Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘I feel so sort of … rootless, Catherine. I mean, I’ve grown away from my parents, and I’m not sure that I want a family of my own. But I’m fed up with getting pissed each night with the kids at work. And the future’s so uncertain in this job. You’re always worrying about whether you’ll get the chop, where you’ll be when you’re forty, all that sort of thing. Besides, when you’re older it’s a hell of a challenge keeping in touch with the under-twenties. There’s nothing more pathetic than thinking you’re on their wavelength but actually missing by a mile. The youth market’s so media-wise these days, they reject half the stuff that’s aimed at them. They expect something new and buzzy all the time, but’ – she grimaced – ‘it’s not that easy to come up with it when they’re so damned cynical. I’m just coasting at work at the moment, yet I can’t seem to get my act together. I suppose I could move to a smaller agency and maybe win more awards and stuff. But I’ve done all that already. I used to be over the moon if I won something, but now I just think “So what?” You kill yourself thinking up a fabulous TV ad half the population never sees because they’re busy putting the kettle on or going to the loo. Or if they do see it, they couldn’t give a toss. Sorry!’ She smiled sheepishly. ‘I’m being a dreadful bore.’

  ‘No you’re not. I can understand. When you’re in a high-powered job you’ve got so many choices – what’s important, what to give up, what your values are. It was much easier for me. I just got married very young and that was that.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t you ever feel you missed out?’

  Catherine laughed suddenly. ‘Well, I did on Monday night. I couldn’t sleep a wink when I got back. I just lay in bed going hot and cold all over and praying I’d never set eyes on Simon again. Even now, I feel terrible about it.’

  ‘Well don’t. He’s not worth it. Just put it down to experience.’

  Catherine stifled a yawn. ‘Excuse me – I feel whacked. If this is what men do to you, I think I’ll settle for celibacy! And I really must get to bed. The vet promised to fit William in before surgery tomorrow, so I have to be there first thing.’

  ‘You are decent to keep taking him. I hope Fiona’s grateful.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I phoned her last night. Anyway, with any luck it should be his last appointment. I know I’ll miss him when I’m back home, though. I’ve become quite attached to him.’

  Nicky grinned. ‘Well, there you have it, Catherine – cats are obviously the answer. Less trouble than blokes, whatever else.’

  ‘Yes, on balance, I think I’d rather have William than Simon.’ Catherine studied the golden liquid in her glass. ‘D’you know, I realized last night that part of the trouble with Simon was that I didn’t actually like him. I was just so flattered to be asked out by a man, especially one whose life seemed exciting. I mean, he works with famous actors, and he’s learning to parachute and …’

  ‘Big deal! I’ve heard it said that men who take up parachuting often have problems in bed. It must be a form of compensation, I suppose. Aren’t parachutes meant to be the ultimate phallic symbol? Sean stuck to golf, thank God.’

  ‘My son plays golf. He …’ Catherine broke off, suddenly jolted by the thought that Andrew was the same age as Jo and Darren. Yet he and Antonia might belong to a different generation entirely – so conventional and settled. She couldn’t imagine talking to them as intimately as she was doing to Nicky. In fact, she had vowed not to breathe a word to anyone about her disastrous evening with Simon, and had been astonished to hear herself pouring out the whole story. Now that she’d confessed, though, she felt nothing but relief. Nicky had listened sympathetically, waved away her self-reproaches and told her of course she wasn’t frigid or hysterical – the reaction was perfectly understandable when she had never slept with anyone but Gerry. And, after two glasses of wine, she was beginning to believe it. It was marvellous having Nicky to confide in. Since moving south she had never really found a close friend like Maeve in Salford. People in Carshalton tended to keep themselves to themselves, and Stoneleigh was even worse.

