Second Skin Read online

  Catherine glanced over her shoulder. Robert had followed her indoors and was standing in the hall, surrounded by several smaller children. Their inquisitive eyes and ears made the already flagging conversation still more difficult. ‘D’you want to speak to Daddy?’ she suggested. ‘It’ll take me a minute to fetch him, but …’

  ‘Look, tell you what, Mum – I’ll ring again later, okay? And hope we get a better line. Your voice keeps fading away.’

  ‘So does yours.’

  ‘I’ll try again at half past ten. I won’t have much chance till then. That’s six o’ clock your time.’

  ‘Lovely, darling. I’ll make sure Daddy’s standing by.’

  ‘Okay. Happy anniversary and everything.’

  ‘Thanks. And thank you for the call. And, Kate, do take care, for goodness’ sake. You know how much I worry. Oh, and by the way, I sent those things you wanted.’ She couldn’t seem to ring off, wanted to cling to the last vestige of her daughter, however faint or uncommunicative. Sometimes she feared they might never lay eyes on Kate again – she had moved to a different world with a different time-scale and a different set of values. Thank God for Andrew, who lived just down the road and spent every other Sunday with them.

  She replaced the receiver slowly, frowning to herself.

  ‘Can we have some ice-cream, Auntie Catherine?’ Robert asked. ‘We’re ever so hot and sticky.’

  ‘Yes, ’course you can.’

  The children followed her into the kitchen, where she doled out raspberry ripple, marvelling at their appetite. They had already polished off three giant-size pizzas, several dozen sausages, a regiment of gingerbread men and their own cake in the shape of a video-game, which she had decorated lovingly with Smarties. She had preferred making the children’s food to all the fiddly bits and pieces for the grown-ups. Usually she enjoyed cooking, but not in a blistering heat-wave and with one eye on the clock.

  She sprinkled each ice-cream dish with nuts. ‘Why not take it into the garden?’ she suggested. She needed a few moments alone, to get her second wind. The first guests had come at noon and now it was almost four o’ clock. A few close friends and family were staying for the evening and she’d be wilting by then unless she grabbed a bite to eat. She picked up the cut-glass trifle dish – very little left but a tablespoon of soggy sponge and a few squashed strawberries bleeding into a swirl of cream. She scooped them up with her fingers, cream and all, then began licking out the bowl. At that moment Antonia walked in. Catherine blushed in confusion. Her daughter-in-law was unfailingly correct and wouldn’t dream of gnawing chicken bones or eating fish and chips from the paper, least of all licking out a bowl at a formal luncheon party. She sprang to her feet and dumped the dish in the sink. ‘Er, everything all right out there?’

  ‘Yes, fine. I just came to see if you needed any help.’

  ‘It all seems to be under control.’ Catherine cast an eye over the worktops piled high with dirty plates. ‘I … I was just about to stack the dishwasher.’

  ‘Not now, Catherine! You’re needed to be hostess. Andrew and I can do the clearing up.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t hear of it. People will be going soon and we can all muck in after that. I’ll see you in the garden, okay? I must just dash and have a pee.’

  She escaped into the cloakroom, dodging a couple more stray children on the way. She locked the door and stole a quick glance in the mirror. Her cheeks were still flushed and she had kissed off most of her lipstick, but otherwise she’d ‘do’. That‘s what her father always said when she presented herself as a child for his inspection or approval. But he would say it with an air of disappointment, as if he were comparing her unfavourably with the mother she knew only from the photo on the mantelpiece. Even now, when faced with her reflection in the mirror, she felt the same ridiculous hope that her boring grey-blue eyes and fairish ‘nothing’ hair would be transformed by some instant miracle into the dark dramatic beauty of the lady in the silver frame. Then she wouldn’t merely ‘do’ – she would be beautiful, and loved.

  She sat for longer than she needed on the toilet-seat, taking the chance to rest her feet. The shoes were Antonia’s choice as well – too high for her, but an exact match for the dress. Thank God her son appeared to be living up to Antonia’s ideals. First he had got a good degree from Cambridge, and was now an up-and-coming quantity surveyor at the age of only twenty-four. The pair of them were planning to move house; to find something better suited to Andrew’s status and Antonia’s aspirations. In another ten years, they’d probably be living in a house like this – detached, four bedrooms, double garage, double glazing.

