Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘No, I’m with you there,’ she said, although she couldn’t help thinking guiltily of Gerry. She had never bought him Flora, had always cooked with butter, and even …

  ‘It’s a modern-day neurosis, all this fuss about foods being unhealthy. It’s replaced the fear of hell. We spend our whole life fretting about the death of the body instead of the death of the soul, as they did in medieval times. But going back to lies – I suppose people are hungry for them, and they can be very comforting, of course.’

  ‘That’s what Nicky says about advertising. But Darren thinks …’

  ‘Don’t you find it rather difficult,’ Will interrupted, ‘living with other people? I mean, when you’ve had your own home and been mistress of the house?’

  She hesitated. It was difficult in some ways, as the tiff with Jo had proved. Yet mistress of the house sounded too imposing a title for her years as Gerry’s wife. The house had been Gerry’s business first and foremost, and though she’d organized the domestic side and been chief cook and bottle-washer, she’d had no sense of power. It seemed odd that she had submitted with such passivity, but she hadn’t really been aware then how circumscribed her life was. ‘Well, it’s certainly very different,’ she said, returning to Will’s question. ‘But in a way that’s good for me. It makes me rethink everything – things I used to take for granted. And I like hearing all the various opinions. We argue, but it’s stimulating.’

  ‘I live on my own now,’ Will said, picking a piece of carrot out of the dish. ‘But it … it feels as if part of me’s missing. Wow! Look at that gateau.’ The young waiter was serving dessert to the couple at the next table. ‘There’s more cream in it than anything else. Catherine, I do hope you’re leaving room for pudding?’

  She laid her hand on her stomach. ‘Yes, just about,’ she laughed.

  ‘Good. D’you know, I’m reading Byron’s letters at the moment, and he was a frightful prig about food. He was in love with an Italian opera-singer once – until he saw her eat. Her appetite appalled him, and he said all women should restrict themselves to a morsel of lobster and a soupçon of champagne. Now I’m the opposite. I could fall in love with a woman just because she eats.’ He put his knife and fork down, and leaned forward to touch her hand. ‘In fact, I could fall in love with you, Catherine.’

  She looked down at the table to avoid the intensity of his gaze. How on earth could she respond to such a starting declaration? She busied herself with her bread, breaking a piece off and spreading it with butter. Behind her, the two old men were talking in their indecipherable language and a group of new arrivals were discussing what they’d have to eat. Yet she and Will were locked in their own silence as he gently increased the pressure on her hand. She glanced at him, hoping a moment’s eye-contact and a brief, self-conscious smile would be answer enough.

  He seemed embarrassed too, now, and came to her rescue by offering her a forkful of red snapper. ‘You … you haven’t tried my fish,’ he said, sliding it between her lips.

  She swallowed gratefully, giving him a slice of duck in return. At that moment someone called his name – a high-pitched female voice. She turned to see two girls who had just come in, their coats wet from the rain. They hurried across with a flurry of greetings; one kissing Will on the cheek, the other ruffling his hair.

  ‘Will, how are you? We thought you might be here. You look great. Love the waistcoat!’

  Will hastily finished his mouthful, then made the introductions: Miriam (foreign-looking, sultry, with lustrously black eyes) and Lee (blonde and pert and bubbly). They said a perfunctory hello to her before turning back to Will. She could make little of the ensuing conversation, but was struck by its intimate tone. This pair knew Will well – too well. Perhaps he had a whole string of girls and told them all he could fall in love with them. These two were certainly glamorous and young. And rude, she thought, to barge in on her tête-à-tête with Will without a word of apology.

  She realized she was jealous, and despised herself for such pettiness, yet she couldn’t really relax until they had finally departed to a table in the corner.

  ‘Sorry for the invasion,’ Will said. ‘Miriam’s a poet and Lee’s a friend from way back.’

