Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  Oh no, thought Catherine. She would have to leave for Camden in three-quarters of an hour. If Wayne was in a meeting, she’d miss the party altogether.

  Laura tissued off the mascara streaks and applied fresh blusher and lipstick. ‘Wayne mustn’t see I’ve been crying,’ she explained to Catherine. ‘He’s anti-women anyway, especially those who produce babies. If we have to have the beastly things, I think he’d rather we bought them from a supermarket – you know, ready-delivered and washed. Actually, he’s probably got a point there. I’d have saved myself forty hours of labour! Right, let’s go. Nicky should be finished now.’ She held the door for Catherine, then dashed ahead into Nicky’s office, whisked the corrected sheet of paper from the printer and flew off down the corridor. ‘Keep your fingers crossed,’ she called.

  ‘She’s cheered up,’ said Nicky, switching oil the computer. ‘How on earth did you manage it?’

  Catherine shrugged. ‘I just told her to stop trying to be superwoman.’

  ‘Christ! I can’t imagine that. You should have seen her when she was pregnant. As if she hadn’t enough to do, she got it into her head that she had to have the perfect pregnancy, right down to really crazy things like stimulating the baby in the womb. She played it Mozart, would you believe, to make sure it had good vibes. And she dragged Ricky to antenatal classes to do his father’s bit. You see, she planned to have the perfect birth, as well – natural childbirth at home, with Ricky there, and no drugs or fuss or anything. Of course, it all went horribly wrong. The labour lasted two whole days and she was finally rushed into hospital with complications and given every drug there was. But she was back to work in six weeks, still sore from the stitches and absolutely whacked. Anyway, enough of all that. You must think we’re terrible wimps here. If it’s not me moaning, it’s Laura falling apart. No wonder they don’t take on many female staff.’ She picked up her briefcase and stuffed a sheaf of papers inside. ‘Come on, let’s go and join our women-only contingent round the corner. They’ll be well away by now. We’ll just wait to hear what Wayne says, and if everything’s okay we can make up for lost time!’

  ‘Is, er, Jo coming?’

  ‘No. I did invite her, but she’s been asked to do a piece on some Valentine’s do at Groucho’s.’

  Catherine hoped her relief wasn’t too apparent.

  ‘Catherine, you’re not still worrying about Jo, are you?’ Nicky put her shoes back on and ran a comb through her hair.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, she … she still seems annoyed about the market. And I get the feeling she’s not too happy about me being in the house at all.’

  ‘You mustn’t take it so seriously. She’s moody, that’s all, especially now, when she’s been ditched by that Italian creep. Besides, house-shares do have their down side. You’re bound to get bad feeling sometimes, with four people living together. I get narked with her, for instance, because she never pays her whack when it comes to buying basics. You’re great in that respect, Catherine. And yet you earn less than any of us. You put us all to shame.’

  ‘Yes, but I suspect that’s part of the problem. She got quite stroppy when I suggested buying toilet rolls in bulk, and told me I was boring and would I kindly not interfere.’ Catherine rebuttoned her coat, frowning. Having run her own household for twenty-five years, it was sometimes difficult not to interfere. It had become almost second nature to switch off lights, or make shopping lists, or pick up dirty washing. But that sort of thing could be a source of irritation to someone so much younger. ‘Nicky, d’you think Jo feels I’m …?’

  She was interrupted by the phone. She held her breath as Nicky picked it up. Another delay? Another urgent job? Laura’s and Nicky’s tension was beginning to affect her, as if she too had spent a hectic day battling against deadlines. Listening in, she tried to work out if this was some new crisis, but Nicky was saying little more than ‘Yes’, ‘No’, and ‘I see’.

  She occupied herself by looking at the bulletin board. Amongst the stills from the Orange-O commercial and the visuals for Kendall’s Krisps were a couple of old photographs, one of which she recognized as Nicky as a child. The face looked sad: eyes solemn, small mouth puckered, as if on the verge of tears. She glanced back at the real Nicky – eyes dramatically enhanced now with eye-gloss and mascara, but still troubled, none the less. She wished she could wave a magic wand and sweep away the pressures – and conjure up a devoted man to replace the feckless Jonathan.

