Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  Catherine stood appalled, the shock-waves from the door resounding in the silence. So she was a nagging mother whom everyone despised. And they couldn’t wait for her to leave. Did that mean Nicky too? But she and Nicky were friends – weren’t they? She took a shaky step towards the door. Perhaps she should return to Stoneleigh, rather than stay where she was a ‘fucking pain’. She shuddered at the words, their vicious crudity. Yet the thought of Stoneleigh induced a wave of panic. She had become a different person and couldn’t just slot back into her old restricted life.

  She leaned against the table, trying to get a grip on herself. She couldn’t go anywhere – Will was arriving shortly. Unless she took him to Manor Close … just this evening, as a stop-gap. No, that was out of the question, with Andrew and Antonia sitting there in judgement.

  Shakily, she began to unpack the carrier bags. There was nothing for it – she would have to go ahead and cook him dinner here. Yet she no longer felt at ease. She had become an interloper, as if the kitchen itself was hostile, recoiling from her presence. Its usual comfortable clutter had mushroomed sickeningly: the draining board a sordid mess of burnt pans and greasy plates; fag-ends and other debris floating on a scummy pool in the sink. Mechanically she let the plug out and turned on the tap, but there was no hot water left. She filled the kettle, still haunted by thoughts of Nicky. All those long, confiding talks – hadn’t they meant anything? It was so difficult to know people’s innermost feelings, even so-called friends. All at once she felt a desperate longing for Gerry – the security and comfort of being bonded to a partner for life, joined by sacred vows.

  She blinked the tears back, fighting for control. It was no good agonizing about the past. She must forget Gerry for the moment – and Jo – and try to salvage the evening. It would help if she kept busy, rather than standing around indulging in self-pity. There were pistachio nuts to be shelled, garlic to be chopped and fried, mushrooms to prepare; not to mention all the clearing up. She had decided on pasta for the main course – quick and cheap, and easy to spice up with an exotic sauce. Her lovingly made pâté had gone the same way as the chocolate mousse, so she had bought some pâté to replace it, a chunk marked down to half-price. Dessert was ice cream, shop-bought again, but another home-made sauce would add a personal touch.

  The aggressive bass pounded monotonously through the sitting-room wall, so she switched on Radio 2, deliberately to cocoon herself in schmaltzy lyrics and cheery patter – a reassurance that the world was safe. To the saccharine crooning of Barry Manilow she swept the floor, sluiced the worktops, and thrust empty cans and bottles into a bin-liner, along with cheese rinds, crisp-packets and wine-sodden lumps of bread. Then she tackled the washing-up, soon realizing that a single kettleful of hot water was nowhere near enough. However, after half an hour’s hard work, the kitchen was more or less presentable. The smell of cigarette smoke still lingered unpleasantly, but short of opening the windows and letting in the freezing air, there wasn’t much she could do about it. She’d have to douse herself with scent and hope that would counteract it.

  But first the cooking. She hunted in vain for an egg whisk to whip up the ice-cream sauce, eventually making do with a fork and elbow grease. The Gosforth Road kitchen was lamentably short of decent equipment. At Carshalton she’d had all manner of gadgets, from a pasta-making machine to an ingenious tool for producing radish roses. And of course Antonia had electric mixers – electric everything. But here she couldn’t find so much as a cheese grater, let alone a garlic press.

  Suddenly the doorbell rang. Will – an hour early! The blood rushed to her cheeks. She must look an absolute sight: eyes red, hair unwashed, clothes dishevelled and damp. So much for her plan to greet him wearing a sexy dress and Arpège, not smelling of garlic and looking like a bag-lady.

  She dashed into the hall, hoping to sneak upstairs before he actually came in. But someone was already opening the front door. She froze, one foot on the bottom step, instinctively closing her eyes, as if, ostrich-like, she could become invisible.

  ‘Christ! What fucking awful weather. It’s enough to freeze your balls off.’

  She opened her eyes to see a mane of reddish hair, shoulder-length, in dreadlocks. Scott – not Will – scattering expletives as he heaved off his old army coat.

  ‘Catherine!’ He caught sight of her and staggered over, decidedly the worse for wear. He was dressed in a checked shirt, several sizes too large for him, tattered jeans and his usual hulking Doc Martens.