  A girlfriend, did he mean? And how long ago was ‘way back’? Before his marriage? During it? Perhaps his wife had left not because he was a poor struggling poet, but a poor, promiscuous one. But as he seemed disinclined to volunteer more details, she returned to the (safer) subject of his work. ‘Have you always been a poet?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, no. That’s probably why I talk about it so much – to convince myself I am one. After I left school, I felt I had to pacify my father by getting what he called a proper job – scores of “proper jobs”, in fact. I never stuck them long, you see, much to his disgust. I tried to write in the evenings, but poetry needs leisure. You have to moon around a bit, waste time rather than use it, let things spring out and surprise you. But if you get tied into the system of being “productive” and “successful” – my father’s favourite words – then the creative spark can simply fizzle out.’ He speared a broccoli floret and devoured it in a bite. ‘I’ve noticed how wonderfully inventive children can be because they have time to play and mess around. And – to return to my earlier point – they don’t label everything as useless or worthwhile or whatever. They’ll experiment with bad ideas and come up with something new.’

  Like I’m doing with my life, she thought, jolted by the analogy.

  ‘Jobs are a problem even now.’ He pushed a piece of bread round his plate to mop up the rich sauce. ‘I’m becoming better known, thank goodness, so I’m being asked to do more readings and stuff, but that often clashes with my other work. I mean, if I did take a stall at the market, I might find I’m meant to be appearing at a festival or running a weekend workshop …’ He broke off, frowning, and started fiddling with a button on his waistcoat. ‘In fact, I was wondering if … This may sound a bit of a cheek, Catherine, but it’s only a suggestion. And you did say your work with Greta was probably coming to an end. Well … how would you feel if we ran a stall together?’ Before she could reply, he continued straight away. ‘I had the idea on Sunday after you’d gone home, and the more I thought about it, the more sensible it seemed. You see, you need one person to do the buying – touring auctions and boot sales – while the other mans the stall. Of course, I was relying on having my car, but I’m still hoping to repair it once I’ve got the parts. But you say you’ve got a car, so maybe …’ He stopped again, his fingers restless on the table.

  She too was uncertain what to say. Was he simply using her, angling to borrow her car while his was off the road? No, surely not. If nothing else, he was generous, as he had demonstrated on Sunday and tonight. And he would be stimulating to work with, lively and exciting.

  And moody and unpredictable, the voice of caution put in. And how often would he disappear for his festivals and workshops – or to look after his son, for that matter? Would it end up as her stall, but with him pocketing half the profits? ‘I … I don’t know much about antiques,’ she demurred.

  ‘But it wouldn’t be antiques – more junk.’

  ‘Well I don’t know much about junk.’

  ‘You’d learn. Like I have. Pick it up in no time.’

  Yes, she thought, I probably would. Gerry used to say she had a good eye when they’d been looking for old furniture, whether a Victorian chaise-longue or office desks and chairs. But she and Gerry had been a partnership, in all senses, whereas she and Will – well, that was unknown territory. She looked out of the window: rain glinting in the halo of a street-lamp; shadowy dark beyond.

  As if sensing her unease, he abandoned serious matters for food once more. ‘Let’s swap plates,’ he said. ‘You eat the rest of my fish and I’ll finish your duck. If we do that with the puddings, too, we’ll each have six courses.’

  ‘Okay.’ She hid a smile. This man could be difficult, but he would never be boring. She let him switch t
he plates and divide the remaining vegetables between them.

  They ate in silence for a while, then he put his knife and fork down. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘About swapping food?’ she asked, deliberately obtuse. ‘It’s interesting. I can taste the fish and the duck at once now.’

  ‘No, the market stall idea. Would you be willing to give it a try at least?’

  ‘I … I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to see.’

  ‘When d’you think you’ll decide?’

  ‘Well, it depends on Greta, partly. She may need me for a while yet.’

  ‘So you’re really saying no.’

  She shook her head in exasperation. ‘I’m saying I’ll have to see, Will.’

  ‘Well, let’s meet again tomorrow – I mean, even if you do decide against it I’d love to see you anyway.’

  She stole a glance at Lee and Miriam, who were chattering and laughing, apparently without a care in the world. How could she compete with them: their youth, their sheer high spirits? But did she want to compete? She knew from talking to Nicky and Jo how much aggravation relationships could bring, especially with men who …

  ‘Just briefly, if you prefer. We could have coffee somewhere, or go for a walk, or …’

  ‘I … I’m not sure when I’m free.’

