Her ‘sisters’ had finally agreed on a wide-brimmed black creation, decorated with a bunch of purple grapes. ‘It’s perfect with your hair, Catherine,’ Nicky said, holding up the mirror for her. ‘What do you think?’
‘Yes, it does look rather good. But I’ll buy it.’ She got out her purse, praying there’d be enough money left.
‘No you won’t! It’s my treat.’
‘But …’
‘Ah, Greta, thank God you’re back!’ said Darren, rescuing his kite from the clutches of an inquisitive child. ‘Do stop these women fighting.’
‘What are they fighting about?’
‘Ignore him,’ Nicky said, producing a sheaf of five-pound notes. ‘I’ll have these three, please.’
‘And this one for me,’ said Jo.
‘Fantastic! I could do with a few more customers like you. Business is really slow today.’ She put the hats in pink-striped plastic bags. ‘I suppose most people are cleaned out after Christmas.’
‘Actually, I’d like to wear mine now,’ said Catherine. ‘It seems a shame not to show it off.’
‘Good idea.’ Greta took it out of the bag again. ‘And if anyone asks where you got it, be sure to direct them to me. The more publicity the better!’
‘Of course we will, Greta,’ Nicky laughed, ‘but we’ll expect a discount next time.’
Catherine put her hat on, tilting it to a rakish angle. She had never bothered much with hats, disillusioned early on by her blue school felt with its stupid badge and limp elastic. But this was in a different league: original, flamboyant.
Greta nodded in approval, her mouth full of bacon sandwich. Everyone around seemed to be eating on the hoof – munching pitta bread or burgers, or dipping into steaming cartons with plastic spoons and forks.
‘Let’s go to West Yard,’ Jo suggested, ‘and get some hot spiced wine. Greta’s right – it is cold once you stop moving.’
She led the way through a covered market area, down some twisty stairs and into a cobbled courtyard, again swarming with people and rich in smells, predominantly (and fiercely) curry. Catherine smiled to herself. Her whirlwind tour had now plunged her into several different continents at once. In the space of a few square yards, a host of rival stalls were dishing out their various wares: Chinese noodles, tandoori chicken, spicy tortillas, doner kebabs, even Sammy’s Fish Stall. It was deliciously absurd – her nose assailed by Eastern spices and English fish and chips, her head adorned with a bunch of purple grapes, and the last red rush of the Blast Off still skittering through her bloodstream. She deserved a day abroad. For so many years, holidays had been practically nonexistent. Her family had travelled: Gerry the actor on occasional foreign tours (always on the cheap, of course), Andrew and Antonia enjoying weekend breaks in Amiens or Bruges or wherever, and Kate backpacking intrepidly round India before taking a job in Delhi. But she, the wife and mother, had stayed put. Oh, she had often dreamed of holidays, even planned them sometimes, but they never quite materialized. And once Gerry bought the business, they had become slaves to it in effect; never able to get away together. So if a European supplier needed visiting, it was Gerry who would go, leaving her at home to deal with irate VAT inspectors or temperamental fax machines.
Even London was largely unknown territory, although they lived so near. When they’d first moved south, so many prospects beckoned – theatres, galleries, cinemas, museums – but all they ever seemed to manage was a film at the local Odeon or the odd Chinese meal in Worcester Park. They had turned into a pair of boring workaholics, trapped behind their desks; reading reviews of new exhibitions and plays, but invariably deciding that there wasn’t time to go this week (or next week, or next month).
Well, today she was making up for it. So to hell with tedious money worries. The mulled wine would be on her (and if she didn’t have enough cash, she would just have to pay by cheque). After all, any self-respecting holiday was supposed to clean you out.
‘If I eat or drink another thing, I’ll burst!’ Catherine wiped away her whipped-cream moustache. ‘Chocalissimo’ had proved more a meal than a drink – marshmallows melting in the giant-sized cup, and an avalanche of cream on top, sprinkled liberally with chocolate flake.
‘Shall we go back after this?’ said Jo. ‘I’m knackered after our walk.’
Nicky spooned chocolate debris from her cup. ‘It’s your fault, Darren – you and your wretched kite! I didn’t realize we’d have to run with it.’