  Nicky put down the receiver at last. ‘I’m sorry, Catherine,’ she said, scribbling a note on her jotter.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just tomorrow’s problem – another campaign bites the dust! But I refuse to let it spoil this evening. Hey, that sounds like Laura. Her footsteps are double the speed of anybody else’s.’

  ‘We’re saved! Wayne says it’ll do.’ Laura flung open the door with a triumphant smile. ‘Oh, Nicky, I could kiss you!’ She proceeded to do so, gave Catherine a hug for good measure, then rushed off again, calling out goodbye.

  Nicky shook her head. ‘I only hope there isn’t a hold-up on the tube. Right, let’s go.’

  ‘Nicky, you … er … do know I can’t stay that long? I’m meeting …’

  ‘Yeah, you said. Someone from the market. Pity though. You couldn’t phone and put them off, I suppose?’

  ‘No, I haven’t got the number.’ That was true at least. She and Will had discussed so many things, yet failed to exchange phone numbers. If he couldn’t make it for some reason, he’d have no way of letting her know. She would have left the party early, only to sit all evening on her own.

  ‘Well, you can be a bit late, can’t you? From what you told me about the market crowd, they’re not exacdy punctual. Anyway, let’s not waste precious time.’ She grabbed her jacket from the coat-stand and held the door for Catherine. ‘St Valentine, here we come!’

  The wine-bar was crowded with bodies and thick with cigarette smoke. Nicky pushed her way in, to be greeted by shouts and cat-calls from a group of women occupying a long pine table.

  ‘Hang on a minute, girls. Where’s Catherine?’

  ‘Here,’ said Catherine, hurrying to catch up. ‘Sorry, I got waylaid by a man.’

  ‘Dangerous creatures!’ called a dark-haired girl in a beret, sitting at one end of the table. ‘We’ve given them up tonight.’

  ‘That’s a good one,’ her neighbour retorted. ‘We all know you’re going home to darling Robert.’

  ‘He’s not darling. He didn’t send me so much as a card. Hey, did you hear about Shirley on reception? She got the works, apparently – red roses, Belgian choccies, a heart-shaped card in a padded satin box …’

  ‘Ugh! Pass the sick-bag. Anyway, I wouldn’t want a bloke like hers if he was the last one left on earth, Belgian choccies or no Belgian choccies.’

  ‘When you’ve all quite finished,’ Nicky said, shepherding Catherine to a seat. ‘This is Catherine, who shares our house. She didn’t get Belgian choccies and she doesn’t work in advertising, so will you please be nice to her.’ She started reeling off her friends’ names: Julie, Sarah, Stella, Rachel, Lisa …

  Catherine wondered how many she’d manage to remember and was relieved when someone (Lisa?) poured her a glass of wine from one of the numerous bottles on the table.

  ‘To women without men.’ grinned Rachel, clinking her glass to Catherine’s. ‘Happier, healthier, and definitely much calmer.’

  ‘And bloody celibate!’ wailed Julie.

  ‘Who cares?’ demanded a fair-haired girl in a low-necked velvet top. ‘I’ve hardly ever met a bloke who could get it together in bed. They either come too soon and call you frigid if you expect a bit of foreplay, or they go on for ever and half-choke you with their willies. I simply can’t be bothered any more, and I’m far too busy anyway.’

  ‘How are you finding your new job?’ another woman asked her – a butch type with cropped hair.
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  ‘Not bad. It’s a bit laddish, I suppose, but with only three women out of forty-one in the Creative Department, what can you expect?’

  Catherine sipped her wine in silence, feeling rather out of it. Manless or no, these females seemed so self-assured, speaking in loudly confident voices and knocking back the wine. She daren’t look at her watch again, but she had a nasty feeling it was getting on for eight. If she had the courage of her convictions, she would excuse herself right now, not sit here for another half-hour, becoming more and more uptight.

  ‘Do you know a girl called Camilla at BBH?’ Rachel asked the fair-haired woman. ‘She’s a planner, I think.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Tall and rather glamorous.’

