Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Will, what’s wrong? What is it?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  They stood motionless, in silence, she increasingly confused. They had only been together for five minutes, but they were no longer casual acquaintances, not after that embrace. Things were getting out of control. And why was he upset? Had something awful happened, some crisis he was trying to conceal? ‘Look,’ she said, ‘if you’d rather we postponed this evening …’

  ‘No,’ he all but shouted. ‘I wouldn’t hear of it. I’ve been thinking of nothing but this dinner since Sunday night.’

  She had no idea what to say. He seemed so vehement, and his mood changed so disconcertingly from surliness to passion.

  He took her arm and they continued down the street. Every shop they passed flaunted a Valentine display – scarlet hearts, gold cherubs, bunches of pink and red balloons. She found it rather disturbing, as if the day itself was challenging them to move from friendship to romance. They must already seem like a couple, walking arm in arm, yet she knew next to nothing about this man. She wiped her wet face with her glove, shook droplets from her hair. The rain was getting heavier, soaking into her coat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I meant to bring the car. But I’m afraid it conked out this morning and I daren’t take it near a garage in case they tell me it’s a write-off.’

  ‘Well, I suppose we could have gone in my car. But I have to park it miles away.’ To save money, she didn’t say, though even without the cost of parking, having a car in London at all was proving something of a trial. There was a constant risk from vandals, especially in lawless Camden Town. She had already lost a set of hub-caps and had her wing-mirror smashed. And according to Darren she was lucky that no one had nicked the wheels – so far.

  Will steered her into a side street, then turned left again into a dark and narrow alley. ‘We’re almost there now, anyway,’ he said.

  The restaurant was so tiny it would have been easy to miss it altogether. And far from sporting hearts or cherubs, the decor was unashamedly plain: white plastered walls, tiled floor and bentwood chairs and tables. Again she felt a stab of disappointment. She hadn’t expected the Ritz, but surely he could have found a more congenial place than this? The interior was murky, as if they were economizing on light bulbs, and the sole item of greenery – a bedraggled spider plant – was dying in its pot. But then he had wanted somewhere intimate, and that description wasn’t wholly wrong in terms of sequestered semi-darkness.

  ‘Will, how good to see you!’ A swarthy man in white jacket and black trousers emerged from a back room and pumped Will by the hand. ‘And welcome, señora. Can I take your coat? This weather …!’ He rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘But don’t worry, you’ll soon be warm in here.’

  She handed him the dripping fur, wishing she had a towel to dry her hair and a pair of sheepskin slippers. Though it was true the restaurant was warm; indeed the air felt almost tropical after the brutal cold outside.

  ‘This is Juan,’ Will said, unbuttoning his coat. ‘My favourite restaurant-owner north of Madrid! Juan, I’d like you to meet Catherine.’

  Juan flashed her a gold-capped smile and bustled off with the coats. But her attention had already shifted to Will. He was utterly transformed. Beneath his shabby coat he was wearing the purple velvet waistcoat. And not just that – there was also a matching purple cravat and a cutaway jacket in an elegant shade of grey.

  ‘You look terrific,’ she said, delighted that he had bothered after all. ‘The waistcoat’s perfect on you.’

  ‘You don’t think I’ve overdone it?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I got the jacket at a car boot sale. The guy tried to tell me it was a Hungarian hussar’s coat, though I have my doubts about that.’

  ‘No, it’s great – whatever it is – especially for a poet. You look quite Keatsian.’

  His face lit up with pleasure. If he were deaf and dumb, she thought, he would be able to communicate by facial expression alone.

  Juan had swept up again. ‘I’ve reserved the best table,’ he told them.

  His grandiose air amused her. In fact, all the tables looked the same – small and somewhat rickety – and it seemed pointless to have reserved one when the place was practically empty.

  ‘Drinks on the house,’ he announced, still in his lordly tone. He ushered them to a table by the window, then vanished into the kitchen, returning with two glasses of amber-coloured liquid.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered to Will.

  ‘Try it and see.’

  She took a tentative sip. It tasted warming, fiery, comforting – sweet and bitter at once. ‘Mm, nice,’ she said. ‘But I still haven’t a clue what it is.’

