Something I'm Not Read Online Free PDF Page B

a vasectomy, he’d better be bloody quick!’
    *
    I enter the kitchen having read the twins one final bedtime story, smiling at the memory of Eloise and Esme asleep in separate beds, holding hands across the carpet. Serena is spooning coffee granules into mugs. Dylan is stretching cling film over margarine tubs overflowing with cheese straws and crisps, a talent honed by fifteen years of parish soirées. Harry stands at the sink wiping clown make- up from his face with own-brand kitchen towels.
    I accept a mug from Serena, decline milk, and breathe in the muskiness. After the brittle noises of the party, I relax in the silence between friends. Everyone else has gone home: Nicole braved a cab with queasy Louisa, and Jenny left early to cook supper, or knit a sweater.
    I watch Harry as I sip, remembering another performance, another lifetime, before babies, before clients, before choices. Harry as Prospero, Harry as King Lear, Harry as Joe Keller. Harry reading Sky to my Sarah in
Guys and Dolls
– a production that was cancelled early due to lack of funds. It’s as if Harry was always destined to play only the father.
    I met Dylan and Harry at auditions for the university revue group. My thoughts turn to plays performed, curtains called, and I compare them instantaneously, as the mind can, to the competitiveness of work. And I wonder how I was seduced into trading in the simple pleasure of applause for the flashier model of a competitive package with performance-related bonus. As I watch Harry throw the last traces of his clown’s face into the bin, I marvel at his faith in being able to delight his children.
    â€˜Sweet one, you were tremendous,’ says Serena, handing her husband his coffee.
    â€˜Praise indeed from the Butcher of Battersea!’ he smiles, and they clink chipped mugs. Behind them, the lights on the baby monitor flare like a rash, a child’s whimper getting louder.
    â€˜Yes,’ says Dylan, ‘I was going to say, Hal. Your finest performance ever!’
    â€˜Well, Dyl, you’ve got to do your bit,’ says Serena, heading for the door. ‘Children’s parties are so competitive now, and we can’t afford a professional entertainer. For richer, for poorer, eh?’ Here she winks at Harry. ‘So, you do what you have to do. I’ll go, Harry. You stay and drink your coffee.’
    I hear her steady footsteps as she climbs the stairs.
    â€˜Seeing as how you obviously haven’t lost your old touch, Hal, I’ve got the parish drama group staging
Company
at Harvest Festival this year. I’ve tried to persuade Amber to audition. Maybe you’d like to? You could say I’m hoping to harvest the fruit of your talents!’
    â€˜
Company
?’ says Harry, thoughtfully. ‘Isn’t that the Sondheim show about the chap who’s surrounded by married friends, but who’s afraid to get hitched?’
    â€˜The very same,’ says Dylan. ‘A man under pressure! Fancy it?’
    â€˜I’m sorry, Dyl. I’m under enough pressure this summer. I swear, I do much more work than any of my pupils, and I’m sure that’s not the right way round—’
    â€˜Oh, go on—’
    â€˜He’s got five children, Dylan,’ I add.
    â€˜And, of course we’d have more, if I had my way—’
    â€˜More?’ Dylan and I say, cautiously, together.
    â€˜So, if I’m going to—’
    â€˜Did you mean more money, or more work?’ I say, a little too sharply, knowing he didn’t mean either, but resisting the appalling alternative.
    â€˜No,’ says Harry, quietly. ‘More children.’ And he reaches up into a top cupboard and brings down an old bottle of whisky.
    â€˜You sly old dog,’ cries Dylan. ‘Last week you told me, in confidence, that you were thinking of having the snip.’
    â€˜I know. I was. The head of Biology has had one