  She stood up and leaned on the windowsill, pushing the net curtain aside and looking out at the front garden. Sometimes she couldn’t quite believe that they had finished up in such a conventional suburb, with the things they had once despised: net curtains, crazy paving, leaded lights, even an ornamental pond, for heaven’s sake. They had begun their married life in a rented basement in Bolton, moved to a leaky houseboat on the Mersey and upped sticks a dozen times since then. ‘Selling out’ was a phrase they never used, either to each other or to anybody else. They had tacitly accepted that Gerry could make it as a dealer for office furniture, but not, alas, as Hamlet.

  Now she was as rooted in Carshalton as she had been anywhere, though it wasn’t exactly friendly. But at least she knew a few people in the road and one or two local shopkeepers, and, as Gerry was fond of telling her, they were lucky that their property had practically doubled in value. (Yet she was still stupid enough to miss the leaky houseboat.)

  She started at a tap on the door. Maeve, no doubt. Her friend had never been one for respecting locked doors.

  ‘Darling, it’s me. Can I come in?’ A conspiratorial whisper from Gerry.

  She opened the door with a grin and bolted it quickly behind him before anyone could spot them.

  ‘Antonia said you were in here. I thought I’d sneak away and join you for a moment. I’m melting in this heat.’ He splashed his face with cold water, his bulk filling the small room, his hot male smell cutting through the whiff of Floral Bouquet. He kissed her, his face still wet. ‘Do you think anyone would notice if we nipped out for a couple of hours? We could drive to the Cobham Hilton and book the honeymoon suite.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s go.’ She held him tightly, aware of the fold of flab around his middle. Despite the disappointments, they’d survived. He was still her mate, her rock, her oldest friend.

  Suddenly he laughed, and the noise vibrated through her. ‘Remember that time your father caught us snogging in the loo and went berserk?’

  ‘It was the only place we could snog. And I still felt terribly guilty, even when he was out. I couldn’t imagine Daddy ever kissing anyone.’

  ‘He must have kissed your mother. They did produce you, after all!’

  She shook her head. ‘He probably ordered me from a catalogue.’

  ‘Well, it was a very special catalogue, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘Oh, Gerry, I do love you.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘You sound tired.’

  ‘I am.’ They had been up since five that morning; she finishing the cooking; he setting out the drinks and glasses, rearranging furniture, watering the lawn.

  ‘Want me to take you up to bed?’

  ‘Yes, please!’

  He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. ‘Okay, off we go. Hold tight!’

  ‘Gerry, no!’ She struggled in his arms, pummelling his shoulders and laughing helplessly as her elbow bumped against the wall and they all but collapsed in a heap. ‘Put me down, you monster! You’re messing up my dress. And we ought to go back to the party. People will be wondering where we are.’

  ‘Let them wonder.’ He set her on her feet again, held her face gently between his hands. ‘Come on, give me a kiss – no, not a peck like that. I w
ant the sort of kiss that used to scandalize your father!’

  She stole a glance at the clock. Ten past midnight. Would they ever get to bed? She was operating now on automatic pilot, feet sore, back aching, but smile still fixed in place.

  Gerry’s father was just coming in from the kitchen and spotted her standing alone. ‘Catherine, dear, I’ve been waiting all evening for a dance. And this nice slow waltz will suit me fine.’

  He steered her on to the impromptu dance floor – an area of carpet in the sitting-room clear of furniture and rugs – and pressed her tightly against his chest, elbows out, head held high, as if he were on Come Dancing. For a man of eighty-one Jack was surprisingly agile, though his once thick black hair was now a fuzz of thistledown and his skin was dappled with age-spots like bruises on an apple.

  ‘Where on earth did you find these records?’ he asked. ‘I’d no idea you had any Victor Sylvester.’

  ‘Oh, you know what Gerry’s like! He probably bought them in an auction as part of a job lot. The rhythm’s good though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, grand! It takes me back to my courting days.’

  ‘I bet you broke a lot of hearts then, Jack.’

  ‘Not half! And I’d be just the same now if it wasn’t for my dicey chest. I’m afraid I’d get too short of breath to last the course.’

  She laughed. She had always loved Gerry’s parents, partly because they loved her so much. Right from the beginning they had accepted her and were proud of her. Her own father had been frosty about the wedding. His only child was destined for better things than leaving school early to marry a jumped-up actor. She was surprised he had even given his permission.

