Something I'm Not by Lucy Beresford Read Free Book Online Page B

as a child. It makes him seem very conscientious.
    â€˜â€”But, you know, Miss, if you’re waiting for someone, I quite understand—’
    â€˜No, no. Please, feel free.’ In my list of neuroses, as Matt is often telling me, my fear of disapproval has adapted to be one of the fittest. I shuffle along the wall.
    â€˜Any of these kiddies yours?’ he laughs, gesturing vaguely at the crowds in the courtyard.
    â€˜No,’ I reply. ‘I’ve never wanted children.’
    I blush, but the man appears not to have noticed my candour. Instead, he strides off into the conversation to ask me what I do. Normally, I prefer to be the one asking the questions. Yet, I tell him.
    â€˜I thought headhunters died out with the pygmies!’
    I grin, having never heard that comment before. Or perhaps only
every
time I announce my job. Still, it’s preferable to the charade of people pretending to search in their pockets for their CV. ‘I only wear a bone through my nose in the privacy of my office.’
    â€˜Wish I’d brought my résumé!’ he continues, patting the sides of his trousers. I have to stop myself rolling my eyes. Only the uninitiated say ‘résumé’. ‘I’m Fergus,’ he concludes, offering a hand in the gesture of a karate player about to split bricks.
    â€˜Fergus,’ I repeat, a little more interested. ‘Well, that’s not what I was expecting.’
    â€˜No one ever is! My mother read
Waverley
at school in Düsseldorf. She’s so proud I work in London. I’m an investment banker—’
    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—
    â€˜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.
    â€˜So, what will you do?’ I ask, when he returns.
    â€˜I’m currently chalking out my plans.’
    â€˜You could always go travelling. Take some time out.’
    â€˜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!’
    â€˜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