Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Okay, now I’ll show you the room you were meant to see in all its glory.’ He ushered her in, to bare floorboards and stripped walls. There were several uneven patches of fresh plaster, which gave the room a two-tone effect. However, the general feeling was ghostly – an empty shell awaiting colour and solidity. The only things in evidence were a couple of tins of paint standing on some newspaper with a jam jar full of brushes, and an ancient wooden stepladder propped against the window.

  ‘I haven’t got round to painting it yet. In fact, I’d no idea what I was letting myself in for. The plaster was terribly old and crumbly, and when I started stripping the wallpaper, some of it came away. The mess was unbelievable. Grey dust everywhere – in my eyes and throat and hair, even in my shoes. And getting to the bathroom meant wading through piles of debris, which stirred up even more dust I had to spring-clean the whole damned flat. And as for the re-plastering, well, suffice it to say I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Still, painting will be a piece of cake in comparison. I bought the paint last week.’ He held up one of the tins. ‘What do you think of the colour? I chose it with you in mind, of course.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ she said, smiling at the strip of purple – their lucky purple: a dusky shade, somewhere between his waistcoat and her dress. She was tremendously touched, not just by his choice of colour, but by the whole labour of love in itself. ‘Oh, Will, I feel quite humbled. Fancy going to all this trouble just for me.’

  ‘What do you mean, just for you? You’re worth it, for God’s sake. I only wish it was finished, then we’d have somewhere to sit. I’ve moved the furniture in here’ – he backed out and opened the second door – ‘although it was pretty cram-full already. It’s where I store the market stuff. And there’s a ramshackle room downstairs. Well, it really belongs to the hairdresser’s, but they let me use it as a workshop.’

  She gazed at the hotchpotch of chairs, chests, wash-stands, upended drawers, overflowing boxes, hardly knowing what to say or where to look. Fascinating objects crowded every available surface: china chamber pots, old clocks, biscuit tins, bronze statuettes, a tide of books, old and new. His bed, a small divan, was jammed against one wall and a two-ring cooker stood forlornly on the floor amid the clutter.

  ‘I usually keep the room I live in fairly shipshape. But this is the room I’m living in at present, and it seems to have got out of hand. It’s your fault, Catherine,’ he added, almost accusingly. ‘I wouldn’t have done this for just anyone.’

  ‘I’m, er, flattered,’ she said, wishing he could have sounded a little more gracious. Still, considering what he’d been through, she could understand his pique.

  ‘Sit down.’ He patted the divan and switched on an electric fire, moving it closer to her legs. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you a drink. Well, milkless tea – that’s all. If you’re hungry, I’ve got chocolate swiss rolls – the little individual ones. Or cornflakes, if you don’t mind them dry. And I’m sure there’s a tin of soup somewhere.’

  ‘No, honestly, I’m fine, Will. That pàté was quite filling.’

  ‘Do you mind if I have something? Eating calms me down and I’m still a bit shaky after that almighty row. Funnily enough, Jo reminds me of Vanessa. Oh, not to look at – they’re quite different – but they do have a similar line in invective.’

  She had no desire to recall Jo’s invective; indeed, even now she wasn’t entirely sure what had sparked off the whole ghastly business. When she and Jo first met, they seemed to get on fine. Distractedly she ran a hand through her hair, suddenly realizing she had no comb with her – no mirror, make-up, change of clothes. All her possessions were at Gosforth Road, which meant she would have to go back to collect them.

  ‘And the way she swears, Catherine – fuck this and bloody that. Vanessa’s just the same. I find it really offensive.’ Will opened the lid of what looked like a blanket-chest, and after a bit of delving, eventually found the cornflakes. He shook some from the packet into his hand and scooped them up with his tongue, crunching noisily.

  She watched, amused, hoping they’d take his mind off Vanessa. He seemed intensely bitter about his marriage, but there was little she could say to help without knowing more of the facts. Indeed, some of his previous remarks had made her wonder if he wallowed in his wretchedness deliberately, to induce guilt in his ex-wife. A different sort of man would have done something about the state of the flat before this – for his son’s sake, if not his own – rather than continuing to live in squalor for so long. Or was that judging him too harshly, especially as he said he’d done it for her? For all she knew, he might be the one who felt guilty, and his squalid surroundings a form of self-punishment. But, whatever else, she had come to see that he needed frequent doses of approval, perhaps as an antidote to his father’s constant criticism.

