Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Okay.’ He grunted and snuffled comically, making little forays towards her, only to retreat again. But all at once there was an uproar outside: a siren wailed, a car screeched to a halt.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she groaned. ‘Not another raid.’

  ‘Ignore it.’ Will kissed her on the mouth.

  She returned the kiss half-heartedly, but then wriggled out from under him. Love-making (crocodile-style or any other fashion) wasn’t easy with that din. The windows were wide open and the familiar noises seemed amplified in the heat: slamming doors, pounding feet, interspersed by shouts and scuffles and the crack of splintering wood. ‘I’m sorry, Will, I just can’t function with all that drama going on. It’s worse than The Bill!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake ignore it,’ he repeated.

  Angrily, she sat up. ‘Stop ordering me about, Will. First you tell me not to speak because the Great Poet is at work, and now …’

  Will sprang to his feet. ‘What do you mean, “the Great Poet”?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, it was only a joke.’

  ‘I don’t find that sort of sarcasm funny in the slightest. What’s wrong with you today?’

  ‘I’m tired, if you must know.’ She snatched her dress from the floor and yanked it back over her head. ‘This is the first Friday we’ve taken off in weeks, and I thought we were supposed to spend the day in the park, soaking up the sun. Instead of which I’ve been stuck indoors, slaving since the crack of dawn.’

  ‘I’ve been working too, haven’t I?’

  ‘You’ve been writing poems.’

  ‘And I suppose that isn’t work?’

  ‘Look, writing’s something you want to do. I’ve been cooking and cleaning all day and I’m sick of it.’

  ‘You don’t have to cook and clean.’

  ‘Someone’s got to do it, and anyway you keep complaining you’re hungry.’

  ‘There’s always take aways.’

  ‘They’re expensive, Will. You know how tight money is.’

  ‘Okay, bread and cheese then.’

  ‘But you don’t buy bread and cheese. On the rare occasions you do the shopping, you get things we can’t afford.’

  ‘Oh, I see you’re really having a go at me – I hardly ever do the shopping, and when I do, I’m wasteful. I sit around on my arse all day. I order you about …’

  ‘Will, you’re overreacting.’

  ‘And I overreact.’

  She lowered her voice, ashamed to realize they were both shouting. ‘Yes, you do. And it gets incredibly wearing.’

  He sank on to the bed without another word. He looked so utterly dejected, she felt a surge of remorse. It wasn’t all his fault – certainly not the lean time they were having at the market. Trade was bad in general at the moment. And he was right – she did choose to cook, and often gloried in his extravagant praise for her meals. She went over and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s not quarrel, darling.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ He drew her down beside him on the bed and kissed her eyelids softly.

  ‘D’you think crocodiles have rows?’ she whispered.

  ‘God, I hope not. They’d probably tear each other limb from limb.’

  She gave a shudder and pressed closer. ‘Listen, my randy crocodile, let’s start again – okay? The noise has stopped.’ As far as it ever did stop. The police car had left as mysteriously as it had come, but there was still the incessant roar of traffic and a workman in the street was using an electric drill.

  Will was sitting with his head bowed. His erection had dwindled to nothing and she knew he was still haunted by past failures – not with her, with his previous girlfriend. She tried to stroke him stiff, without success.

  ‘It’s no good,’ he said irritably. ‘I’ve lost it now.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, darling.’

  ‘It does. I can’t bear letting you down.’ He thumped his fist on the bed. ‘We should have moved north. I hate this bloody racket all the time. At least we’d have had some peace and quiet in the country.’

  ‘Oh Will, don’t start that again. You know how awful I feel about it. But I keep telling you, I didn’t have much option.’

  ‘Of course you did. You just let your family bully you.’

  ‘I did not, Will. It was my choice. I didn’t want to be so far away from my grandchild.’

  ‘You could always visit. Cumbria’s not exactly another planet.’

  ‘Have you any idea what the petrol would cost? Even if I only drove down every couple of months, we still couldn’t afford it. Anyway, we’d need a better car. Mine’s on its last legs, in spite of all we spend on it I mean, another eighty pounds last week for a camshaft belt, and the new battery the week before.’

