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

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.
    â€˜â€”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.
    â€˜So, receiving farm animals is the new barometer of self-worth? What’s brought this on?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜What do you mean? I thought the media was quite accepting nowadays.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Because as we know, he is prurient.’
    â€˜Yes, but what I mean is, why now?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜But your parish isn’t in Chelsea,’ I snort. ‘It’s in one of the poorest bits of South London!’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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 time, who think it’s OK to be pleasant to your face and lethal behind your back, but living like this is wretched.’
    â€˜You would care,’ I murmur. ‘You love your job. It’s just your bishop you hate.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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