Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Thank you.’ Catherine trekked back across the expanse of carpet and perched on one end of the sofa, thinking of the grotty dives she’d worked in when the children were young: offices with scraps of dirty lino on the floor, where the only ‘art’ was the odd tattered poster from Torremolinos or the boss’s girlie calendar. It must give employees a sense of importance to be part of a place like this, knowing there were David Hockneys (genuine) in the boardroom and a pair of flamingoes (ditto) strutting around the roof-garden.

  She watched people emerge from the lifts, presumably on their way home. A group of impeccably suited executives was followed by a lad in army fatigues, then a rangy black girl with a shaven head and huge earrings, wearing a crotch-high satin skirt. Camden Market meets the City, she thought, glancing at her own plain black skirt – one she’d brought from Stoneleigh and brightened with a silver shirt (courtesy of Nicky) and her scarlet ‘yak’ on top. She hadn’t really known what to wear. Nicky and her friends were dressing up, to make the St Valentine’s Day party more of an occasion and to show they didn’t take trouble solely to please men. But if she followed their example, she would look overdressed for Will, who might well turn up in old corduroys and a sweater. Every time she thought of Will she felt a twinge of apprehension – made worse because she had no one to confide in. It had seemed insensitive to mention him to Nicky, who was feeling depressed about men in general and Jonathan in particular, or to Jo for that matter, who had been dumped by her Italian inamorato after one brief but glorious week.

  She sorted through the magazines on the oversized glass coffee-table – Media Week, Marketing, Creative Review, Campaign – tides unfamiliar to her. She picked one up to study in more detail, startled by the images, so clever yet so blatant, and the photos of directors who looked barely out of school, yet who, according to the articles, were earning six-figure salaries. The advertising business seemed a curious mixture of avarice and art; High Seriousness lavished on trivia; ideals served by hype.

  She was engrossed in a piece on ‘Has Television Had Its Day?’ when she heard someone call her name. She looked up to see Nicky coming towards her from the lift, her hair dishevelled, her red dress creased.

  ‘Catherine, I’m sorry! It’s panic stations upstairs – I thought I ought to warn you.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Laura – you know, that girl I mentioned who came back from maternity leave last month. I’m doing her work now. I’ve finished my own, thank God, and anyway she’s in no state to do it herself. She’s in floods of tears at the moment. Look, do you want to go on to the wine-bar without me? It’s only round the corner, and quite a few people will be there already. I’ve invited some friends from Saatchis and BBH, as well. You could introduce yourself and …’

  ‘No, honestly. I’d rather wait for you, Nicky.’

  ‘Okay. But I don’t like leaving you stuck down here on your own. Why not come up to the office and have a cup of coffee while I try to sort things out? Quick! Let’s catch the lift.’

  They both squeezed in just as the doors were closing, Nicky continuing to explain the crisis whilst they were gliding swiftly up. ‘Laura’s been doing these press ads for a new range of face-creams called Vigilant. But the client’s shot the whole thing down. He says he wants more science and less poetry. Last time he briefed her, it was more poetry and less science.’ Nicky snorted impatiently as she ushered Catherine out of the lift, which had stopped at the third floor. ‘She’s got to come up with something tonight, but the trouble is she’s left Ben with Nina – that’s the baby-minder – and when she rang to say she’d be late, the girl went mad. She’s supposed to be going out, you see, and she told Laura in no uncertain terms that if she wasn’t back within the hour, she’d refuse to look after Ben any more. Well, Laura just went to pieces. She can’t afford a proper nanny, and anyway, she likes Nina, and Ben seems happy there.’

  Catherine found it hard to concentrate. She was striding after Nicky along a wide grey-carpeted corridor past a series of open office doors – though offices seemed hardly the right word for these colourful chaotic rooms, furnished not just with desks and filing cabinets, but with televisions, stereos, sofas and armchairs. She stopped to peer in at a couple, distracted by a plush giraffe sitting earnestly at a desk, or a giant red nose she recognized from a recent cold-cure commercial. The walls were a brilliant jumble of posters and bulletin boards, with postcards, cuttings and photographs pinned up. And as for the workers, there wasn’t a grey suit to be seen, not here in the Creative Department – nor indeed much sign of any work. She watched in astonishment as two lads in faded denims kicked a football up and down the corridor. Another boy lay fast asleep on his office floor, while a girl in a tartan micro-skirt and glittery platform shoes was lounging on a window-seat, smoking a cheroot.

