Something I'm Not (25 page)

*

Dylan and Matt suck on their cigars, exhaling long grey ghosts that tango over the table. My napkin is now a crumple of origami. A waiter deposits two small glasses of honey-coloured liquid before the men.

‘Aren't you having one?' asks Dylan, surprised. I shake my head and reach out for my water glass. ‘Oh, go on. It'll do you good.'

I look over at Matt and then back at Dylan.

‘What? What am I missing?' says Dylan, propping his cigar in the groove of the ashtray.

‘We've decided to adopt you,' laughs Matt. ‘You're our errant teenage son.'

‘I'm blessed. But seriously, what's with the …
No!
' Dylan stares at me. ‘You're not—?'

I watch his cigar burn into wrinkles of ash, joined to the shaft by invisible threads.

‘Let me tell you something, Dyl,' says Matt. ‘Have you ever heard of Oudtshoorn?'

‘No,' said Dylan.

‘It's a place in the Western Cape famous for ostrich farming. My parents plan to retire there, which is rather appropriate. They're very traditional. Nationalist Party, not ANC. My father had the farm, my mother had me.' Matt takes a sip of dessert wine. ‘Long ago, my mother's view of herself as a good mother withered and died, and she never got over it. She buried her head in the sand. I understand her, but I am not her. I chose a life, not just an existence.' He reaches out for my hand and squeezes it. ‘Life is about loss. It knocks you down, and you find new ways of muddling through. You make choices.'

‘Ah, but how do you know you've made the
right
choice?' says Dylan.

Matt smiles and shakes his head. ‘You learn that sometimes there is no right choice. The important thing is to own the choices you make.'

‘Don't tell me, after all this time, you've chosen to have a baby?' cries Dylan.

‘Not as such,' I say, slowly.

Matt gets up and announces he's going to the bathroom.

‘Damn,' says Dylan. ‘He's gone for the bill. I know he's gone for the bill.'

‘Forget it. You can get the bread and wine round yours next time.'

‘But I don't understand,' Dylan groans. ‘The message you left on my mobile this morning said you had something to tell me. If you're not pregnant, what is it?'

Around us, empty tables are being re-laid for the evening shift – crisp linen, sparkling glasses, set with precision. A waiter is aligning the knives just so. It reminds me of how as a child I couldn't go to sleep at night unless the bedroom door was pulled to at just the right angle.

I reach out for Dylan's hands, and he listens as I explain as fully as I can.

‘Ah, my girls who gorge!' cries Matt, approaching our table carrying coats.

‘Well, let me propose a toast,' roars Dylan, as he rises from the table, an imaginary glass in his hand. ‘To our family of friends. And to tolerance!'

‘I think we've just exceeded our limit here of both,' I say, laughing. And I steer Dylan by the elbow between the tables and out on to the pavement.

Epilogue

D
O YOU REPENT?

Life is held together by ritual. From the very first pattern of four-hourly feeds, the human body instinctively responds favourably to routine. Ruptures to what is familiar can deal a seismic blow. Nursery rhymes, regular bath-times, favourite toys, all imbue a baby with a warm sense of containment, and love. The Christening is the first opportunity the Church has to demonstrate its own version of that love to an infant, paving the way for a lifetime of ritual and sanctuary.

‘Good grief. Do you think Dylan wrote this rubbish?' whispers Harry, flapping his order of service under his wife's nose.

‘Shhhh,' says Serena, reaching into her handbag to pass Harry the indigestion tablets she knows he needs.

Around the congregation, people lean forward. Dylan has dropped his voice now, and is addressing only the naked baby in his arms, who lies mesmerised by Dylan's deep, seductive tones, by words only he is privileged to hear. It's highly nuanced communication of the utmost intimacy. Osmotic. Where each picks up something unspoken from the other. And when Dylan lays the baby gently in the water in the font, the baby looks about him not with terror, but with recognition, that this lilting liquid is a place of safety, of glorious beginnings. And he lets out a gurgle of contentment, as though he has finally come home.

I repent.

