Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  But at least such fantasies were proof she wasn’t frigid, as she had feared on Monday evening. She grinned to herself. She was behaving like an adolescent, lurching from one extreme to the other: a vestal virgin on Monday and practically a nymphomaniac tonight.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ asked Greta.

  ‘She’s plannin’ ’er new life,’ said Brad. ‘Dreamin’ of a bloody great ’ouse with a sauna and a swimmin’ pool and a private plane parked in the drive.’

  No, not a private plane, she thought, but a new life – certainly. And the first decision in that new life was to join them here next Saturday again. After all, she would have the finished waistcoats to deliver, and if her work came up to standard, Greta might give her more.

  She put the winning ticket in her pocket and stood up. ‘Okay, everybody, drinks on me this time. And if I win the jackpot next week, we’ll all go to Barbados!’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Nicky let Catherine in, shivering in the blast of cold night air. ‘We were getting really worried. Darren thought you might have gone off with a drugs baron.’

  Catherine followed her into the sitting-room, laughing as she unbuttoned her coat. ‘Well, I almost went off with a man called Brad. He wanted to take me to a rave.’

  ‘Good God, you’re living dangerously!’ Nicky curled up in her chair again, reaching for her glass. ‘Hey, look at William. With devotion like that, you don’t need men.’

  The cat had trotted up to greet her and was rubbing himself against her legs, purring ecstatically. ‘It’s only cupboard love, isn’t it, William?’ she said, picking him up and settling him on her lap. ‘I’ve been cooking him steamed fish and things, and I think he expects it every time he sees me now. Oh, and I bought him a box of Milky Drops from the pet shop and something called a cat chew.’

  ‘Lucky William,’ Darren muttered. ‘We don’t get cat chews or Milky Drops.’ He was lying on the sofa smoking a joint – a piney, slightly sickly smell she was learning to recognize.

  ‘Shut up, Darren.’ Nicky chucked a cushion at him. ‘I want to hear how Catherine got on. Well?’ she asked. ‘Did you manage to sell any hats?’

  ‘Yes, quite a lot. Greta was really pleased. She said I sold more than she usually does.’

  ‘Great! Did Sue and Laura buy any?’

  ‘Two each. You are a darling to send them along. Fiona didn’t come, though.’

  ‘Don’t mention Fee.’ Darren placed the cushion over his face and gave a histrionic groan.

  ‘Why, what’s wrong?’

  Another groan issued from the cushion.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive us, Catherine,’ Nicky said. ‘We’ve had an absolutely shitty day and we’ve decided to get pissed. Do join us if you want. There’s plenty of gin and stuff.’

  ‘No, I’d better not. I’ve had rather a lot of wine already.’

  ‘So you have been out on the tiles, Nicky grinned. ‘What happened to – who was it – Brad?’

  ‘I left him in the Stag’s Head.’

  ‘Oh, Darren, we’re leading Catherine astray. She was the soul of respectability before she came here.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Darren mumbled.

  ‘Actually, Catherine, I’m jolly glad to see you. I want you to get me back on the straight and narrow. I really shouldn’t get pissed, whatever I’ve just said. Stop me drinking this poisonous stuff, I beg you, and pack me off to bed. I’m going windsurfing tomorrow – I’ve got to work on my gybes before I go on holiday, and the last thing I need’s a hangover.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Darren grumbled. ‘You might at least have told me you’d be out.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t affect you, does it?’

  ‘’Course it does. We’re meant to be going to those galleries tomorrow and if you’re pissing off to Brighton or wherever …’

  ‘Oh, sod the galleries! Anyway, I’m not going to the coast. It’s too damned cold. ‘I’ll just content myself with a couple of hours at the reservoir. Catherine, I can give you a lift to Stoneleigh, if you want. It’s not far out of my way and it’ll save you hanging about for Sunday trains.’

  ‘Gosh, thanks,’ said Catherine, disconcerted by the thought that she would be returning to normality tomorrow. Andrew and Antonia had invited her to Sunday lunch at the golf club, and since there was no more reason to stay longer here in Camden, she would be back in suburban seclusion from then on.

  ‘You are a pain, Nick,’ Darren bleated. ‘I was counting on you to be here, so we could go to the Hayward together.’

