Catherine moved aside a long jersey-knit dress in a vibrant pattern of purples, with an ostrich-feather trim. It looked barely worn and incredibly expensive. On a sudden impulse, she held it up against herself, discovering it wasn’t a dress but a jumpsuit with a deep V-neck and wide flowing silky trousers.
The woman nodded encouragingly. ‘It’s just your size, dear, isn’t it? You’re lovely and slim, like Marsha.’ Her voice became a confidential whisper. ‘Why don’t you try it on?’
‘Oh, no, honestly – I couldn’t. It’s not my sort of thing at all.’
‘But the colour suits you, it really does. Don’t you think so, Janet?’
Yeah. It’s great. And I bet it’s an original. The label says Missoni. Does that mean anything to you, Peg?’ The older woman shook her head.
It meant nothing to Catherine either, but then she didn’t usually stray beyond the safe confines of Marks & Spencer, with the occasional foray to Adèle’s Boutique in Cheam. She put the suit back on the counter with a shrug, but Peg immediately scooped it up again, looking at it wistfully as if it were an orphan desperate for a home.
‘Are you sure you won’t try it on, dear?’
Catherine shuffled from foot to foot. This was worse than Stella Watts. Hard-sell made her nervous, even in a charity shop. Yet she had to admit it would be rather fun to buy something donated by a television star. Even if she didn’t wear it, she could keep it as a sort of trophy. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Where’s the fitting room?’
‘Just behind that curtain, dear. There’s a full-length mirror and all.’
Catherine went through into the cubicle and took off her grey skirt and navy sweater. Since Gerry’s death, she hadn’t had the heart to wear her usual cheerful colours. She wriggled into the jumpsuit and steeled herself to look in the mirror. The transformation was astonishing: smiling back at her was a genuinely glamorous woman. And the suit fitted so well, it might have been made to measure. The fabric was daringly clingy; emphasizing the curve of her breasts, rippling over her thighs, but the effect was sensuous rather than blatant. Of course, it was quite impractical. Ostrich feathers were out of the question for a suburban office job, and the neck was too low for Antonia’s starchy dinner.
Suddenly, she had a brilliant idea – why not skip the dinner and go to Jonathan’s launch party instead? This was just the outfit for an arty Mayfair club, awash with theatre people. In fact, Marsha Booth and Jonathan must move in the same world. She ought to go, for Gerry’s sake. Dressed in Marsha’s clothes, she could become the sort of woman he had probably always wanted: artistic, outrageous even.
She put her head round the curtain. ‘You wouldn’t have shoes, by any chance? Something to go with this?’
‘What size?’
‘Five and a half.’
‘That’s Marsha’s size. You’re in luck again! She brought in this pair of fantastic purple platform boots.’
‘Platform?’
‘Well, only little platforms. And they’re the same purple as the suit. She must have bought them to match.’ The girl handed them over reverently. They too looked practically new: knee-length with a chunky heel, and superbly made in the softest, most luxurious suede.
Catherine unzipped the right boot and stroked the calfskin lining. She couldn’t wear platforms, even tiny ones – not a widow in her forties. It was ridiculous.
She pulled them on almost guiltily, keeping well behind the curtain. They felt strange at first, uncomfortable, but they certainly made the outfit come together. Her legs seemed longer and slimmer, and the rich bloom of the suede, peeping out beneath the sheen of the silk jersey, looked wonderfully opulent. She had shed ten years at least, just by changing out of widow’s weeds. Her hair, though, let her down. It was not only dry and frizzy but boringly middle-aged. Frankly, she wasn’t keen on perms, but what else could she do with hair as straight as hers? It had been different when she was young, or before Gerry took over the business. Then it had been all right to drift around with long, flowing locks, but once she’d become the linchpin of a busy office she had felt obliged to look more conventional.
‘How are you getting on in there, dear?’ the older woman called.
‘Okay, I think. The boots fit.’
‘Go on, then – give us a peek!’
Embarrassed, Catherine emerged from the cubicle, to be greeted with delighted exclamations.
‘Wow, look at that! Amazing, isn’t it, Peg?’
