Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘A toy cat.’

  ‘And you’d been on a bus to see Alexander someone.’

  ‘Alexandra Park.’

  ‘Oh, that was it. And he won a prize.’

  ‘Only a measly sherbet dab.’

  ‘He was thrilled with it. You know, you’re a brilliant mother, Catherine. Far better than Vanessa.’

  ‘Ssh, Will, don’t say that.’

  ‘It’ s true. You’re good at everything – cooking, sewing, running stalls, inspiring poems, entertaining my rotten friends, making garlic sauces …’

  She grinned. ‘Okay, I can take a hint.’ She broke off three cloves of garlic and began removing their papery skin. Will made it all worth while. Whatever his failings, he was always more than generous with his praises. And once he’d finished his work and they were undressed for bed, he would lavish his undivided attention on every curve and hollow of her body. That made up for everything; made her feel cherished and special.

  She interrupted her garlic-chopping to squeeze his hand affectionately. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I’ve put your letters on the side there. They looked a rather dreary lot. I had one from Nicky.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Great. Working every hour God sends and loving it, apparently.’

  Will ripped open the first envelope and made a face. ‘Phone bill,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody hell! – it’s enormous.’ He waved the second letter in the air. ‘Would I like to buy a case of château-bottled claret at only ninety-nine pounds? Well, I’d like to but …’ He threw it in the bin. ‘Now, what’s this? Oh, the invite to Malcolm’s launch, lucky dog. Faber are doing him proud – party at the Café Royal.’ He opened the last envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. Something else fell out – a smaller, folded slip of paper which fluttered to the ground. He ignored it while he read the letter. ‘Oh, my God!’ he exclaimed.

  Catherine looked up from the chopping board. ‘What is it?’

  He was staring at the letter and appeared not to have heard.

  ‘What is it, Will?’ she repeated.

  He picked up the piece of paper from the floor and studied it without a word.

  She prised the letter from his hand and scanned the half-dozen lines. ‘Oh Will,’ she said, ‘I can’t believe it.’

  Still silent, he handed her the piece of paper. It was a cheque – a cheque made out to Mr William Carter. For the sum of seven thousand pounds.

  She looked incredulously at the row of noughts, then at Will’s dazed face, then back again at the cheque. ‘Will, this is wonderful … amazing! I’d forgotten you’d even applied for it. And you said you hadn’t a hope in hell, remember?’

  ‘Well, that shows what a modest chap I am.’ He began to laugh, kissed her, hugged her, whirled her round, still laughing. ‘Seven grand!’ he yelled. ‘I still can’t take it in. When you think how many other people must have put in for that grant – why me, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Because you’re a brilliant writer, darling. And Leonard Upjohn obviously thinks so too.’

  ‘Oh, Catherine, our luck really has changed. I thought today was pretty good already, but now this …’ He covered her in kisses, then kissed the cheque as well. ‘We can trade the car in. We can get a better flat. We can even pay the phone bill.’ He waved it at her triumphantly. ‘And we can afford some time off from the market to look for other jobs. I’ll be less busy anyway – Leonard only wants a couple more poems, and the way I feel at the moment they’ll probably write themselves!’

  All at once he shoved the letters on the bureau and gripped her hand tightly, painfully almost. ‘Catherine – my darling, precious Catherine, will you marry me?’

  She stared at him, astounded. She knew he was wary of commitment, terrified of marriage.

  ‘I couldn’t ask you before. My life was such a shambles. But this seems a sort of … sign that today’s a new beginning. I love you darling, and I want you to be part of it.’ He gazed at her intently, his body rigid with tension, his fingers interlocked with hers. It suddenly occurred to her that her hand must smell of garlic: an acrid, inappropriate smell.

  ‘For God’s sake, Catherine, say something. Tell me – will you many me?’

  It was impossible to speak. Proposals of marriage happened in romantic novels to dewy-eyed young girls. She was overwhelmed. Dumbfounded. To be wanted with such passion …

  She opened her mouth to reply, but someone else’s words jangled in her head.