‘Don’t blame me. We needed a bit more wind, that’s all.’
‘My daughter used to have a kite,’ said Catherine. ‘And we were flying it in the park one day, when …’ She broke off in shock, staring at the door. Gerry had just walked in with his arm round another woman. She sprang to her feet to confront him, only to realize it wasn’t Gerry, but someone uncannily like him, with the same colouring and build, the same engaging smile.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Jo, seeing her stricken face.
‘Er, nothing. I … – just need the loo.’
She stopped on the way to the toilet, watching Gerry’s double sit down at a table in the corner. His girlfriend looked much younger than him, but they were obviously in love – gazing into each other’s eyes, their fingers intertwined.
How dare you, she muttered under her breath. How dare you die and leave me on my own. She stood rooted to the spot, with a feeling of desperate loneliness. She didn’t belong with this trendy crowd. She had never smoked a joint in her life, and had never even heard of GHB, which Darren had mentioned earlier and was apparently some other type of drug. And the music that was playing now – what was it, for heaven’s sake? She dared not ask, for fear of revealing her yawning ignorance. Techno, garage, jungle, hiphop, were just words to her – and foreign words at that – but the others had been discussing them with enviable expertise. Some parents learned from their offspring, but Andrew was more likely to listen to Haydn, and Kate had never really progressed beyond Joan Baez. Even the photos on the walls here were of people who meant nothing to her; all young people, of course. She pulled off her hat and stuffed it in her bag – mutton dressed as lamb.
She stumbled downstairs to the cloakroom, wondering where she did belong. Her own house had gone and she was living like a parasite, without the guts to be herself. In an hour or two she would be back at Manor Close, sitting in her spotless room, waiting for Andrew and Antonia to return from a Rotary dinner. And tomorrow Jack and Maureen were coming to lunch. How unfair it was that Gerry’s parents should live into their eighties while Gerry had failed to make it even to fifty. But she couldn’t change the facts; deny a death with crazy clothes and exotic drinks. She was a middle-aged widow, whether she liked it or not, and the sooner she got back to reality, the better. In any case, the others were probably sick of her tagging along, pretending to be one of them, when she was old enough to be Jo and Darren’s mother.
She splashed her face with cold water and washed London’s grime off her hands. When she got back to the table, Darren was doing his Maggie Thatcher impersonation, to the amusement of those in earshot.
Jo stopped laughing and looked at her in concern. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘We were getting a bit worried.’
‘Yes, I … I’m fine. But I really should be going. Can I get the tube from here?’
‘There isn’t one at Primrose Hill. But we’ll walk you up to Chalk Farm. It’s only a few minutes.’
‘Hold on, Catherine,’ Nicky said. ‘Your clothes are still at the house. Wouldn’t it be easier to stay another night? It’s Jonathan’s do tomorrow, don’t forget.’
‘What do? I thought he’d had it?’
‘No, the private lunch at his flat.’
‘I don’t remember him mentioning lunch.’
‘I’m not surprised. You were so involved with Simon … And by the way, Simon’s bound to be there. And I imagine you want to see him again!’
Catherine paused. It would be rather exciting, but was it worth the risk? In the col
d light of day, he’d realize how old she was. She should never have flirted with him so shamelessly in the first place. She didn’t belong with a man of thirty-two, any more than with Nicky and the rest of them.
‘Anyway,’ Nicky persisted, ‘Jon made me promise to bring you. He said he wants to catch up with your news.’
‘Well, in that case, I’m not sure I …’
‘Oh please come. It’ll be great. We can have a good old gossip on the way.’
‘What Nick means,’ Darren interrupted, grinning sardonically at Catherine, ‘is that she’s planning on shagging Jon and wants you to help things along.’
‘That’s absolute rubbish!’ Nicky retorted, blushing.
‘Well, we’ve heard nothing else but Jonathan this and Jonathan that since you first laid eyes on him.’
‘Okay. So what? I don’t meet famous actors all that often.’
‘Mm, especially handsome famous actors – conveniently divorced and on the prowl.’
‘Oh, piss off, Darren.’ Nicky slammed her cup down on its saucer. ‘Catherine, if you’d like to stay, you’ll be more than welcome. I’ll even drive you to the party, if that’ll change your mind. In fact, it probably wouldn’t hurt me to lay off the drink for a day.’