  ‘Hi, Sharon,’ Nicky called. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Don’t ask!’ said Sharon, with a shudder, returning languidly to her desk.

  ‘This is Catherine, by the way,’ said Nicky. ‘She’s coming to the party with us.’

  ‘Hi, Catherine,’ Sharon smiled, flicking ash on her layout-pad. ‘See you about midnight, if I’m lucky!’

  Catherine stole a glance at her watch, already worrying about her date with Will. There wouldn’t be a date with Will if the party was so dramatically delayed.

  Nicky stopped at the last office on the right ‘This is mine and Darren’s,’ she said. ‘Darren’s left already. He said face-cream wasn’t his thing, though actually, he’s rather good with women’s products. He did this brilliant tampon campaign last year. People still ask him when his period’s due! Anyway, let me introduce you to Laura.’

  Catherine followed her into the office, where an attractive girl in her twenties with chestnut hair and a curvaceous figure was sitting at one of the desks, her eyes puffy and inflamed. She seemed embarrassed to see a stranger, and hastily dabbed her face with a tissue.

  Nicky made the introductions, then drew up a chair at the other desk, frowning at her computer. ‘I’m going to be a while yet, Catherine. Could you be an angel and make coffee for us all? The kettle’s on the side there. Nice and strong for me, please. And Laura likes two sugars but no milk.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Laura offered wanly.

  ‘No, it’s quite all right. Let me.’ Catherine switched the kettle on, spooned coffee into three clean mugs, and eventually found the sugar in an enamel tin marked ‘TEA’.

  ‘Does anyone object to some music?’ Nicky asked, plugging in her CD player. ‘It might help me concentrate. In fact, why don’t you two go and sit in Bruce’s office? He and Phil have gone, so you’ll have the place to yourselves, and you can have a good old natter.’

  ‘And get out of your way, you mean.’ Laura managed a halfhearted grin.

  ‘Frankly, yes. Speed’s the essence at the moment and I can work much faster on my own.’

  ‘I’m still worried about you doing it, Nicky. Are you really sure you can manage? And you won’t forget what I told you about …?’

  Nicky sighed in exasperation. ‘Look, just leave me in peace and let me have a bash at it, okay? If I need you, I’ll shout. The kettle’s boiling, by the way.’

  Catherine made the coffee, passed Nicky and Laura their mugs, then followed Laura to an office down the corridor.

  ‘Come and sit here,’ said Laura, patting the cushions on a squashy vinyl sofa. ‘We might as well be comfortable. And look, I am sorry to delay you like this. It’s great of Nicky to bail me out, but not much fun for you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. She told me about the problem with your baby-minder, and I sympathize entirely. It takes me back to the days when I had two young children and was trying to work full-time. Sometimes I felt close to cracking up. And my job was pretty routine – nothing like as demanding as this.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose that’s the trouble really. I feel permanently frazzled. When I finish here, I pick Ben up and dash round Sainsbury’s with him wailin
g in the trolley. Then it’s off home to throw a meal together and catch up with the washing and ironing. My figure’s gone to pot, so I should work out in the gym, but when, for heaven’s sake? Ricky – that’s my husband – plays squash three times a week, but there’s something I’ve noticed recently – working mothers don’t play – not games, not sport, not anything. They simply haven’t time. Mind you, I’m not knocking Ricky – his job is frightfully pressured, too, and it’s worse for men in some ways. They can’t even have a good cry! One of the guys in his office says he’s given up life for work. Apparently he’s too exhausted even to have a proper relationship.’ She pulled a tissue out of her bag and sat shredding it in her fingers. ‘I’m sorry, Catherine, you don’t want to hear all this. I’m afraid you caught me at the worst possible time. Usually I can just about manage to juggle everything, but when Nina threatened to stop looking after Ben, I just felt …’ Tears slid down her face, leaving black streaks from her mascara. ‘I … I’m sorry,’ she repeated, struggling for control. ‘I didn’t mean to burden you with …’

  ‘It’s okay – really.’ Catherine squeezed her hand. ‘I understand. I’ve been through it myself. And it sometimes helps to cry.’

