Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  Catherine nibbled a piece of quiche. She was still a babe in arms compared with Rosie, or compared with Jo and Nicky, for that matter. ‘Well, come to Venice too, Rosie, and you can have a fling with a gondoliero – or several gondolieros, come to that I’ve got a whole ten days in Venice.’

  ‘Hm. Lucky for some! Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  Catherine flushed. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I felt, well … guilty.’

  ‘Hell, you’re allowed to travel, you know, especially as you’ve missed out on it in the past. I’ve been to Venice four times and I don’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt. And you’ll adore it, Plum, I know you will. The last time I went was in January two years ago and it poured with rain and the pavements were flooded, and there I was clumping around in these huge great borrowed wellies, but it was still quite magical.’

  ‘That’s what Will says. In fact he’s given me a list of so many things to do and see, I certainly won’t have time for any flings myself.’

  ‘Talking of flings, I suppose you know Colin’s got his eye on you.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No, honestly. He asked if I thought he stood any chance.’

  ‘Really? What did you say?’

  ‘I told him to ask you himself.’ Rosie paused to crunch a celery stick. ‘And then there’s Brad.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I’m sure he fancies you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Rosie. He’s years younger than me.’

  ‘Makes no difference. Why do you think he went to so much trouble getting you this place? Because it’s only half a mile from his – that’s why.’

  Catherine looked at Rosie dubiously. She still found it hard to believe that other men found her sexually attractive. Yet since the break with Will, Brad had certainly been attentive – not just finding her the flat, but offering to help with the move and anything else she might need.

  ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you, Plum. Next thing you know he’ll probably turn up on the doorstep in the middle of the night, offering to share that big bed of yours!’

  ‘Gosh, I hope not. I am fond of him, but not in that way.’ She scooped up a few pastry crumbs, trying to work out what she felt for Brad. It was true there was something between them, if not sexual, then intimate. The rave had bonded them, even its down side, when Brad had been so worried about her. And she had to admit that she had offered no resistance when he’d hugged her more closely than usual the other day. But it wasn’t only Brad. She was feeling sort of charged in general, and sometimes found herself eyeing total strangers with a mixture of lust and curiosity. Even talking to Chiaka, she had been disturbingly aware of his body, defined by tight blue jeans and a navel-skimming tee-shirt. Such feelings seemed disloyal to Will, yet in a way they were a tribute to him. He had reawakened her from a state of tepid celibacy, leaving her open to more experience. After all, far from Rosie’s dozens of affairs, her total for a lifetime amounted to only three (and the disastrous one-night stand with the television agent didn’t really count). Just comparing Will and Simon, though, underlined how different sex could be with different people; if you weren’t lucky enough to meet the right partner, you might spend your whole life paddling in the shallows and never risk the challenge of the deep end.

  ‘Funnily enough,’ she said, cutting another slice of quiche, ‘Brad did make me a proposition, but not quite the sort you had in mind!’

  ‘Really?’ Rosie looked intrigued. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Well, he thinks we ought to go into business together – set up a jewellery workshop or something. Apparently Hackney’s on a winner at the moment. The Council’s been given masses of lottery money and a big government grant to regenerate the area. So they’re falling over themselves offering people special incentives and start-up schemes and what-have-you. And Brad reckons we ought to jump in quick.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea. I wouldn’t mind setting up in business myself. I’d love my own toyshop. And actually it wouldn’t be half as stressful as running a stall. At least I’d have a roof over my head.’

  ‘The only thing is, you have to live in Hackney.’

  ‘Well, I’ll come into partnership with you and Brad. Hey, listen – how about a toyshop on the ground floor, a café above, and a jewellery workshop in the basement? I’ll make the toys and you make the nosh.’

  Catherine raised her eyes to heaven. ‘And just when I’ve vowed never to cook again!’