  Ordinary mothers, like ordinary wives,Fry the eggs and dry the sheets and …

  She tried to ignore the insidious words, but they continued to creep in:

  Every day a little stingIn the heart and in the head …

  But what relevance had the song for her?The woman who’d sung it in the musical had been shackled to a pompous, vain philanderer, whereas Will was sensitive and talented and faithful. Today could be a new start. They had the money to move and a chance to get off the treadmill, if only for long enough to rethink where and how to live. Marriage to a poet would actually be exciting; to be part of his success and perhaps a permanent inspiration to him. And she would have a husband who adored her.

  Impulsively she pulled on an old sweater, grabbed her purse and rushed to the door. ‘I’m going to buy some champagne,’ she called as she clattered down the stairs. ‘To celebrate!’

  Chapter Thirty Four

  ‘Oh Will, don’t stop, don’t stop!’

  The climax was like a jacuzzi deep inside her: bubbling, rippling, churning. And – God! – she was coming again, he still thrusting into her, their tiger noises roaring through the room.

  ‘Oh Will! Oh yes! I love you.’ She collapsed back breathless on the bed. ‘That was the best ever. Ever,’ she repeated. Then, suddenly, great choking sobs shuddered through her body and she turned to face the wall.

  He lay in silence beside her. There was nothing more to say. It had all been said when she returned – without the champagne.

  He passed her his handkerchief, already wet. His hopeless weeping had been far worse than the storm of protest, the impassioned arguments. And the silence now was unbearable; his mood of hurt and rejection like a dark pall on the room.

  Slowly she sat up, appalled by his expression, its utter desolation. ‘I … I’m sorry, Will. I feel terrible. But it’s not really to do with you. It’s me. I need more …’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m not a fool.’ He suddenly got up and strode across the room.

  Oh God, she thought, he’s walking out. It’s past midnight. What if he does something stupid? ‘Will, let me try and explain. I want you to understand.’

  ‘I do understand.’ He trailed back to the bed, head bowed. ‘And it’s because I do that I want you to have this.’ He pushed something into her hand.

  She looked at the cheque, bewildered. ‘Will, what are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s yours. Take it.’

  She laughed, a nervous laugh. He must be out of his mind. ‘Will, that was given to you so you can continue your work as a poet.’

  He shrugged. ‘I can continue it anyway. And you need a grant as well.’

  ‘But I’m not a poet,’ she said with a frown. He was behaving very strangely.

  ‘You’re a work in progress, Catherine. And you have to find out where you’re going and assume some sort of final shape. This could help, maybe.’ He thrust the cheque back into her hand. ‘I’ve only realized recently, from various things you’ve said, that I’ve been spoiled, compared with you. I took foreign holidays for granted. I mean, even as a child I thought it perfectly normal for my parents to take me abroad at least once a year. By the time I was a teenager I’d been to all the major cities – Paris, Venice, Munich, Rome, you name it. But you’ve never had a chance to see those places. I hope it doesn’t sound patronizing – or horribly pretentious – but I want to sort of … give them to you. Or at least the air fare to a few of them.’

  ‘Oh, Will, it doesn’t sound pretentious. I love you for the thought,
but I wouldn’t dream of taking your money.’

  ‘Listen …’ Tears slid down his cheeks again. Angrily he brushed them away. ‘I’m losing you and I can’t bear it. My childish side wants to scream and shout and make you stay. But my adult side wants you to see the things which are a sort of poetry in themselves. The funny little gardens on top of some of the old walls in Venice, with plants cascading down to the canals. The fabulous stained glass at Chartres. The flea-ridden cats in the Roman Forum sunning themselves on bits of ancient temple. All those things are part of me. And thousands more. You deserve to have your own memories, to nourish you when you’re home again and maybe feeling low.’