  ‘Yes, but I feel so … so guilty. Not just about being a lousy mother, but … Hold on a minute.’ She went to the door and closed it, then stood awkwardly by the sofa. After a moment’s silence she suddenly burst out, ‘There’s this girl who works here – Jonty – and last month she got herself sterilized. She’s only twenty-eight, but she knew she didn’t ever want children. She was terrified of getting pregnant and being tied down with a kid for twenty-odd years. Most of the others were rather disapproving, even if they didn’t say so outright, but I felt … almost envious.’ She returned abruptly to the sofa and slumped down, looking wretched. ‘I’ve shocked you, Catherine, haven’t I? I mean, it’s wicked to feel like that. And terribly unfair to Ben. I do love him, but …’

  ‘Of course you do. And it’s not wicked. It’s perfectly understandable. You’re tired, that’s all – shattered, by the sounds of it. Look, I know it’s probably easier said than done, but couldn’t you take a few days off and simply rest – sleep when the baby sleeps, grab every chance you can?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so, but it wouldn’t look too good. They’ll probably think I’m slacking. It’s bad enough Nicky doing my work. That’s never happened before and it makes me feel awfully guilty.

  Your work’s like your baby, you see – another sodding baby – which needs just as much attention.’

  ‘Well, I still think you need a break from at least one of the babies.’

  ‘Yeah, but if I did take time off, I’d still have to return to the treadmill. And it might feel worse than ever, after a taste of freedom.’

  ‘But Laura, if it’s as bad as that, perhaps you’d be better off without the treadmill. Do you have to work – for financial reasons, I mean?’

  ‘Well, I suppose we’d manage if we did without holidays and things. But it’s not just money, is it? It’s self-respect and status – the idea of having it all, I suppose – to use that ghastly phrase.’

  ‘But we can’t have it all. It’s impossible.’

  ‘Loads of people try, though.’

  ‘Well, maybe they’re wrong. You could make out a good case for us being supersluts, not superwomen.’

  Laura gave a hollow laugh.

  ‘No, I’m serious. I’ve become rather sluttish myself, to tell the truth – about twenty years too late, unfortunately! And I find I’m questioning lots of things I used to take for granted. Like do I need to read a paper every day? Or watch the news on television? Or accept the general consensus that you aren’t truly civilized unless you keep up with the latest detail of every crisis in the world. And I’ve stopped bothering about “proper meals” – whatever they’re supposed to be. Oh, I know it’s much easier for me – I’m on my own with no ties, but maybe you could do the same in a small way. Start with, say, the gym. You said you ought to go, but why? They didn’t have aerobics and stuff when I was young. Now it’s all the rage, but if you’re not careful, it becomes just another pressure, something else to be fitted in.’ She stopped, realizing how bossy she must sound. ‘Oh dear, I hope you don’t think I’m interfering, Laura? We’ve only just met and here I am telling you what to do with your life!’

  ‘You’re not telling me – you’re suggesting things. And actually, it’s great. Just talking to you helps. The others don’t really understand – not even Nicky. She’s an angel, and incredibly loyal, but until you’ve had a kid of your own …’

  Catherine nodded, wondering for a traitorous second how different her own life might have been if she’d never had Andrew and Kate. She didn’t regret it – of course not – yet she had to admit they had brought her and Gerry years of worry and expense.

  ‘I do remind myself I have choices. But I always seem to end up doing what I ought to do. Or trying to behave like a successful woman – whatever that is! In fact, the thought of doing what I want makes me feel quite … scared. I’m not sure I even know what it is.’

  ‘I feel just the same, Laura, and I’m in my forties. But I’m doing my best to find out.’