  ‘Well, I’m free all day, so I can make it any time you want – midnight, midday, three o’ clock in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll phone you, Will, okay?’ She must be very careful. This man was not only an unknown quantity, but dangerously persuasive.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Okay, open the boot and let’s get this lot in.’ Will picked up the first of the cardboard boxes, grimacing at its weight, ‘Christ, it’s heavy! And we’re already running out of space. Thank God we brought the roof-rack.’

  ‘That’s nearly full as well, though.’ Catherine helped him manoeuvre the second box in beside the first. ‘D’you think we’ll need to make another trip?’

  ‘I hope not. I don’t fancy battling across London again. Mind you, it was worth it for a haul like this. We’ll have masses to sell on the stall.’

  ‘Too much!’

  ‘You can never have too much. Anyway, we can leave some of it in boxes. People love poking around for themselves, especially if they think they’re getting a bargain. We’ll lump all the cheaper stuff together and mark it “Everything a pound”. And there should be plenty more in the kitchen. Mrs Pearson was obviously a hoarder.’

  Catherine picked up a stray bit of newspaper which had fallen out of a box. ‘I’m surprised the auctioneers didn’t clean the place out.’

  ‘Yeah, so am I. They usually descend like vultures. I’ve even known them take the flowerpots out of a garden shed. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Mags told them they could only have the bigger stuff – you know, so we could have the rest. She’s always been generous like that.’ He stowed the last of the boxes in the boot and slammed the lid down with a grunt of satisfaction. Wiping his dusty hands on his jeans, he went to sit on the front doorstep.

  ‘We’re lucky with every damned thing today! I mean, look at this weather. It’s practically spring-like.’

  Catherine gazed at the fields which stretched beyond the house – a collage of different shades and textures: bare earth newly ploughed, grey shadows on brown stubble, a green glaze of winter wheat. A puny but insistent sun was struggling through the clouds, glinting on a church spire in the distance. ‘It’s so wonderfully quiet and countrified here. I can’t believe it’s commuter-land.’

  ‘Only just. And this house is miles from anywhere.’

  ‘I like it, though, don’t you?’ She surveyed the weathered brick, the twisty chimneys and moss-furred roof: a house out of a storybook which you imagined full of dogs and children. In tact, Mrs Pearson had just died at the age of eighty-nine, alone, stone-deaf and childless.

  ‘Yeah, I like the whole area. When I stayed with Aunt Mags as a boy it always seemed like paradise, especially compared with home. She’d let me go off all day with a picnic, and ride my bike after dark. Strange to think she’s Dad’s sister when they’re so unlike each other. I remember she used to take my side when he threatened me with boarding school.’ His face took on a defiant expression, as if he were confronting his father again. ‘Actually, I suppose it’s rather odd that I never met the Pearsons – they’ve lived here donkey’s years. But then the old man was a bit of a recluse.’

  ‘When did he die?’ she asked. She liked it when he talked about his childhood. Although they’d seen a lot of each other in the last three weeks, he was still a stranger in many ways.

  ‘Oh, six or seven years ago. I remember Mags saying she couldn’t help admiring Mrs P – you know, for refusing to move into sheltered housing, or at least to a smaller place. Mind you, I doubt if she’d have managed without Mags. She went up there every day and cooked for her and everything.’

  ‘And got her reward in the end,’ said Catherine, pulling down the sleeves of her jersey. It was cold, despite the sun.

  ‘Yeah – amazingly. I’ve never had my goodness rewarded.’

  ‘Perhaps you haven’t been good enough,’ she laughed.

  ‘Maybe not. Here’ – he patted the stone step – ‘come and sit beside me.’

  She joined him, shivering. ‘It’s a bit nippy out here.’

  ‘Mm. Nice, though. The air smells of …’ He raised his head and sniffed, like a dog. ‘I’m not sure what. Just clean, I suppose. My place reeks of curry. It should be called Tandoori Street.’

