Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘How d’ you like the fish, Catherine?’

  ‘It’s … wonderful.’

  Nicky waved her fork at Catherine’s plate. ‘Well, you wouldn’t think so! You’ve hardly touched it.’

  Penitently she bolted down three mouthfuls in succession. It was hard to keep her mind off Will when he was only a mile away up the road. She could be there in fifteen minutes, back in his arms, his bed.

  ‘Look, if you want to stay and eat in peace, Catherine, please do. I don’t want to give you indigestion. I can settle up before I go and leave you to have some pudding. The cheesecake’s really something here.’

  ‘No, I’d rather come back with you, Nicky. I’m still a bit nervous about Jo, to tell the truth, so it would help if you were there, to sort of … smooth things over.’

  ‘God, she’s the one who should be nervous. But don’t worry, I’ll do what I can – maybe make a bit of a joke of it. Leave it to Auntie Nicky.’

  ‘She has got a point, you know.’ Catherine was looking at the other tables. Every face seemed young – certainly there was no one over forty. ‘Let’s face it, Nicky, I am a different generation. Jo’s almost the same age as Andrew, so it’s not surprising she sees me as a dreary nagging mother.’

  ‘Well, I know she’s had a problem with her own mother, so that might be a factor, I suppose. But you’re anything but dreary. And you never nag. Well, except about the cat – whether we’ve fed him when you’re out.’

  Catherine gave a gasp of horror. ‘Oh my God! I’d forgotten all about him. He’s probably dead of starvation by now. Quick, we must get back.’

  ‘Honestly, Catherine, you dawdle over your food when I need to go home to work, but one mention of your precious cat and you can’t get out of here fast enough!’

  ‘But this is a matter of life and death, not a mere shampoo.’

  ‘What do you mean, “a mere shampoo”? It’ll be curtains for me if I don’t come up with something by the morning.’

  Catherine subsided in her seat. William could survive without her a few minutes longer. ‘Okay, let me have another shot.’ She put her fork down, frowning in concentration. ‘Yes, I’ve got it! There’s this chap about thirty-eight – divorced, dark-haired, impulsive – who’s giving a poetry reading. But hardly anyone turns up. And although he’s rather dishy, he does look an awful mess – scruffy clothes, dirty unkempt hair. But he buys this purple waistcoat and washes his hair with your miracle shampoo, and the next time he performs he’s an absolute sensation. Every member of the audience is totally and utterly hooked. And they begin to creep closer and closer, practically mobbing him on the platform and snipping off locks of his gorgeous black hair to keep as souvenirs.’

  Nicky held up her glass in a salute. ‘Catherine, you’re a marvel! Forget the ironing – you can help me with the ad. You’re obviously inspired tonight.’

  Yes, she thought as she drained her wine. I am inspired. Hadn’t Will just told her so?

  Nicky asked for the bill and began juggling her impressive sheaf of credit cards. ‘Right, I’ll settle this. Then we’d better get going, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  They stepped out into a shining night no longer dark and raw. The three-quarters moon looked magical and a thaw was well under way; everything melting in a glorious ooze: roofs dripping, gutters running, pavements wet and gleaming. Catherine closed her eyes for a second: she was the snow and Will her sun. They were already in Dorset, in a sumptuous hotel room, and he was thawing her in the white heat of his passion.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  ‘The bed’s a bit small.’ Will stood in the doorway, looking anxiously at the room. ‘Not much bigger than mine.’

  ‘I’m sure the springs are an improvement,’ Catherine laughed. ‘And just look at that wonderful view.’ She took a step towards the window, where a great sweep of wooded hills stretched to the blue haze of the horizon.

  Will locked the door, still frowning. ‘I hoped it would be slightly grander than this. For your sake.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s fine. And anyway, after your dire warnings about students’ rooms with no wardrobes and no windows, this is an absolute palace.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It’s just that the Big Names are staying at the Eastbury.’

  ‘Darling Will, do I detect a note of jealousy?’

  ‘Not half!’

