Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Yes, he’s got a place in Chelsea. Very swish – near Cheyne Walk.’

  Nicky erupted from the cubicle, flicked some water over her hands and gave a quick pat to her hair. ‘Actually, he’ll be wondering where the hell I am. I did promise to get here early, you see. We’d better get a move on.’

  She propelled Catherine to the door and took the stairs two at a time, despite her spindly heels. ‘I hope they’ve laid on some decent eats. I’m starving. All I had for lunch was a packet of crisps.’

  Catherine said nothing about her own indulgent chocolate lunch. She too was starving, though with far less cause than Nicky.

  The bray of voices grew louder as they approached the Hardwick Room. Nicky led the way into a rumbustious press of people, Catherine tailing her closely, resisting the temptation to flee. She was used to Gerry taking charge, greeting friends, fetching drinks, making her feel part of a relaxed and happy circle.

  ‘Angus, great to see you!’ Nicky rushed over to embrace a satanic-looking character in a black shirt and long black sideburns, who hugged her. enthusiastically. ‘Where’s the booze? I’m parched!’

  ‘Calm down! I’ll fetch you some.’

  ‘Make it two, will you? This is Catherine. We met on the way in.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Angus, flashing her a smile. ‘I like the feathers. They don’t bite, do they?’ He brushed his hand against the ostrich trim and immediately snatched it away in mock alarm. ‘Oh God, they’re lethal!’

  Catherine laughed, relieved that the ice was broken. And while Angus went in search of drinks, Nicky introduced her to several other people: a television producer whose name she didn’t catch, a girl in publishing called Ruth, and a foreign-looking couple – he with a long straggly beard, she in a weird caftan-thing.

  ‘Where’s Jonathan?’ asked Nicky, her eyes sweeping round the room. ‘I can’t see him anywhere. Ah, Angus – thanks. That was quick.’ She took both glasses and handed one to Catherine. ‘Cheers!’ She winked. ‘Here’s to Stoneleigh and its amazing shops.’

  ‘Cheers!’ said Catherine, forcing a smile. The fizzing bubbles had suddenly reminded her of the silver wedding – the last time she’d had champagne. She fought a wave of panic, seeing Gerry’s face: a grinning skull-face looming into close-up as they drank the celebration toast. It was impossible to concentrate on what the television chap was saying.

  ‘Of course, we couldn’t get the backing for the series. It’s always the same damned thing – no bankable names, no track record …’

  ‘Ah, there’s Jonathan!’ said Nicky, and began pushing her way to the far end of the room.

  Catherine followed, leaving the producer railing against the strictures of his budget. She was surprised how youthful Jonathan looked – his hair neither thinner nor greying, his face remarkably unlined. Perhaps he’d had a little help – a few tucks and pleats over the years, or maybe the odd hair-weave. He greeted Nicky exuberantly, then turned to her with a vague and slightly puzzled smile. Good lord, she thought, he doesn’t recognize me.

  ‘Catherine Jones,’ she said, putting out her hand. ‘From Salford. I hope you haven’t forgotten me after all this time?’

  ‘Catherine!’ He ignored the hand and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I was confused for a moment. The hairstyle threw me, that’s all. It’s fabulous! You look absolutely stunning.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And where’s the old man?’

  She swallowed. A succession of images suddenly flashed into her mind like stills from a forgotten film: Jonathan and Gerry side by side in Waiting for Godot; downing pints of Guinness after the performance; laughing in her tiny kitchen as they rehearsed their lines for the next play. Her cheeks were burning, yet the chill of death hung in the air, threatening to descend on her; on the whole happy carefree party. ‘I’m … er … afraid he couldn’t come.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. What a shame.’ He looked downcast for a moment, then raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘But hold on a minute – you’re blushing. This all seems rather suspicious, I must say. I mean, Gerry not here and you looking like a million dollars. Don’t tell me you’ve chucked him over for a toy boy!’

  ‘Something like that.’ The laugh lacerated her throat. ‘But how are you, Jon? Oh, and congratulations on the book.’

  ‘Thanks. If you want a copy, do nick one with my compliments. They’re stacked up on that table over there. It’ll save you fifteen quid.’