  Silently she put her arms round him. So often she had complained about his almost reckless extravagance, but this was its up-side – a wonderfully reckless generosity. She had thought him self-absorbed and obsessed with his work, yet here he was, offering her another sort of poetry. Taking his money was out of the question, but she was deeply touched by the fact he cared so much about her life – even her life without him. ‘Will, thank you for even suggesting it, but I couldn’t possibly accept. It would be like stealing from the Stanford Birt Foundation. I’d be paralysed with guilt.’

  ‘But I want you to have it, Catherine. Poems have to be finished, and you’re an important work – an epic.’ He dragged himself to his feet and stood with his back to her, fists clenched. ‘Oh God, I feel like shit. I can’t stand the thought that you won’t be here any more.’

  ‘Nor can I.’

  He swung round, his face imploring. ‘Will you change your mind?’

  She hesitated. True love was rare and precious. Why refuse it and face life on her own? More than that – Will was irreplaceable: a brilliant poet, a skilful lover. She must be crazy to turn him down. They could make a life together, even a happy life. But it would be on his terms – she knew that. Marriage to an actor or writer meant a supportive role for the wife; the ‘art’ invariably came first. Anyway, it wasn’t a matter of weighing pros and cons – that would be insulting to Will. It was something more fundamental. She had to listen to her own inner voice; that voice she had so often ignored in the past, heeding only what other people wanted.

  Will was still gazing at her, his expression growing more desolate in the long uneasy silence. ‘Well?’ he prompted softly.

  She shook her head, hearing the insistent words of the song.

  Later, when is later?

  How can I wait around for later?

  ‘Will, I’m sorry, but I can’t.’

  He let out a sound, part groan, part sigh. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I won’t ask again. And as for the money, let’s compromise – half each.’

  ‘Will, no. You need it far more than me. I can get an office job.’

  ‘Absolutely not. You must go off and see the world.’

  ‘Well, look, give me just a tiny bit and I’ll go to Paris on Eurostar.

  That would be wonderful: Notre Dame, the Seine – all the things I’ve read about.’

  ‘Well, Paris’ll do for a start, but you’ve got to go further afield. Hire your camel and cross the Gobi Desert.’

  She forced a smile. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me, packing me off to the ends of the earth?’

  He kissed her fiercely on the lips. ‘God forbid. I’d come with you if it weren’t for Sam. Actually, it did occur to me that we could have gone to live abroad instead of Carlisle. But it wouldn’t have been fair on him.’

  Catherine said nothing. She too had thought about Sam as she stood in Oddbins looking blankly at the bottles of champagne. Having grown so close to the boy, she felt terrible about hurting him by simply disappearing from his life. Yet the duties of a stepmother weighed heavy, and not just duties but anxieties. If she accepted Will’s proposal, it would mean taking on a big responsibility. She had seen enough of Sam to know he needed tremendous reserves of love and patience.

  She turned her attention back to Will. ‘You must keep the money, darling. Apart from anything else, think of how it’ll help with Sam.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve made up my mind. We’ll split it fifty-fifty and that’s the end of the matter. Christ Almighty!’ he burst out, ‘there wouldn’t be a grant without you. Or a second collection. Listen, Catherine, just occasionally someone comes along who has that gift – and God! it’s rare – of inspiring poems out of … out of …’ He shook his head, impatient at not finding the words. ‘What you’ve got to understand is that I’ve never worked as well as this before. Or as fast. It’s as if you’ve got a direct line to my unconscious, or my creativity, or whatever you like to call it. You produced the poems, so it’s right that you should share in the reward. And anyway, I’m not giving it to you for nothing. I want you to continue to be my muse, long-distance, even if you won’t marry me. I can’t pretend to be happy about it …’ His voice became unsteady again. ‘But I’ll still write everything for you and because of you, even if they’re poems of despair.’

  ‘Oh Will, you’re making me cry again.’

  ‘We’ve got to cry. This is awful for us both. But whatever happens I don’t want it to be like the break-up with Vanessa, full of spite and anger.’

  ‘No,’ she said, running her hand tenderly down his cheek. ‘I love you, Will, and I always shall. And I’m honoured to be your muse.’

  ‘So you’ll accept your half of the money?’