‘Well, it’s sweet of you, but I’m afraid my in-laws are coming to lunch tomorrow and I ought to help entertain them.’
‘Okay, it doesn’t matter. But let’s keep in touch anyway. Scribble down your phone number and I’ll give you a ring in a week or two.’
Catherine wrote her number on a paper serviette and passed it to Nicky with her last remaining five-pound note, to cover her share of the bill. Then, buttoning up her coat, she followed the others out into the street.
‘God, it really is cold now,’ Nicky said.
‘And so dark,’ Jo added, with a shiver.
Dark. And cold. The words echoed in Catherine’s head as she walked along the now littered pavement; empty cartons underfoot, smashed bottles in the gutter. Cold in her Stoneleigh bedroom, despite the efficient central heating. Dark in the empty house, for all its blaze of lights. Did she really need to be there tomorrow? Jack and Maureen came to lunch at least once a month and invariably talked about Gerry – heavy, black-edged talk which left a pall on the whole ensuing week.
She could see the tube ahead, only a few yards away. Dark down there, too. And lonely. Travelling back on her own, letting herself into a house which wasn’t home. Two beggars sat hunched by the entrance; one of them, a girl of roughly Kate’s age, had neither coat nor sweater, only a tee-shirt saying SHARE NEEDLES . Her eyes were open, but she stared vacantly at the passers-by, inhabiting a dark world of her own.
Dark. And cold.
‘Listen,’ Catherine said, suddenly jerking to a halt. ‘I’ve changed my mind. If you’re sure it’s no trouble and nobody objects? I’d love to stay another night.’
Chapter Eight
Catherine peered at herself in the steamed-up bathroom mirror, running a finger along the outline of her lips and almost surprised to see no trace of Simon’s kiss. Shouldn’t it have marked her mouth indelibly? She was still tingling from that kiss, dazed by it, triumphant. He had seen her in the cold light of day and it hadn’t put him off. Far from it – he had asked her out to dinner tomorrow evening.
She turned off the taps and stepped into the bath, hoping the hot water would help her to relax. So far, sleep had proved impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, Simon slid beneath her lids, his come-to-bed smile enticing her. She had never been to bed with anyone but Gerry, so no wonder she felt nervous – a gauche and awkward teenager embarking on her first date, and with a TV agent at that.
She looked critically at her body, trying to see it through Simon’s eyes. Her breasts were still passable, full and reasonably firm, but she had tiny silvery stretch marks on her stomach. They were so faint they barely showed; all the same, she wished she could wave her magic wand and erase them, and her appendicitis scar. Naked bodies were unkind – mercilessly exposed their owners’ history and vices: operations, pregnancies, greed, intemperance. She stroked her pubic hair – at least that was nice and thick, but an uninspiring brown. If she’d been truly daring, she would have had Spiced Plum top and bottom.
She lay back in the water and willed herself to relax, but a shoal of new anxieties instantly swam into her head. Had she seemed too eager in agreeing to tomorrow’s dinner? She ought to have made a show of consulting her (blank) diary, juggled dates, pretended men were queuing up to see her. And whatever should she wear? Missoni or no, the purple jumpsuit wouldn’t do a third time; besides, the boots had begun to hurt so much it was agony to walk. She was going back to Stoneleigh first thing in the morning to search out something suitable – her turquoise dress perhaps, except she hadn’t worn it for an age and it probably needed cleaning. She would have to go to Sketchley’s and pay extra for the same-day service. And also buy some decent tights. And wash her hair. And shave her legs. And she had promised to drive to Walton and call in on Jack and Maureen, to make up for not seeing them today. She would be really pushed for time, especially as Simon had suggested she meet him straight from work. She had to admit he had seemed eager, too, now that he knew she wasn’t married. She had arrived at Jonathan’s early, so she could break the news of Gerry’s death. He had been shocked, of course, and they had arranged to meet again when they could talk more fully and freely. But at least she had surmounted the first hurdle, and Jon had tactfully told Simon.
