Something I'm Not (17 page)

‘Their misplaced sympathy.'

‘They won't think that. Just tell them about Rex.'

I know Dylan's right, and yet I also know it's really my mother, choirmistress to the reproachful, who loiters in the cloisters of my soul, poised to anoint her child with ash crosses of disappointment. And now those massed ranks in the choir-stalls have been joined by Nicole, with whom I had the briefest of conversations this morning in the office, while snaffling things from the bailiffs. She said, only partly in jest I think, that what I needed now, yaar, was a new project – like pregnancy! Just remembering this makes me reach for the increasingly sprouty hairs at my crown.

I interrupt pulling my hair to grab another biscuit.
It's time we all stopped being selfish, na
, Nicole had said, as I held open the door for her. Her words stung me with the force of whiplash. And as I turned to her to say goodbye, it was my mother I saw leaning against the jamb.

Without the structure of my career, I fear I might fall apart. How I long to be brave enough for change.

*

After leaving Dylan to the one o'clock Mothers' Union (which borrows his kitchen of a Wednesday to make copious amounts of Cup-a-Soup, and which he tolerates because it means he gets a free hot meal), I hesitate on the pavement, unsure which way to go. The trees in the street are beginning to shed their plum and golden leaves; they make loud, satisfying cracks when I step on them. From an open window further down the street, I can hear Britney Spears belting out a tune – even she, it seems, is asking to be given a sign.

I walk slowly without any clear purpose, and find myself eventually outside Dylan's church. It isn't all that welcoming from the outside. But it is at least familiar, and I stand for a moment in the porch to consider my options.

Inside, the cool air is dense with a sneeze-inducing cocktail of floor polish, old incense and musty prayer books. I breathe deeply, and make my way to the pew at the front. Ahead of me is the golden reredos drenched in fruity sunlight pouring down from the stained- glass windows. I am meant to find this sight uplifting; to be inspired by the eloquence of God's grace, filtered through human craftsmanship; to appreciate spiritual integration as represented by the Trinity. Instead, I feel I'm fragmenting inside. It's as though my soul is covered with the hairline cracks of the glazes on my father's many pots.

At the opposite end of the chancel step stands the oatmeal and cobalt alabaster statue of Mary. One palm is raised in peaceful greeting. My heart craves absolution, but in that moment life seems too complicated. I feel unworthy. I exist in a moral twilight. By choosing not to have children, I have rendered myself permanently reprehensible. I think of Dad dying, and the man on the plane, my row with Matt, the loss of my job, the renunciation of fertility, my relationship with my mother. Negligible traumas, possibly, in the greater scheme of things, but they leave me with the overwhelming sense that I've let someone down. That I have failed to live up to expectations.

And I remember standing this morning in Fenwick's before a display of candles in glass tumblers. Two shoppers were whispering about them in terms of reverence as the kind of essentials fashion designers took on holiday.
Matthew Williamson swears by them
. Picking one up at random, I ran a finger round its smooth rim. Its purity seemed to burn my sullied skin. I imagined dropping it, surrounding myself with jagged pieces of broken glass, and I couldn't get out of my head the idea of pressing that sharpness into the raised veins at my wrist.
Harper's Bazaar ran a feature on them last month.
Or were they arteries? Artery, vein? Vein, artery? Audio visual, Victoria and Albert.
And that Stella McCartney, she's planning a range
. I could almost feel my skin give a little under the pressure, could almost see the point at which the shard pierced the flesh.

I remove the box from the carrier bag, and undo the packaging. Juniper and lemongrass mingle with the fustiness of embroidered kneelers. I cup the frosted glass and roll it in my palms, anger throbbing through my bloodstream, anger that has been fermenting for what seems a lifetime. I see the elephant pebble arch in the sky and sag towards the sea – can almost smell the rank salty water – and feel deflated. My focus narrows until all I can see is blue. Blue, virginal blue; Mother of God blue. A pulse thumps in my head. My fingers grip the tumbler and then suddenly, after a moment of connectedness, the pressure dissolves and the glass slips from my hand.