  ‘No, seriously, it might work. If they’re pumping all that money into the area, the trick is to get in there before everybody else. It’s like Camden before the boom. Of course, we’d probably need to put up a bit of capital ourselves …’

  That wouldn’t be a problem, Catherine thought. She had some capital for the first time in her life, and Rosie wasn’t exactly broke. If the idea of cooking didn’t appeal, she could always make children’s clothes to sell. Having worked for Greta, she knew plenty of places to go for cheap material. Rosie would make an excellent business partner: reliable, hard-working and one of the few success stories in the market. And what Brad might lack in management or accounting skills, he made up for in enthusiasm and a remarkable ability to sell. In fact, she could take over the admin side and turn her years as Gerry’s assistant to good use. ‘Rosie, you may be on to something,’ she said, offering her more quiche. ‘When Brad first mentioned the idea, I must confess I rather dismissed it, but it could be a real money-spinner.’

  ‘But what about your circus school? A shop’s a bit tame compared with knife-throwers and clowns!’

  She laughed. There seemed to be a wealth of options all of a sudden. It had been quite a wrench giving up the market stall, despite dwindling trade and long working hours, and she had feared she might not find another job. (Also, she missed the market ‘family’, though of course many of the stall-holders were good friends now.) But in just the last fortnight, several opportunities had come up and she was in the enviable position of being able to pick and choose. However, she would only plump for something she felt positive was right. Perhaps she’d revisit the Circus Space, and also have another talk with Arthur about helping in the antique shop. And she would certainly make enquiries about start-up grants in Hackney. Any job she took, though, must leave her space for other projects – evening classes, theatres, more trips abroad. ‘Listen, Rosie, I’ll phone the Council first thing in the morning and get them to send some bumph. Then we can see exactly what …’

  She was interrupted by the phone. ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, picking up the receiver. ‘Oh, hello, darling. How are you?’ She turned to Rosie. ‘It’s Andrew,’ she mouthed, making a comic face. Rosie raised her eyebrows in sympathy, while Catherine braced herself for a diatribe on the insalubrious elements in Hackney. It was funny how in their different ways both Kate and Andrew worried about her safety, as if they were the anxious parents, she the wayward child.

  But Andrew’s words hit her like a bombshell.

  ‘What?’ she said, gripping the edge of the table. ‘Oh my God, how awful.’ She was no longer aware of Rosie; no longer aware of anything save Andrew’s shaky voice. ‘Yes, of course I’ll come. I’ll leave at once. Hold on – try not to panic.’

  chapter Thirty Six

  She thrust a five-pound note into the taxi-driver’s hand and was almost at the hospital entrance by the time he’d fumbled for the change. The automatic doors slid open with infuriating slowness. She darted through them and up to the reception desk. ‘Lonsdale Ward?’ she asked.

  ‘Second floor. Turn right out of the lift.’

  The lift was crowded with hot and sweaty bodies. Outside it must be almost ninety, though there had been occasional rumbles of thunder, threatening the end of the heat wave. And inside seemed just as oppressive as she ran along the windowless corridor, only slowing as she approached the nurse on duty at the desk. What if Antonia had already lost the baby? How would she face her? What could she say? She took a deep breath before sp
eaking to the nurse.

  ‘I’ve come to see Mrs Antonia Jones. She was admitted a couple of hours ago, from Casualty.’

  The nurse looked at her suspiciously; her glance travelling from the purple hair to the multicoloured dungarees.

  ‘I’m her mother-in-law,’ Catherine persisted. ‘Could I see her, please?’

  The nurse’s expression remained chilly. ‘I’ve only just come on, so I’m not sure where they’ve put her. I’ll have to go and find out.’

  Catherine stood fidgeting impatiently. She detested hospitals. Some poor wretch behind her was lying on a trolley-bed, seemingly forgotten or abandoned. And a woman sat hunched in a wheelchair whimpering to herself; her left leg was bandaged from knee to ankle, the bare pink toes looking strangely vulnerable. Further down, the door of a ward stood open, revealing rows of beds, rows of ailing patients – perhaps Antonia among them. A siren wailed outside: more horrors, more emergencies.