She reached out for the soap – or what was left of it; a slimy shell-pink stump. She must get to bed and catch up on her beauty sleep, not wallow in the bath all night. Having sponged herself hastily, she stepped dripping on to the lino. Bathmats were a refinement unknown in Gosforth Road. She dried herself as best she could on the damp and grubby towels, before donning her eccentric nightclothes and Jo’s long chunky cardigan, which she was using as a dressing-gown. Pausing outside Nicky’s door, she wished they could continue the lively conversation they’d had driving back from Jonathan’s. But Nicky had plumped for an early night and, judging by the silence, was already fast asleep.
She set off up the next flight of stairs, then changed her mind and turned back again. A milky drink might help her sleep. There wasn’t very much milk left, so it would have to be a small one.
The kitchen was still warm and, due to her blitz this morning, far less grease-encrusted. She had cleaned up partly for William’s sake. The poor cat seemed so miserable and if he did have an infection, dirt and grime would only make it worse. Jo was supposed to be taking him to the vet in the morning, though she had gone to see her parents in Brockenhurst and still wasn’t back.
She shared the warm milk between them – half a cup for her and a saucerful for William, but he merely sniffed it and turned away. ‘You need some tender loving care, Puss,’ she murmured, gently fondling his head. He winced at her touch and slunk into the sitting-room. She followed him and sat down on the sofa with her drink, trying to work out what to say to Andrew and Antonia about tomorrow evening’s engagement. She hated the thought of lying to them, but she certainly didn’t intend to reveal that she was going out with a man only five years older than they were.
Suddenly she was distracted by a noise from above – the rhythmic creaking of a bed. She listened, both embarrassed and intrigued. Darren’s girlfriend had come round earlier on and he had taken her upstairs, ostensibly to listen to his new CD. The music had been short-lived, and the only sounds now were the continued shuddering of the bedsprings and a gasping cry from Sarah.
Hurriedly she turned on the television to drown the noise. Snooker Special was on BBC1 and full of long tense silences, so she switched to ITV. Two faces zoomed into close-up – open mouths meeting in a torrid kiss. She couldn’t escape from sex: not only was it smouldering on screen and banging away overhead, but she was beginning to feel it stirring through her own body; the raw passion of the screen kiss rekindling the excitement of Simon’s mouth on hers.
She was astonished at the change in herself. For the last eighteen months her sexual feelings had been in cold storage, but since that party on Friday night they had come frothing up inside her like some potent bubbly yeast.
She lolled back on the sofa, watching the lovers in the film slowly peel off their clothes. They were lying on warm golden sand beneath a tropical sky, their bodies bronzed and gleaming and dappled by the shadow of feathery green palms. The soundtrack was unashamedly erotic: swooping glissandos from the strings and a feverish mounting drumbeat. Darren and Sarah were adding their own sound-effects: long drawn-out moans and a subtle change in the rhythm of the rocking bed. Catherine unbuttoned her woolly cardigan. She was not only flushed but sweating. Simon was in that bed with her – naked and dishevelled, his green eyes gazing into hers, his small slender hands cupped around her breasts.
She glanced back at the screen. She had left the lovers way behind. They were still languidly fondling each other, whereas Simon was insatiable. He rolled on to his back and pulled her on top of him, his tongue flicking across her nipples. The bedsprings juddered still more violently as he responded to her urgent rhythm.
They were so ecstatically in tune with each other, she had lost her separate boundaries; her breathing, heartbeat, body, synchronized with his. And from overhead came Sarah’s high-pitched cries; the final frenzied cry echoed by her own.
She closed her eyes and slumped against Simon’s chest, relishing the warmth of his slim and sated body. Then, all at once, the front door slammed and she heard footsteps in the hall. She sat up in confusion. Blue sky and sparkling water vanished; exotic date-palms shrivelled. Dazed, she looked around for her clothes, then realized she was fully dressed.
‘Hi,’ said Jo, tossing her coat on to a chair. She sounded irritable and exhausted.
‘I … I’m sorry,’ Catherine stammered, aware of her flaming cheeks. ‘You must think I’m a permanent fixture here. Nicky persuaded me to stay another night. We didn’t get back till nearly nine, you see. But I’m off first thing in the morning …’
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