  ‘It gets frightfully boring, you know, the way you keep banging on about money.’

  She flounced up from the bed. ‘You’ve got a nerve, I must say. Your car’s still off the road and you happily use mine. Okay, I don’t mind, but you could at least put some petrol in it occasionally.’

  ‘I pay for other things, don’t I?’

  ‘Yes – extravagant things we don’t need.’

  ‘God, I’ve never known you be so bitter, Catherine. Why not ring your darling son and say you will move into his bijou cottage after all.’

  Stung, she stood gripping the windowsill, looking down at the street. Black dustbin bags were clustered against the graffiti-daubed brick wall. Several windows were smashed; two shops boarded up. Perhaps she should have accepted Andrew’s offer and escaped from this depressing squalor. ‘I gave the cottage up for you,’ she said tersely, keeping her back to him.

  ‘You did not. You gave it up because you didn’t want to be a full-time grandma.’

  He was right. She had tried to take a stand with Andrew and Antonia, not to let things happen by default, as had been the case so often in the past. Whatever decision she arrived at, though, she was bound to upset someone. In the end she had compromised, declining the role of full-time nanny, yet also refusing to go north with Will, thereby upsetting everyone. She had tried to make it up to Will by suggesting they look for a new flat together – not, alas, in Cumbria, but in a more attractive part of London. They were still looking. The whole point of moving north was that property was cheaper. Nothing was cheap in London, not even Tandoori Street.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Will. He was putting his clothes back on, his movements brusque and angry. ‘I think I’ll go out,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to spend all evening quarrelling.’

  ‘Nor do I. I love you, Catherine, can’t you see? That’s why it hurts when you always put your family first.’

  ‘But Will, I put us first.’

  ‘Oh, really? That’s news to me. We’re surrounded by your family.’ He glanced in annoyance at her collection of photos from Gosforth Road. ‘Even Gerry, for God’s sake. How do you think I feel waking up to your brilliant actor-husband every day?’

  ‘Will, he’s dead,’ she said softly.

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. But it’s not only him, it’s the others. You just don’t seem able to cut the umbilical cord. And certainly Andrew can’t. Shit!’ His shoelace had snapped and he flung the broken lace across the room. ‘It’s becoming pretty clear to me that your wimp of a son can’t manage without his Mummy. So perhaps you’d better go back there and let him bloody keep you in the style you’re accustomed to.’

  She grabbed her bag and marched to the door. She wouldn’t stand for him attacking Andrew, or swearing.

  ‘Oh, running out on me, are you?’

  There was a note of panic in his voice, but she had no intention of crawling back. She was tired of his insecurities and the petulance he’d shown since their country idyll had foundered. Okay, it was her fault, but she couldn’t grovel for ever.

  She hurtled down the stairs and into the street; kept running in case he tried to follow. But as she turned into Kentish Town Road, her steps faltered to a stop. Walking out was a fine d
ramatic gesture, but where did she actually go? Restaurants, theatres, cinemas all cost money. It was already quarter to eight, so no point searching out friends in the market – they’d have shut up shop two hours ago. Some of them, including Brad, would be drinking in the Stag, but the relationship between her and Brad had become rather awkward recently, after an unpleasant scene with Will. That was another thing – Will was so possessive. Just because Brad made her jewellery it didn’t mean they were having an affair.

  She walked aimlessly along, envious of the couples strolling arm in arm and the cheerful groups of people spilling out of the pubs on to the pavement, chattering and laughing as they downed their pints of beer. It was a perfect summer’s evening, less hot than earlier, but still sunny with a cloudless sky – weather for romance, not rancour. And the fact that it was Friday made it worse. London seemed to pity you if you were alone on fun night, party night.