  ‘I think you’re jolly brave to tackle this at all,’ she said, as he sat beside her on the divan.

  ‘Well, you did your room, didn’t you? In fact, that’s what shamed me into doing mine. I realized you’d lost your home, too, but you damn well made the best of it.’

  ‘Maybe so, but what you’re doing here is in a different league. I didn’t have to paint, let alone re-plaster. It was really just a matter of the furnishings, not all this upheaval. I really do admire you.’

  ‘Do you, Catherine? Honestly?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her emphatic nod turned into a shiver.

  ‘Oh, lord – you’re cold still. That fire’s pathetic, isn’t it? I’ll get you a sweater.’ He rummaged through a pile of clothes: unironed shirts, baggy jerseys, a pair of jeans with holes in the knees. Had Vanessa once looked after him, she wondered – patched holes, sewn on buttons – or was she too busy with her career? He held out a shaggy grey jersey. ‘This is the best I can do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ She pulled it over her head. It smelled slightly damp and came down past her knees, covering her sexy dress completely. It struck her that there was a funny side to the evening – they had fled from one shambles, only to arrive in another.

  Will returned to his cornflakes, now eating them from the packet. She remembered her ice cream and its elaborate chocolate sauce. Would Scott have demolished it already?

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want any?’ Will asked. ‘They’re the kind with honey and nuts. I bought them for Sam, but he’s never here to eat them.’

  She shook her head. ‘Is that him as a baby?’ she asked, pointing to the photo by the bed.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘He’s gorgeous.’

  ‘His hair’s slightly darker now, but he was ash-blond as a toddler. I’ll show you if you like.’ He unearthed a photo album from one of the cardboard boxes and placed it open on her lap. After a brief glance at Sam, she studied the child’s exquisite mother – haughty cheekbones, cascade of golden hair, full lips, even teeth. Then she scanned the rest of the page: Vanessa and Will, Sam and Will, Vanessa, Sam and Will – touching one another, involved with one another, smiling and relaxed. The photos prompted a mixture of emotions: a sense of exclusion, even jealousy; niggling resentment of Vanessa’s beauty, and a genuine concern for Will. He had lost so much – not just his family, but a house and garden which looked, frankly, prosperous.

  ‘D’you want to see me as a baby?’ he said, hovering by her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  He turned to the first page of the album and jabbed his finger at a small black and white snapshot.

  ‘That could be anyone,’ she objected, trying to make out the amorphous bundle in the pram.

  He laughed. ‘Well, it was wintertime and I was muffled to the ears. Here’s another, with my father.’

  Intrigued, she peered at the man. He was formally dressed – overdressed for a garden – but looked totally inoffensive. He was sitting in a deck chair, holding his son awkwardly on his knee. So this was the no-nonsense paterfamilias Will had talked so much about. The eyes were hidden by owlish spectacles, but he was smiling shyly; his face kind and even vulne
rable; more a shrinking violet than a martinet. How odd, she thought, that this fleeting moment should be caught by the blink of a camera; a mere detail in this man’s busy life given solidity and permanence. Posing for his photo in the garden, it could never have occurred to him that, thirty-eight years later, a stranger would be gazing at him; a woman who had kissed his son.

  She leafed on through the album, glimpsing other children, other men and women – siblings, cousins, relatives? Unknown places, peopled by blurred strangers. Again she felt a longing for Gerry – that reassuring sense of having lived with him so long that their once-separate worlds had merged; every face and backdrop comfortingly familiar. She paused at a photo of Will, aged twelve, solemn in his blazer and school cap. When that was taken, she was already married, with a baby on the way. She shut the book abruptly.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  She reached out to him, suddenly wanting to be held – not by the schoolboy but by the strong and solid man. He put his arms around her and she closed her eyes, as if to block out the sad memories. He began to stroke her hair, rhythmically and soothingly, and she relaxed into the rhythm, the soft lapping of his hand. His fingers paused on the nape of her neck, then slid an inch or two beneath the jersey.