Chapter Twenty-four

T
O THE NEONATAL
unit for William Edward's naming ceremony, laden with carrier bags. I've spent the morning preparing nourishing finger food. Soft textures, easily digested. Yet few of us are truly in the mood for celebration. William is not expected to last the week.

My heart is thumping, afraid of what I might see. I expect wailing and the beating of breasts, such as one sees on footage of Middle East funerals. Instead, the nurses move smoothly between pieces of equipment, adjusting tubes and cables; William's paediatrician stands in the corner, monitoring us all, a father watching over the playroom. He has such a magnificent thatch of blond hair that he seems to be accompanied by his own portable sunbeam. It shines under the halogen lights like an emblem of God's grace. My heart returns to its normal rhythm. This man, whose name tag reveals that he goes by the unbelievable name of Dr Piers Goodchild, seems infallible. His granting permission for this afternoon's christening is tantamount, surely, to faith that William will survive.

As I approach the incubator, Louisa tears her eyes away briefly. Her overgrown fringe is scraped across one cheek. Her smile (with her lips, if not her eyes) is for the doctor, and then she returns to monitoring her tiny baby.

William's wrinkled skin is maroon. He has Ed's hair, apparently, underneath his tiny cotton beanie hat. The thin plastic tube disappearing up his right nostril makes my own nose ache, and I rub at the place.

‘Let me take those,' Dr Goodchild says to me, reaching for the carrier bags.

I pull away from him. Like people with a flying phobia who imagine their thoughts keep planes aloft, I want this man to stay focused on William. I ask for an update. Apparently, ‘The respiratory distress caused by his immature lungs requires him to be given artificial surfactant to prevent the inner surfaces of his lungs sticking together.' But William has recently picked up an infection, sabotaging this procedure. I think of Audrey having to listen to my father's surgeon, and my sinuses prickle.

And then, just as I reckon things can't get any bleaker, Dylan arrives. And immediately I know that he knows what I've done. My stomach lurches. How stupid to think I could keep it secret. It's almost laughable. All the dips, and snacks, and neat arrangements on the plates, are no substitute for trust. And now witnessing Dylan's tortured face, the beads of sweat on his brow, the dark crescents beneath his eyes, and hearing his weary apologies for lack of punctuality, I am cauterised with guilt.

We ask the doctor to join us after the ceremony, an invitation he accepts with such delight I suspect it might constitute his first social engagement for months. My sweet potato wedges, in particular, receive numerous plaudits, although Louisa eats not a thing. Her parents are trying to interest her in the helium balloons that bob lugubriously around her bed. Suddenly, Dylan grabs my arm and pulls me to the window. His eyes flash, and he whispers with urgency.

‘Thank God you're here. I've had a dreadful time. The church has been vandalised in the last twenty-four hours. Nothing stolen, thank God – just loads of mess. The police reckon it's queer-bashing.'

‘The police?' My skin flushes. ‘Why are they—?'

But Dylan isn't listening. ‘One of the churchwardens arrived early to set up for morning prayers, and found— found—' His voice has gone squeaky. He rakes one hand through his ginger curls and clasps the back of his neck, his other hand at his hip, as he gazes out over the view of the hospital laundry. ‘It was horrific.' He spits an ironic laugh. ‘And do you know who we were due to pray for this morning? The victims of violence. God, it's enough to make you weep.'

‘But the police—?' I repeat, touching Dylan's arm.

‘Oh, they were fucking hopeless. Apparently, we're not the first in the diocese to be targeted since this whole gay bishop thing caught the public attention. So, no fingerprints, no statements. Now, do you think their indifference could have anything to do with the fact that what we're talking about here is a sexually motivated crime or, more specifically, a homosexually motivated crime? Surely not. They took one look at me and thought,
He can take our investigation and shove it up his arse—'

The silence in the room is brittle. Dylan half turns from the window and takes in everyone looking at him. Not for him the shame of disclosure. What he sees is an audience! He is back in the pulpit, breaking bread behind the altar, selecting the winning ticket for the tombola. And as he embellishes the details (
it's the first time my churchwarden's had his hands on a broken virgin
), I take the opportunity to slip away.

*

‘You left these behind.'