  ‘But you couldn’t smuggle me in as easily, with all those flunkeys standing around. Here they didn’t even notice me skulking in the background.’

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t have to skulk. I’d be rich and famous enough to book the bridal suite.’

  ‘This is the bridal suite.’

  ‘Quick, then’ – he fumbled with the top button of her blouse – ‘let’s start the honeymoon!’

  ‘No, wait a sec, I want to have a look round first. It’s such a treat for me to stay in a hotel.’

  ‘Really?’ Will threw himself on the bed, bounce-testing the springs.

  ‘I thought you and your husband would have travelled all over the place.’

  ‘No,’ she said briefly. ‘Did you and Vanessa?’

  ‘Oh God, yes! She was a real culture vulture – off to Florence or Athens at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘But surely you didn’t object?’

  ‘Well, I loved the actual travelling – it was just the way she took control. She was paying, so she decided where we went and how long for and what we did when we got there. That’s one of the things I love about you, Catherine – you’re not bossy in the slightest.’

  ‘Well, I intend to be now. I absolutely insist that we stay here for six months.’

  ‘That suits me fine. I’ll ring down straight away and extend the booking. And shall I order breakfast in bed?’

  ‘We’ll have every meal in bed. You can forget your poetry reading. All we’re going to do is eat and make love.’

  ‘So, what are we waiting for?’

  ‘Oh Will, you’re completely shameless!’

  ‘D’you mind?’ The anxious tone had crept back to his voice.

  ‘No, I love it – you know that. But give me five minutes to get acclimatized, okay?’ She opened the window and leaned on the sill, taking a deep breath. ‘It’s so nice to escape the smell of paint.’

  ‘And the smell of perming solutions,’ Will added, coming up behind her and putting his arms round her waist. ‘I can’t imagine why women spend such an inordinate amount of time and money dousing their hair in chemicals. They seem to flock to Victor in droves.’

  ‘I used to go in for perms once.’

  ‘Really? I can’t imagine it.’ He kissed the nape of her neck. ‘I love your hair the way it is.’

  ‘Brad’s sister did it for me this time. She’s rather good, don’t you think? And she only charges a fraction of the going rate.’

  Will grunted in assent. He was scrutinizing his watch. ‘Right, your five minutes is up.’

  ‘It’s not. Get away! I want to fill my lungs with this marvellous air.’ She inhaled luxuriously, gazing at the banks of trees shimmering in new leaf. It was only the first week of April, but already the countryside seemed lush – green frills on the hawthorn hedge, frail blossom on the blackthorn, and a wealth of early flowers. The clocks had gone forward last weekend, so the evenings were lighter and there was a sense of anticipation: the whole of spring ahead, with its dew-rinsed days and freshly lacquered colours, and after that the prospect of unstinting summer, lazy and voluptuous. She, too, was looking forward, as if she could begin to draw a line, at last, between mourning and renewal; enjoy her time with Will without pangs of grief or guilt.

  She shut the window and went to explore the bathroom. ‘Oh, look – a proper shower, and big white fluffy towels.’ It was rare to find a dry towel at Gosforth Road (let alone a clean one), and Will’s towels were a disgrace – discoloured and practically threadbare, due to the ravages of the launderette.

  She continued her tour of their tiny empire, delightin
g in this private country retreat, far removed from the clutter of Will’s flat and the comings and goings at Gosforth Road. Every detail pleased her, even the misshapen wire hangers in the wardrobe, the limp pink hot water bottle and the hand-printed notice saying ‘Thank you for not smoking’.

  ‘I’d better unpack your clothes for tonight,’ she said, opening the case. ‘We don’t want you looking creased.’