  ‘And lose you precious royalties! Don’t worry, I’ll buy my own from Waterstone’s. It’s the least I can do for a friend.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve just remembered – Gerry’s in the book. Only a brief reference, but he’s immortalized in print.’

  How sad, she thought, that he would never see it. She was about to ask why and where he was mentioned, but some instinct made her stop. What if it was something to do with that ill-fated theatre company? For all she knew, Jonathan might have been involved in it as well, as an actor or fellow-investor. Now that she had more or less succeeded in putting it behind her, why dredge the whole thing up again?

  As luck would have it, she spotted a waiter gliding towards them – one of the many circulating with champagne bottles. She held her glass out thankfully, leaving Jonathan to talk to Nicky.

  She took a few deep calming breaths. The champagne would help her relax. Indeed, the other guests already seemed less daunting – just a friendly crowd enjoying themselves. Of course she wasn’t out of place, or vulgar and overdressed. Jonathan had told her she looked absolutely stunning. Flattery, no doubt, but he had seemed genuinely struck by her appearance. Secretly she had always rather fancied him, and was gratified that he had noticed her at last, as someone other than Gerry’s capable but rather ordinary wife.

  A waitress stopped in front of her with a tray of canapes – miniature works of art asparagus tartlets jewelled with caviar; elf-size eclairs oozing salmon pâté; tiny mushroom footstools topped with cushions of cream cheese. She took one, and then another the fishy tang of caviar succeeded by the rich saltiness of Roquefort. All her senses seemed sharpened: piquant tastes zinging in her mouth; the sounds and colours in the room amplified to a brilliant clashing cacophony.

  ‘Have you tried the chicken satay?’ asked a well-modulated voice. A man had appeared at her side: pale-skinned and rather willowy. He wore a conventional grey suit, but his long fair hair and smooth complexion made him look more the boyish student than the hardened executive.

  ‘Er, no,’ she said, noticing his ring: a silver snake’s head, swallowing its tail.

  ‘Well, do! It’s hot, and quite sublime.’ He beckoned another waitress over and Catherine helped herself to a morsel of hot chicken and dipped it in the sauce.

  ‘Oh, one’s not enough,’ he said, picking up four pieces and polishing them off in quick succession. Finishing his last mouthful, he introduced himself. ‘Simon Wallace – Jonathan’s TV agent. I adore your purple feathers!’

  She smiled her thanks. Marsha’s outfit was certainly a great success, prompting compliments, not sneezes. Three different men had admired it: a heady new experience. Always before, she had been in Gerry’s shadow – he the centre of attention, the one receiving applause. She drained her glass, beginning to feel lightheaded, and not just from the champagne. It was as if she was thawing into life again after a protracted hibernation; realizing there was a world beyond loneliness and grief and early nights. Simon had moved a little closer and gave the ostrich-feather trim a mischievous tweak.

  You haven’t told me your name.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Catherine. Catherine Jones.’

  ‘Katherine with a K?’

  ‘No, a C. You know, it’s funny you should ask that. As a child, I always wished it was spelt with a K It seemed more glamorous somehow. I was rather a plain child, you see, and …’

  ‘Oh, come on! You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? And even if it was true, it’s certainly a case of ugly duckling turning into swan – in fact, a quite sen
sational swan!’

  She blushed. Simon was a good deal younger than she was, and attractive in an arty sort of way, yet he was flattering her outrageously. She banished the plain motherless child with another draught of champagne. If Jonathan’s TV agent told her she was sensational, she damned well would be – and enjoy it.

  You won’t believe this, Simon,’ she said, lolling back in her chair as she swallowed the last spoonful of crème brûlée, ‘but earlier today I ate a whole chocolate mousse – I mean enough for eight or ten. I simply wolfed the lot.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ He opened his eyes wide; unusual eyes, green, with long fair lashes.

