She ran a finger down the freckled cheek, traced the line of the mouth. Kate was her namesake, yet they hardly knew each other. So many things seemed to have got in the way: her own jealousy, for one. At least she could admit it now – the fact she had envied Kate her freedom and opportunities, even her shortened name. ‘Kate’ sounded easy-going, jauntily young and casual, compared with the stilted formality of ‘Catherine’. But things could change – were changing for them both.
She stretched out on the bed, tired after all the driving and this morning’s early start. Will’s scarf was still round her neck. She tied it tighter and imagined him holding her close; their limbs entwined; their tongues exploring. She would invite him for a romantic meal next Saturday. After all, today she had taken the initiative and he’d responded instantly, so why not a second time? But she wouldn’t borrow Nicky’s double bed. She wanted to bring him to her own room, make him part of her new independent life.
Wriggling to the edge of the bed, she pictured him lying next to her, both of them gloriously naked. She closed her eyes, wondering what he’d do first – kiss her breasts or …
There was a sudden stealthy movement beside her, and she felt a soft head nudge her chest She opened her eyes and saw not Will but William, who had managed to sneak up unawares and join her on the bed.
‘Look, Puss,’ she laughed, fondling his ears, ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have your nose put out of joint. I know we usually sleep together, but I’m hoping to change the arrangements.’
William purred in blissful ignorance. There won’t be room for three, she thought. It’ll be a squash just with Will and me. But that might add to the fun. And it’s going to be fun, she told herself, running a slow hand across her breasts. Hadn’t her own daughter wished her luck?
Chapter Eighteen
Catherine screwed up her eyes against the driving snow as she picked her way between the excretions from the market: discarded paper plates with sludges of glutinous rice, dented beer cans, a pool of congealing vomit. This was Camden Town at its worst – cold, dark, litter-strewn. Jaunty music thumped from one of the half-dismanded stalls, as if defying the bad weather. She had packed up early, lugged half a dozen heavy boxes upstairs to the storage room; stripped her stall to its skeleton: a bare trestle table and four iron poles. Though if she’d had a modicum of sense, she wouldn’t have ventured out today at all. The arctic weather had kept most customers at home, and she was severely out of pocket on the rental of the stall. Worse than that: when her back was turned for a moment someone had stolen an old Bush Bakelite radio – part of Mrs Pearson’s booty. On days like this she was tempted to give up altogether and find a nice safe job in a centrally heated office, with a monthly pay cheque (plus pension plan) and a leisurely hour for lunch.
She turned into the High Street, where shops were closing, stalls being taken down. Progress was slow – she had to skirt round stallholders heaving crates of records into vans, or trundling racks of clothes across the pavement The relentless snow settled indiscriminately on jeans, sweatshirts, lurex tops; soaked into cardboard boxes; stung against her eyes. Yet just a few days ago she had been basking in spring sunshine.
Slowly she trudged on, past a grim-faced man standing outside his shop: black beard, black hair, mean features. Brad had told her that all these shops were owned by Iranian gun-runners who smuggled in drugs with leather goods. (Apparently the strong smell of the leather confused the sniffer dogs.) And there were also tales of laundered money, bribery and corruption, stabbings, fatal feuds. She would never understand the contradictions of the market, however long she worked here. Outwardly it was a small and close community, but behind the scenes – according to the rumours – lurked a ruthless mafia. It was a friendly London village, yet also an alien land; a place where you could make your fortune or land up destitute.
All at once, a sinister figure stepped out of the shadows and loomed in front of her – a man in a long khaki coat with a swastika on the sleeve, and a triangular scar gouged across one cheek. Briskly she crossed the road – she didn’t want cut-price cocaine, or a flick-knife in the ribs. She quickened her pace, trying to keep her footing in the scum of slushy snow. Thank God she had done the shopping last night and didn’t have to make a detour to the supermarket. The only thing she needed was a bar of Cadbury’s flake to decorate her mousse. She went into the first newsagent’s she came to, glad of a brief respite from the bitter cold outside. On impulse, she picked up a box of After Eights – Will loved chocolate in every shape and form. She had insisted he borrow her car for the day. Harrow wasn’t far, but it was a pig of a journey by tube and she wanted him back in good time. He had accepted her offer of dinner with alacrity and, though nothing had been said on either side, she was sure he understood that she was inviting him for more than simply a meal.