  While she waited at a crossroads for the traffic lights to change, she noticed the sign pointing to Kentish Town sports centre. Rosie’s son went swimming there on Fridays – a children’s life-saving class which finished at 7.30. With any luck they’d still be around. Rosie was just the person to talk to. Working at the market together they’d become firm friends; snatching a coffee when customers permitted, and sometimes meeting afterwards for a natter and a drink. Rosie was a good listener and invariably sympathetic when it came to problems with men. In fact, they’d been chatting only yesterday about the unfair sex in general and Will in particular.

  Quickening her pace, she reached the sports centre in a matter of minutes, relieved to see that there was still a swarm of parents and children outside. It should be easy enough to spot Stephen – his ginger hair was a beacon in any crowd – but there was no sign of him or Rosie. She went inside and checked the foyer: more kids, more milling parents – but not, unfortunately, the pair she was looking for.

  Stephen was rather a slowcoach, so perhaps he was still getting dressed. She’d give them a while longer. Better to hang around here than wander the streets on her own. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. More people were flocking in for the water aerobics session advertised on the board – energetic types with impressive-looking kitbags slung across their shoulders, who made her feel sluggish and superfluous. She leaned against the wall, watching a blond boy of about Sam’s age getting a drink from the machine. The last day Sam had spent with them had not been a success. He was bitterly disappointed that the promised country cottage, complete with his longed-for cat, had failed to materialize after all. The ensuing sulks and tears had only increased her guilt, though guilt had turned to resentment when Will left her to look after him practically all day, insisting that if inspiration struck, any poet worth the name must catch it on the wing, regardless of such considerations as visiting sons or resident women. Well – she shrugged – at least she wasn’t a full-time single parent, like Rosie.

  She mooched out to the street again. Rosie and Stephen must have left ages ago and were probably sitting down to supper by now. Of course, she could call in and see them – it was only a short bus-ride away – but Rosie’s mother was often there and would want to talk about her ailments. She dithered for a moment, then set off for the Lock, in the hope of meeting someone else she knew. A bit of lively company would stop her brooding on the Thursby cottage. Apart from being a lost opportunity, it meant they had lost the three-hundred-pound deposit and the month’s rent paid in advance. No wonder they were skint. And she wasn’t even sure that she had made the right decision. If only she and Will could afford a place in Kent or Sussex, somewhere within easy reach of Stoneleigh, yet still in the country … But properties cost a fortune in that well-heeled commuter belt.

  She kicked out at a beer can on the pavement, suddenly furious with Gerry. If he hadn’t been so feckless, she would be sixty thousand pounds better off. She had prided herself on accepting the loss – working in the market, you came to regard a lack of security as a simple fact of life – but tonight’s row about money had reopened the wound. How dare he chuck sixty grand away on some precarious fringe theatre, and deceive her into the bargain?

  Angrily she strode into Chalk Farm Road and crossed the road to the Lock. The market manager, Frank, was standing by the bridge – just the person she didn’t want to see. They had crossed swords last week because she and Will had fallen behind with the rent. Frank had been quite stroppy about it, despite the fact it was the first time it had happened.

  Preoccupied with avoiding him, she nearly bumped into Roy, strolling along in his familiar sequinned cap and floral leggings.

  ‘Hi, Plum. How’re you doin’?’

  ‘Oh, hi. I’m … fine.’

  Roy ran a food stall in West Yard, selling veggie burgers, Celestial Tea and home-made carrot cake. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked. ‘I’m just going over the road.’

  She glanced wistfully across at the pub. Will could hardly be jealous of Roy, who was unashamedly gay, but it would be hypocritical to spend money on drinks after nagging Will about extravagance. ‘I’m sorry, Roy, but I can’t just now.’

  ‘Ta-ra then, sweetheart. You look great, by the way. I like the tan!’

  ‘Thanks.’ She felt a little better, even without the drink. People here were so friendly and accepting. It was a sort of family, whose members helped and supported each other. And after all, if Gerry had left her comfortably off she would still be cloistered in suburbia, ignorant of this way of life, or even disapproving of it. Anyway, there was no point digging up the past – what was done was done.