  Nicky tugged off her earrings and sat fiddling with the large gold hoops. ‘D’you know, I can really relate to what you said about not feeling anything with Simon. It’s happened to me, too. Sometimes I’ve been in bed with a bloke and while he’s pumping away and telling me it’s great, I’m lying there trying to dream up a slogan for Kendall’s Krisps! Mind you, that says more about my job than about my sex life. Is there ever a minute when I’m not thinking about some bloody product or other? It’s a sort of slavery of the mind, Catherine. Whatever I’m doing, I can’t get away from it – crispy, crunchy, munchy, fucking Kendall’s. Which are full of fat and additives and probably cause heart attacks. Not that I let my scruples intrude – not since I refused to work on a cigarette account and was told if I took that line, I wouldn’t be working on anything.’

  Catherine stretched her legs out in front of her, admiring Fiona’s Levis, which felt practically like hers now, after four days’ ‘ownership’. ‘Forgive me for asking, but why did you go into advertising if you’re so opposed to it?’

  ‘Well, of course, at the time I wasn’t. I just accepted the general consensus that it was glamorous and trendy and the sort of well-paid job women were meant to want. I assumed I’d make a pile and be seen to be successful, and that was the be-all and end-all. The trouble is, the more you get, the more you want. There’s always something bigger, brighter, better, you feel you’ve got to have.’ She slipped an earring over her finger and twirled it round and round. ‘Bloody hell, Catherine, I always seem to be moaning! I’m jolly lucky really. I’ve got a lot of things other women would kill for.’

  ‘Well, so have I,’ said Catherine. ‘And I’ve been moaning too. I know I’m very lucky to have two healthy children. But don’t you think it’s more about being allowed to be yourself?’ She put her glass down and sat staring at it reflectively. ‘Since Gerry died, I’ve thought about it a lot. I mean, so many people get sucked in to a way of life they didn’t really choose, whether it’s marriage, or a job like yours, or keeping up with the neighbours, or doing what your parents want, or what society expects. It struck me recently that I’ve never actually chosen any of the various jobs I’ve done. I just took what was on offer at the time, either because it fitted in with the children, or was close to home, or whatever. Then, later, I worked for Gerry because he needed an assistant and couldn’t afford to pay one. And that became my whole existence. I never asked “What do I want?” or “Who am I?” I just got sort of … annexed. That probably sounds self-pitying, but it’s not intended to be – it was a good life in many ways. No, it’s more a feeling of surprise that it took me so long to realize. It seems extraordinary that in all those years I didn’t stop to wonder what I was actually cut out to do or be. I’m sure I’m not unusual, though. There must be hundreds of people stuck in jobs they hate, or married to the wrong partner, or struggling to be someone they’re not. It’s such an awful waste.’

  ‘I say, Catherine, that sounded as if it came from the heart!’

  ‘Sorry. I did get a bit carried away.’

  ‘No, you’re absolutely right. In fact, now I come to think of it, I was probably only trying to compete with my elder brother, Tom. He’d made it, so I had to. But, like you, I never asked “Make what?” I just swallowed what I was told – sex is great, fast cars are great, success is eighty grand a year and a gold credit card in your wallet.’

  Catherine laughed. ‘My daughter-in-law’s just got one of those – at twenty-six, would you believe! It’s funny, my own daughter’s completely different. She lives in one room, with nothing but a makeshift bed, a rickety table and a row of hooks for her clothes. Yet she’s the one I envy. I felt quite a pang when I saw her off at the airport. I knew I’d miss her terribly, of course, but it was more than that. She seemed so … free, setting off to travel the world, going wherever the fancy took her, with just a rucksack on her back and wearing an old pair of jeans. I couldn’t help thinking t
hat when I was her age, the only trips I made were short bus-rides to my in-laws, encumbered with two children and all their paraphernalia.’

  ‘It must be odd when your kids sort of … overtake you.’

  ‘Very odd! Actually, Kate’s often done things I’ve envied. She used to play rugby at school and that seemed incredibly emancipated to me. My father hated tomboys and made me do ballet, or sit at home with a book. I had to wear pretty dresses and even bows in my hair, when I would have given anything for a Davy Crockett outfit.’

  ‘My father was never there. He preferred his mistress to his wife, I’m afraid. But let’s not go into that.’ Nicky picked up the bottle and waved it in her direction. ‘Do you want to finish the wine?’

  ‘No, I’d better not. I had an awful lot last night.’