In the ‘teen romance’ display, she noticed a magazine with a young couple on the cover, kissing in dreamy close-up. Will had kissed her again on Thursday, just as passionately as the first time – a foretaste of this evening, she hoped. He might even stay the night. After all, they were running the stall together tomorrow, so it was a practical idea. Or maybe they wouldn’t go to the market, but stay in bed all weekend, wickedly indulgent.
She paid for the chocolate and braved the elements once more, warmed by thoughts of Will. She had spent a fortune on the dinner, but she wanted everything perfect – food, wine, atmosphere. She’d already done half the cooking and given the house a thorough clean last night. All that was left to do was the main course and the vegetables, and a final tidy-up.
By the time she reached Gosforth Road, her coat was drenched, her jeans soggy up to the knees, and even her supposedly waterproof boots appeared to have leaked. But she would soon be out of her wet clothes and into a hot bath, and then she’d change into her low-necked fifties dress (which she’d bought cheap from the stall next to theirs).
With snow-numbed fingers, she managed to insert the key in the lock. As she pushed the front door open, she was greeted by a blast of noise: music, voices, laughter. She stood stock-still in astonishment – the house was meant to be empty. True, Nicky had changed her plans on account of the bad weather, but instead she’d gone to stay with a friend. And Jo and Darren had left first thing to catch an early train to Brockenhurst.
She took a cautious step inside, alarmed to see strangers in the hall. Had she come to the wrong house? It certainly wasn’t in the state she’d left it this morning. There were pools of beer on the carpet, an array of cans and bottles on the hall table, wet coats flung across the banisters or bundled in the corner. No one seemed to have noticed her come in, so she remained where she was, gazing at the scene with increasing resentment. A group of girls were giggling and shrieking like schoolkids; two couples writhing to the music, another pair smooching on the staircase and three scruffy-looking men were involved in some sort of drinking contest. She was tempted to slip straight out again, but where could she go? And what about Will? It was impossible to contact him – she had no telephone number; no details beyond Harrow.
Darren suddenly shambled out of the sitting-room, his normally pale face flushed, his hair coming loose from its ribbon. ‘Cath!’ he called, weaving his way through the scrum of people and kissing her extravagantly. ‘What are you doing here? Aren’t you meant to be in Shoreham with Nick?’
‘Nicky’s not in Shoreham.’
‘Where is she then? Oh, never mind – come and join the party.’
‘Party?’ She was forced to shout above the music. ‘What on earth’s going on?’
‘Well, it’s not really a party, just a bunch of friends.’
She glanced from a bra-less girl in a transparent top to a longhaired man spreadeagled on the floor. ‘But why aren’t you in Hampshire?’
‘The train was cancelled. It’s absolute bloody chaos at Waterloo. And more snow’s forecast, so they advised us not to travel.’ He took a swig from the bottle he was holding and wiped his mouth on his hand. ‘S
o we thought we’d come back and ask a few people round for lunch.’
‘Isn’t a quarter to seven a trifle late for lunch?’
Her sarcasm was wasted on Darren, who merely beamed at her benignly. ‘Late lunch. We told them to bring bottles, and it turned into a bit of a bash. Then more friends dropped in and …’
‘Hi, Catherine!’ Darren’s girlfriend Sarah breezed up behind him and put her arms round his waist. ‘How’s things?’
Another girl rushed over, wearing a canary-yellow miniskirt and sunglasses, as if she’d just flown in from Miami. ‘Darren, Sally wants you. She’s looking for more wine.’
‘Okay – coming. Cath, this is Bee.’
‘Rebecca, if you don’t mind.’
