From nowhere comes an urge to shout at this man, that maybe his mother’s trying to turn him into something he’s not, and that he should wise up and work out who he really is. And then I realise how utterly stunned I’d be if anyone spoke to me like that, how deflated I’d feel. A wave of guilt floods my body.
And even as my head starts to throb, I’m aware of Fergus’s hands gripping his beaker too tightly (only, sadly, change is on the anvil), of the way they relax (since I’ve just been made redundant), and then contract again (or downsized, as they call it, which has queered my pitch), in an almost obsessive movement (half the department. Threw everyone into a tizzy), of the way the liquid oozes to the top (and I’m not yet forty), before it squirts over his hands—
‘Oh, my!’ he cries, standing up abruptly, dropping the beaker, wringing his hands, flicking his wrists, and distributing globules of coffee over nearby surfaces, including my suit, his trousers and the woman sitting next to me.
Ever prepared, despite my mother’s ban on joining the Brownies, I produce a pack of moist wipes. I offer it to my neighbour, who scowls and takes two, and then to Fergus. When he finishes mopping up the mess, he holds them out for me, sticky and stained. I point out a bin by the wall. His movements are awkward; he’s a toddler learning to walk.
‘So, what will you do?’ I ask, when he returns.
‘I’m currently chalking out my plans.’
‘You could always go travelling. Take some time out.’
‘Ah, yes. The famous gap year. I’m too old for that backpacking malarkey. And what about the rotten hole in my résumé?’
I explain that employers nowadays are terribly open-minded. ‘You might give up investment banking altogether!’
‘Give it up?’ By the panic in his eyes, the idea is clearly on a par with being caught wetting the bed. ‘You’ll be telling me next to sleep under a pyramid construction. Or have people massage my feet. Give it up, eh? I’d say there’s more chance of me falling pregnant!’
*
I enter the basement flat, breathing in its familiar scent of lavender. My shoulders relax. Candles flicker. A tiny, porcelain Kuan Yin figure, for compassionate feng shui, shimmers in the glow. On the coffee table stands a potted African violet.
‘And how’ve you been this week?’ murmurs Ginny, rubbing my back with firm circular movements, as I sit with my feet soaking in warm soapy water. She’s a trim woman in her early sixties, although her blue eyes and smile make her look younger. Above a desk, where a laptop has sat idle for months, hangs a pinboard covered with images of Madonnas and infants, postcards of thanks, and photographs of babies. Ginny specialises in treating infertility.
As she eases me into the chair and wraps my feet in supple towels, I tell her about Dad, and the funeral arrangements. She sets to work on my right foot with gentle scudding gestures.
And suddenly my eyes sting. Because, after meeting Fergus, I entered the gallery, where I saw again the old man in the raincoat, standing close to a painting to scrutinise its brush strokes. Moments later I saw a guard grasp his shoulder, accusing the man of trying to touch the painting.
Ginny continues massaging with one hand and passes me a box of tissues with the other. ‘You miss your father,’ says Ginny, her knuckles grinding the crystal deposits at my heel. I squirm in my chair, and sob for some time.
‘And now I’m about to lose Dylan,’ I say, when I am able to dry my eyes. And I tell her about the adoption announcement.
She wraps my right foot in towelling, unwraps the left. ‘Have you told him how you feel?’
I shake my head. ‘Too scared,’ I pout. ‘And soon I’ll have to contact my mother.’
‘When were you two ladies last in touch?’
I have to think. ‘Maybe eighteen months ago. She sends me postcards now and then, to let me know she hasn’t died.’
‘She wants to make contact.’
‘Not so much that she phones! And when she does write, she rarely bothers to fill the postcard. She scribbles a couple of lines in her tiny writing, and then leaves a gaping space underneath.’
Outside, the evening light is fading. The day has used up its ration.
‘So that makes two of you capable of giving the silent treatment!’ Ginny’s eyes twinkle. ‘You’re terrified of contacting your mother, and she’s terrified—’ Ginny stops.
The flutter of panic resurfaces. Ginny is being insufferably even-handed. I’m not courageous enough to enter that dark labyrinth of what might terrify my own mother.
‘I’m sorry, I have to go now,’ I tell her, and start writing out the cheque.