  ‘Shall we take this off?’ he whispered. ‘You feel warm now.’

  She nodded, enclosed for an instant in musty grey wool as he drew the sweater gently over her head.

  ‘That’s a beautiful dress.’ He traced the curve of its neckline with the lightest pressure of his thumb; a tantalizing semi-circle from one shoulder to the other. She could feel the eddies way, way down, as if he had already unzipped the dress and was running slow, skilled hands across her thighs. She wanted that; wanted him to touch her naked skin.

  She moved her head a little and gave him a series of tiny, teasing kisses, just feathering his lips. He responded greedily, deepening the kiss, using teeth and tongue. Oh God, she thought, go on!

  As if she had spoken aloud, he began easing down her zip, gazing at her hungrily as he fondled her bare shoulders. She smiled at him, encouraging, and he held her so close, she could feel the entire length of his body pressed against her own.

  Then, without warning, he let go of her and stumbled to the window. ‘It’s no good,’ he muttered bitterly. ‘It won’t work.’

  She stared at him in astonishment, watching him drum his fingers on the sill. Why was he so angry? What in God’s name had she done? She yanked her dress back up, leaving his sweater crumpled on the floor. Why should she be subjected to these insulting switches of mood? ‘I’m sorry, Will,’ she said coldly, ‘but perhaps it would be better if I left.’

  ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘But what’s wrong, for heaven’s sake? I mean, you were all over me in Kintbury. And you said you loved me only a few minutes ago. Yet now I seem to disgust you.’

  ‘Are you crazy? I adore you. That’s the trouble. If I didn’t care so much, I wouldn’t be in such a state.’

  Mollified, she joined him at the window, putting out a tentative hand. ‘Will, you’ll have to explain. I just don’t understand.’

  ‘I … I can’t. It’s humiliating.’

  ‘But you said the same about your flat and …’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘But Will, I’m here now. And I wasn’t shocked, was I?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Well, can’t you trust me again?’

  He shook his head. ‘This is really shameful.’

  Was he HIV positive? she thought with a stab of fear. Or was there something wrong with his body – some injury or scar? She had to know. ‘I might not find it shameful,’ she said softly.

  He turned away, moving among the boxes, as if too nervous to keep still. ‘Listen, Catherine, last time I tried to make love – well, it … it was a total bloody disaster. I … never saw the girl again.’ He jabbed his foot against a box, his voice rising in indignation. ‘That’s why I can’t forgive Vanessa.’

  ‘But why should …?’

  ‘No, please don’t interrupt This isn’t easy, and I want you to understand. I lost my nerve, you see. That’s all it was. I’m sure. Vanessa destroyed my confidence. Completely. She told me I was useless in bed. I wasn’t useless. Not then. But now – well, I daren’t even take the risk.’ He picked up a wooden letter-rack, gripping it tightly in both hands. ‘I keep telling myself she only said it out of spite. Or to shut me up, so she could win the argument. But that doesn’t seem to help. She’s passed judgement and it’s set in steel. Well, it might have been okay – with you. I was just beginning to feel more hopeful.’ Again he broke off, then turned to face her, banging down the letter-rack. ‘But that appalling scene with Jo brought the whole thing back. You see, Vanessa and I were having a row like that when …’

  ‘Oh, Will, people often say things they don’t mean in the heat of an argument.’ She squeezed his hand reassuringly. ‘After all, the way you kiss me is anything but useless. I’d say you were an expert.’

  He gazed at her a moment in mingled hope and disbelief. Then he lunged towards her and kissed her, violently.

  ‘Will, you’re hurting,’ she protested, trying to pull away.

  ‘There, you see. I’m doing it all wrong.’ He let her go, his face abject. Just like Vanessa said.’

  ‘It’s not that, Will, it’s …’

  ‘Don’t say it. I can’t bear you judging me too.’

