Something I'm Not by Lucy Beresford Page A

That’s what parishioners are for.
    â€˜I thought she was choking on a roast potato,’ remarks David, as yet unused to Pamela’s repertoire of voices and facial expressions. Dylan’s mother lives by her wit. Unskilled, as were so many women of her class and generation in anything but marital mergers and acquisitions, she was raised to believe that her passport in life was not so much to entertain as to be entertaining. Her parents having disapproved of a career on the stage, the woman has reacted by turning every encounter into a vaudeville act, every conversation a chance for a soliloquy. Years of practice have proved constructive, for now she has a regular spot on Tuesday nights as a cable television quiz-show panellist.
    â€˜I wish she had,’ mutters Dylan, in between cigarettes.
    â€˜Darling, she wants to make sure you’re happy. That we’re doing the right thing,’ says David, depositing a baby meringue of soap suds on Dylan’s nose. I want to vomit.
    Dylan laughs. ‘I know, I know. But even
I
was appalled by her outburst, and I’ve seen some in my time. She’ll be off now on one of her Michael Douglas
Falling Down
rampages. Anyone would think we’re planning to adopt a Siberian throat monkey. I hoped a mother whose son is gay would be more, well, tolerant.’
    â€˜She’ll be fine in a day or two,’ says Matt. He makes it sound as though Pamela is one of his patients. Perhaps she is!
    â€˜And it’s not as though the adoption’s definitely happening,’ I say, attempting to sound casual. ‘Is it?’
    â€˜No,’ groans Dylan, hand to forehead. ‘The whole plan’s a nightmare. Tell them about the video, darling.’ So, David describes how at one of the agency meetings they’d watched footage of a supposedly authentic story depicting a family destroyed by the arrival of a disturbed adolescent. ‘They certainly do their best to put you off.’
    â€˜I think it’s good they make you reflect,’ says Matt, reaching for cups. A rare personal opinion, I observe, from my husband. I married the epitome of nonchalance, after a childhood of critical judgement. I smile, as he continues. ‘It’s a pity more people don’t consider the effect kids will have on a relationship before they conceive.’
    â€˜You wouldn’t be thinking of the lovely Louisa and Ed, would you?’ smirks Dylan.
    â€˜Not especially,’ Matt replies, arranging the cups on a tray. ‘There are lots of unhappy children out there. Most of them are grown up, now, of course.’
    I can feel my cheeks reddening, and make a point of rummaging in the fridge for the milk.
    â€˜So, isn’t it up to people like us to offer a fresh start?’ says David, above the rolling boil and click of the kettle.
But you’ve got children already
, I think.
    â€˜David, you might be right,’ says Matt, lifting the tray and making for the lounge. ‘But if you carry on saving broken spirits at this rate, I’ll be out of a job!’
    *
    After evensong, Dylan and I return to the vicar-cage; Matt cries off to dictate case notes, David, to attend to lingering post-divorce matters. Around Dylan’s kitchen table, he and I sip black coffee and prise apart pistachios; Dylan thinks two-syllable snacks are common.
    â€˜How are you feeling about your dad?’ asks Dylan.
    I manage a nod and a sort of grimace.
    â€˜It takes time,’ says Dylan, crossing to a cupboard under the sink to retrieve his
baise-en-ville
from behind a tub of household cleaning products.
    â€˜This kind of thing helps,’ I say.
    â€˜What? Shelling nuts with a sad homosexual? Ooh –
Will & Grace
, eat your heart out.’
    â€˜It
is
helping.’ I manage to laugh. ‘Don’t knock it. And anyway, what’s with the “sad”?’ I put my mug down on the pine. ‘You and David aren’t