Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘What can I get you to drink?’

  A double brandy, she thought, to steady the nerves. But brandy was expensive and he must be short of money if he had to take waitering jobs. ‘Half of bitter please, Will.’ Drinking bitter made her feel somehow liberated, one of the lads. She had only acquired the habit since moving into Gosforth Road, influenced by Nicky and Jo. In fact, she was drinking more altogether – not worryingly so, but as part of the process of opening up, letting go some of the controls.

  She watched Will at the bar: well-mannered, waiting his turn, exchanging pleasantries with other customers. He looked slimmer without his jacket, although the cream sweater was none too clean. Her own jersey was one of Nicky’s, an ancient thing, but bright candyfloss pink. She unbuttoned the jacket to show it off, enjoying the clash of colours.

  He returned with the drinks and sat down. ‘Cheers!’ he said. ‘To yaks.’

  ‘Cheers!’

  He subsided into silence, the fingers of one hand drumming on the table. She found it disconcerting that one minute he was disgorging words in shoals, and the next he seemed to dry up.

  She cast around for something to say. Everyone else appeared to be deep in conversation; bursts of laughter from the adjoining table surfacing above the general hubbub. Even the espresso machine on the bar was merrily hissing and frothing, and the music had changed to a louder and more lively piece. ‘It’s nice in here,’ she said lamely, wishing she were a piping flute or soaring violin, so she would sound a bit more sparkling.

  ‘Yes, it’s one of my favourite pubs. And they do marvellous food. D’you like food?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, surprised. Did anyone not like it?

  ‘Good. I’m quite concerned about the future of eating. It seems to be going out of fashion, with many women, anyway. D’you know, I did a reading once with an American poet and nearly all her work was based on anorexia – titles like “Starvation” or “Force-Feeding”. She looked like a Belsen victim herself and somehow it put me off my stroke. I just dried up completely. That’s never happened before and I felt an utter fool. The silence seemed to last for ever, with people coughing and shuffling their chairs.’

  ‘But don’t you read your poems?’

  ‘Yes, but you’re meant to give a little spiel first. You know – what you’ve chosen and why, and how you came to write them. Normally it’s no problem. I make a few jokes to get the audience on my side, or tell them some personal anecdote. But this time I was really shit-scared.’

  ‘Well, I know how nerve-racking performing can be. My husband was an actor.’

  ‘Husband? You mean you’re married?’ He sounded shocked, indignant almost.

  ‘No, widowed.’ Even after all this time, it was still difficult to say, and invariably it made other people awkward. They didn’t know how to react and would mumble vague apologies or cliches, as Will was doing now.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It was quite some time ago.’ Immediately she felt disloyal to Gerry. Would he be upset to see her with another man? She took a long draught of beer, trying to put him out of her mind. She couldn’t let him intrude on every date.

  ‘I’m sorry, Catherine. I’ve been banging on about myself and I haven’t asked a thing about you. Poets are such self-centred bastards. I suppose because our work comes from our innermost experience, we continually focus on ourselves. For all I know, you may be a poet too. Or a philosopher. Or a striptease artist. Or an authority on the hammerhead shark.’

  ‘No, none of those,’ she laughed.

  ‘What do you do, then? Well, I know you work at the market, but is that full time?’

  ‘Practically, at the moment, if you include the sewing work.’

  ‘Oh, you make the waistcoats, do you? No wonder mine brought me such good luck.’

  His flirtatious smile made her nervous again. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t make yours. That’s one of Greta’s, fortunately for you! She’s more professional than I am. Actually, I’m only working for her on a temporary basis and I’m not sure what I’ll be doing after that. To tell the truth, my life’s a bit of a muddle at the moment. You see, I’m trying to find out what I want to do, and who I am, and all those adolescent sorts of things I should have discovered years ago. Forgive me, Will, but I’d really rather not talk about it. It sounds so … pseud, to use your word.’

