Something I'm Not (7 page)

The prospect of Dylan's presence in my house provides my final delaying tactic, the mission of feeding him. It's essential, if one is to escape censure from the invisible judge hovering all one's life at one's shoulder, not simply to be occupied, but to be
seen
to be occupied. And so the Saturday evening is planned with meticulous precision. Matt will be on duty at the hospital, overdosing on microwaved pizza; Camp David is hosting a summit with Caryl, who wants a divorce. And Dylan and I will be alone. Plenty of time to talk.

*

The sound of cats bounding up the stairs, their nails catching on the sisal, announces Dylan's arrival.

‘I suppose it was too much to hope you'd get a takeaway?' he says, following me down into the kitchen.

Yes, thank you, my father's funeral was fine
, I think
.
My eyes fill with water, which I wipe away with my sleeve. ‘And what's wrong with my cooking?' is what I actually say.

‘Bambi, darling, you know I adore your little meals, and they're very worthy and nutritious. But if God hadn't meant us to eat junk food, he wouldn't have invented McDonald's.'

‘He didn't,' I snap. I hate it when Dylan calls me Bambi. I know he means it sweetly, and it's part of that whole ponytail thing I had at university, but I always think it makes me sound weak and abandoned.

‘He did. It's called temptation.
Deliver us from evil, and lead us not into McDonald's
. My mother couldn't spear an olive, and it hasn't done me any harm.' He loops his arms around my waist.

‘And how
is
Pamela?' I ask, pouring another Pamela-sized glass of wine into the risotto.

Dylan groans. ‘Mother's obsessed with this forthcoming production of
Company
in my church hall. I rue the day I ever mentioned it. She's demanding the part of Joanne.' He sneezes.

‘Which one is Joanne?'

‘The older alcoholic, which you have to admit is typecasting! God, how much garlic have you put in that food?' demands Dylan, sneezing again.

‘None, Nigella.' I hand Dylan a box of tissues.

‘Why don't you audition?'

‘I haven't got time.'

‘It'll take one evening.'

‘Not the audition, the whole thing – rehearsals, learning the lines—'

‘But Bambs, I need ballast. She keeps going through that whole
Oh, I know the perfect song to sing at the audition
theatrical thing she does, raking her hair, standing in ballet position one. And when I try to explain that it wouldn't look good if the vicar's mother gets one of the leads (like anyone would care, but I'm not going to tell
her
that), she puts on her wounded act, her
I can't believe a son would do this to his own mother
tone—'

I ask Dylan to pass me the bowls in the oven. He sneezes again, so I get them myself.

‘Did the retreat fill you with special Holy Spirit,' I ask, ‘or have you got the 'flu?'

‘I don't know. I felt fine down in Cornwall. The sun shone, and we had some terrific discussions. Especially about the whole gays in the Church thing. Maybe it's being back in London.' He sneezes once more, and peers into the saucepan. ‘You haven't used any dairy products in this, have you?'

‘No,' I smile sweetly. ‘Just cat meat.'

*

Two bowls scraped clean lie abandoned on the carpet. Candles flicker, casting St Vitus's dance shadows on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the spines lined alphabetically. The cats have draped themselves over Dylan on the sofa. Watching them and their easy camaraderie, I am filled with a nameless dread. If only I could be sure that this whole Adoption issue was a joke. I'm on the point of broaching the subject when Dylan nudges the cats off his chest, rummages in his
baise-en-ville
and brings out a small plastic bag of weed.

‘Don't look so
pi
at me, darling,' he says, rolling his eyes. ‘You should see us at all-night vigils. The PCC is planning to remove all the toilet cistern tops in the church hall next week.'

I look on as he rolls the joint, and angles his smoke away from me.

‘Did you know', he continues, ‘that every year, vicars in villages in the south of France are presented with the best sheep of the flock?—'

There's an odd tone to Dylan's voice, and I can't quite pin it down. Then my heart starts to pound. He's emigrating to France, I think. I've pushed him away. ‘France,' I say casually, as though considering the name of a popular mutual friend I secretly loathe.

‘—and I was thinking how marvellous it must be to be part of a community where one is really respected. Where tradition counts for something.'

Now I think of it, Dylan sounds sad. He really
must
be thinking of moving to France.