‘My goodness, yes! You’re a different person, dear, if you don’t mind me saying so. That colour really makes you come alive. And the boots give you a bit more height. I think you should snap it up quickly before anyone else gets their hands on it.’
‘I am tempted,’ Catherine said. ‘But I’m … er, wondering how much it’ll all cost.’
‘Well, we haven’t priced any of Marsha’s stuff yet. What do you reckon, Janet? Would a tenner sound right for the suit?’
Janet looked dubious. ‘A bit on the high side, isn’t it? I’d say seven-fifty.’
‘And the boots?’ asked Catherine anxiously.
‘Well, they’re hand-made, you know. Italian. And really good quality suede. I couldn’t let them go for less than twelve.’
‘There’s a mark on one of the heels, though,’ Janet pointed out. ‘I noticed when I unpacked them.’
‘Okay, how about seventeen-fifty for the boots and suit together? D’ you think you could manage that, dear?’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’ Catherine stifled a grin. They must think she was some down-and-out, without the price of a cup of tea. She dived back behind the curtain. Two other customers had come in and she didn’t want them digging in their pockets and tossing her their loose change. She glanced in the mirror again, wishing she could keep the outfit on. Her own clothes looked so dreary in comparison. But she was going on from here to make enquiries about a job and could hardly turn up in such style. Actually, she ought to get a move on – there was the sorbet still to make and the vegetables to prepare, and by the time she’d changed and done her make-up …
She left the shop with a new spring in her step, clutching a crumpled Sainsbury’s carrier bag – her booty.
She strode along, scanning the nearby shop-fronts for an employment agency. Just because she’d decided to have a fling tonight, it didn’t mean she could neglect her future. She would give herself a fortnight to find a suitable job: by the end of January she would be a committed working woman again.
About a hundred yards on, she stopped dead in her tracks, struck by a poster in a hairdresser’s window. It showed a girl with startlingly short hair, shorn to a couple of inches all over – no crimped curls or lifeless frizz, just a smoothly gleaming skull-cap with a dark purplish tinge to it.
‘DARE TO BE DIFFERENT!’ urged the caption, ‘TURN HEADS WITH OUR SENSATIONAL SPICED PLUM!’
She hesitated, but only for a moment. Damn the job! Damn the sorbet! This was the only possible hairstyle – and colour – to set off that stupendous outfit.
Chapter Five
‘Mother, you don’t intend to go out like that, do you?’ Andrew’s usually pale cheeks were flushed, his distress – distaste – apparent on his face.
Catherine fought the urge to laugh. ‘And why not, my darling?’
‘Well, that … that thing looks downright vulgar. And I’m sure it’s meant for someone half your age.’
‘Marsha Booth is forty-eight.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, never mind.’ She hadn’t told him about the charity shop. He would strongly disapprove of ‘germy’ clothes.
‘And your hair, for heaven’s sake – what on earth have you done to it?’
‘Had it all cut off.’
‘But the colour. It’s … it’s …’
‘Spiced Plum. Unusual, isn’t it?’
‘Listen, Mother, Antonia and I do realize you’re … I mean, these things take time to …’ He sat stiffly on the sofa, fiddling with his wedding ring. He was never happ
y talking about emotions. ‘Look, I still find it upsetting sometimes when I see Dad’s watch on my wrist, or his photo on my desk at work. But it must be a lot worse for you. Oh, don’t think I’m criticizing. You’ve been wonderful – everybody says so. But bottling everything up isn’t supposed to be a good thing, you know. We’ve said all along that you really ought to talk to someone. A counsellor, or …’
‘So I need to see a counsellor because I’ve dyed my hair?’
‘Don’t be silly, you know what I mean. All I’m trying to say is …’ Suddenly he sneezed: an urgent honking sneeze, closely followed by another.
Oh lord, she thought – the ostrich feathers. Poor Andrew. He would probably be sneezing the whole evening now; struggling to be the perfect host with inflamed sinuses and streaming eyes. ‘It’s these feathers, darling – you’re obviously allergic to me. Anyway, if I don’t get off now I’ll be late. I’ll just say goodbye to Antonia.’