  She let out an exasperated sigh. Whatever she said, he was bound to take it the wrong way. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, backing towards the door. ‘I … I must go to the loo.’ She needed an escape. There seemed to be a jinx on the evening and things might get worse still. If he was a disaster in bed, his confidence would be shot to pieces and she would feel guilty in turn. She suddenly remembered the evening with Simon: another traumatic occasion when she had taken refuge in a bathroom and sat in shivering isolation, feeling a total failure. Tonight was even worse, though. She cared about Will, as she’d never done for Simon; had let herself get close to him. And then there was the terrible set-to with Jo …

  She looped back the nylon curtain and stared out at the dark, feeling almost homesick for her safe nun’s cell at Stoneleigh: lights out at 10.30 and a regime of ordered peace; no moody, troublesome men; no vindictive house-mates. Andrew and Antonia might be rather stuffy, but at least they didn’t indulge in histrionics.

  She remained dithering at the window, trying to decide whether to cut her losses and go back to Manor Close. But it was still snowing hard and the roads would be treacherous. Besides, she hadn’t the heart to abandon Will – nor the strength for the inevitable showdown.

  She trailed back to the other room and stood miserably in the doorway.

  ‘Oh, Catherine …’ He approached her nervously, like a cringing dog expecting to be whipped. ‘You look so tired and …’

  ‘I am tired. It’s been one hell of a day.’

  ‘Look, lie down for a while. I won’t say a word, I promise.’

  She smiled, despite herself. The prospect of silence seemed unlikely in the extreme.

  ‘Come on – over here.’ He led her to the divan and pulled back the faded coverlet.

  ‘You must be tired as well,’ she said, too weary to protest. ‘Shattered.’

  She moved over to make room for him, but turned resolutely to the wall. This was to be strictly a rest, not an attempt to prove Vanessa right or wrong.

  ‘I’ll turn the light off, shall I, then perhaps you’ll be able to sleep.’

  She nodded. If she pretended to sleep, he might keep his promise. Real sleep was out of the question; Not only had she lost her home, but now, it seemed, Will too. How could they have any kind of relationship, given all his hang-ups? And that in turn jeopardized her work. It would be impossible to share a stall, with him feeling hurt and rejected. So she was back to square one: rootless, manless, jobless. She turned on to her back, aware of him lying rigid beside her, his black clo
ud of depression enveloping them both. Again her thoughts strayed to Andrew – his sheer uncomplicated sanity. She was lucky to have him. And Kate. It would be daylight in Gurgaon: strong colours, brilliant sunshine. Kate had wished her luck with Will, but her run of good luck had ended – that was clear enough. She stared up at the shadowy ceiling, shivering in the dark. Next time she phoned her daughter, there would be nothing to report except loneliness and failure.

  ‘Good night,’ she murmured to Will, realizing it was, in fact, the worst night she’d had in months.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Oh, Will, I just can’t tell you … That was absolutely …’ It was difficult to speak. Her heart was thumping in her chest and her whole body seemed on fire. She eased her thigh from under his. His hot, damp skin felt wonderful against her own, but her leg was beginning to hurt.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he whispered.

  She nodded, running her hand along the inside of his thigh. Excited, he began covering her with kisses: the last, delicious course of the meal; his lips nuzzling her throat, then moving slowly down across her breasts.

  She lay marvelling at the silence; silence after uproar. He had been making an incredible noise; baying like an animal. And, after her initial sense of shock, she had found herself making the same wild, jungle noises, as if a different person had taken over her body – some abandoned, flagrant woman, spurred on by his cries.

  He gave her a last teasing kiss, then sat up on one elbow. ‘I think we ought to celebrate. There’s no champagne, I’m afraid, but I can offer you a chocolate swiss roll and a bowl of mushroom soup.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Heaven knows.’

  He fumbled for the bedside clock. She remembered watching its illuminated hands last night, moving almost imperceptibly: twenty past eleven, twenty-five past, half past …

  ‘Good God!’ He shook the clock in disbelief. ‘It’s quarter to five. Breakfast time, definitely.’

  ‘Okay, but not the soup. Could I have tea instead?’