  ‘Can’t we go next Sunday?’

  ‘No, it finishes tomorrow. And you know what Wayne said about going out and getting fresh ideas.’

  ‘Bugger Wayne!’

  ‘Who’s Wayne?’ asked Catherine.

  ‘Our Creative Director, Wayne MacDonald.’

  ‘Any bloke called Wayne’s bound to be bad news.’ Darren raised his head languidly, dislodging the cushion.

  ‘He can’t help his name, Darren. Anyway, yours is just as naff. Still, I must admit he is vile.’ Nicky turned to Catherine, her voice rising in exasperation. ‘He struts around the office like the great I Am, and the awful thing is he’s younger than me. He was lecturing us yesterday about being stale and uninspired. Apparently we need more stimulation. Which means finding time to see all the latest films and exhibitions. Though God knows how we’re supposed to fit it in.’

  ‘Well, you give up windsurfing for a start.’ Darren inhaled deeply. His eyes were closed and a seraphic smile settled over his features.

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘And sex.’

  ‘That’s non-existent at the moment, so …’

  ‘Well, men then … Parties … Meals out… Flying kites.’

  ‘Then I’d be more stale than ever. For heaven’s sake, I’m even beginning to dream about work. Last night it was Orange-O. I was imprisoned in a tiny cell, writing in this syrupy orange ink. But when I tried to read it, the words were in a sort of foreign script and didn’t mean a thing. I woke up drenched with sweat.’

  Darren started to laugh. ‘Better than drenched in Orange-O. Hey, I’ve just had an idea – free dreams with Orange-O. Fill in the handy coupon. Or better still, free orgasms. Orange-flavoured, of course. Two for the price of one.’

  ‘Ignore him, Catherine,’ Nicky said. ‘Once he gets giggly, he’s impossible, I feel more like crying. Today was the pits – just the two of us in that great morgue of a building, with a lone security guard pacing up and down. And what really bugs me is that Wayne’s quite likely to shoot the whole thing down again on Monday and we’ll be back where we started. It’s incredibly frustrating. The deadlines are tight enough as it is, without him putting his oar in. I’m sure I’ll have an ulcer by the time I’m forty. Mind you, they’ll have sacked me long before then for not seeing the latest Quentin Tarantino.’

  ‘I haven’t seen a film for months.’

  ‘Why not, Cath?’ asked Darren. ‘You’ve got loads of time.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it seems sort of … indulgent, going on my own.’

  ‘Indulgent?’ Nicky raised her eyebrows. ‘You’d better come with us then. It’s our homework, after all, so we can make it grim and dutiful.’

  ‘Okay, you’re on,’ she laughed.

  ‘Actually, I was going to ask you something …’ Nicky looked slightly embarrassed. ‘I mean, it’s probably out of the question, or you’ll loathe the whole idea, or think it’s an awful cheek, or …’

  ‘What? Something to do with William?’ She fondled his ears, glad he looked so much better. The Milky Drops contained vitamins, and they must be doing him good.

  ‘Oh, no. Well, yes, I suppose it does involve him in a way, though I hadn’t even thought of that. No, it’s Fiona. She’s not coming back – not for ages, anyway. Her mother’s got cancer. They’ve only just found out. Fiona’s absolutely devastated.’ Nicky ran a distracted hand through her hair. ‘And it puts us in a bit of a spot. You see, she can’t leave Hereford,
so she’s suggested that a friend of hers moves into her room here, to help out with the rent. He’s another photographer, actually, called Melvyn. We met him once, and once was enough, I can tell you. He’s an utter pseud, and our ever-tactful friend here went and told him so.’

  ‘Well, someone had to,’ said Darren, still smiling beatifically.

  ‘But of course we didn’t like to say anything when Fiona was so upset about her mother. And anyway, it rather threw us. We told her we needed time to discuss it.’ Nicky took a final sip from her glass, then screwed the cap on the gin bottle and put it out of reach. ‘Well, we talked for ages last night, but we didn’t really get anywhere. The only thing that’s certain is we have to let the room as soon as possible, otherwise we’re simply throwing money down the drain. Darren’s got a friend who’s looking for a place. He plays guitar with Pink Treacle, but frankly, two musicians under one roof is pushing it a bit.’

