books, and kept their spines in mint condition.

Mesmerised in lectures by Dylan's habit of scrawling the letters ‘AMDG' at the top of all his notes, I was in awe of his devotion to God. I imagined a life rich with spiritual meaning. Later I learned this was a misconception, that it was in fact a ritual left over from a failed love affair with a Catholic boy in the village.

Do you take this man?

If I now attend church at all, it's to enjoy the changing altar drapes of the church year; to be moved by the sight of Dylan's hands placed on the heads of children, their hair enamelled by the wands of light filtering through the stained glass; or to see his arms raised for the final blessing, striking the pose he once adopted as Salieri in a college production of
Amadeus
. I go out of friendship, although I suspect that something in the church's quiet rhythm, its annual calendar or its daily rituals, has drawn me in. A toad catching a fly.

For our wedding, Jenny, in a yellow cashmere cardigan chosen to match the freesias in my bouquet, sang Sondheim's ‘Being Alive'; a performance so moving that the congregation felt compelled to clap. And Dylan delivered a sermon, urging us to take the risk, and find the joy in each other.

Do you promise?

*

‘So, we never finished talking about Ed and Louisa, na,' says Nicole, switching off the intercom to stop the taxi driver listening. ‘What else did she tell you?'

‘Said he phoned from the airport, to say that he needed to sort a few things out, and that she ought to think about an abortion.'

‘Eeshhh!' says Nicole, reaching into her grosgrain handbag for a comb. ‘He cuts to the chase. And Louisa said?'

‘Nothing much. Hang on – excuse me, it's right at the next lights, and then second on the left. Where was I? Oh yes, and her mother's staying with her in Ed's flat.'

‘But is Louisa going to keep the baby? That's the most pressing thing, surely?'

‘I got the feeling it's all a bit late for that.'

‘Catholic?' asks Nicole, combing at a particularly resilient knot.

‘No, just too late all round. Poor girl.'

‘No wonder we haven't seen them for months.' We both stare thoughtfully out of our respective windows of the taxi. ‘So, approaching forty obviously hasn't made Ed grow up.'

‘Yeah, midlife crisis,' I say. ‘And his secretary's also taken the week off. Yes, where that mini's parked, thank you. Look, Louisa's on the doorstep. She must have heard us turning into the street. Oh the poor thing – she looks exhausted,' I add.

Nicole opens the taxi door and steps on to the pavement. ‘Hello Lou. Look, leave that bag on the pavement, I'll get it. You step in.'

I register the stony pallor of Louisa's skin. It emphasises her wide, green eyes. ‘Hi, Lou. Do you want to sit facing the driver?”

‘Thank you, Amber, yes,' she says, heaving herself in with effort. Her high voice, with its refined elocution, sounds watered down somehow. ‘I still get queasy, even this late in the afternoon.' Her lips barely part as she speaks, as if she's scared she might throw up at any moment. I want to hold her, rub her back or something, but I'm afraid I'll make her feel worse.