Parents and godparents take turns to hold the baby, now flushed from his impromptu bath and wrapped in soft towelling. Together they make their vows, and repent of their sins, and declare their commitment to this new life. And, as Amber passes the softly wriggling bundle to her neighbour, she turns to take in the new alabaster statue of Mary (a gift from an anonymous – grateful, Episcopal – donor). She marvels at the fresh lustre to its paintwork, bathed now in the sunlight filtering through the triptych windows. She knows she has made the right decision.

And then it's back to Amber and Matt's for celebratory tea. Matt has persuaded her to hire in help, so students wander the rooms topping up glasses of champagne and passing round catered trays of miniature delicacies. She was sceptical, but lately even she has found that the soft dips and purées and sloppy risottos of what Dylan now dubs her toddler phase are being slowly replaced by recipes with a bit more bite.

Amber stands at the window of the marital bedroom. In the garden she watches Esme tugging Tallulah's tail. Far from escaping, or turning on the child in feline spite, the cat seems to relish the rough and tumble of the game. Harry is erecting a folding chair and, behind him, Nicole slouches, with her hands rubbing at her pelvis, before easing herself into it. Serena is talking to Dylan. Matt is showing Dominic how to tie up lavender plants for the winter, and Dominic even looks interested. Just then a thick yellow thatch comes into view as Piers steps through the French doors, holding William tightly in his arms. The baby is facing outward, distracted now by the beads of Eloise's necklace, jigging all four limbs at once, as though eager to get on with this business called life. Louisa appears, and prises William from the arms of her boyfriend. For this one moment, all Amber's friends are connected, framed by the window in a vivid canvas of glorious, everyday harmony.

‘You, I love,' murmurs Amber. She's getting used to the idea of starting with ‘you' and not ‘I' – more like, she thinks, how love should be.

As Amber reaches the bottom of the stairs, she sees her holdall. Her heart misses a beat. She makes her way to the kitchen, and then the garden. She can almost sense the days shortening around her.

At her touch, Matt straightens and turns round. He asks Dominic to excuse him and follows his wife. Two girls wash baking sheets at the sink. A young man lifts complicated canapés from a plastic box on to glass plates decorated with berries.

‘I'm terrified,' she whispers, as they climb the stairs together.

‘I know,' he says, picking up the holdall and taking hold of her hand.

*

Eventually the remaining guests move on to coffee; they have abandoned the garden and are mingling in the drawing room. When Dylan tries to initiate a reprise of
Company
songs, he is rugby-tackled off the piano stool by Harry. William, from his vantage point on his grandmother's knees, finds the incident hilarious. Serena sinks down on the sofa next to Prue.

‘Wasn't he good in the church today?' she murmurs, letting William clutch at her finger. ‘Esme bit the vicar's finger when she was only five months old,' she adds, beaming.

‘I'm so glad you were able to bring all the girls,' says Prue, bouncing William gently as she speaks. ‘I don't know how we would've accommodated everyone if we'd held the party in Louisa's flat. There's only the small terrace, for a start – not like the garden here. I've bought Amber and Matt a photo frame to thank them for hosting the party. Do you think they'll like it? They seem to have enough already.' She accompanies this observation with a tilt of the head towards the piano, and its regiment of photo frames.

‘Oh, Amber loves her photographs. You can be sure your present will be very welcome. Incidentally, where is she? Amber, I mean.' Serena heaves herself on her knuckles towards the edge of the sofa and looks around. ‘And Matt. Dylan, where are Matt and Amber?' Dylan comes over. ‘Where's our perfect hostess?' continues Serena. ‘She never abandons us. This is weird,' she confides to Prue. ‘Is something wrong?' she asks, looking back at Dylan.

‘And don't start quoting
Company
to me!' Serena adds, giving Dylan a playful thump. ‘I don't ever want to hear anything of that show ever again. Last month nearly finished me off !'

‘But it was worth it, wasn't it?' says Prue, eyeing Dylan carefully, sensing the need to steer the conversation. ‘I babysat for Louisa and Piers when they went to see you all in the show, and they said it was tremendous. Serena, they especially loved your scene with the chocolate brownie.'

Serena accepts the compliment. ‘But it was exhausting. I lost pounds – in spite of all that cake! Maybe Amber's having a lie-down. Shall I go and see?' She makes to rise.