  ‘Things are often better like that, don’t you think? Unlabelled, undefined. Then you come to them with no preconceptions. Perhaps it’s true of people, too. For instance, if you were described to me as a widow before I met you, I’d have imagined an old lady with a greying perm, not a gorgeous woman with that amazing hairstyle.’

  She flushed, and not just at the compliment. It seemed a touch insensitive, the way he kept harking back to her widowhood. ‘Have you been married?’ she asked, deciding he could answer some questions, for a change.

  ‘Yes.’ He frowned. ‘But it broke up eighteen months ago. Apparently my crime was being a poet.’

  ‘That’s a crime?’

  ‘Oh God, yes! An unsuccessful poet, especially. It means you can’t support a family in the style they feel entitled to.’

  ‘So you’ve got children?’

  ‘Only one. A boy.’

  Juan appeared at that moment, bringing crudités and olives, a small dish of garlicky mushrooms and a bowl of dressing so thick it looked like cream. ‘Now señor, señora, let me tell you the specialities this evening. I can recommend the red snapper with saffron sauce. Or there’s roast breast of Barbary duck, served with dauphinoise potatoes and a compôte of aubergines …’

  Catherine stared at him in astonishment. She had expected egg and chips.

  ‘Or if the señora is vegetarian, we have fusilli with wild mushrooms, and a cornichon and caper salad.’

  She had never heard of cornichons (if indeed they were plural), and continued to listen, intrigued, as Juan ran through the list of starters, all of which sounded equally sophisticated.

  ‘They never bother with a menu here,’ Will explained, as Juan returned to the kitchen. ‘It beats me how they manage to keep going. The food’s brilliant, but – as you see – the surroundings leave a lot to be desired. So, luckily for me, it never gets that crowded. Mind you, there’s usually more people than this. I suppose because it’s Valentine’s Day everyone’s gone to the trendier places. A lot of restaurants are doing special dinners tonight, but I hate that sort of schmaltz, don’t you?’

  She couldn’t recall ever having attended a Valentine’s dinner, but she nodded in agreement. Certainly the four other diners, who all looked fairly elderly, didn’t appear to be celebrating romance. There were a couple of overweight balding men talking in a foreign language, and a grey-haired woman with, presumably, her husband (though she seemed more interested in some booklet she was reading).

  ‘Well, what are you having to eat?’ Will asked.

  ‘Oh, the duck, I think.’

  ‘Barbary duck. I wonder where it comes from. D’you think it’s related to the Barbary ape? Except that’s North African. Perhaps it just means wild – you know, like barbarian.’

  ‘Okay, barbarian duck. It sounds even better!’

  ‘And what to start with?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can manage a starter.’ She was actually very hungry, but worried about the cost. Without a menu, she had no idea of the prices and didn’t want to lumber him with an enormous bill.

  ‘Oh, you must. I’m having the smoked mussel salad. Do you fancy that? Or how about the leek and feta tart?’

  ‘Yes, the tart sounds great, though I don’t know how you remember all the names. He went so fast.’


  ‘That’s easy – I’m a glutton. I remember meals from years ago, even down to the details. Right, let’s order.’ He summoned Juan and after a brief three-way chat about the wine, he relaxed back in his chair. ‘All settled,’ he said, passing her the dish of mushrooms and taking a couple himself. ‘Mm, they’re delicious.’ He licked his oily fingers. ‘This place reminds me of those workers’ caffs you get in Rome or Venice. You know, with sawdust on the floor and not a tourist in sight, but the most fantastic nosh.’

  She didn’t know. Nor did she like to confess that she had never been to Rome or Venice. Talk of foreign travel seemed to crop up with depressing frequency – at the market, in the flat, with Nicky and Darren’s friends – and it embarrassed her to sit dumbly contributing nothing to the conversation. Travelling abroad was part of being civilized, part of normal life. Which meant she was a freakish philistine. She quickly changed the subject. ‘How old’s your son?’ she asked.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘And what’s his name?’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Does he look like you?’

  ‘No. He’s the image of his mother.’