‘So, receiving farm animals is the new barometer of self-worth? What's brought this on?'

‘Oh, I'm always down after retreats. Everyone's open, there's no pretence. I'm on a spiritual high. And then I come back to so-called cosmopolitan London with a bloody great bump. And I have to pretend to be something I'm not.'

‘You mean, concealing the fact that you're gay?' I laugh. ‘As if no one could tell!'

Dylan looks peeved. ‘As I've told you before, I'm discreet. The church has, until now, favoured discretion.' He takes another long drag on his joint. ‘But anyway, it looks like I won't be able to hide for much longer.' I frown. ‘I should've known as soon as the press jumped on the queer-bashing bandwagon over the ordination of gay bishops that I'd have to watch my back.'

‘What do you mean? I thought the media was quite accepting nowadays.'

‘Simon's crawled out from under his stone. Claims he's sold his story to a tabloid.'

My eyes widen at this compelling hearsay. ‘Good grief ! Simon? Why?'

‘Because as we know, he is prurient.'

‘Yes, but what I mean is, why now?'

‘Because, Simon's not a property developer for nothing. He always could spot a good commercial opportunity when he saw one. After all, what could be more lucrative, not to say topical, than an interview with the ex-lover of a gay vicar. One practising in smart hermetically sealed Chelsea, no less.'

‘But your parish isn't in Chelsea,' I snort. ‘It's in one of the poorest bits of South London!'

‘That's not what it's going to say in the
News of the World
, is it? When this gets out, I'll be a laughing stock.'

‘You mean, if this gets out, you'll be out of a job!'

Dylan crushes his joint into his bowl, where it sizzles feebly. ‘By then, I'll have ceased to care. I'm fed up with the straitjacket – no pun intended. I've known some two-faced Christians in my time, who think it's OK to be pleasant to your face and lethal behind your back, but living like this is wretched.'

‘You would care,' I murmur. ‘You love your job. It's just your bishop you hate.'

‘I know,' Dylan sighs. ‘I heard him on the radio this morning, pontificating in the God slot about the shameful practice of gays buying babies in from abroad. Christ, it makes me want to scream.
God is love
? The man doesn't know the meaning of the phrase.'

‘So, I imagine, given the current climate, you and David have given up thoughts of adopting?' I tip my head to one side, trying to construct an expression of compassion.

Dylan closes his eyes and beams. ‘Ah, David. I'm so lucky to have found him.' His eyes spring open. ‘The question is, what did you think of him? I never had time to ask you after your dinner, what with the retreat and everything.'

Ignoring the slight jealous rumple to my equilibrium, I pretend to consider the question as though for the first time. David is older, the father Dylan never had. Yet everything about him seems unfeasibly brand-new and shiny, a performance consistent with his successful career as a rebranding consultant. He mimes quotation marks when speaking certain words; he wears silk khaki cargo pants; he shops, I suspect, at Conran. The question, I realise, is how to lie to Dylan convincingly.

‘David is someone I admire,' adds Dylan, before I can commit perjury. ‘He leaves a wife of thirteen years to be true to himself. That takes courage. He's not afraid to be ridiculed for what some might call a midlife crisis. He's sexy, and funny, and bright, and kind, and I adore him. Above all, he's got integrity.' The beatification of St David now complete, Dylan leans back with his arms clasped behind his skull. ‘Oh, and he really likes you, by the way. That's almost the most important thing. That he should love you as much as I do.'

Can I trust that there can ever be enough love to go round?

*

It's a familiar enough scene. A man and a woman, standing at the sink at the end of an evening. One washes, the other dries. One rabbits on about babies, the needs of small children, the importance of stable families, the thrill of shopping for tiny clothes. The other listens cautiously, afraid to hear too much, practising in their head attempts to change the subject. One recounts an amusing introductory meeting where they met couples who have already adopted, and some who plan to, to learn what might be involved. How plans for the next few months must accommodate home visits from social workers, and questionnaires, and lengthy chats with family and friends.

And all this time the other is, without realising it, holding their breath, terrified that all this talk of procreation-by-proxy will dismantle the barriers they have worked so hard to keep in place – internal barriers erected long ago to keep out unresolved conflict – terrified that, once the barriers are down, all the years of unexplored longing will explode, and herald personal disintegration.