‘She's not having a lie-down,' says Dylan.

‘Who's not having a lie-down?' says Harry, approaching.

‘Amber, Harry. And Matt.'

‘And the significance of this startling piece of information is?'

‘That they're not here,' wails Serena. ‘Our hosts are not here. They've always been here for us, and now they're not.'

Harry turns to Dylan. ‘Do you know anything about this?'

‘William, I think it's past your bedtime,' says Prue, standing up abruptly with the baby cradled in the crook of one arm.

‘I think it's time we went, too,' says Harry, alert to the sense, if not the specifics, of the situation. He extends an arm to his wife. ‘Come on, girl. We're almost the last ones to leave.'

‘But what about—?'

‘Shhhh,' he says, smiling. ‘I'll help you round up our brood.' They walk out of the room, hand in hand.

Dylan smiles at Prue, just as Louisa and Piers join them.

‘I take it they've gone?' asks Piers.

Dylan nods. ‘You recommended the clinic, I gather.'

‘A friend of mine from medical school. A meticulous clinician. She's pioneering some new techniques. It was the least I could do.'

‘Well, we mustn't get our hopes up too much—' says Dylan.

‘But they do happen, don't they? Miracles I mean,' says Louisa, stroking the soft contours of her son's warm head.

Yes, they do
, thinks Piers.

*

The night before, Amber dreamt that guests had met for the christening party, but that her kitchen cupboards were found to be empty, devoid of all provisions. Its meaning had seemed so transparent, that in the morning she had decided not to tell Matt. For what other interpretation could there be? Everyone had been relying on her, and once more she had let them down. Her planning had been deficient.

On into the drizzling twilight, as Matt drives her through winding suburban streets, and beyond to where the wooded Common fans out on either side of the road, she remains haunted by the dream. She asks Matt if they might change radio stations, to something inane and commercial. And so, by singing along and mocking the phone-ins on Robbie Taylor's show, she is able to hide her unease.

Soon the trees of the Common, as they are caught in the glare of the passing headlights, flash their barks of silver like protective shields, and seem to stand as heraldic guardians of an ideal, armed and ready to defend Amber's choice from all challengers. Occasionally through the branches she catches sight of a full moon, the colour of crème caramel.

And she knows now that there is never a right or wrong answer to the question of whether or not to have a baby. What matters is to remember to ask the question at all.

Eventually, the car scrunches along the gravel drive of the clinic and comes to a stop. A woman with vivid, geometric patterns on her jumper emerges from the main door. For an hour she has been anticipating the papal white smoke of these headlights in the November twilight.

‘What are you doing here?' cries Amber, getting out of the car.

‘I'll bring your case,' calls Matt through the open door, before pulling away in the direction of the car park.

‘I don't know,' says Jenny. ‘I mean, I wanted to see you, before you— To thank you—'

‘You've thanked me hundreds of times!'

‘No, but properly. I wanted to thank you by being here in person.' In unison, their shoes scrape on stone as they climb the steps. ‘I felt so guilty—'

Amber hesitates in the doorway. ‘Guilty?'

‘This past month must have been a nightmare for you. You've had blood tests, and all sorts of gynae stuff.' Jenny wipes away tears with the cuff of her jumper.

‘Not to mention all these wild new hormones raging around my system!' laughs Amber. ‘But seriously,' she adds, ‘don't feel guilty.' They walk towards the reception counter. ‘This is my choice.'

After signing in, Amber and Jenny enter the waiting room, where Clive and Ginny are sitting on Cubist suede furniture. Clive rises, and bows his head. His face is grave, just as it was when they'd met a month ago to sign the necessary legal documents. The black hairs of his moustache are a line of exclamation marks. Amber knows she stands before a man stretched taut by vulnerability.

Amber kisses Ginny. ‘Have they found you a room to work in?'

‘Oh, yes,' Ginny laughs. ‘They know me here of old. I've set up, so I'm ready when you are.' She turns to Jenny. ‘If you like, I could give you a treatment after I've worked on Amber. Reflexology will help ease the stress and make you more receptive to tomorrow's implantation.'