  She muttered a hello, torn between relief at not being caught by Will, unwashed and unprepared, and horror at seeing Scott. No hope of a romantic evening with him on the premises. He had dropped in several times since the ill-fated visit to Manor Close and seemed to consider himself one of the family, so how could she bar him from the kitchen? He was already halfway there, presumably in search of food – he was always ravenous. Her food was on the table, easy pickings. She rushed to its defence, ignoring the front door bell. It would only be more friends of Jo and Darren and, for all she cared, they could stay out in the cold.

  She yanked the mixing bowl out of his reach before he could stick his grubby fingers into the sauce. ‘Listen, Scott, I’m expecting someone for dinner tonight and we want to be on our own. So I’d appreciate it if you could make yourself scarce.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’ He was already investigating the contents of the fridge. ‘It’s just that I haven’t had a fucking thing to eat all day.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have that pâté. Or the cheese.’ She thrust the carton of coleslaw and the piece of garlic sausage into his hands.

  ‘There you are – that’s your lot.’

  He sniffed the sausage and pulled a face. ‘Bloody hell, it doesn’t half pong! Darren invited me to lunch, I’ll have you know.’

  She turned off Nat King Cole, who had just launched into ‘Some Enchanted Evening’. ‘Scott, it’s ten past eight – dinnertime.’

  ‘Well, better late than never.’ He prised the lid off the coleslaw and began gouging out lumps with his fingers, spattering shreds of greasy cabbage on the floor.

  ‘Catherine …’ Jo’s head appeared round the door. ‘It’s Will.’

  Oh no, she thought, paralysed. Will was standing in the doorway, staring at her and Scott. He caught her eye and quickly changed his dismayed expression into an unconvincing smile. She smiled back weakly, untying the tea-towel she had been using as a makeshift apron. Will’s elegant get-up – Hungarian hussar jacket and dashing red shirt – only made her more ashamed of her own unkempt appearance.

  ‘Er, sorry I’m early,’ he said, taking a step towards her. ‘The weather’s so appalling we finished at seven, to let people get off home.’

  ‘I … I’m afraid I’m a bit behind,’ she stammered. ‘I haven’t had time to change yet or …’ The words stumbled to a halt. She sounded peevish and begrudging – hardly a gracious welcome.

  ‘That’s okay, I’ll sit and have a drink.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Scott, speaking through a mouthful of coleslaw and giving Will a cool appraising stare. ‘Hi, mate! Like the gear. Though if you’d told me it was fancy dress, I’d have come in my Roman toga.’

  ‘Scott, I’m sorry’ – Catherine glared at him – ‘but if you’ve come to see Darren, he’s gone to the Jazz Café.’

  ‘Shit! What a bummer. He asks me round, then pisses off before I fucking get here.’

  ‘And Jo’s friends are in the sitting-room. So perhaps you’d …’

  ‘Sure. Just give us that drink.’

  It suddenly dawned on her that there wasn’t any drink. The hordes had helped themselves to her wine along with everything else and she had completely forgotten to buy any more. She prayed Will had brought a bottle with him – he was concealing something behind his back.

  ‘Will, this is Scott,’ she said tersely, realizing she hadn’t introduced them. ‘He’s just going.’

  Far from going, Scott seemed overcome
by an unusual attack of good manners and stuck out a mayonnaise-smeared hand. Will, whose right hand was still behind his back, looked increasingly embarrassed. Then, with a sudden impulsive movement he thrust a bunch of flowers into her arms.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ said Scott. ‘I thought you were going to give those to me. Red roses,’ he drawled, poking a finger into the middle of the bunch. ‘And they say romance is dead!’

  Catherine ignored him and babbled her thanks to Will. Normally she would have been delighted to receive a sheaf of out-of-season roses, but Scott was ruining everything. Anyway, you couldn’t drink red roses. And it was worryingly extravagant. She had lent Will £10 yesterday – he must have blown the lot on this bouquet.

  ‘Well, if you two lovebirds can’t offer me a drink, I’ll try Jo.’ Scott ambled out of the kitchen, closing the door with his customary kick.