  He put his glass down and sat back with a triumphant air. ‘I know what you are,’ he announced. ‘You’re a work in progress.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You know, like an embryo poem. Not sure where you’re going or whether you’ll end up as an epic or a haiku. But with lots of potential, whichever – confusion raging, creative chaos. And of course you don’t want to talk about it – no writer ever does. After all, you may stop the process in its tracks if you pin it down too soon. You need to grope and fumble a bit, explore dead ends, maybe. In spite of their name, they can often be very enlivening. Then suddenly, one day – whoosh! – you’ve arrived. You’re on paper, with a form and structure. You’ve worked yourself out. You’re completed and complete.’ Abruptly he broke off. ‘God! I’m getting dreadfully pretentious again. And talking too much, as usual.’ He leaned forward, edged his hand towards hers on the table. ‘It’s your fault, Catherine. You inspire me.’

  ‘I … I thought you said inspiration was a corny word.’

  ‘Not where you’re concerned. In fact, if you’re looking for a role in life, you’d make an excellent muse. They’re very thin on the ground these days. I fear they’re going the way of butlers and carbon-paper salesmen.’

  Their hands weren’t touching – not quite; his large and tanned and grubby; hers small and clean and pale. She felt unbearably hot (from nerves as much as anything), but if she took her jacket off, it would mean moving her hand from the table, which he might interpret as a rebuff. Yet if their fingers did make contact, they would have crossed an invisible boundary, and she wasn’t sine she was ready for that.

  He too seemed diffident, moving his hand a fraction, but only to trace a fissure in the wood. ‘This table’s cracking up,’ he said, forcing a laugh. ‘Like me.’

  ‘It looks old but sort of … dignified.’ Her voice was equally strained. ‘Is it an antique?’

  ‘Not really. It’s sort of Arts and Crafts style.’ He stroked the wood affectionately. ‘Nice, though.’

  ‘Do you know a lot about furniture?’ she asked, relieved to be on safer ground.

  ‘I’m learning. I love renovating things, you see, and you learn a lot that way. I tour all the local skips in my old van and scavenge anything worth saving. Then I mend it, stain it, tart it up and sell it at a profit if I’m lucky. It’s a bit like poetry, if you’ll forgive me for returning to that subject yet again – making something out of nothing.’

  While he spoke, she watched his fingers caress the table-top. Of course, she thought, furniture-restoring would explain the state of his hands.

  ‘And you never know what you might find. That’s another thing I love – the element of chance. I rescued an old Hoover once, just because it looked slightly better than the clapped-out thing I had at home. And – you’ll never believe this, Catherine – I saw something glinting inside the dust bag: a gold bracelet. Which turned out to be Victorian. Eighteen-carat. It was like a fairy tale – you know, the diamond ring in the belly of the fish.’

  ‘Good gracious! What did you do with it?’

  ‘Well, after quite a battle with my conscience, I decided I had to trace the owner. Which was easier said than done. I succeeded in the end, though, and was confronted with this eccentric artist who looked about a hundred and three. She gave me one of her paintings as a reward – an absolutely hideous thing. But of course I had to be duly grateful. A few years later I managed to get rid of it, thank God. I sold it to an American, who paid way over the odds. He saw it on my stall and thought it was a Frank Auerbach.’

  ‘So virtue received its reward,’ she smiled.

  ‘On that oc
casion, yes. Though it’s not my usual experience.’

  She noted the bitterness in his voice and quickly steered him back to the subject of furniture, glad to see his expression brighten. His face was a barometer, registering his every change of mood. He seemed incapable of dissembling, or even of concealing his emotions.

  ‘I must admit I find junk fascinating. And it always annoys me that it’s called junk. I mean, who decides what’s valuable or not? Junk often has as much history as antiques. It’s the same with weeds. If dandelions were on display at the Chelsea Flower Show, gardeners would pay a fortune for them, and experts would write learned papers on their tap roots or their wonderful clocks.’ He held up an imaginary dandelion clock, pursed his lips and blew. She could almost see the gossamer shreds floating above his head.

