Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  Eagerly he drew up his chair. ‘This looks good,’ he said, eyeing the pate with interest, ‘even if it’s Sainsbury’s.’

  ‘Well, not as good as mine, I hope! I’ll make some for you another time.’

  ‘Great! I’ll hold you to that. Meanwhile …’ He cut himself a slice, spread some on the Melba toast and took a slow, appreciative mouthful. ‘Mm, delicious.’ He ate in silence for a few moments, totally absorbed, then wiped his mouth on a napkin. ‘How was your day, Catherine – before all the disasters here, I mean? Was the market busy?’

  ‘No, the worst I’ve ever known it. All I sold was that toast-rack from the bargain-box. One good thing, though – Brad’s going to make me some earrings, for free.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can stand that man. He gives me the creeps.’

  ‘Only because you’re a snob,’ she smiled.

  Will grunted. ‘He’s the snob. I mean, the way he calls me “the Posho” behind my back.’

  ‘Well, you are “the Posho” compared with him – public school and …’

  ‘Only day school.’

  ‘Maybe, but still a cut above Hackney Comprehensive, or wherever poor Brad went. Oh, by the way, he’s just discovered that Camden Lock is on a direct ley-line to Glastonbury. Which means it’s a very special place, with healing properties – or so he says.’

  ‘Well, there he may be right In fact, the older I get, the more open I am to such things. I’m sure there are dozens of forces working on us which we simply don’t understand – perhaps can’t understand, with our limited brains and our determination that everything must be rational. I heard some scientist the other day saying that unless a thing could be proved, it wasn’t interesting. I ask you! That rules out love, and prayer, and God, and ghosts, and …’

  ‘Ghosts?’ said Scott, barging in at that moment. ‘Where?’

  The cat jumped off the sill in alarm and shot through the door, recognizing a past tormentor.

  ‘Scott,’ said Catherine, tight-lipped. ‘I particularly asked you to stay out of the kitchen.’

  ‘Keep your hair on, mate! Jo said I could do myself some beans on toast.’

  ‘Oh, did she?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He was peering into the saucepans on the hob. ‘But spaghetti’ll do fine.’

  She darted over to protect their dinner. ‘I’m sorry, Scott, there isn’t enough. And there’s no bread left for toast.’

  He slouched back to the table and picked up a piece of Melba toast. ‘What’s this stuff then?’

  ‘That’s for the pâté.’

  ‘Great! I love pâté.’

  Disguising her fury, she gave him the last chunk, knowing Will would have happily finished it. ‘There! And you can have the rest of that toast. But would you please take it into the other room.’

  ‘Just a sec, Scott pulled up a chair and squeezed between the two of them. ‘I want to ask you something. About your son.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s a lawyer, isn’t he?’

  ‘No. His wife is – a solicitor.’

  Scott giggled, spraying bits of pâté on to the tablecloth. ‘A solicitor! That’s hilarious. I thought it was breaking the law to solicit.’

  ‘Scott, I’ve already told you, Will and I …’

  ‘Hang on, I’m getting there. There’s this mate of mine – needs help.’

  ‘What sort of help?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say he’s got a bit of previous, so the fuzz picked on him and banged him up for nothing. And I wondered if your son’s wife – what’s her name? Angela, Amelia, whatever – could do us a favour and bail him out.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, she doesn’t do criminal work.’

  ‘Criminal? Danny’s not a fucking criminal! He wasn’t even there when the others …’

  Catherine flung an imploring look at Will. He rose to his feet, a solid figure compared with Scott’s weedy frame.

  ‘Scott, it was great to meet you, but Catherine and I have an important business matter to discuss. I suggest your friend rings the Citizens’ Advice Bureau first thing Monday morning. Meanwhile …’ He gripped Scott’s shoulder and steered him firmly to the door.

  ‘Sodding hell!’ Scott tried in vain to shrug off the restraining arm. ‘There’s no need for the Gestapo tactics, mate.’

  Will ejected Scott in silence, then leaned against the door, to stop him coming back in.

  ‘Thanks.’ Catherine gave a nervous smile. ‘Do you think I dare dish up the spaghetti?’