  She watched the nurse chatting to another in the office, as if they were enjoying a good gossip rather than discussing Antonia’s whereabouts. ‘For God’s sake get a move on,’ she muttered through clenched-teeth. Since Andrew’s phone call, everything seemed to have happened in slow motion. Rosie had driven her to Waterloo, but every traffic light was stuck at red. Then she’d had to wait ages for a train, and when at last it lumbered on its way, there were interminable stops between stations, as if the engine was suffering from heat-exhaustion and needed frequent rests.

  The nurse took her time returning to the desk, and then paused to check a pile of folders before finally sitting down. ‘Yes, that’s all right.’ She gave Catherine a brief nod. ‘Third door on the left. She’s in a room on her own.’

  Oh God, thought Catherine, that’s a bad sign – she must have lost the baby. She dithered for a moment, suddenly reluctant to go in. Having cursed the delays, she herself was now moving in slow motion, raising her hand like a dead weight to tap on Antonia’s door, only to let it fall again. She glanced at her dungarees, heartlessly bright in these clinical surroundings. She should have changed, but she had rushed straight out without thinking.

  She caught the nurse’s eye, watching from the desk. If she dallied any longer, she would be regarded with new suspicion. She smoothed her hair, tapped lightly at the door.

  ‘Come in.’ Antonia sounded weak. She lay propped against a pile of pillows, the snaking tube of a drip attached to the black of her hand. The hospital gown looked starkly white against her ashen face; her usually neat hair hanging in limp strands around her shoulders. The covers were drawn up to her chest, so it was impossible to tell whether the bulge was still there or not. The room itself was bleak: no pictures on the ice-blue walls; one poky window looking out over the car park.

  Catherine went up to the bed and kissed her on the cheek. ‘How are you, darling?’

  Antonia’s only response was a mute shake of her head.

  Catherine dared not ask about the baby. ‘Where’s Andrew?’ she asked instead, sitting on the bedside chair.

  ‘He’s gone to see if he can find someone who knows what’s going on. They haven’t told us anything.’

  ‘Oh Antonia, how awful. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘There’s nothing anyone can do except hang around. And we’ve been doing that all day. We waited hours in Casualty and they couldn’t have cared less that I was about to lose the baby.’

  And have you lost it? Catherine longed to ask, but all she did was squeeze Antonia’s hand. They sat in silence for a while, Catherine gazing at the drip and its intrusive paraphernalia. Had Antonia lost a lot of blood? Andrew had mentioned pain and bleeding on the phone, but had supplied no further details.

  She was relieved to see him a few minutes later, although he too looked pale and dishevelled as he burst angrily into the room.

  ‘It’s absolutely disgraceful. There’s not a doctor to be seen. Even the one in Casualty could hardly speak any English, and now he’s disappeared.’

  ‘Let me try,’ Catherine offered, getting up. ‘And why don’t you come with me, Andrew? Two of us might make more impact.’ Alone with him, she could find out what had happened. ‘Will you be all right, Antonia? We shouldn’t be too long.’

  Antonia nodded wanly.

  ‘Try and rest, darling.’ Andrew laid a protective hand on her shoulder before following Catherine out of the room. ‘Actually, I don’t know what we can do, Mother. I can’t seem to get any sense out of anyone at all. I’ve never known such inefficiency.’

  Catherine returned with him to the desk, but in place of the previous nurse sat a young Asian girl who knew nothing whatsoever about Antonia and was already being besieged by a group of other visitors.

  ‘I told you,’ Andrew fumed. ‘The whole situation’s a farce. God, am I going to raise a stink!’

  Catherine steered him away from the desk to a quieter part of the corridor. ‘Andrew,’ she said softly, ‘the baby …? Has Antonia …?’

  ‘It’s touch and go, as far as I can gather. The doctor thinks she’s in danger of miscarrying. At least that’s what he seemed to be saying. It would help if they taught these doctors the rudiments of English before they let them loose in Casualty.’

  ‘Five months is late to miscarry. Do they know what brought it on?’

  ‘I doubt if they’d tell us if they did know. The policy here seems to be say nothing and do nothing. But Antonia has been overworking, and yesterday we had people to dinner – my boss and his wife and two other colleagues. And you know what a perfectionist she is. She was on her feet all day and I couldn’t help because I had a rush job on.’