  ‘Mm, Bill’s a great guy,’ said Darren, ‘but he’s not what I’d call house-trained.’

  Nicky shuddered. ‘And there’s a girl at work who wants a pad, but she’s just bought one of those snappy little terriers, and I draw the line at dogs. William’s bad enough.’

  Catherine continued stroking the cat, trying to hide her growing unease. She knew exactly what was coming and didn’t want to hear it. How could she say yes? It was one thing staying here a week on just a casual basis, but to move in permanently …

  ‘And then we thought of you, Catherine. I know you’re living with your son and it would mean an enormous upheaval, but – well, you’re seeing him tomorrow, aren’t you, so maybe you could talk it over. And you did say you found the suburbs rather boring.’ Nicky paused, still frowning. ‘You needn’t commit yourself to longer than, say, six months. But then we could tell Fiona you’re desperate to stay on, and that would keep the dreaded Melvyn at bay. I know it’s terribly selfish of us, but you do fit in so well. Besides, Fiona’s mother might be better by the summer. They’re starting chemotherapy right away.’

  ‘Or she may be dead,’ Darren put in lugubriously.

  ‘Darren, don’t. She’s only fifty-five.’

  ‘Keats died at twenty-five.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘And Kurt Cobain at twenty-seven.’

  ‘You’re a comfort in a crisis, I must say,’ Nicky retorted. ‘Well, Catherine, what do you think?’

  She could hardly think at all. Her head was still floaty from the wine. But warning lights had begun to flash. To afford rent each week, she would need a proper job. Running up a few waistcoats wouldn’t bring in enough. But wasn’t it ridiculous to burden herself with rent when she could live free at Manor Close? She might criticize Andrew and Antonia – as she’d done disloyally all the week – but they were her bedrock, her security, and the prospect of giving up her only real home filled her with alarm. Besides, it could be another wrong decision: doing something to help someone else out (a repeat of the old pattern) rather than doing what she wanted. Even Greta’s sewing job no longer sounded quite as appealing as it had done in the pub. Starvation wages, Rosie had said, and it would mean working on her own again, cut off from other people. She could look for a different job, though – an office job in Camden, for instance. The rates of pay were higher in London than the suburbs; besides, the last few days had shown her how stuffy and conformist life in the suburbs was, and how much she longed for change. Well, here was a chance to prove she meant it. She had felt happier today than she’d felt for a long time, mixing with people who were lively and free-spirited and also extraordinarily creative: making toys or jewellery, weaving rugs, producing arty photographs (often despite being branded failures at school, or by society at large). She found it heartening, somehow, that there was so much talent about Even if they were only scraping a living, at least they were using their talent and their selves. It had even occurred to her this afternoon that maybe she could run a stall of her own; be equally creative and sell children’s clothes, or cakes, or jams and chutneys. She no longer felt such an outsider in their world. In fact, in some respects she had quite a lot in common with the traders. Most of them seemed to be single or divorced, with no supportive partner or regular job, let alone a large bank balance, so she would fit in rather well.

  But explaining the idea to her ultra-respectable son was a different matter entirely. Even if she found herself a conventional job, he would be against her moving to Camden. He already thought it odd that she had stayed so long with what he saw as a bunch of strangers, and if he discovered they smoked dope and consumed large quantities of alcohol he would be genuinely shocked. And then there was Jo to consider. She had almost forgotten the fourth inmate of the house, who might well object to her staying. ‘Won’t Jo mind?’ she asked, suddenly realizing that Nicky was looking at her expectantly, still waiting for an answer.

  ‘No, Jo’s okay. We’ve rung her.’

  Darren gave an extravagant yawn. ‘Actually, she was so involved with some Italian guy, I don’t think she’d care if we let the bloody room to Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘Darren, that’s not exactly flattering to Catherine.’

  ‘Sorry, Cath. Nothing personal.’ Darren lumbered to his feet, tripping over his glass. ‘God, I’m flaked! I’m going up to bed.’

  ‘Well, if you will smoke that junk,’ said Nicky.

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’ He shambled out of the room and they heard him giggling to himself as he clump-clumped up the stairs.