  Good riddance, Catherine muttered, putting the flowers on the table. Needless to say she couldn’t find a vase and had to make do with two milk bottles. She struggled with the tall and thorny stems, pricking her fingers in the process. Her mind was elsewhere – on the problem of the wine. There might be some left in one of the bottles in the hall. She darted out to check, but every bottle was empty and she had no intention of confronting Jo again. She stood outside the sitting-room door, seething with anger at the sounds of drunken laughter from within. She had spent her hard-earned money on good French wine which had disappeared down a bunch of strangers’ throats. Jo and Darren would never pay her back; it was just part of ‘mucking in’, as Jo put it.

  She glanced uncertainly from the kitchen to the stairs. Should she return to Will or take the chance to nip up to her room and change? But if she disappeared, even for a moment, Scott might wander back and help himself to the food, and bang would go a second three-course dinner.

  Reluctantly she trailed back to the kitchen, where Will was sitting at the table, looking tired and rather forlorn. He must be perplexed, to say the least, at finding this scene of chaos.

  ‘Will, listen …’ She sat beside him. ‘I ought to explain. There’s been a bit of a disaster …

  Instantly his features crumpled into an expression of tragic concern, as if she were about to announce a death. She burst out laughing at the sight of his shocked face. It wasn’t a disaster – simply a chapter of accidents.

  ‘Catherine, what on earth’s the matter?’ He sounded more concerned than ever.

  She couldn’t speak for laughing. ‘I … I’m sorry,’ she gasped, finally regaining her composure. ‘Don’t look so bereft! It’s not as bad as all that – well, so long as you don’t mind pasta and half a can of lager instead of a bottle of Muscadet and fresh salmon.’ She explained briefly what had happened, concluding with a giggle, You see, you were supposed to find me reclining on the sofa in my finery, with the salmon gently poaching in the oven and the wine chilling in the fridge. Instead of which, the spaghetti’s still in its packet, I look like the wreck of the Hesperus and I can’t even offer you a drink.’

  Will leapt to his feet. ‘I’ll go and buy some wine,’ he said. ‘Then you can change into your finery and we’ll do the cooking together. I can just about manage spaghetti.’

  ‘Oh Will, you are a darling. But I’m afraid I haven’t much cash.’

  ‘Don’t worry – I’m pretty sure I can rustle up a fiver.’

  She saw him to the door, then dashed back to the kitchen, hid the food on the top shelf of the cupboard and ran upstairs to change. There was no time for a bath or even a shower, just off with her wet clothes, a quick dab with a flannel, then into her best dress. While she was spraying herself with scent, William emerged from under the bed, where he had evidently taken refuge. He stretched and yawned, then sat gazing at her reproachfully.

  ‘Oh, William! – how awful – I’d forgotten all about you. And I bet nobody’s bothered to feed you. Come on, you can have your supper while I’m cooking ours.’ She picked him up and took him down to the kitchen, determined to get the meal under way before Will reappeared.

  Amazingly, no one disturbed her for a blessed twenty minutes. She even dared to put the pâté on the table, plus the Melba toast and celery sticks. The ice-cream sauce sat cooling in its bowl, while the pasta bubbled contentedly on the hob and its rich garlicky sauce simmered in a second pan. She was just washing the salad when the doorbell rang. She dried her hands and went to let Will in.

  ‘Special offer at Oddbins,’ he said, brandishing two bottles. ‘Quite decent stuff. And it’s already chilled.’

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, feeling in control at last. The meal was almost ready and they could sit down and relax. Even William was purring, replete after his supper and curled up on the windowsill.

  ‘And you look really beautiful,’ he whispered, kissing the top of her head.

  She smiled. They were on course again – for excitement, for romance. She ushered him back to the kitchen and placed the roses on the table as a centrepiece. ‘They’re gorgeous, Will. Thank you.’

  His face registered its pleasure as he gently fingered one of the blooms, the same deep crimson as his shirt. ‘Shall I open the wine?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes please.’ She handed him a corkscrew and found two halfway decent glasses – fluted crystal, and barely chipped at all.

  ‘To poetry and love,’ he said, gazing into her eyes as they clinked glasses.

  ‘To poetry and love.’ It sounded awfully highfalutin’ on her lips, but she was so relieved to be alone with him, she would drink to anything he liked. Alas, there was little chance of any actual love-making – not with Jo and Scott around – but at least they could set the mood, get closer in other ways. She put her glass down, frowning. Just the thought of Jo was painful; brought back that horrendous row. Would she have to move out? Find some grotty bedsit? Or could she somehow …?