  ‘Well, she may be glamorous, but her boyfriend ditched her at Christmas and she started doing Dateline. She said it was a nightmare. The men she met were unspeakable – you know, jumped-up salesmen calling themselves company directors, or balding wrinklies who’d obviously lied about their age on the form.’

  ‘Yeah, she must be pretty desperate. She even went to one of those Asda singles nights. Imagine, romance over the shopping-trolley.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind. At least it would mean the bloke was reasonably house-trained.’

  ‘I doubt it. After the first few weeks, I bet you’d be doing the shopping on your own again.’

  Catherine wondered if their bitterness sprang merely from frustration. It was evidently hard work trying to find and keep a man. There were men in droves, here in this very wine-bar – crowding the tables, clustered by the door – but as Nicky had complained so often, half the men in London were married, gay or otherwise unavailable, and the other half were depressingly unappealing. Jo too had bewailed her string of brief relationships, none of which ever seemed to work out. When you were married, she now realized, it was all too easy to take companionship and sex for granted, rather than having to go out and hunt for them. She had been lucky in a way, marrying into a large and friendly family; unlike poor Nicky, who, still partnerless at thirty-five, felt very much alone in the world.

  ‘Has anyone tried love on the Net?’ Julie asked, dipping into a bowl of salted almonds. ‘Well, don’t – that’s my advice. You get these absolute nerds boasting about their pecs.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said the dark girl in the beret. ‘There must be something better to talk about than men.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, religion, politics, the Common Agricultural Policy…’

  ‘No thanks!’

  ‘What do you do, Catherine?’ Rachel asked.

  She flushed as they turned to look at her. Her eyes were smarting from the smoke and it was difficult to make herself heard with so many people talking at once and waiters shouting orders against a background of thumping music. Besides, it would be rather hypocritical to adopt the general tone of anti-male world-weariness when she was so anxious about being late for Will. To her relief, though, she had no sooner mentioned Camden Market when someone else butted in.

  ‘D’you know the joke about what women do after sex with the average man?’

  ‘No,’ said Julie, lighting a cigarette. ‘What do women do after sex with the average man?’

  ‘They come!’

  There were a few half-hearted titters and an impatient groan from Lisa. ‘Look, we’re back to bloody men again. Can’t we change the subject?’

  Nicky took the initiative, refilling Catherine’s glass and giving her a sympathetic smile. ‘Hey, listen to this,’ she told the group. ‘Catherine’s won on the lottery twice in the last three weeks.’

  Again, all eyes turned to her. She appreciated Nicky’s attempt to include her in the conversation; none the less she didn’t feel at ease here. Apart from anything else, she was still wondering how to leave discreetly without being regarded as a party-pooper.

  ‘So how many millions did you make?’ Julie asked her with a laugh.

  ‘Hardly millions, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Enough to buy a Porsche?’

  ‘One wheel, just about!’

  ‘You did well to win at all,’ said Rachel. ‘I’ve never won a bean, and I’ve been doing it since it started. What’s your secret?’

  ‘Oh, it was just a matter of luck.’ Though rather amazing luck, she thought. Her second win had been £87. Maybe not enough to buy a Porsche, but £87 for doing nothing more than fill in a few numbers. In fact, it meant she had funds enough tonight to treat herself to a cab to Camden Town, instead of taking the tube, which involved hanging around for trains, changing at Euston and a long, cold trek each end.

  She stood up decisively, no longer cowed by the fear of seeming rude. Why the hell should she care what these girls thought? Okay, Nicky was a friend, but the rest were virtual strangers. In any case, she was free to do what she liked. The trouble was, that had never quite been true, or perhaps she’d never quite believed it. But it was time she asserted herself. And if she trusted in her luck (as she had with the lottery), not only would she manage a cool, collected exit, she would also find an empty taxi waiting right outside, the traffic would be minimal, and – most important of all – the evening with Will would be something rather special.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Catherine gave the taxi-driver a generous tip for getting her to the Crown and Goose in under a quarter of an hour. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You’ve saved my bacon!’

  She put her purse back in her bag and was about to walk into the pub when a familiar figure rushed towards her.

  ‘Catherine! At last!’