  ‘Yes. Wasn’t that wicked of me?’ She giggled. It seemed hilariously funny. She was laughing a lot. And drinking a lot. The wine just kept coming and coming. There had been Muscadet with the sole, claret with the duck, and some unpronounceable sweet wine with dessert. Not to mention all the champagne beforehand. Well, never mind, they’d be bringing coffee soon, and she would have hers strong and black. It wouldn’t do to sit giggling on the train all the way to Stoneleigh. She should have gone home hours ago, but Jonathan had asked her to stay on for the dinner hosted by Shaw Hilliard for a select few party guests. At first she’d said no, but Jonathan insisted. Apparently someone had dropped out minutes before they were due to leave for the restaurant, and he declared it a heaven-sent opportunity – she absolutely must come. Simon had added his own inducements and then bagged the seat beside her, gradually edging closer and closer throughout the course of the meal until now his thigh was squeezed tightly against hers. It felt really rather nice; warm and sort of tantalizing.

  There was a minor commotion as Jonathan lurched to his feet. He looked distinctly the worse for wear and had spilt red wine down his shirt. ‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ he said, seizing his glass and slopping more wine on the tablecloth. ‘To my fantastic editor, who’s not only beautiful but a bloody genius.’ He bowed to the fragile-looking woman on his right. She had been drinking only Perrier all evening, Catherine had observed. In fact, most of the Shaw Hilliard contingent had remained sober, in all senses, while the author and his friends subsided into various degrees of drunkenness. Nicky had taken off her earrings and her shoes, and was draped across an actor called Sebastian. Angus and his neighbour were duelling with their cheese-knives, and a brash woman in television whose name she’d completely forgotten was using her untouched pudding as an ashtray.

  ‘Without Margery,’ Jon continued, swaying slightly on his feet, ‘this book would never have been written.’

  He had evidently forgotten that he had already proposed a toast to her when they’d first sat down to dinner, and used almost the same words (though minus the ‘bloody’). And everyone had toasted him: drunk to the success of his book and the success of his new TV series.

  ‘And while I’m on my feet …’

  ‘You won’t be for much longer, by the looks of it!’ Kevin called jeeringly from the far end of the table.

  ‘Shut up and stop barracking,’ Jonathan snorted. ‘As I was saying … What was I saying? Now you’ve put me off my stroke.’ His eyes flicked from face to face, as if seeking inspiration, then came to rest on Catherine. ‘Ah, yes!’ – his face brightened – ‘I want to drink to absent friends. And especially my old friend Gerry Jones. I haven’t seen him for ages, but we were very close at one time. Catherine here is his wife.’ He gestured to her grandly. ‘And a very wonderful woman. But unfortunately Gerry couldn’t come himself.’

  Aghast, Catherine tried to stop him. ‘Listen, Jon … I … he …’ It was useless – he couldn’t hear. He was still rambling on about his old friend from the north. Her cheeks were on fire and she was aware of Simon looking at her oddly, perhaps worrying about a jealous husband’s wrath.

  At last Jonathan sat down, and Catherine somehow managed to stumble to her feet. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I … I’m afraid I’ll have to go.’

  ‘Can I order you a taxi?’ asked the Shaw Hilliard sales director, who was sitting opposite.

  ‘Thank you, but I can get the tube to Waterloo.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘Why? What is the time?’

  ‘Ten to one.’

  ‘It can’t be!’ The last train to Stoneleigh was 11.51.

  ‘I’m afraid it is. But don’t worry, let me phone a cab.’

  A cab, she thought – all the way to Stoneleigh, and after midnight. That would cost a fortune.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a lift,’ said Simon, also getting up. ‘But I never drink and drive – well, not since my brother got done last year.’

  Nicky uncoiled her long body sinuously from Sebastian’s lap. ‘Why not stay the night with me, Catherine? I’m just about to leave.’

  ‘No, honestly, I …’

  ‘It’s no trouble, really. We’ve got a room free at the top of the house.’

  ‘But are you sure? I mean, it’s very kind of you, but I don’t like to impose.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I’d be pleased to help out. And if Jonathan speaks so highly of you, you must be okay! Isn’t that right, Jon?’

  ‘Absolutely. And Catherine’s a marvellous cook. She can make you breakfast in the morning.’

  ‘Don’t mention food, please, Jon.’ Nicky put a hand on her stomach and rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘I’m stuffed!’ She turned to Sebastian and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Goodbye, Sebbie darling, and thanks for all your help. Give me a buzz tomorrow and we’ll arrange a drink or something. Oh, and talking of phones, I’ve got my mobile here, Catherine. D’you want to ring your husband and tell him where you are?’