She found her in the kitchen, pureeing the mangoes with a somewhat martyred expression. But Catherine refused to feel the slightest twinge of guilt, either about the sorbet, or the exorbitant cost of her hair and matching Spiced Plum nails. It was the first professional manicure of her life and she’d enjoyed every minute of it. Antonia must spend as much each month on vitamins alone. Besides, when she was twenty-six, she had been living in a squalid basement with two young children to feed – and on beans and chips, not exotic fruit.
‘Don’t worry, Antonia, if the sorbet doesn’t freeze in time. It’ll taste just as good, even if it’s mushy.’
Antonia slowed the mixer and spoke above the whirr. ‘Catherine, I don’t like to interfere, but about this do you’re going to tonight … Well, Andrew thinks …’
‘I know what Andrew thinks. But I’m afraid it’s too late. I’ve already phoned Shaw Hilliard and told them I’ll be there.’ She was interrupted by a succession of muffled sneezes from the sitting-room. ‘Anyway, the sooner I get out of his way the better.’
Her coat was waiting in the hall. She hadn’t worn it since the winter before Gerry died, but red was Marsha’s colour and it clashed gloriously with the jumpsuit.
‘Have a lovely dinner!’ she called, as Andrew emerged from the sitting-room, his face shrouded in a handkerchief. ‘Oh, and don’t wait up, my darlings. I may be a bit late.’
She dithered in the shadows a few yards away from the club. The place looked formal, even forbidding, rather than convivially bohemian. A doorman was standing to attention beneath a sombre grey-green awning, flanked by two clipped bay trees; the three stiff shapes uniting to convey the message: ‘Only nobs allowed in here. Keep out!’ The street itself was oppressively dark – no other clubs or restaurants in the vicinity, just offices and mansion blocks, rising tall and impersonal above her.
She crossed the road and clopped down to the corner, having not yet fully mastered the knack of walking on platform soles. Even these relatively low ones seemed to throw her slightly off balance, and she felt the more conspicuous because of being alone. Always in the past Gerry had been with her at functions of this sort – not that there had been many in the last six or seven years. Slogging away at the business, they had gradually lost touch with the gregarious acting crowd, and often felt too tired even to go out on their own.
She stopped under a lamp-post and looked at her watch again. Nearly ten to nine. Her train had been late, to start with, then there’d been a hold-up on the tube, both of which had sapped her buoyant mood. If she didn’t pluck up courage soon, the party would be over. Alternatively she could stay out here and freeze to death. The raw night air seemed to be pressing icy hands against her face, running rude fingers inside the collar of her coat. For the last half-hour she had been hanging around, watching people stride into the club. As far as she could tell, most of them were quite casually dressed. She began to regret her impulse buying in the charity shop – Marsha’s outfit would look absurdly out of place. How could she ever have imagined it was elegant? Tarty, more like. Andrew and Antonia were right after all. Perhaps she ought to go back to Stoneleigh, sneak up to her bedroom and change into something demure, then join them for coffee and After Eights. Except she was stuck with the hair, of course – the colour wouldn’t grow out for weeks. They would be ashamed to introduce her to their friends, whose mothers were bound to be twinset-and-pearls types. So where else could she go? A pity this was Mayfair, otherwise she might have found a friendly tramp and shared his patch of pavement for the night.
Cars kept flashing past – faceless drivers, yet at least they knew where they were going. She was tempted to flag one down and hitch a lift, to make her feel less rootless. Though in fact she wasn’t rootless – she had always had someone to lean on: first her strict guardian of a father, then confident, outgoing Gerry, and even now, as a widow, she was protected and cocooned. Easy to criticize Andrew and Antonia, but they were there for her – shields against the void.
She walked slowly back towards the club. The boots were beginning to pinch her toes now; the toes themselves almost numb. ‘Stop whingeing,’ she told herself. ‘Thousands of people are truly on their own, without kind sons to go home to. Anyway, you’re not going home. You’re going to count to five and then walk in through that entrance.’
‘… three … four … five …’
She blinked in the glare of headlights. A taxi was approaching and drew up with a jolt outside the club. The passenger door opened and a pair of long, black-stockinged legs swung out. Above them was a svelte black skirt and coat, belonging to a woman of about thirty-five with bright fuchsia-pink lipstick and startlingly blond hair. Well, here was someone who had bothered to dress up. Seizing her chance, Catherine quickly fell into step with her.