  ‘Will, I can’t. I really can’t. Besides, what would people say?’

  ‘What do you mean, “people”? No one else need know.’

  ‘But my family … Andrew knows how tight things are.’

  ‘Well, tell them you won the lottery. Yes, that’s it. I got a grant – amount unspecified – and you won three and a half grand this Saturday. It’s no great shakes, you know. Last week’s prize was seven million, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Oh, Will, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything. Otherwise I’ll bawl my bloody head off.’ He slumped back on the bed, looking utterly wretched. ‘Oh, Catherine, I’d rather have you than the biggest lottery prize in the whole world.’

  She lay beside him, smoothing his defiant shock of hair. ‘Will …’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘I wish I could make things better.’

  ‘You can. You can. All you have to say is …’

  She kissed his lips to silence him. He returned the kiss half-heartedly.

  ‘Give me a real kiss, Will. To seal our pact.’

  ‘What pact?’

  She heard the faintest note of hope in his voice and loathed herself for crushing it. ‘That I’ll be your muse – long-distance.’

  He kissed her eyelids, so gently she could barely feel his mouth.

  ‘And that we’ll always love each other,’ she continued in a whisper, ‘wherever we land up.’

  This time he used his tongue to force her lips apart, deepening the kiss still further, as if trying to devour her. In spite of her misery and exhaustion, she could feel herself responding. She was opening to him, everywhere, yet crying at the same time, tears streaming down her cheeks, and his.

  Grief seemed simply a part of it – part of their frenzied, final love-making, and as they came, together, he let out a howl of pure despair.

  Part Five

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Catherine ploughed up the five flights of stairs and arrived breathless at the top. Jubilee Court didn’t have a lift, but at the rent she was paying she could hardly complain. Anyway, she loved the flat – her own place at last, until Brad’s friend came back in April. After that, who could say?

  She let herself in, to be greeted by the rock stars on the walls – a collage of sax-players, singers, drummers and guitarists in various dramatic poses, covering practically every inch of wall space. At first she’d been put off by them, but now she found their presence reassuring, almost a substitute family.

  She put the shopping on the table and opened all the windows. It was a sultry day with no breath of air, the
trees parched and dusty in the drought. She looked across the rooftops shimmering in the heat haze. It was like her old room at Gosforth Road – that sense of being exhilaratingly high up, with London laid out below. She was getting to know the area – shops, streets, restaurants, bus routes – and Brad had introduced her to some of the locals. Yesterday she had got talking to Chiaka, a six-foot-six Nigerian who lived on the third floor. That too had been reassuring. If ever she needed help, Chiaka looked a match for any troublemaker.

  The answerphone was flashing – three messages in all: Rosie saying she was on her way and should arrive soon after twelve; Maeve phoning from the north to say thanks for the long letter and when the hell were they going to meet; and her new friend Gill suggesting a meal out together on Saturday evening. It still took some getting used to, all the calls being for her. After thirty-odd years of taking messages for other people – Gerry chiefly, but then Andrew, Nicky, Darren, Will – she now had a phone-number all to herself. And investing in an answerphone was a bonus – in fact she wasn’t sure how she had ever managed without one.

  Resetting it, she thought back to the day she’d moved in: the pain of leaving Will, the wrench of disentangling their possessions, and that first solitary night, lying sleepless in the dark and starting at every noise. It reminded her of the desolate time following Gerry’s death. Never, apart from then, had she lived on her own without someone else to fill the empty silence, and at first she wondered how she’d cope. Yet here she was, only three weeks later, positively exulting in her independence.

  She took the shopping into the kitchen, which was little bigger than a galley, but well-equipped and airy, with a window facing south. She surveyed the room with approval: no one else’s clutter around; no burnt saucepans in the sink; no jars with the lids left off. She loved the sense of being in charge; putting her stamp on everything. And there was a marvellous freedom in no longer being answerable to anyone – no one else’s schedules to have to consider; no one else’s extravagance (or debts) to imperil the state of her finances.