  ‘He’s … away,’ she blurted out, feeling more and more embarrassed. ‘But I really ought to phone my son, if you don’t mind. He’ll be getting rather worried.’ She looked down at her jumpsuit, almost surprised to see that her finery hadn’t turned to rags. Midnight had struck (unnoticed) and the glamorous freewheeling actress had changed back into a suburban wife and mother.

  Chapter Six

  Catherine opened her eyes, squinting against the glare of the sun. The window was in the wrong place; the blue curtains not drawn – not there. She sat up in bed, shivering despite the sun, and puzzled that her neck should feel so cold. Her hand encountered a smoothly shaven nape and hair cropped short all over. She remembered the Polish novelist last night who had told her, in his charming broken English, how much he loved the style. And of course, it was that marvellous colour, though not quite the deep mulberry of these walls. She looked around the room, which had sloping eaves and a quaint old wooden balcony just outside the window. The furniture was sparse – little more than the lumpy bed she was sleeping on, a rudimentary desk and a battered wardrobe (containing a tripod and a camera-case, as well as a cache of trendy clothes). Three multi-coloured rag-rugs covered the bare floorboards, though with uneven gaps between them.

  She groped for her watch on the upturned cardboard box which served as a bedside table. Nearly half past ten. How on earth could she have slept so long? And woken without a hangover? She pushed the bedclothes back, revealing the eccentric nightclothes Nicky had dug out for her: tracksuit bottoms, woolly socks (one black, one salmon-pink) and a tee-shirt with RICH BITCH emblazoned across the front. Looking up, she caught the eye of a flagrantly nude man gazing from a poster on the wall; his genitals on full display, his expression combining the sardonic with the sensuous. Damned cheek! – he must have been watching her all night. Her bedroom walls at Stoneleigh were adorned with dainty flower-prints, the furniture was pristine white; the bed a brand new Slumberland. She could just imagine Antonia’s horror at these pock-marked walls (where other – perhaps even more erotic – posters had been removed, presumably), not to mention the dire state of the rugs.

  She stretched luxuriously. Never mind Antonia – she liked the room. It had real character, and was wonderfully high up. The house was tall and narrow and occupied four storeys in a terraced street in Camden Town, and she was right at the top.
She got out of bed to inspect the view: a jumble of grey roofs, an exhilarating expanse of sky and, immediately below, a strip of garden overgrown with spindly shrubs. The sun was pressing against the glass, as if determined to come in. It was a summer’s day in January: gauzy clouds, strong shadows, and North London stretching away in a shimmering blue haze.

  Wrapping herself in a rug from the bed, she crept down to the bathroom, which was on the floor below, next to Nicky’s room. Judging by the silence, everyone else was still asleep, despite the lateness of the hour – well, late for her (and Stoneleigh). Nicky had said little about her living arrangements, remarking only as they got out of the taxi that ‘the others’ would have probably gone to bed.

  Her brief visit to the bathroom last night, dazed by wine and euphoria, had left her with a vague impression of a dark and almost sinister place. In daylight it was extraordinary: black walls and royal blue ceiling, a jungle of tropical plants erupting at one end, and treasures everywhere: a clown puppet dangling overhead, an old apothecary jar full of glittering coloured marbles, a weird African mask glowering above the mirror. The bathtub was a monster ancient, badly chipped and mounted on claw feet; a yellowy-green stain-line snailing down from beneath each tap. Clearly, little time was wasted here on cleaning. There was grime on every surface, the towels were crumpled in a damp heap on the floor, and a bewildering assortment of jars, bottles and potions sat collecting dust on two shelves above the bath.

  She flushed the toilet, wincing at the noise. The washbasin was full of underclothes soaking in scummy water, so she tried the bath-tap marked HOT, but although she ran the water for several minutes, it remained obstinately cold. She wiped her hands on her tee-shirt, hitched the rug around her shoulders again, and set off down the next flight of stairs. There were two bedrooms on the first floor, but no sign of life from either.