‘Rebecca, if you don’t mind,’ Darren mimicked with a giggle. ‘And you must meet Ann and Liz. And that’s Rob with the moustache. He’s a real laugh!’
Catherine could have murdered every one of them, but she said a terse hello, then followed Darren into the kitchen, aghast to see more drunken strangers, slumped against the worktop and lounging at the table; more empty bottles cluttering every surface; the sink piled with dirty plates. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the floor she had polished last night was littered with fag-ends, crisps and bits of cheese. Suddenly she caught sight of her chocolate mousse – or rather its bowl. All that remained was a brown puddle at the bottom.
She wrenched open the fridge door. On the shelf stood a solitary can of Fosters, a carton of coleslaw, and a knob of garlic sausage. Yet this morning she had left it full – full of her expensive, romantic food. She could understand the cooked food disappearing, but the raw salmon steaks had vanished too, and the ingredients for the sauce.
‘Where’s Jo?’ she asked, tight-lipped, but Darren was nowhere to be seen and she was addressing the empty air.
She squeezed her way into the sitting-room, to be assaulted almost physically by the music. The ornaments on top of the piano were juddering and shaking to the rhythm of thunderous drums. The rug was rolled back and the furniture pushed to the sides of the room, and people were dancing as if in a trance – eyes closed, heads thrown back. She peered through the smoke-filled gloom, and eventually spotted Jo lying on the floor beside a character with straggly ginger hair and a moustache.
‘Jo?’
‘Oh, hello, Catherine. Back already?’
‘Listen, I’m expecting a friend for dinner tonight and …’
Jo sat up on one elbow. Her lipstick was smudged and there was a red wine stain on her shirt. ‘It’s okay, she can join us.’
‘He.’
‘Well he, then – whoever. Now can I get back to my friend?’ She tittered inanely, then snuggled next to the man again, running her hand across his chest.
‘Jo, I want to know what’s happened to my food.’
‘What food?’
‘I left a lot of stuff in the fridge last night and it’s gone.’
‘Well, it’s nothing to do with me. I haven’t a clue where it is. Anyway, I thought you were in Shoreham.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I was never going to Shoreham! Listen Jo, I spent all last night shopping and cooking and …’
‘Well, I didn’t know. I wasn’t here last night. Darren and I had dinner at Alfredo’s.’
‘I’m talking about now. Surely you must have realized it wasn’t just any old food. It took me hours to make that mousse.’
‘There’s no need to shout, I didn’t eat the bloody mousse – or anything else of yours.’
‘Who did then?’
‘God knows. We bought our own nosh – cheese and pate and stuff – but it ran out ages ago, so I suppose people helped themselves. Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t be responsible for everyone else. But at least there’s plenty of booze left, so give your friend a drink and I’m sure he won’t complain.’
‘Jo, I invited him for a quiet dinner – just the two of us.’
‘Are we talking about Will, by any chance?’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘Well, he won’t mind, I’m sure. He didn’t strike me as the type to …’
‘But I mind. That food cost a bomb, I’ll have you know. I can’t believe the whole lot’s gone.’
‘Honestly, Catherine, you’re being a bit precious, aren’t you? We share this house, in case you’ve forgotten, which means we all muck in.’
‘That’s rich, I must say, coming from you. You never pay your whack.’
Jo sprang to her feet indignantly. ‘Oh, you’re having a go at me now, are you?’
‘Look, cool it, you two.’ The ginger-haired man sat up, rubbing the back of his neck and patently embarrassed.
‘You keep out of this, Geoff. It’s between me and Catherine, okay?’ Jo turned on Catherine again, her voice rising in contempt ‘If you don’t like it here, you know where you can go – back to bloody suburbia, where you belong.’
Catherine flinched as if she’d been struck. Blinded by a haze of tears, she stumbled into the hall.
Someone touched her arm. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘N … nothing.’
‘Don’t cry. What on earth’s been going on?’ It was Sarah, more sober than the others and sounding genuinely concerned.
Catherine found herself pouring out the story, blaming first Jo, then the weather, then herself.