‘Thanks for bringing them back, Dyl,' I mumble. I take the plates and resealable boxes, and try to close the front door on him. ‘I felt a bit sick, that's all. Bye.'

‘Maybe you
are
pregnant!' laughs Dylan, squeezing past me and depositing the rest of the picnic things on the stairs. ‘Hello, my darling Tallulah-girl.'

Watching him fraternise with the cat makes my stomach churn. Any resolve to confess my sin to Dylan disappears. After all, if it wasn't for his ridiculous announcement to adopt, I wouldn't be in the free fall I am today. I take the dirty things downstairs.

‘That doctor's rather lovely, don't you think?' says Dylan, descending, sneezing loudly. I put the kettle on.

‘He's bound to be married,' I retort. ‘How could any woman fail to be seduced by the idea of a doctor who cures sick babies? And anyway – you're practically married yourself.'

Dylan sneezes again as Tallulah bolts from his arms and saunters through the catflap.

‘I most definitely am not! And he's not, either.'

‘Don't tell me. Your gaydar.'

‘No, I sort of checked after you'd left. Discreetly. He
was
married, but not any more.'

‘There you are, then. He
was
married. That means he's not gay.'

‘David was married.'

Ah yes. David. ‘Is it me, or are you two seeing less of each other?'

Dylan accepts the cup of camomile and leads the way back up to the sitting room, where he makes for the piano stool.

‘It's this bloody baby thing. It's his only topic of conversation. Even when I rang this morning to tell him about the vandalism, he was like “Ooh, and did you see the
Daily Mail
today – they've got a whole piece on celebrity adoptions”. And I'm, like, my church has been ransacked by homophobes, I've got the Bishop breathing down my neck and, I mean, what the fuck's he doing reading the
Daily Mail
anyway?'

Dylan spreads an arpeggio across an upper octave. ‘God, this is hard. I'm thinking about leaving the church, and David couldn't care less. Not remotely. He wants another child, and that's that. And because my father died so long ago, I don't have any real role models of how to be a dad. I look at Harry and sometimes wonder whether I could be like him, but fundamentally I don't envy what he has.'

Quizzically, I hold his gaze over the rim of my teacup. Dylan thumps down a chord, which makes his curls tremble. ‘Well, if you must know, I'm getting cold feet.' More chords. ‘About this adoption business.' My heart quickens. ‘It was always more David's idea than mine. He has kids already. But I thought,
Why not?
I love him to bits, and it seemed the perfect way to express our commitment. And it might give my mother new focus. You can't imagine how stifling it is to be an only child, the sole object of your mother's adoration—'

I don't remind him that I, too, lack siblings, since in all other respects Dylan's assumption that I
can't
imagine such suffocation is depressingly accurate.

‘But let's just say attempts by the adoption agency to discourage you are very effective! And, given our respective ages, we'd be very unlikely to get a baby. Rather, a child from a broken home, someone who has suffered traumas, maybe even abuse. And one parent must give up work completely, at least for the first year; otherwise, they say, what's the point?' He swivels round on the stool. ‘So, do you think I should still go through with it?'

I shrug. ‘What did David say?'

‘About what?'

I roll my eyes. ‘About your diminishing convictions. I take it you've told him?'

‘You have to be joking!' spits Dylan. ‘He never listens to anything I say. Parenting? Dave's got the T-shirt. Leave the church? Yeah, it's just changing jobs.'

‘What do you mean, he never listens to you?'

Dylan looks startled. In fact, I think he reddens. ‘Did I say that?' Suddenly Dylan seems very young, like a friend at school who has left his lunch money at home.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders. ‘How did you and I get to be so alike?'

‘Hey,' he laughs, grabbing my hands. ‘Maybe you and I should have sex, and then you could have the baby, and donate it to David, and then everybody'll leave us alone!'

‘That sounds like my idea of living hell,' I yelp, putting my hand over Dylan's mouth. He tries to wriggle free, but I tighten my grip. He flings me to the floor, and I'm shrieking with laughter. He kneels over me and pins me to the carpet by my wrists.

‘Zo! I see. Vee vill haff to haff zee artificial insemination.'