  ‘It’s not that easy, though, is it? I mean, so many other people seem to put their oar in – parents, for example. I sometimes suspect I only had a baby because my mother was so keen to be a grandma. She pressured me all through school to be top of the class and get a good job, but when I’d actually done that, she changed her tune entirely and …’

  ‘Laura, I need you!’ Nicky burst in at that moment, a far less soignée figure than the one who’d left Gosforth Road this morning. She had taken off her earrings and her shoes, and there was a smudge of Biro down one cheek. ‘I’ve rejigged a couple of your headlines to fit their comments, but I’m stuck on the night cream. What do they want to say about it now?’

  ‘The new brief’s on my desk. I’ll get it.’

  The pair of them disappeared down the corridor, leaving Catherine alone, still brooding on Laura’s predicament, and wondering if Antonia planned to give up her job when she and Andrew eventually had children. If not, she might become another Laura. The choices seemed so difficult these days and there were certainly far more of them. But was it worse to have no choices than to make the wrong decisions?

  She prowled around the room, trying to avoid the cold stare of the clock, and totally unable to relax. It was already twenty-five to seven and Nicky might be ages yet. She didn’t like the thought of leaving the wine-bar almost as soon as they’d arrived. Nicky might be upset; the other girls offended.

  Suddenly a phone rang, one of a battery on the desk. Her instinct was to pick it up, the correct formula coming instantly to mind: ‘Hello, Universal Office Supplies. Can I help you?’ Even after a gap of eighteen months, old habits were hard to break. It seemed appalling now, all those years working in a soulless job. But Gerry had sacrificed so much more than she had, exchanging Macbeth’s dagger for a briefcase.

  At last the phone stopped shrilling, giving way to other noises: snatches of music from Nicky’s office, men’s voices in the corridor, the thud of the football being kicked against the wall. These people were so lucky in their ultra-glamorous workplace, with their inflated salaries and tremendous freedom to express themselves – yet it all came at a price. Once you were locked in the nine-to-five routine (or nine-to-seven, worse), you became defined as a person solely by your job, and grew into it, like ivy bound inextricably to a tree. It made her more determined not to return to office-life herself and become an obedient robot.

  Laura reappeared and flopped down on the sofa. ‘I’ve just rung Nina and told her I’m leaving any moment. If only it was true.’

  Catherine’s eyes strayed to the clock again. Being late for dinner was nothing compared with Laura’s dilemma, yet she still felt very tense, and annoyed with herself for over-reacting. Her date with Will might prove to be a one-off, so why make it so important?r />
  Laura looked equally on edge as she sat fiddling with her hair. ‘Oh God, Catherine!’ she said. ‘Now I’m beginning to worry about the next campaign. It’s for a new brand of cereal, and they want it to be a cult product. As if you could produce a cult as easily as that! All you can do is come up with something a bit off-the-wall, but it could just as well turn out to be naff. It’s a knife-edge situation.’ She gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, Catherine, that sounds a bit over the top. But you get like that in this job. A box of fucking bran flakes becomes a matter of life and death. We’ve already had a meeting about it, and the client waffled on about how they wanted psychedelic visuals. Honestly, it’s so old hat, but try telling them that! They’ve only just cottoned on to the fact that we’re living in a drug culture. Actually, I find it rather pathetic, all those trippy commercials suggesting Pot Noodles will get you high, or Rice Crispies give you a rush. Anyway, I’m the last person to know. I’ve never been stoned in my life.’

  ‘Same here,’ said Catherine, laughing. ‘The only drugs I’ve ever taken are the odd aspirins for a headache.’

  ‘Here, have a look at this.’ Nicky padded in again and thrust a sheet of paper into Laura’s hands. ‘I reckon we’re almost there now. The pun in your old headline works better with this new visual, don’t you think? I can’t draw, I’m afraid, but it’s supposed to be a woman’s face looking like an alabaster statue. How does it grab you?’

  Laura scanned it briefly, her expression brightening. ‘Yeah, it’s great. Miles better than mine. The only thing I’d suggest is that we add the word “eternal”, to give a sort of promise of a beautiful skin for ever and ever, amen. If they believe that, they’ll believe anything!’

  ‘Perfect! I’ll go and scribble the layout.’

  ‘Then I’ll nip down to Wayne with it.’ Laura rooted in her handbag and took out a make-up case. ‘Pray he’s not in a meeting.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be. It’s nearly quarter past seven.’