  She wondered when she would see his flat. Secretly she felt hurt that he hadn’t yet invited her. He had been to her place, met her house-mates, taken quite a shine to his tabby namesake. Was he hiding something in Tandoori Street – another woman, perhaps? Still, why spoil a nice day out. Just now she had him to herself and was determined to enjoy it. She stretched languidly in the sun, turning her face up to its grudging warmth. It felt like playing truant – escaping into the wilds of Berkshire on a humdrum Monday morning, when dutiful folk were toiling at their desks. And the countryside seemed to have chosen today to hatch from winter into spring. March was already a week old and had come in roaring like a lion, and although now it was more lamb-like, there was still a ferment in the air – green exploding out of brown; hedgerows full of rustling birds; streams swelling; pollen flying in the wind. Thanks to Will, she was seeing things with a poet’s eye: the grey fur of pussy willow softening the stark blackness of the twigs; the sticky tautness of horse-chestnut buds, still furled but strained to bursting-point; the veined purple silk of crocuses.

  ‘The sky looks busy,’ Will said, shading his eyes with his hand. ‘See those little cloudlets – they remind me of the pattern on my mother’s lace doileys. Hey, imagine a cloud-arranger – some guy with various implements who’s in charge of how the clouds look, and forks them up or rakes them smooth, or … no, several cloud-arrangers. A miserable sod who lays on dark grey rain-clouds, and his cheerful counterpart to whip up fluffy white ones like meringues. And an angry bastard for storm-clouds. Actually, I wouldn’t mind a job like that myself. What power! – deciding on the weather, hurling things around the sky.’

  ‘Oh, Will …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are funny.’

  ‘I’m deadly serious. And it would look good on my cv.’

  ‘You know, I’ve never had a cv. It makes me feel rather a failure.’

  ‘Well, let’s write you one now.’

  ‘But what could I put? I haven’t had any decent jobs to speak of.’

  ‘Muse, most definitely. And superior chauffeuse. You’re a marvellous driver, Catherine, unlike me. And antiques-dealer, of course.’

  ‘Hardly antiques,’ she said, eyeing the old Hoover on the roof-rack, roped on top of a rusting metal foot-bath. ‘Though if this is work, I have to say I like it.’

  Yeah. We’re lucky. But don’t think this is typical. I’ve often had comple
tely wasted trips. I’d flog all the way to some boot-fair and find it wasn’t worth the petrol. I blame the Antiques Roadshow. Everyone’s clued up now, so you don’t get priceless treasures lying around in the attic or handed over for jumble any more.’

  ‘Oh, did you see it last week, Will? That marvellous old chap who paid twenty-five bob for a chest of drawers in a junk shop, then found it was Sheraton.’ She broke off suddenly. ‘Gosh! Look at that magpie with a huge great stick in its mouth. It must be building a nest.’

  ‘One for sorrow,’ he said frowning.

  ‘No, there’s its mate.’ She pointed to a second bird: gleaming blue-black livery; long flamboyant tail. It was breeding time, budding time, yet still he hadn’t kissed her. Two for joy.

  ‘I’m going to make a cup of tea,’ she said, ‘before we freeze to death. And let’s have it inside, okay?’

  ‘Okay, though actually I’m boiling. It must be all that exertion.’

  She turned to look at him; his face flushed, his shock of springy hair damp with perspiration. He seemed so alive, so vibrant, she could almost feel the blood pumping in his veins, watch his beard pushing through his chin. Why didn’t he kiss her now, when they were so tantalizingly close? She was aware of his hip pressing into hers, his solidity and warmth, the smell of chocolate biscuits on his breath. Each time they went out together she hoped he would invite her back, or at least stop to kiss her in a doorway. But all he had done so far was squeeze her hand or put his arm around her. Today she was tempted to make some move herself: touch his face, stroke his hair, prompt him to go further. She must have been affected by the stir of spring all around – daffodils unsheathing, rooks jabbering and wheeling – she too primed for spring, and emerging from her drab chrysalis-case. Yet William, the poet, was unaware; sensitive to nature but not to her wild wings.