Chapter Eleven

I
WAKE AT NINE
. An easterly wind wafts faint chimes from Big Ben through the open window. Matt crawled into bed an hour ago, having spent the night assisting nursing staff in restraining a violent patient attempting to abscond, and cajoling another with a paranoia that the carpets harbour spies to emerge from her locked bathroom. We sift through the Sunday papers with, I am ashamed to admit, mounting excitement, only to discover that Simon's treachery has been universally usurped by a compelling exclusive of celebrity infidelity.

At three-thirty, I arrive at Ed and Louisa's. The invitation has been in the diary for weeks – a barbecue on their Tuscan stone patio overlooking one of London's smartest squares; an opportunity for Ed to grill meat and refute the myth that he is only dating Louisa for her skills as in-house cook at his investment bank.

Ed will not now, of course, be present, having moved in with his secretary. Ed is another of my university coterie. Over time, our shared experiences (lectures, parties, hangover cures) have proved more durable than Ed's manifold dalliances. These were often so short-lived that I noted each woman's passing with no more enthusiasm than I would had she been a tree glimpsed at speed from one of Ed's sports cars.

In his break-up with Louisa, I am torn. Perhaps it's inevitable that at times of crisis women feel mobilised to show solidarity, to critique the sexes and find men wanting. Hadn't we,
the girls
, dis-invited the boys, replaced the barbecue with scones and éclairs, to offer Louisa our unstinting support? But I don't want to spend the afternoon belittling men. Gatherings of women make me wary.

And yet, while not wishing to diminish the trauma of Louisa's own predicament, I have found Ed's vanishing act unsettling. When Louisa telephoned with the news of her pregnancy (requesting a lift to the twins' birthday party), I felt suddenly cold all over. And, after that call, I noticed I'd covered my blotter with doodles of three- dimensional boxes.

‘Did you know your skirt's covered in cat fur, yaar?'

‘Bloody Dylan's apparently allergic to the cats, so we're lumbered with them. And no, Nicole, it's not funny. Hello, I'm Amber.'

‘Please, call me Prue.' The middle-aged woman now shaking my hand has the alert features of a lioness listening for the local pack of wild dogs.

‘What's in the tin, Amber?' someone asks me. I've made dairy- free cheesecake. Prue says she'll fetch a plate from the kitchen. I sit down on an uncomfortable slatted-wood lounger.

‘How are you feeling, Louisa?'

‘Not too bad, thank you,' replies a high voice strained through tight lips, ‘I haven't been sick at all today.' Louisa's green eyes seem larger, more naive than ever, her face gaunt; a portrait of grief and catastrophe covered with a light foundation of resignation.

‘We were talking babies' names before you arrived,' says Jenny, hovering near the butler's table and stroking a bead-edged jug- cover. The patio is a furnace (the clipped shrubbery provides only a bonsai level of shade), and I swear Jenny is wearing her thickest sweater. If my cleavage was as fabulous as hers, I'd let everyone see it.

‘Oh, great,' I say, briskly. ‘I love the whole business of choosing names.' Nicole smiles, and mouths the word ‘spreadsheet' at me. ‘Do you know yet whether you're having a boy or a girl?' I believe it sensible to eliminate half the choices.

‘Not yet. We thought—, that is—, I—, no
we
had decided not to find out,' Louisa suddenly leans forward, her eyes straining out of their sockets, ‘but I was thinking that maybe, if I did find out, and managed to get hold of Eddie and told him, it might make him more responsive, you see, if he could actually visualise a boy, say, rather than a girl. And then he, you see, he might—' Her voice tails off as her mother approaches armed with a large china plate in one hand and a cake knife in the other.

‘Well,' I say brightly, ‘what names are on your shortlist?'

Wilting in the heat, Louisa hands me a slim paperback, before sinking back into her chair and closing her eyes. Several pages are marked with slips of paper. I steal a glance at Nicole, whose wide- eyed nod confirms that the afternoon has indeed been as stilted as it feels. I open the book at random and see that ‘Merlin' has been highlighted in pink.
Ye-gods
, as Nicole would say.
No wonder Ed absconded
.