  ‘Well, if you will go out with Darren …’

  ‘How could I refuse an invitation to one of his gigs? Anyway, I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Rather you than me! The band’s so rackety. In fact, I have to say it’s delightfully peaceful this evening, with Darren out and Jo away. Perhaps we should get our own place, Catherine – just you and me and no raucous music.’

  Catherine looked up, startled. Could she be serious?

  ‘That’s another thing, of course – where one decides to live. Except mostly we don’t decide. I’m fed to the teeth with London, but I can hardly work in Mayfair and still expect to … Hey, is that the phone?’ She sprang up from the bed and dashed to the door. ‘Pray it’s Jonathan. This is his last chance!’

  Catherine glanced from Nicky’s departing form to the double bed with its luxurious fur coverlet. How sad that none of Nicky’s relationships had worked, when here was the perfect set-up for romance. Yet the room was full of men: faded sepia photographs in silver frames of imposing types like commissars and colonels, and more informal snapshots of presumably the real men in her life – past lovers, perhaps, or her absent father, or her successful brother Tom. And there were two large modern paintings on the wall, rather unsettling ones, to be honest, but again depicting men.

  She continued gazing round, intrigued by the mix of the exotic and the homely. This was the first time she’d seen the room. The last two nights Nicky had been out and only now had they found a chance to talk.

  ‘Catherine!’ Nicky was calling from the bottom of the stairs. ‘You’re needed on the phone.’

  She froze. It must be Simon! No, surely he wouldn’t ring. But …

  ‘Get a move on!’ Nicky shouted. ‘It’s Jo.’

  What on earth could Jo want, she wondered, as she hurried down the stairs. Nicky passed her the receiver, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘Quick! It’s long-distance. And she’s in a bit of a state. She wants to know if you can run Greta’s stall on Saturday.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, she was going to ask Darren, but he and I are working this weekend.’

  ‘But isn’t she due back tomorrow?’

  ‘No. There’s been a change of plan. Look, talk to her yourself.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Catherine nervously, and was immediately bombarded with explanations and entreaties. Jo had to stay on in Palermo for another three days, but she couldn’t let Greta down at such short notice, so it would be great if …

  ‘But, Jo, I wouldn’t know where to begin! I’ve never run a stall in my life.’

  ‘There’s nothing to it, honestly. Greta will help you set up and all you have to do is stand there and take the money. It’s fun. You’ll enjoy it.’

  Catherine hesitated, a spark of excitement flickering through her fear.

  ‘So you will?’ Jo prompted.

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Oh, Catherine, you’re an absolute saint! I just can’t thank you enough. I’ll phone Greta right away and tell her.’

  ‘But suppose she objects? I mean, she might not want me to do it.’

  ‘’Course she will. I’ll give you a glowing character reference. And I’ll get her to ring you, so you can make all the arrangements. Which number should I give her? This one or your home number?’

  Catherine tried to think. Every time she planned to go back to Andrew’s, something seemed to crop up. It was like being granted constant extensions of a holiday – a rather haphazard one, where she was living out of suitcases and never quite sure of the next move. Tomorrow was Friday, so there was little point in returning to Stoneleigh for just one afternoon. ‘Tell her to phone me here,’ she said. ‘I should be back from the vet about ten.’

  ‘God, I’d forgotten all about the vet. Honestly, Catherine, how did we manage without you? How is the wretched cat?’

  ‘Much better. The abscess burst yesterday. But how are things your end? Are you enjoying the course?’

  ‘Yes and no. But I’ll tell you all about it when I’m back. Must dash now. And thanks a million.’

  ‘Jo is a shit,’ said Nicky, as Catherine replaced the receiver. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s just decided to take a few days’ holiday. Yet she expects us all to rally round and bail her out. It’s okay for her, doing damn all in the sun, while you shiver in the snow at Camden Lock.’

  Catherine laughed. ‘Hardly snow.’

  ‘Well, they have forecast a cold snap for the weekend. You’ll have to wrap up well. I’ll lend you my old sheepskin coat, and Darren’s got a weird leather hat with ear-flaps.’