  ‘Yeah, go ahead. It’s all quiet outside.’

  ‘Quiet?’ Again there came the sound of feet crashing up the stairs, followed by a long wail from a saxophone.

  ‘Comparatively quiet. This is quite a memorable meal, you know – eating under siege.’

  ‘Oh, Will, I’m sorry. Shall we …?’

  ‘No, it’s rather fun. It certainly gets the adrenalin going.’

  ‘I’ve had quite enough adrenalin for one evening, thank you very much. Listen, Will, one day when the weather’s better, let’s drive out to the country and have a picnic somewhere really peaceful, with no one to disturb us but the birds. I’ll make you your pâté then.’

  ‘Wonderful! Tell you what, we could go to Kintbury again and call on Mags for tea.’

  ‘Mm,’ she said, noncommittally. She had envisaged a rather different afternoon, lying naked on soft grass, not taking tea with Auntie Mags. The wine must have affected her already. She longed to undo his shirt, touch his warm bare skin. ‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’ she asked. ‘You can’t eat doing guard duty!’

  He went back to his seat, fondling her neck as he passed. Emboldened, she leaned over and kissed him on the lips, tasting wine and pâté. He responded instantly, seeking out her tongue, drawing her closer, one hand straying to her breast. Her body jolted alight, as if it were a match he’d struck; a match burning down to his fingers. The food was getting cold, but she didn’t care – they were generating heat enough themselves. He was stroking her breasts through the flimsy dress, and in her mind she was already sliding out of it, lying naked in the countryside: soft grass beneath, hot sun above – Will above, passionate, insistent …

  Suddenly the door opened. ‘’Scuse me,’ said a ringing voice. ‘Just looking for some beer.’ A girl in a pin-striped trouser suit charged past them to the fridge.

  Catherine pulled away from Will, blushing like a schoolgirl. ‘There’s only one can left,’ she mumbled.

  ‘That’ll do. Thanks!’

  The fridge door banged shut, the can of beer hissed open, and the girl swept out again. ‘I … I think we’d better get on with dinner,’ Catherine whispered, giving Will an embarrassed smile. ‘Without any more diversions, I mean.’

  Will nodded, keeping an eye on the door. ‘Sorry, I got carried away.’

  Me too, she thought, returning to the sink where she had left the pasta to drain. If they ever got as far as the coffee and After Eights, it would be a miracle. ‘Do you mind lukewarm spaghetti, Will, or shall I heat it up again?’

  ‘No, come on, let’s eat.’

  She dished up the spaghetti, amused to see Will’s eyes following her every movement – just like William’s rapt absorption when she opened a tin of rabbit chunks. ‘Wow, that smells good!’ he said.

  ‘I’ve put in masses of garlic – in your honour.’ She laughed. ‘It’ll probably frighten off the customers tomorrow. No one’ll come within yards of us.’

  ‘Don’t remind me of tomorrow,’ he groaned. ‘Queueing for a stall at the crack of dawn.’

  I’ll wake you, she longed to say, if only you’ll stay the night here. Scott and co must leave at some point, surely. There would still be Jo and Darren, of course, but once they’d gone to bed …

  Will was busy winding a long strand of spaghetti round and round his fork. He guided it into his mouth, but one end came loose and dangled from his lip. Impulsively she scooped it up for him, as she would do for a child. He reacted not as child but a
s lover, trapping her hand against his mouth and using the very tip of his tongue to give tiny butterfly licks to her palm. It was so incredibly erotic, she shut her eyes to savour the sensation undistracted. His tongue began to trace circles – slow, tantalizing circles which rippled through her whole body.

  ‘Oh, Will,’ she said. ‘That feels quite amazing. I just can’t tell you how …’

  ‘Quick in here!’ ordered a peremptory voice outside. The door opened and Rebecca staggered in, supported by another girl. The pair stumbled to the sink, where Rebecca was noisily and repeatedly sick, emitting harrowing moans between each bout.