*
In Sainsbury’s, struggling to think of something for supper, I stand staring at a display of dead fish on ice. Ginny’s parting words ring in my ears: that Mother can no longer hurt me. I want to believe her. I really, really do. But such blind faith, worthy of one of Dylan’s religious retreats, feels reckless and beyond my reach.
Chapter Nine
WHEN I WAS SEVEN, my mother went to the doctor’s, feeling unwell. She took the bus because she has never learned to drive. After she’d been gone for nearly two hours, my father received a phone call from the surgery receptionist, who said that my mother was suspected of having measles and that she was being held in isolation until someone could collect her.
When my father and I arrived, we were directed to the far end of the corridor, and a room off to the left. It was painted white, although the bright, fluorescent lights made it seem almost blue. Along each wall ran a line of cupboards, their surfaces clear. Each cupboard had a black plastic safety lock looped around the handles.
Mother sat on a metal chair in the centre of the room. She still wore her coat, and held her handbag on her lap. Held it as though she would never, ever let it go. Her skin looked grey.
There was a moment before we crossed the threshold when I remember thinking how small she looked with all the whiteness around her; like a child at school whose parents have forgotten to collect them.
Chapter Ten
I’VE BEEN TOO BUSY to contact my mother. Firstly, we’ve had Dad’s funeral: half an hour at a coastal crematorium, followed by scones and bridge rolls at Audrey’s flat. Standing room only, what with all Audrey and Dad’s bowls club friends in attendance. I gather they average two a week; for this crowd, funerals have become their social life. Dylan, I know, would approve. Celebrate life, he says. Even in death. Which frankly is hard to do when the person you want to celebrate with is dead. Audrey wanted me to do a reading, but I wasn’t sure I could get through it without howling like a banshee, so Matt read, and I gripped Audrey’s elbow throughout.
In the car on the way back to London, Matt reached out for my knee.
‘Do you remember the first time I met your father?’ I knew what he was going to say. ‘How he shook my hand, and accidentally trapped the fleshy bit, here—’ he wiggled his hand to show the webbing between thumb and forefinger, ‘And as we stood chatting, your father held on to me—’
‘—with his firm potter’s grasp, no less!’
‘—leaving me crippled with pain. I was practically on my knees!’
‘Always makes me think of stags rutting,’ I giggled.
It had, we agreed, been a good funeral.
The second reason for not contacting my mother is my job. I’ve been invited by one of my major clients to recruit the head of their American advisory committee, although the board is insisting on a three-way beauty parade pitch for the business. It’s the economic climate, I tell myself; it in no way reflects on my past performance. All the same, it frustrates me having to compete.
As an only child, I’ve always imagined myself under-practised in the art of social dynamics. Unfortunate, then, that my office seethes with sibling rivalry. All the directors compete for the attention of Rex, in loco parentis, he with hands the perfect size for cupping secretarial behinds; competing, more specifically, for the baubles of lucrative non-executive directorships which lie within R
ex’s experienced gift; competing, above all, to be anointed heir to the partnership, the ultimate symbol of his parental approbation. The role of bullying office oldest sister belongs to Julia, Rex’s PA, the type of woman who wears slacks with elasticated waistbands.
As a result, the office is riddled with the woodworm of insecurity. It’s assumed that women will work up to two years before giving in to their hormones. My secretary, Maxine who has, under these unspoken terms, extended her apprenticeship by several months, has already been treated to two of Rex’s little lunches, his infamous tête-à-têtes, designed to plant the seed (I trust the phrase is purely metaphorical) that motherhood is now the only route to fulfilment. Unsurprisingly, Nicole and I are regarded by the Rexes of this world as creatures defying nature for daring to compete with men. To them we are figures of suspicion.
Rather less convincingly, I’ve had no time to contact my mother, as I’ve been bonding with the cats. OK, so this is utter rubbish, because I loathe them and they know it, but I have until Saturday before Dylan returns from his retreat to reclaim them. I am the first to acknowledge that bonding is too concrete a term for what has been happening, but it seems vital to envisage tasks of substance. In this mental video, I see myself seated at the piano, one cat on my lap, the other dozing at my feet whilst I play: a picture of contentment and, above all, obedience.
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 t
ime, 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.
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