  Her way was blocked by a novice juggler practising on the pavement – all fingers and thumbs and fumbled catches – and she couldn’t help but smile. His chest was bare, and emblazoned with a lurid tattoo of an eagle with a sun in its beak. His feet were also bare, and dirty, and his hair was a minor masterpiece in electric blue and green. A crowd of tourists stood watching him – giggly Japanese girls; overweight Americans armed with camcorders. She squeezed past, only to find more people laughing at a wild-eyed preacher, who was urging his audience to accept the Lord into their hearts while refreshing himself from a gin bottle. The whole place seemed alive; gangs of rumbustious kids on their way to gigs or clubs; seasoned locals watching the world go by; a boy in baggy harem-pants busking with a guitar.

  Her feet moved in time to the music as she crossed the cobblestones to the stalls, reduced now to gaunt scaffolding frames. Only in the last few weeks had business slackened off, despite the hordes of tourists. Before that, she and Will had been doing remarkably well, though you never knew with the market whether you were in for a bonanza or a slump. But if things failed to improve, well, perhaps it was time to look for another line of work. The market crowd were infinitely adaptable, working to live, not living to work, and always willing to move on. Bina was in Brighton selling tie dyed tee-shirts, Colin had landed a job on a canal boat and Spiff was working as a barman down the road. And considering the fact that she and Will had come up with dozens of ideas for earning a living in a tiny place like Thursby, surely they could do the same in a city of seven million people.

  She walked back to Camden High Street, only realizing after she’d passed the tube that she was heading in the direction of Gosforth Road. Force of habit, no doubt. Although actually it might be fun to call in – catch up with Darren’s news, renew her brief acquaintance with Fiona. She began walking faster, her spirits rising as she reached number ten and found the door ajar. At least somebody was in.

  ‘Hi!’ she called. ‘Anyone around?’

  It was Jo who came to the door, not bothering to smile. ‘Come in,’ she said grudgingly.

  ‘Are you sure I’m not disturbing you?’ Catherine hovered on the step. ‘I really came to see how Darren was. Has he accepted that new job at Saatchis?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jo. ‘But he’s out.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well … do say congratulations, won’t you?’ She was about to back away – it was clear she wasn’t wanted – when Fiona appeared in
the hall.

  ‘I thought it was you, Catherine. I’ve been meaning to ring you for ages. I still owe you money for the vet.’

  ‘Oh, that’s okay. You paid most of it.’

  ‘No, I haven’t and I feel terribly guilty. Look, if you’ve got a minute, why don’t we sort it out now?’

  Catherine stepped into the hall, ignoring Jo’s frown. She liked Fiona, the little she had seen of her, and she just couldn’t leave without saying hello to William. He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs and she went over to make a fuss of him, fondling his ears the way he’d always enjoyed. But he just stared blankly with passionless green eyes, as if she were a stranger. His indifference was extraordinary, not to mention hurtful. Could a cat forget you in less than three weeks, when for months you’d been the most important person in his life?

  ‘Oh, dear, I’m interrupting your supper,’ she said, trailing after Jo and Fiona into the kitchen. The table was laid with knives and forks.

  ‘It’s only a snack,’ Fiona grinned. ‘And why not join us? It’ll probably stretch to three.’

  ‘No, honestly, I’ve eaten, thanks.’ Not true. But the brown congealing substance in the saucepan (chilli? curry? lentils?) looked as if it would barely stretch to two. ‘And don’t let it get cold.’

  ‘It’s cold already,’ Jo muttered. ‘I turned it off half an hour ago, but the bloody phone keeps ringing.’

  ‘Never mind. We can heat it up again.’ Fiona turned on the gas. ‘And in the meantime I’ll sort things out with Catherine. Give me a moment and I’ll see if I can find the bills.’

  She disappeared upstairs, while Jo sat at the table, hacking slices off a loaf of bread. The silence felt uncomfortable. Catherine perched on the edge of a chair, remembering cosy suppers with Nicky: giggling, chatting, exchanging confidences. Although she would never admit it to Will, she did miss the old regime at times. ‘Have you heard from Nicky?’ she asked, to be polite.

  ‘Yes, Darren had a card. She’s having a whale of a time by the sounds of it.’