  ‘When I was a little boy, I used to think …’ He broke off as the waitress (a young girl in jeans and trainers, with shiny hennaed hair) squeezed behind his chair, carrying a tray of food for the people at the next table. A tantalizing smell of garlic wafted from the plates. He sat sniffing it appreciatively, forgetting to finish his sentence.

  She wondered whether to prompt him to continue – it would be nice to hear what he had thought as a small boy. She knew little enough about him as an adult – not even his age or whether he was married, single or divorced – but she didn’t want to appear intrusive by asking personal questions.

  ‘I suppose I just love things,’ he reflected, returning to the earlier conversation. ‘More than people, frankly. When I worked in Totnes, it was the buying trips I enjoyed, rather than the actual selling.’

  ‘Well, for someone who doesn’t like people, you’re very brave to invite me for a drink.’ She felt brave for saying such a thing. It must be the beer – her glass was empty, although she didn’t remember finishing it.

  ‘You’re different,’ he said, looking at her intently.

  ‘Different? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I like your face. Your eyes especially. They’re a very interesting blue.’

  She looked away, not sure if he was serious. She had always regarded her eyes as an extremely ordinary blue. If she thanked him for the compliment it might sound rather smug (especially if he hadn’t meant it anyway). But the silence was getting awkward again, going on too long. She half stood up, to take her jacket off – a move she regretted as his glance strayed to her breasts. Nicky’s sweater was tight, embarrassingly so. She had chosen her clothes this morning mainly for warmth and colour, not imagining for a moment that they would be subjected to such scrutiny.

  ‘That’s a fabulous sweater,’ he said. ‘The colour looks great on you, especially with your hair.’

  This time she managed to blurt out an acknowledgement, although she could feel herself blushing like a schoolgirl. How pathetically gauche she must seem – a novice when it came to men. It had been so easy with Gerry, so safe. He had more or less grown up with her and knew her through and through, whereas now she had to start from scratch, with strangers.

  ‘People who wear bright colours should receive good-citizenship awards,’ he said. ‘For cheering the rest of us up. Most clothes are so drab, especially men’s.’

  ‘You should see Nicky’s!’

  ‘Who’s Nicky?’

  ‘One of the girls I live with.’ She could tell his curiosity was aroused, but she wasn’t sure how much to tell him. Of course, she was a stranger, too, as far as he was concerned, but maybe better that way for the moment – at least until she had worked out what she felt about him. She was certainly intrigued (and flattered by his attentions), but also somehow wary. ‘Look, let me get you a drink,’ she offered. His glass was still half-full, but she needed a breathing space.

  ‘No, the drinks are on me this evening – I insist. Would you like another half? Or shall we order something to eat and have some wine with it? I must admit these smells are making my mouth water, especially the garlic butter. I’m mad on garlic – pity it’s so anti-social. I’ll fetch a menu, shall I?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Will. I can’t. I … I’ve arranged to have supper with someone.’

  ‘You didn’t say.’ He sounded hurt, his expression plunging into despondency again.

  ‘Well, it’s only a very casual thing – with Nicky. We decided we’d …’ The sentence petered out. She hated lying and would only tie herself in knots.

  ‘But surely she wouldn’t mind? I mean, if you see her all the time. Couldn’t you phone her and ask?’

  ‘No, I’d better not.’ Someone else seemed to be speaking through her voice; no longer her new self but a mistrustful killjoy, reminding her of the meal with Simon – and look what had happened then.

  ‘Well, let me buy you another drink, at least. Have you got time for that?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We don’t eat till fairly late.’ That was true anyway. It had been after ten last night before they got round to raiding the fridge.

  He jumped to his feet and was half-way to the bar when suddenly he came back. ‘Promise me one thing,’ he said, putting his hand lightly on her shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Don’t ask. Please. Just say “Yes, I promise”.’

  She said nothing. The gentle pressure of his hand seemed to be spreading from her shoulder through the whole of her body.

  ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘It’s nothing too terrible.’