  ‘What, on a Saturday?’

  ‘Yes. Work’s been hectic the last few weeks. In fact, this couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Anyway, I said I’d do the clearing up, and made her promise to stay in bed this morning. But then Grandma rang first thing to say she and Grandpa had both gone down with ‘flu and were feeling absolutely dreadful. I drove straight over, and, as I should have guessed, Antonia didn’t stay in bed. She was moving the table back in place when she had this crippling pain and then the bleeding started. I wasn’t even there. She didn’t want to go to Casualty on her own, so she waited for me to get home. Needless to say, the delay didn’t help.’

  Catherine stared down at the floor, consumed with guilt. If she had been on hand, all this might never have happened. It was like a judgement on her for being selfish and undutiful; neglecting not only Andrew and Antonia but Jack and Maureen too. She remembered her own two miscarriages all those years ago. On both occasions, Maureen had dropped everything to take charge while she recovered, and had never uttered a word of complaint about having to travel up north and put her own life on hold. Jack and Maureen had always been a tower of strength, helping out with loans or looking after the children. And now she had turned her back on them, ignoring the fact that they were getting older and frailer and might need her in their turn.

  Andrew ran a distracted finger round the collar of his shirt. ‘I’m worried about Grandpa as well. I had to dash off and leave him and his temperature’s quite high.’

  ‘I’ll go over there straight away,’ said Catherine, ‘while you stay with Antonia. But do phone me, won’t you, the minute you have any news.’

  ‘Of course.’ He gave a half-hearted smile. ‘There is one bit of news, Mother, though I’m not sure if it makes things worse or better. The doctor in Casualty gave Antonia a scan and though he didn’t have the courtesy to let us know the result, the nurse up here told us it’s … it’s a boy.’

  ‘A boy! Oh, darling …’

  ‘Gerry,’ Andrew murmured. ‘If he lives.’

  She hugged him, close to tears. Suddenly Antonia’s bulge was a person, an individual with a name. No one could ever replace her Gerry, but this baby would have his genes, even his looks, perhaps. Yet for all her joy in his existence and her determination that he survive, other, more ignoble thoughts were stampeding through her mind. How could she go on holiday when she
was needed here – for months, maybe, if the pregnancy continued to give cause for concern? Rome was flattened to a ruin; Paris dwindling to a mirage; Venice submerged beneath its own canals. Of course that was being ridiculously melodramatic. A holiday was nothing compared with a child’s life.

  Andrew had pulled away, patently embarrassed at being hugged by his mother in a public corridor.

  ‘Look, before I go,’ she told him, ‘I’ll just say goodbye to Antonia.’

  She returned to the room and stood shamefaced by the bed, Antonia’s desolate expression increasing her guilt. She had talked so loftily to Kate about this baby being a symbol of life, a way of coping with Gerry’s death, yet she hadn’t lifted a finger to help Antonia. Easy to criticize Will for being self-centred, but wasn’t she as bad, thinking she had no one to please but herself? And when – if – the baby was born, she had breezily consigned it to the care of a nanny. The example of Nicky’s friend Laura should have been warning enough. Nannies let you down, threatened to leave if you were kept late at the office. Did she really want Antonia to become another Laura – an emotional wreck, too tired to enjoy her life or child or marriage?

  She took Antonia’s hand. ‘I’m going over to Walton,’ she said. ‘To be with Jack, while Andrew stays here with you.’

  Antonia nodded. ‘Fine.’

  ‘And Andrew’s promised to phone if …’

  Again Antonia nodded. She and Andrew were clearly expecting her to go. But she didn’t go. She just stood there like a dummy, paralysed by the conflict in her mind. If she put the baby first, it wouldn’t be simply a matter of giving up her holiday (plus the hefty deposit she’d paid on it) – the new flat would have to go as well, and the new jobs she might have taken, the new men she might have met. Evening classes, theatres, even the chance of owning a cat, were fading into oblivion. Yet they were mere blips in the grand scheme of things, and only proved how self-indulgent she’d become.