‘Don’t worry,’ Sarah said. ‘We’re leaving soon, in any case. We’re going to the Jazz Café. Courtney Pine’s playing there tonight and Rebecca’s a great friend of the guitarist. So when we’ve pushed off you can have your dinner in peace.’
Catherine wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Is everyone going?’
‘Most of us, I think. But if anybody’s left, why don’t you have the kitchen and they can stay in the sitting-room? That’s what we do in my flat – share and share alike.’
‘But Sarah, the food’s been eaten – the stuff I got for Will.’
‘Well, nip out and buy some more. Something quick.’
She didn’t like to mention the expense – or the snow, for that matter. If she made any more objections she would sound prissy and suburban. ‘All right,’ she said weakly, buttoning up her wet coat again.
‘And while you’re gone, I’ll explain to Darren and get him to shoo people out of the kitchen.’
‘Won’t that cause trouble, though?’
Sarah shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t worry. The sitting-room’s much nicer anyway.’
‘But Jo may …’
‘Look, leave Jo to me, okay? Go on – off you go!’
The cold cut like a knife as she stepped into the dark. She shivered in the porch, still brooding on Jo’s spiteful remark. Nicky had told her not to take things so seriously; that rows were inevitable in a shared house and soon blew over anyway. None the less, her instinct was to stay away; to avoid Jo this evening, at least. Wouldn’t it be more sensible to write the meal off altogether and have dinner out instead? Except who would pay? – like Will, she was practically skint. The weekly rent took a hefty chunk of her income, and both the car insurance and car tax had come up for renewal last month. Also she was perilously near the limit on her credit card and didn’t want to run up debts, as Will was already doing. He had the extra burden of child maintenance to pay, on top of everything else. Of course, they could buy a simple snack and eat it in his flat, but he hadn’t yet invited her there and she didn’t like to force the issue. Besides, he’d said how much he was looking forward to a home-cooked meal and what a rare treat it would be.
She wound her scarf round her neck and steeled herself to set off to the shops. There was still time to retrieve the situation. She must cook a meal, as promised – it would just have to be less ambitious. And with any luck, by the time she returned with a second batch of food, Jo and all the others would be gone.
‘Oh, you’re back,’ Jo scowled, as she let herself in. ‘I thought you’d taken Will to Acacia bloody Avenue!’
Catherine ignored the taunt and walked into the kitchen, re
lieved to find it empty. There were sounds from the sitting-room and the music was still pounding on, but less manically than earlier. The hordes had disappeared, thank God. The kitchen was in the same awful mess, but she could cope with that, if only Jo would leave her in peace.
‘There – all yours. You’ve got Darren to thank for that. Frankly, I find it a bloody cheek that you expect to monopolize the kitchen.’
‘Look, Jo, I … I’m sorry – honestly.’ On the way to the shops her anger had subsided and she regretted her own harsh words. After all, Jo and Darren hadn’t known she was expecting someone to dinner. And it was their house long before she had appeared on the scene. ‘It was a misunderstanding all round,’ she said, with an attempt at a smile. ‘I mean, I had no idea that anyone would be here and you didn’t know about Will.’
‘Well, even so, I don’t see why we should be turfed out of the kitchen. My friends are here too, remember, even if we are restricted to the sitting-room.’
‘Look, don’t be silly. You can come in here if you want.’
‘Wow, that is kind – granting me permission to step into my own kitchen.’
‘Jo, you know I didn’t mean that.’
‘Well, what did you mean?’
‘I’m trying to apologize. I’ve said I’m sorry. I am. Can’t we forget the whole thing now?’
‘No, I don’t think we bloody can. It’s not just tonight, Catherine – it goes much deeper than that. You don’t fit in, can’t you see? It’s a generation thing. Basically we don’t need a nagging mum here. Everyone thinks you’re a fucking pain. So I reckon it’s time you pissed off elsewhere.’ With that, she turned on her heel and slammed out.
Second Skin Page 27