‘Excuse me, is this the Jonathan Monroe party?’ she asked, feigning innocence. If she struck up a conversation, at least they could go in together.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ The girl gave a friendly laugh. ‘I’m glad to see I’m not the last! I was kept at work – again.’
Catherine smiled sympathetically. They had sailed past the doorman and were now safely inside. ‘What sort of work do you do?’
‘Well, at the moment I’m trying to write a commercial for some revolting orange drink. But let’s not talk about it. It serves me right for going into advertising. My name’s Nicky, by the way, Nicky Maitland.’
‘I’m Catherine Jones.’
‘Great to meet you. God, it’s hot in here!’
They had moved from the marble-columned foyer to a large reception area, with silk-weave wallpaper and a massive crystal chandelier. Two huge bowls of out-of-season flowers stood on marble pedestals, braving the sub-tropical heat.
Nicky swept up to the desk and scrawled her name in the leather-bound visitors’ book. ‘Hi!’ she said to the porter. ‘Where’s the action? I’m gasping for a drink.’
‘Shouldn’t we leave our coats first?’ Catherine murmured.
Yeah, and I must go for a pee. There’s not even time for that at work.’
‘The cloakroom’s to your right, madam, just along the passage.’ The porter’s snooty tone implied a reproof to Nicky’s bluntness. ‘And the party’s in the Hardwick Room upstairs.’
‘Mm, I can hear it now.’ Nicky moved to the foot of the staircase, which curved upwards in a graceful spiral. ‘Sounds like feeding-time at the zoo. Right – loo first, then champagne. After you, Catherine.’
She held the door and Catherine stepped into a cloakroom almost as elegant as the reception hall, though more intimate in scale. There was another impressive flower display opposite the row of marble basins. An attendant hovered, waiting to take their coats. Catherine unbuttoned hers reluctantly, Andrew’s word ‘vulgar’ nagging in her head.
‘God, I love your outfit! That slinky retro-shape is just brilliant. I’ve been looking all over for something like that. Where on earth did you find it?’
Catherine hesitated. ‘In … in a charity shop.’
You’re joking! I thought
it was a Missoni.’
‘Well actually it is.’
Nicky looked incredulous. ‘A Missoni in a charity shop?’
Catherine nodded, wishing (for the second time) she knew who Missoni was. A fashion designer obviously, but male or female, classic, trendy …?
‘Wow! – it’s probably an original seventies design then. Where do you live, for heaven’s sake? Hollywood?’
‘No, Stoneleigh.’
‘Where’s Stoneleigh?’
Catherine laughed, already feeling better. ‘About as far as you can get from Hollywood. It’s a rather nothing sort of place near Worcester Park, in Surrey.’ She gave a sidelong glance in the mirror. ‘You don’t think it’s a bit … over the top?’
‘Christ, no! I’d die for an outfit like that. How much did it cost?’
‘Seven pounds fifty.’
‘I don’t believe it! Pity we’re not the same size, or we could do a swop. I’m tired of this old black thing.’
‘It looks great.’ The dress was beautifully cut, with daring side-slits revealing a formidable expanse of leg. Nicky was a good head taller than her and almost boyishly slim. Although not pretty in a conventional way, everything about her merited a second glance: her well-defined cheekbones and healthy winter tan; surprisingly dark eyes contrasting with the ash-blond hair (which couldn’t be natural, surely). And even her accessories had been chosen with panache: brutally modernist earrings made of scraps of twisted steel; a natty black suede pouch to hold her mobile phone, and marvellously strappy shoes, which wouldn’t be seen dead in any boring high-street shop.
Catherine surveyed her own purple boots with a glow of satisfaction. For once, she too felt special.
‘So how do you know Jonathan?’ Nicky asked, barging into a cubicle and banging the door behind her. She continued talking unabashed. ‘Are you an actress too?’
‘Er, no.’ A pity Marsha Booth’s identity didn’t come with the clothes. She had no wish to mention Gerry; least of all bring death into a party. It would be bad enough breaking the news to Jonathan. ‘I … met him years ago, when he was living up near Manchester. I presume he must have moved since then.’
Second Skin Page 6