  His tone had changed again – now terse and unforthcoming. However, he pulled a wallet out of his back trouser-pocket and showed her a photograph. ‘That’s him when he was five.’

  She looked at the small boy: his hair straight, blond and, no, nothing like his father’s; the eyes dark brown, not grey. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Yes. So’s his mother, damn her. She went off with someone else.’

  ‘Gosh, I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘Yeah. A director at ICI. She wasn’t going to be caught out again, living on the breadline with some arty-farty poet who couldn’t get his act together. They’ve just bought a place in Hampstead. Half a million pounds’ worth. Sam adores it, of course. He’s got his own television and computer and he’s having riding lessons. It must seem rather a come-down when he visits Dad in his two-room flat.’

  She was relieved to see Juan with the starters. Will brightened noticeably when he was presented with a plate of mussels and a bottle of white wine. Juan had also brought a basket of hot bread, its fragrant smell mingling with the spicy tang from the mussels.

  ‘They do marvellous bread here,’ Will enthused, offering her the basket. ‘None of those ghastly rigor-mortis’d rolls full of air and nothing. This is bread you could sleep on, it’s so soft and springy.’ He broke off with a grimace. ‘Hell! It’s a good thing my father isn’t here. He hates people raving about food. He thinks it’s dreadfully bad manners. When I was little, mealtimes were more about good manners than eating. We had the usual footling rules of course: never put your elbows on the table, eat your crusts or you’ll get them for breakfast, no pudding until you’ve finished your greens, etcetera, etcetera. I’ve rebelled in adult life. Pudding first, if you fancy it, and lie on the table if it helps you enjoy the meal.’

  She laughed. ‘My father was strict, too. Mind you, he was widowed very early on, so I suppose it’s understandable. But I used to feel an awful pig if I was starving hungry and wanted to tuck in, and he was toying with half a slice of toast.’

  ‘Well tuck in now. I won’t call you a pig. But how sad for you to lose your mother. Were you very young?’

  ‘Four and a half. I often think about her. But actually I remember almost nothing, so my mental picture is probably quite wrong. She’s become a sort of phantom mother.’

  ‘A phantom mother. I like that. Catherine, you do say interesting things.’

  She sipped her wine to cover her confusion. Far from being interesting, she often felt her conversation bordered on the trite.

  He took a second piece of bread and dipped it in the mussel sauce. ‘No one important in my life has died, touch wood. I’ve been lucky in that respect. Or maybe it isn’t lucky for a poet. I often think that poets and philosophers – and politicians too, come to that – should go through every human experience before they start pontificating. I mean, how can we be so arrogant as to think we have something important to say if we haven’t been ill, or poor, or despairing, or bereaved, or …’

  ‘Well, I’ve been all of those, Will, but I’m not sure I’ve got something important to say.’

  ‘Oh but you have – you must. You just don’t give yourself credit for it. I’ve noticed that about you, Catherine, you’re modest, and that’s rare, you know. And definitely appealing. Can I try a bit of your tart?’

  She cut him off a chunk, amused by the way he jumped so abruptly from philosophy back to food. He ate the offering greedily, scooping up the crumbs.

  ‘Here, have a mussel in return.’ He speared one on his fork and held it to her lips. She swallowed, savouring the soft, moist, flabby fishiness. They were feeding each other like lovers, and she had to admit she found it rather exciting. She remembered Nicky saying that men who didn’t like food were invariably lousy lovers, and wondered if the converse was true. But that was frightfully presumptuous – this could still be a one-off. Besides, alarm bells were already sounding in her head. He was divorced, after all, and his bitterness about it (and initial surly mood) didn’t augur well for any continuing relationship. And yet he was undeniably attractive – not just his looks, but his energy, his ideas.

  ‘I wrote you a poem this morning,’ he said. ‘Well, I had a bash, but it’s nowhere near finished. You’re rather a difficult subject.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, you’re full of paradoxes – womanly and punky, spirited and bashful. Oh, and you’re a most determined saleswoman, I might add. I’d never have bought this waistcoat without your powers of persuasion!’

  ‘Is good?’ asked Juan, gliding up to their table.

  ‘Yes, very good,’ they both said at once.

  ‘Bueno. I bring you main course.’