  He shuddered. ‘Don’t remind me of tonight I get nervous even thinking about it.’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’ She had said the same to Gerry a million times. How odd she hadn’t noticed before that the two men had things in common – their artistic bent, most obviously, their love of food and their enthusiasm for life, though Will lacked Gerry’s easy social grace and was moodier altogether, downright unreasonable at times. Still, in the last week he’d been positively benign, partly due to her, she liked to think. Between them they had repainted the whole flat, and poems were pouring out of him – mostly Catherine poems, written in honour of his muse. Even their market stall was going better, now that they’d established a proper routine for buying and selling. True, trade was very volatile – one weekend they’d do brilliantly, the next barely cover the rental – but over the weeks she had gained in confidence and become much more skilful at setting up an eye-catching display. Will sometimes even wrote placards in verse, to draw attention to the day’s best bargains.

  She shook the creases from his waistcoat and hung it in the wardrobe, with his jacket. The rest of the unpacking could wait – well, except for her packet of Ovran, which she put proudly on the bedside table. Being on the pill gave her a real buzz, despite the doctor’s warning that it was unsuitable for a woman of her age. How could it be now that she was nowhere near the menopause? – on the contrary, she was just coming into her prime. Collecting her prescription from the chemist, she felt she was being given not merely a packet of pills, but another chance, a second stab at youth.

  She opened the top drawer to put Will’s shirt away. ‘Oh, look,’ she said. ‘A hair dryer. Now that is grand.’

  Will took it from her and switched it on.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  In reply, he unbuttoned her blouse and directed a jet of cool air between her breasts.

  ‘Mm, that feels amazing.’ Her breasts were exquisitely sensitive on account of the pill. She slipped out of her blouse and unhooked her lacy bra, gasping in shock when he suddenly changed the setting. ‘No, Will, it’s too hot. Put it back on cool. That was really exciting.’

  He traced a slow figure of eight around her breasts, then let the nozzle play against her nipples, watching as they stiffened. She closed her eyes, shivering with pleasure. Recently she had noticed a change in her body: a sense of it being tuned and primed for love-making. Even when Will wasn’t there, she would find herself touching her breasts or sliding a hand down inside her jeans. Or she might be doing something mundane like shopping and catch sight of her reflection, surprised to see she looked flushed and almost smug, as if she had just got up from his bed.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not too cold?’ he asked. You’re coming out in goose pimples.’

  ‘No, it’s wonderful! I’ll show you – get undressed.’

  They both threw off their clothes and she darted to the television and turned it on. ‘I think we’d better drown the noise. You’re meant to be on your own, remember.’

  ‘Okay, as long as it’s not Neighbours. That’ll put me off my stroke.’

  ‘Don’t worry – it’s too early for Neighbours.’

  ‘What time is it? It would be awful if we were still having it off when I’m meant to be on the platform!’

  ‘It’s only half past three.’

  ‘Oh great, we’ve got hours.’ Will flung the bedspread back. ‘Come and be ravished, my darling!’

  ‘Coming.’ She flicked through various channels, stopping at a ballroom scene: some ancient movie set in old Vienna with stately couples waltzing beneath glittering chandeliers. When he heard ‘The Blue Danube’, Will suddenly jumped up, clasped her in his arms and began waltzing her round the room. At first she tensed, clinging to him blindly as she recalled the last time she had danced – with Gerry. It had killed him, more or less. Since that day, she hadn’t danced with anyone, out of loyalty, or superstitious dread.

  Will sensed her change of mood. ‘What’s wrong, my love? Am I hurting?’

  ‘N … no.’

  ‘Want to stop?’

  ‘No.’ At some point in her life she would have to dance again; leave that terrifying memory behind. She moved stiffly, like an uncoordinated robot, half stumbling, treading on Will’s feet She tried to let the music take over, sweep her along on its insistent lilting rhythm. Will was an energetic dancer, whisking her round the room, weaving in and out of the furniture, adding crazy spins and twirls. Each time they passed the television she caught a glimpse of black tail-coats, frothy gowns, until the boundaries began to blur and she couldn’t tell whether she was dancing in a ballroom or a bedroom. The intoxicating melody seemed to buoy her up, drawing her away from death and loss to happiness and love. This music belonged to a world where there was nothing dark and menacing; only palmy days, romantic nights – she simply had to follow where it led. She abandoned herself to its sparkling mood, and to Will’s firm hold. Her clumsiness was gone now. She moved in perfect time with him, responding to each change in tempo, slowing as the music slowed, speeding up at each blazing crescendo.