  Catherine sat transfixed in horror and disgust. She saw Will push his plate away and clap his hand to his mouth. With a sharp intake of breath, she kicked her chair back and strode into the sitting-room. ‘Jo!’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘I’ve had just about enough. I mean, people throwing up when we’re in the middle of eating. It’s absolutely repulsive!’

  Jo uncurled herself from the sofa. ‘Oh, it’s my fault is it, if Rebecca’s not well?’

  ‘Not well? She’s blind drunk.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Catherine, get off your high horse. I haven’t noticed you being particularly abstemious. Anyway, you wanted to stay in the kitchen. We can’t even get a glass of water and then you have the cheek to turn on me.’

  ‘There’s water in the bathroom.’

  ‘Sure! Flog upstairs every time we’re thirsty.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. You’ve got plenty to drink down here.’ Catherine gestured at the array of cans and bottles. ‘But that’s the trouble, isn’t it? – everybody’s smashed.’

  She broke off as Will appeared, still clutching his paper napkin. Other people crowded round, muttering or shouting, trying to intervene; the ginger-headed man tugging at Jo’s arm.

  Jo shook him off and turned on Will instead. ‘Don’t you join in,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve told Catherine once already – if she doesn’t like it here, she can bugger off. And the same applies to you.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ Will looked like thunder and seemed to be preparing for a fight – taking off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves.

  ‘I’ll do what I bloody well like.’ Jo’s voice was shrill with rage. ‘This is my house, not yours, and I suggest you both get out of it before I … I …’ She marched over to the stereo and turned the volume up. The music, already deafening, now crescendoed to the point of pain.

  Cries of complaint intensified the mayhem. Catherine closed her eyes. The floor seemed to be shaking beneath her feet as guitars jangled and brass shrieked.

  Will seized her arm. ‘That’s it!’ he yelled. ‘We’re going.’

  ‘Going? Where?’ Her throat hurt from trying to shout above the din.

  He led her through the hall and wrenched open the front door. A blast of icy air curdled with the feverish heat of the music.

  He slammed the door, half-skidded on the icy step. ‘To my place,’ he said grimly.

  Chapter Ninteen

  They crawled in silence along Kentish Town Road, Catherine shivering in her wisp of a dress. The windscreen wipers struggled ineffectually against the onslaught of snow, which had blanketed the pavements and shrouded stationary cars; the usually garish colours reduced to stark black and white. She glanced anxiously at Will’s grim face. Of course, driving in such treacherous conditions took a lot of concentration, but she wished he’d say something Was he angry with her as well as with Jo? Perhaps he regretted ever coming to dinner in the first place. And he must be as cold as she was, in thin trousers and a shirt. He had left his jacket at Gosforth Road, and she wasn’t sure she’d find the courage to go back and retrieve it. Her new life had just disintegrated before her eyes and, unlike Will, she couldn’t simply slam the door on the problem.

  They had turned left at the traffic lights and were nosing along a narrow street lined with seedy shops: a newsagent’s, a launderette, a video rental shop. Will pulled up and yanked the brake on, and she rubbed the misted window for her first glimpse of Tandoori Street, as he called it. Yes, there was the Shahee Mahal, and a second Indian restaurant just a little farther along. Although he had switched off the engine he made no move to get out, but sat motionless, hands resting on the steering wheel.

  ‘Is this it?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘Yeah. Maison Victor.’

  ‘What?’

  With a tilt of his head, he indicated a neon sign above a hairdresser’s, glowing feebly pink. Half its letters were missing: M A s N v CT R. The window was plastered with head shots of impossibly glamorous models, whose sneering features seemed to express the utmost disdain for their surroundings. ‘I live above the shop.’

  ‘That must be useful,’ she smiled, ‘if you need a haircut in a hurry.’

  Her attempt at humour fell flat. ‘They don’t do men,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t go there if you paid me. I hate living in this dump.’

  ‘Will, it doesn’t matter where you live. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, I do. I’m ashamed of the place, if you really want to know. I’d rather you didn’t see it.’

  ‘But I’m not the sort of person to judge people by their houses.’