  ‘No rush,’ said Will, picking up his glass. ‘We’ve got all evening.’

  She too sipped her wine, thinking back to the many occasions when Gerry had come home late from a sales trip, and the food she’d prepared hours earlier was spoiled. She would make cheese on toast or scrambled eggs instead, and while they ate he would still be tense and preoccupied, ploughing through urgent sales reports, or having to break off to take business calls. She had grown accustomed to truncated meals, or to eating on her own in the kitchen because he had rung to say he wouldn’t be back at all. Then, more recently, there had been Manor Close – strained and over-formal meals where she often felt a little spare. So it would be a treat to have a long and leisurely dinner with a man encouraging her to dispense with the proprieties – eating garlicky mushrooms in her fingers, gorging on the bread. ‘Can I see the poem when it’s finished?’ she asked, dolloping butter on a final knobbly crust.

  ‘I’m not sure. Only if it’s good enough. I’d hate you to judge me by a bad one.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t judge you, Will. I’d be flattered. No one’s ever written me a poem.’

  ‘All the more reason for it to be good, then. I’ll work on it, don’t worry. And I must add your splendid silver shirt.’

  ‘It’s Nicky’s, actually.’

  ‘So you wear each other’s clothes?’

  ‘It sounds awful put like that! And no, she doesn’t borrow mine. It’s one-way traffic, I’m afraid.’

  Will fired a salvo of olives into his mouth – stoneless ones, she hoped, since in his eagerness to speak again he appeared to have swallowed them whole. ‘I wore a suit of my father’s once, for a wedding. A dark grey one he didn’t want. And d’ you know, it ruined the whole day for me. I’d somehow taken on his personality, as well as his clothes, and I just couldn’t seem to relax. We’ve never been close, you see.’ He stared at the window, suddenly dejected. ‘I must have been a dreadful disappointment to him. He ran his own small printing business and he hoped I’d join him as a partner and eventually take it over. It’s the same with my ex-wife – they both wanted a high-flier. Ah, here’s the food. Good timing! It’ll stop me whing
eing about myself. A bad habit. I apologize.’ He sniffed the food greedily as Juan unloaded the plates. ‘What is a Barbary duck?’ he asked him.

  ‘Is French,’ said Juan briefly, topping up their glasses.

  ‘A French colonial duck, I take it.’ Will scrutinized his own plate and the contents of the vegetable dishes. ‘Bon appétit,’ he said, once they were alone again. ‘Or bueno appetito, maybe, in deference to Juan. Now, I must stop talking and attend to important things.’ He bent reverently over his plate, his face alert as he sampled the fish. She watched his features relax: evidently the food had passed some stringent test. He started eating with total concentration – no, devotion was the word. She cut a sliver of duck breast, copying his intensity; savouring the rich sweetness of the sauce, the hint of nutmeg in the potatoes, and the contrasting textures of crispy duck-skin and soft-fleshed aubergines.

  She looked up from her plate for a moment, surprised to see that the restaurant was much fuller. She had been too involved with Will to notice people coming in. Also, another waiter had materialized, younger than Juan, but with the same stocky build and Mediterranean colouring. There was now a clatter of dishes, a buzz of conversation, interspersed with the noise of the rain spattering on the window. Will, however, was silent as he continued to eat with rapt absorption, only speaking again when he had demolished half his fish.

  ‘I know which poem I’ll show you,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. ‘One called “Truth”, with thirteen lies in it. I wrote it after an argument with a friend about whether poetry is “true” or not. He kept trying to analyse what I meant by truth, but he was missing the point entirely. Then he changed tack and started banging on about how Plato banished poets from his ideal state on the grounds that they told lies. Of course, my father would agree with him. He sees imagination as highly suspect, because it tries to describe things which don’t exist.’ He helped himself to another three pats of butter, which he softened with his knife before smoothing them on to his bread. ‘I love butter, don’t you? In my opinion, anyone who champions margarine deserves to be hung, drawn and quartered. And the cheek of it – calling such a disgusting product Flora when she was the most delightful goddess. Are you a butter-eater, Catherine, or is this the end of a beautiful friendship?’