  No, this wasn’t the time to be dwelling on her problems. She was entertaining Will and must concentrate on him. She took a breath to calm herself, and then a long draught of wine. ‘How was the workshop?’ she asked, edging her chair companionably closer.

  ‘Oh, fantastic! Sometimes you’re stuck with a room full of halfwits and you wonder why you bother. But today they all seemed bright. One woman was quite outstanding. She’d written this thing about a bulb planted deep in the earth, groping upwards month by month, and finally breaking through in the spring. But it finds everything’s raw and bleak – you know, snow on the ground, like today, and apparently no hope of light and warmth. Oh, I realize it sounds a bit corny, but it wasn’t, the way she did it She used very stark images and an extremely simple style. She almost had us in tears.’

  Catherine hid a smile. Yes, she could well imagine him weeping for a snowdrop; even for a clod of earth.

  He sipped his wine, cupping his hands round the glass. ‘It reminded me of something I wrote myself when I was only twelve or so – a rather harrowing poem about a bird in a cage. Of course, I identified with the bird. I felt so trapped, you see, at home.’ His face reflected his theme: brows drawn down, eyes troubled. ‘I made the mistake of showing it to my form-master. He said it was affected and how could I be unhappy with all my advantages? It’s funny, isn’t it, the way we don’t like to admit how deeply children can suffer. Though you’d know more about that than I do, with your mother dying so young.’

  ‘Actually, I think at the time I felt I shouldn’t be too upset. Death’s not easy to grasp when you’re four and a half. Besides, the grown-ups kept telling me how happy Mummy was, and how she’d gone to live in this wonderful place with somebody called Jesus. Anyway, for a long, long time, I expected her to come back. My father kept all her things around, so it seemed a fairly reasonable idea.’

  ‘God, you poor kid!’

  ‘No, honestly, it wasn’t all that bad.’ She picked up a celery stick and nibbled it reflectively. ‘Of course, it was completely different with Gerry. We’d been together so long, you see, and he was so much part of my life. I mean, even now, it sometimes all comes
surging back, or I remember ghastly little details for no reason. The day of the funeral, for instance, was rubbish-collection day, and the street was full of black dustbin bags piled up higgledy-piggledy. And it suddenly struck me: that’s what Gerry is – just a bag of bones to be disposed of.’ She shivered. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry, Will. This isn’t quite the conversation for a nice relaxed dinner.’

  ‘No, but it’s real, and you know how I hate small talk.’

  Catherine crunched her celery, remembering Kate’s same use of that word ‘real’ just a few days ago. In fact now she came to think about it, Kate and Will were alike in certain ways – uncompromising, idealistic, moody, generous, and occasionally infuriating.

  ‘That was the trouble with my wife. She had this habit of avoiding any …’

  They both jumped at the crash of a door. Someone had slammed out of the sitting-room and was hurtling up to the bathroom, heavy boots punishing the stairs. They exchanged a glance of commiseration. The situation had bonded them, she realized with relief. It was them against the rest; they safe in their little haven while the barbarians rampaged outside.

  ‘You were saying about your wife,’ she prompted, raising her voice above the music from next door.

  ‘Ah, yes. Vanessa. She … she never allowed people to be miserable. She felt it was bad form – bad manners, if you like. Every problem should be dealt with, and if there wasn’t a solution, then you simply shut up about it. Otherwise you’d drive your friends away. Friends were very important to her – more important than me, I often thought. I imagine she must be in her element now, with all the entertaining she and Julian do, in their gracious house with the wine-cellar, and their well-bred Hampstead neighbours saying what they’re meant to say instead of what they really feel.’

  ‘But Will, lots of people live like that. My son and his wife, for example. I suppose it’s a very English sort of thing.’ She thought of Jo again – she had made no bones about saying exactly what she felt. Perhaps there was a virtue in dissembling, after all. Still, her instinct was to change the subject. Poetry was fine, but not death, divorce and ex-wives, whatever Will (or Kate) might say about such things being ‘real’. ‘Shall we eat?’ she suggested, knowing food would raise his spirits.