  ‘House? You must be joking. It’s two poky rooms. And they’re both out of action at the moment.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh, forget it.’ He banged his fist against the steering wheel. ‘It’s all Vanessa’s fault. If she hadn’t left me, I wouldn’t be reduced to … to …’

  She laid a hand on top of his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. In spite of his petulance, she felt enormous relief. So this was the reason he hadn’t asked her to his flat. A little squalor was nothing compared with what she had anticipated. ‘Will, you should have seen the tips we lived in when Gerry and I were young.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not young. That’s the point. I’ll be forty in a year and a bit, and what have I achieved? Damn all.’

  ‘Oh, Will, that isn’t true. You’ve got your poetry and your son and …’

  ‘My son? I hardly see him. And no wonder. Why the hell should he want to come here?’

  ‘Maybe because you’re his father and he loves you?’

  He stared out sullenly at the whirling snow. Was her remark too banal to deserve an answer? She had a sense of being trapped with him – trapped in his ill humour and also physically confined inside the car; its steamed-up windows enclosing her; a wall of cold and darkness looming just beyond.

  ‘Catherine,’ he said tersely.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love you.’ He leaned across and kissed her, a brief but ardent kiss, then he pulled the keys out of the ignition. ‘Come on, let’s go in. Before we turn to ice.’

  She touched her lips. He loved her? ‘D … don’t feel you have to ask me in,’ she said, feeling suddenly apprehensive. ‘I can always go back to Stoneleigh for the night.’

  ‘No!’ It was a shout. ‘I’ve wanted you to come here all along. It’s just that – well, I couldn’t bear you to see the place before I’d smartened it up. And now … Oh, shit! It’s all gone wrong.’ He stumbled out and opened her door.

  ‘Lord, it’s cold!’ She gasped as her summery shoes sank into the snow.

  Quick as a flash he picked her up and carried her across the pavement to a small side door to the right of the shop. ‘Will, no. I’m too heavy – put me down!’

  ‘Rubbish! You’re light as a feather.’ With some difficulty, he used his free hand to unlock the door. His other arm was clasped tightly round her body. Ignoring her protests, he carried her into a dingy hallway, pushing the door to with his foot. There was an overwhelming smell of hair lacquer (not the anticipated curry) – a sweet, cloying smell which reminded her of pear drops. But all sensations dwindled in the shock of being carried. Her arms were round his neck, his arms pressing – painfully – under her crooked-up knees, as he staggered slowly up the steep and ill-lit stairs. His face was flushed, his breathin
g laboured. Whatever he might say, she was hardly a featherweight and the stairs were awkward to negotiate. It was embarrassing in a way, yet she felt a sort of triumph; struck once again by his mercurial change of mood, this time from petulant child to forceful father. She was now the child – blushing and giggling in his arms.

  He set her down gently on the landing. ‘Well, which is it to be?’ he said, recovering his breath. ‘The empty room or the junk room? Or shall we do a grand tour? – which will take precisely two minutes.’

  ‘Yes, a grand tour, please.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll start with the bathroom. It’s the only room that’s in its normal state.’ He switched on more lights and led her along a passage. ‘Voilà! How d’you like the colour scheme?’

  ‘I’ve seen worse!’ The bath and basin were rose pink, while the roses on the wallpaper were green. The tiles round the bath featured cockleshells, not flowers – brown to match the lino. The limp nylon curtains were polka-dotted; the toilet-seat cover crocheted and mauve.

  ‘Do you share the bathroom?’ she asked, noticing a plastic duck sitting at one end of the bath.

  ‘No, I’m lucky there. The guy upstairs has his own shower. He’s away this week, thank God.’

  ‘Why, is he a problem?’ she asked, recalling her earlier fear that he might have awkward neighbours.

  ‘Oh, I can’t complain. He is a bit weird, but at least he keeps himself to himself.’

  She perched on the edge of the bath and picked up the plastic duck. ‘Is this Sam’s?’

  ‘No, mine. I like a bit of company in the bath.’

  Was that a veiled hint, she wondered? Although they were on their own – no weird lodger or Monsieur Victor in residence – he had made no move to kiss her again. She tried to imagine the pair of them in that narrow rose-pink bath; their bodies wedged together, enticingly naked and soapy …