  ‘It’s a risk, though, isn’t it?’ she laughed.

  ‘Oh yes. But risk is what it’s all about – life, death, birth, love – and even quite a lot of poetry, the sort that teeters between brilliance and banality. Anyway, the most exciting people tend to take big risks.’

  ‘Well, in that case, yes, I promise.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He let out a sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath in anticipation.

  ‘Right, tell me the worst! What have I risked?’

  ‘Dinner with me another evening. If that’s okay?’ he added anxiously.

  She nodded. His hand hadn’t moved from her shoulder, as if he were laying claim to her; keeping her gently captive. ‘How about tomorrow?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t make that.’ Tomorrow was Maureen’s birthday and she had promised to take her in-laws to the new Italian restaurant in Walton. She wasn’t looking forward to it, but some duties were inescapable.

  ‘Well, Tuesday, then. Yes – let’s try and make it Tuesday. It’s St Valentine’s Day.’

  She didn’t answer. He was going too fast: red roses, hearts entwined.

  ‘Though you’re probably booked already,’ he said forlornly.

  ‘Actually I am going out, for a drink with Nicky.’

  ‘Who is this Nicky? You seem very close.’

  ‘Well, it’s not just her, it’s a group of her friends. She works in advertising and they’re meeting in a wine bar after work.’ She didn’t tell him the whole story: Nicky had suggested a consolatory drink for those of her friends without partners, who wouldn’t be getting cards, flowers, chocolates, or romantic candlelit dinners. The idea was to prove they were quite capable of enjoying Valentine’s Day without recourse to men, or schmaltz.

  ‘Well, perhaps we could meet afterwards,’ he suggested. ‘How long will it go on?’

  ‘Oh, probably all night, knowing Nicky. But I … I could get away earlier, if you like.’

  ‘I do like. What time have you planned to meet?’

  ‘Between half past five and six, Nicky said, depending how busy they are on the day.’

  ‘Well, suppose we met at half past eight. Would that be rushing you?’

  ‘No, that’s … fine.’

  ‘And shall I come and pick you up?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said more vehemently. It would contravene the whole spirit of Nicky’s party for a man to barge in and whisk her away. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if she had any right to be there at all. Wasn’t it rather devious to masquerade as ‘manless’, only to creep out two hours later for a dinner-date?

  ‘Well,
where would you like to meet?’

  ‘How about here again?’ It was a long way from the Mayfair wine bar, but she could tell the others (truly) that she had to go back to Camden to see someone connected with the market.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But let’s eat somewhere else. Somewhere quieter and more intimate.’

  His hungry gaze gave the word still greater charge. His eyes were devouring her so greedily she felt herself consumed, digested.

  Oh lord, she thought, quickly looking down – what on earth am I letting myself in for?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Catherine let the glass door close behind her, gazing around the impressive foyer of Hobson Huntley Armitage. Nicky’s frequent complaints about the place had led her to expect something on the lines of a prison or a slave-ship, whereas HHA in reality looked more like a modern art gallery fused with a stylish hotel. The carpet was a subtle oyster-grey and dominated by an enormous L-shaped sofa, starkly black. Three abstract sculptures were mounted on white pedestals, and opposite hung a dramatic unframed canvas daubed in red and orange. Reproductions of past advertising campaigns covered another wall, though they were so cleverly displayed, one got the impression that they were works of art themselves.

  Nervously she approached the desk – a white marble affair framed by a jungle of exotic plants, including a couple of palm trees, more Marrakesh than Mayfair.

  ‘Yes, can I help you?’ The receptionist was a daunting female with scarlet talons and jet-black hair cut in a harshly geometric style.

  ‘I’m, er, meeting Nicky Maitland. Should I wait for her here, or … ?’

  ‘I’ll buzz her for you. Name, please.’

  ‘Catherine Jones.’

  The woman pressed a button on the switchboard, then sat inspecting her perfect nails, her haughty expression unchanged. ‘She’ll be down as soon as she can. Would you like to take a seat?’