  At a yearning passage from the violins, they slowed again, dramatically, rocking back and forth. Their naked bodies were clamped together; warm skin against warm skin, flesh melting into flesh. She could feel his penis hard against her groin as they went whirling round the room once more, their breathing faster and more intense. The music soared towards a climax – brass thundering, strings pleading – driving them both on. They had become the rhythm, exhilarated, frenzied; Will’s urgent body sweeping her into a final pirouette as the impassioned sound flooded over and over them.

  He collapsed on to the bed and pulled her down on top of him, and suddenly he was coming, and she shouted, ‘No, not yet Will!’ and, miraculously, he went on, and then she was coming and the room exploded in a fanfare of triumphant brass and drum.

  Catherine sat self-consciously in the middle of the front row, though everyone else seemed to be huddled at the back. Half turning in her seat, she counted surreptitiously. Eleven, twelve, thirteen … Not much better than the last count. It was already ten to eight, yet still that depressing array of empty chairs. Few people, evidently, were keen enough on contemporary poetry to traipse out to such an unfashionable venue – an annexe in the local comprehensive school, with a low polystyrene ceiling and unadorned brick walls. The metal chairs were numbingly hard, although most of the audience looked too young to care. She guessed many of them had been dragooned into attending as part of their English course. The older generation would probably be sitting in comfort in the gracious surroundings of Sherborne House, listening to Joanna Trollope, or watching Samuel Pepys – A Life at the attractive Powell Theatre. She felt aggrieved on Will’s behalf. He deserved a bigger crowd than this. The few who had turned out didn’t look exactly inspiring: a gaggle of chattering schoolgirls, a man sitting on his own and taking furtive bites from something in a brown paper bag, and a group of bored youths aiming paper darts at each other.

  She watched in relief as two couples made their way in, over-sixties this time, and smartly dressed in contrast to the slovenly-looking kids. She smiled at them encouragingly, as if she were the official welcoming committee. The organizer, Cecilia, was doing her bit too, shepherding people in and trying to persuade them to sit further forward. An intense, cadaverous woman, she had greeted Catherine effusively when Will first introduced them, and had come up several times since then to make sure she was all right. Will himself was being treated to drinks in the staffroom, along with the two other poets, Barry Roberts and Liam O’Connor.

  She picked up t
he leaflet she had been handed at the door and studied the three photographs again. Liam was the star of the evening, already hailed by the pundits as the new Seamus Heaney, despite his tender age. He reminded her of childhood pictures of Gentle Jesus with a lamb – long fair hair, beatific smile – whereas Will looked mournfully romantic, a tortured soul suffering for his Art. And according to the brief biography printed in the leaflet, it was Art with a capital A. His first collection (which he’d dismissed as juvenilia, published by an unknown press and long since out of print) was here extravagantly praised as ‘brilliant, haunting and ground-breaking’. She sat glorying in the adjectives, hardly bothering to read the rest of the leaflet. For her, Will was the star of the evening, not O’Connor.

  Two minutes to go. Thank goodness the room was half full now, although the buzz of conversation only increased her apprehension. Suppose people talked while Will was performing, or fidgeted, or coughed? She fanned herself with the leaflet. God! If she was apprehensive, how must he be feeling? He had become more and more morose as they drove from the hotel to Hollymount; a different man entirely from this afternoon’s exultant lover. He had told her several times that writing the poems was fine – it was reading them in public which unnerved him.

  Eight o’clock. Exactly. Cecilia had disappeared, presumably to collect her charges, and a younger woman was rearranging the chairs on the platform and fussing with the water jug and glasses.

  One minute past. The man beside her was also looking at his watch. Feet shuffled, people whispered, someone dropped a book on the floor. Then, just as she thought she’d burst with the tension, a small side door opened and the three poets trooped in, preceded by Cecilia. Will and Liam took their seats on one side of the platform, leaving Cecilia and Barry centre stage.