  Lord, thought Catherine, if Darren regarded Nicky as Mum, what did that make her? Grandma, probably. She was far too old to be part of this household. The others were bound to feel she cramped their style – Jo and Darren, certainly. Besides, she might offend Andrew and Antonia if she moved out of Manor Close, when they had been kind enough to offer her a home there (and gone to so much trouble over her room). Or would they be secretly relieved, perhaps? It was so difficult to know. The three of them rarely talked about their feelings. But maybe she could put a few antennae out before the golf club lunch, try to discover how they felt ‘Look, Nicky,’ she said uncertainly, ‘it’s sweet of you to ask me, but it’s not an easy decision. Can I phone you tomorrow evening, when I’ve had a chance to talk to Andrew about it, and let you know definitely then?’

  ‘Well, it had better be yes,’ grinned Nicky, listening to William’s loud contented purr, ‘or you’ll do grave emotional damage to that cat. He’s lost one mistress as it is …’

  ‘Can’t Fiona have him with her in Hereford?’

  ‘No, she’s already looking after her mother’s dog, who happens to have a strong aversion to cats.’

  ‘Poor William.’ Catherine put her arms round him protectively.

  ‘Yes, poor William,’ Nicky echoed.

  Catherine glanced at the scar from his abscess. It would be a wrench to leave him when they had built up such a bond, but she was equally loth to upset Andrew. God, what a dilemma, she thought – torn between her loyal supportive son and a great soppy tabby cat. She eased him gently off her lap and reached out for the gin bottle. She was sick and tired of dilemmas. ‘Nicky, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we change places? You go up to bed with a nice healthy cup of Ovaltine and I’ll stay down here and get pickled on the gin!’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Not far now,’ said Catherine. ‘Just turn right at this crossroads, then it’s the second road on the left.’

  ‘Pretty round here, isn’t it?’ Nicky remarked as they passed an early-flowering cherry struggling into bloom.

  ‘Mm.’ Catherine was noncommittal. Far from being pretty, the neighbourhood seemed barren, devoid of life and colour. Anyway she wasn’t really in the mood to appreciate her surroundings. Last night’s gin had left her with a vicious headache. Also, the nearer they got to Manor Close, the more apprehensive she became about turning up with Nicky, Darren and Darren’s bizarre friend Scott, and was praying they wouldn’t come in.

  Scott had shambled round to Gosforth Road at
breakfast-time this morning, clearly at a loose end and looking for a way to spend his Sunday. Darren, pleading a hangover, had refused all his suggestions, until finally an exasperated Nicky invited them both to the reservoir: the new leisure centre there had pool tables, video games and a sauna and Jacuzzi. So the four of them had piled into the car and driven out to Surrey. Scott, who seemed manic in the extreme, had talked the whole of the journey, telling puerile jokes, reading snippets out of the papers and giving his opinion on them (and also airing his views on life, death, drugs and sex). It was just as well no one else could get a word in edgeways, since the rest of them weren’t feeling at their best. Now, however, even Scott fell silent as they turned into Manor Close.

  ‘It’s just here on the corner,’ she said nervously. ‘Number one.’

  The house looked even more self-satisfied than usual; the neatly paved front garden a far cry from the Gosforth Road jungle of dustbin bags and weeds. The door-knocker was freshly Brasso’d, the net curtains smugly Persilled, and the paintwork was so pristine-white it was hard to believe it hadn’t been touched up in the last half-hour.

  ‘Cor!’ drawled Scott. ‘Posh.’

  Catherine blushed. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said to Nicky. ‘And thanks for a marvellous week. I’ve really enjoyed it.’

  ‘And we enjoyed having you. Just make sure you’re back soon – like tomorrow!’

  Catherine smiled. ‘I’ll phone this evening, I promise. And whatever happens, let’s keep in touch.’

  ‘Yes, we must. We will.’ Nicky leaned over and gave her an affectionate hug. It seemed to express the closeness they had achieved in so short a time. Catherine realized with a pang how much she would miss her new friend.

  ‘Break it up, you two,’ jeered Scott, prodding her in the back.

  Catherine twisted round in her seat and blew him and Darren a kiss. ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘Have a good sweat in the sauna! And thank you, Darren, for everything.’

  ‘Hang on a sec, Cath, I’m dying for a slash. Would it be okay if I came in?’