  ‘Oh, Will … hello.’ What did he mean – at last? It was only 8.35, so she was hardly late at all. ‘Didn’t we say eight-thirty?’

  ‘No, eight o’clock.’

  She didn’t like to contradict him; besides, he sounded so certain, perhaps she had got it wrong. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. I felt sure it was half past.’

  ‘No, I wrote it in my diary.’

  So had she, but there didn’t seem much point in arguing the toss. ‘Well, at least we’re both here now,’ she said brightly.

  He held the door for her, still looking rather disgruntled. ‘I’ve been waiting outside for half an hour. I’m frozen.’

  ‘But Will, we did say inside.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry.’ He turned to face her, his expression switching from annoyance to contrition. ‘It’s just that – well, I … I thought you might have changed your mind.’

  He had said that last time, she remembered, wondering why he should be so insecure. Only now, in the bright lights of the pub, was she able to see him clearly. He was wearing the ancient donkey jacket with another of its buttons missing. Well, fair enough – he probably had no other coat – but his hair looked, frankly, a mess: too long and in need of a wash. Couldn’t he have made more effort, as she had?

  Swallowing her resentment, she offered to buy him a drink. ‘As compensation,’ she smiled, ‘for keeping you hanging about.’

  ‘No, tonight’s my treat.’

  ‘Well, dinner maybe, but not everything.’

  ‘Yes, everything. I insist. In fact, why don’t we go and eat now? It’s so crowded in here, I can’t see a single free table.’

  She was reluctant to go out into the cold again, especially as it had just begun to rain. The pub seemed so inviting: cheerfully warm – and safe. However, she followed him outside, hoping the restaurant wasn’t too far. Instead of woolly leggings and fur-lined boots, she had put on sheer black tights and strappy shoes, in his honour, of course. A sleety rain was falling; cold pinpricks on her face and legs.

  ‘Well, did you enjoy your party?’ he asked as they turned the corner into the High Street.

  ‘Yes,’ she said dutifully; then, ‘No, I didn’t, Will, to be honest. I don’t think it was quite my scene.’

  ‘I loathe parties. All that superficial chit-chat, and no one saying anything they mean.’

  He sounded terribly grumpy, hardly the romantic companion she’d expected. ‘Oh, I have to sa
y I usually enjoy them. In fact, that’s how I met Nicky – at a party. It was actors, though, and publishers, not advertising people.’

  Will skirted a puddle on the pavement. ‘I rather envy actors – being able to take on new roles all the time. I get fed up with being me. I often think the best sort of holiday wouldn’t be going somewhere different, but being someone different. And it would make us much more tolerant, especially if we could change sex and race as well. I mean, I’d like to know how it felt to be a West Indian matriarch with a dozen kids, or a Vietnamese peasant living in an entirely different culture. We’re so imprisoned, don’t you think, in our own narrow shred of experience.’

  ‘But perhaps that’s a sort of protection. We might not be able to cope if we experienced everything directly. Hold on a sec – my shoe’s hurting.’ She bent down to adjust it, balancing on one foot.

  ‘Was your husband famous?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your husband. Didn’t you say he was an actor?’

  She nodded. She didn’t want to talk about Gerry, not now. She was tense enough already, what with Laura being so upset and the long wait at HHA, and then Will complaining she was late, in spite of her heroic efforts not to be. ‘No, he wasn’t famous. He might have been, but … but he … he gave it up.’

  ‘How awful for him.’

  ‘Yes. It was. Except I don’t think I quite realized at the time. I mean, what a wrench it must have been and …’ Oh God! She could feel tears pricking at her eyelids. She couldn’t cry – not here in Camden High Street in the rain. The scene with Simon had been bad enough.

  ‘What made him decide? Or did he …? Catherine, what’s the matter?’ Once he realized she was crying, he immediately stopped and pulled her towards him, clasping her so tightly she could barely breathe. Her face was pressed into the rough fabric of his jacket, her heart pounding from the shock of the encounter. She could smell damp wool, taste the tears salty on her lips. They were blocking the pavement, people bumping into them or muttering in annoyance. She pulled away, embarrassed, then saw to her astonishment that there were tears in his eyes, too.