  ‘Lord, I’ll frighten all the customers away! If there are any, that is. What will Greta say if I don’t sell a single thing?’

  ‘It’ll be okay, don’t worry. I’d come and buy a hat myself if I didn’t have to work. I know’ – she poured the last inch of wine into her glass – ‘we’ll get Fiona to rustle up a few friends.’

  ‘Gosh, I’d forgotten she was coming back. She’ll want her room.’

  ‘She can sleep in Jo’s and lump it. You’ve done enough for William, for heaven’s sake. Jo’s room is nicer anyway. I’m afraid you’ve got the worst room in the house.’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Catherine, you’re so polite!’

  ‘I’m not being polite. There’s a fantastic view from up there.’

  ‘Yeah, a lot of dreary grey roofs.’

  ‘Actually, they’re not dreary. I was looking out at the chimneypots this morning, and they’re really rather interesting – all different shapes and sizes. Some are twisted and gnarled and obviously very old, and they’re every sort of colour – yellow, brown, sooty-black …’

  ‘You’re easily pleased.’

  Yes, she thought, it’s true. She did enjoy sleeping in a photographer’s room in such a fascinating part of London, and having a new friend to talk to and a big tabby cat to pretend was hers. And it was fun eating exotic foods straight out of the carton whenever the fancy took her, instead of sitting down to late formal meals with Andrew and Antonia. And today’s trip to Hampstead had been an unqualified success: front seat on the top of a red bus, a brisk walk on the Heath; hot chocolate in the village, and then a tour of the chic boutiques. Also, she liked the sense of being needed – someone who could lend a hand with cats or market stalls. It had been easy as a wife and mother to feel useful, indispensable, but at Stoneleigh she often wondered if she was, frankly, in the way. And it was even quite a treat going to bed whenever she pleased, instead of feeling guiltily unsociable if she disappeared too early, or worrying about disturbing Andrew and Antonia if she stayed up later than them. In this house no one cared: you did what you liked when you liked, and to hell with any guilt.

  ‘Thanks, Nicky,’ she said, draining her wine. ‘That was lovely. But I think I’ll go up to bed now.’

  ‘Okay, see you in the morning. And listen, Catherine …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Promise me you won’t worry about Simon?’

  ‘All right, I’ll try.’

  ‘And you’re not nervous about running the stall?’

  ‘Well, yes, I’m terrified! But who knows, it might turn out to be fun.’

  Chapter Eleven<
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  Catherine climbed on to the trestle table, hampered by her bulky sheepskin coat. Snowflakes were spiralling down into her eyes, stinging on her lashes, smarting on her lips. The table felt dangerously rickety and she only hoped it wouldn’t give way as she reached up to screw a light-bulb into its fiddly metal socket.

  ‘Okay?’ Greta asked, her voice muffled by a black balaclava. She struggled to tether the flapping tarpaulin, the wind whining in shrill protest as it tugged the other way. ‘Shit!’ she muttered. ‘This weather’s a real pig. It’ll keep everyone at home. I sometimes wonder why I bother.’

  Catherine grunted in sympathy. She fixed the last light-bulb in place, licking snowflakes from her lips, then clambered down from the table, avoiding a large puddle. Her feet were soaked as it was. Fur-lined waterproof boots would have been ideal today, but Fiona’s footwear was stronger on fashion than on boring practicality.

  Cautiously she followed Greta across the slippery pavement into the covered market hall, relishing the warmth and light after the dank grey cold outside. The hall was buzzing with activity, as crates and boxes were carted down the stairs and cumbersome rails of clothes manoeuvred through the door. She envied those who had their stalls inside and could stay in this haven, protected from the elements. She stood watching a girl unpack a case of hand-painted bottles, glowing like stained glass, and arrange them on tiered shelving, the tallest at the back, going down step by step to squat but brilliant miniatures. This attention to detail had struck her already – the care and artistry lavished by the traders on displaying their various goods.

  She tore herself away from the jewel colours of the glass and hurried to find Greta, who was talking to a small wiry man carrying a load of rolled-up rugs. They broke off when they saw her.