  ‘Careful, Jack! We’re on a collision course.’ She took the lead and guided him out of Gerry’s path. Her husband was doing the Charleston – to a waltz – jerking to and fro like a manic puppet on too many strings, all but lifting fragile Susanna off her feet.

  She felt tired just watching them. She shut her eyes a moment and the music boomed louder: a roll of drums, a sentimental echo from a soupy violin. Her breasts felt damp beneath the clingy silk, her head spinning from the waltz, the wine. The party had gone well. ‘A fantastic day!’ the guests had said as they trickled away in twos and threes, hot but clearly happy. Only a few stalwarts remained, but they showed no signs of flagging. Gerry and Susanna were in their element; Maeve had danced with every male except Ian (who was decidedly the worse for wear), and was now twirling round on her own, and even Andrew and Antonia were talking animatedly with another couple – about house prices, no doubt.

  ‘Oh lord!’ Jack panted. ‘Someone’s changed the record. What on earth are they playing now?’

  ‘It’s rock-and-roll,’ said Catherine. ‘And if you’ll excuse me, Jack, I’m going to sit this one out.’

  ‘Oh no you’re not.’ Gerry swooped past at that moment and caught her in his arms. ‘Watch this, Susanna. Your Auntie Catherine’s quite a little swinger on the quiet!’

  ‘Gerry, no, I can’t. I’m dead on my feet.’

  ‘Sorry, I insist. Come on, darling – just one dance.’

  ‘Well, let me take my shoes off then.’ She eased them off, instantly shrinking to the level of his shoulder. Gerry was six foot.

  He seized her hand and threw himself into a manic jive, his arm a powerful spring, pushing her back, pulling her towards him, twirling her round wildly. It was so long since they had danced, even a quickstep, let alone rock-and-roll. Yet it was in her bloodstream, part of Gerry, part of her own youth – Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Gene Vincent. And the faster Gerry stomped and span, the younger she became, until she was back at Blackpool Palais, with long, long hair and the skimpiest of skirts, on their miraculous two-day honeymoon.

  She suddenly realized they were the only ones dancing. Everyone else was standing watching. Gerry put on a show for them, swirling her this way and that, revelling in the limelight, his energy unstoppable. And she was gloriously at one with him, following where he led, his magnetic arm pumping her full of adrenalin like some illicit wonder drug.

  All at once he staggered back, clutching his chest with an exaggerated grimace and rolling his eyes up in his head.

  ‘Stop fooling, darling!’ she laughed. ‘You almost pulled me over then.’

  A noise came from his throat – a sort of choking gasp. My God, she thought, he isn’t fooling. His face had gone a ghastly grey as he keeled over and collapsed against the sofa.

  ‘He’s fainted,’ said Susanna. ‘Quick, someone sit him up.’

  Catherine fell to her knees beside him, desperately trying to remember her first aid. She loosened his tight belt, unfastened the top buttons of his shirt Other people crowded round, voices overlapping in a confusion of suggestions.

  ‘Get some water.’

  ‘No, brandy.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he be better lying down?’

  She struggled to move him to a more comfortable position, but he seemed almost to be resisting, despite his sluggish state.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ Andrew said, taking charge with his usual calm authority. ‘He needs some air. Keep back, please, everyone.’ He took the glass of water Susanna had brought from the kitchen and held it to his father’s lips.

  ‘No.’ Catherine pushed the glass away, trying to make her dead voice work as she cradled the slumped body in her arms. ‘Dial 999, for Christ’s sake, and get an ambulance.’

  Chapter Two

  Catherine lay rigid in the dark. The fear would pass. She mustn’t give way to it, mustn’t put the light on – that would be cowardly. She was drenched with sweat, but only because of the heat. It was quite normal to sweat in these muggy summer nights.

  She reached out her hand and touched the expanse of sheet beside her. She was lying on the very edge of the bed – a habit she couldn’t break. Gerry had always needed space.

  And yet they had shut him in a coffin, a hateful claustrophobic box, disguised with pompous flowers. All through the cremation she had felt her fury rising: how dare they coop him up like that; no room for him to toss and thresh; no one to hear if he called out in his sleep.

  ‘Gerry,’ she mouthed. ‘You’re all right. I’m here.’

  But where was he? Not even in his coffin now. If only the vicar was right and there was some peaceful and consoling place, where she could go herself and find him. But she had never believed in an afterlife, not since they had told her (with peculiar forced smiles) that her mother was with Jesus. Even at the age of four, she had known it was a lie. Why should Daddy cry so much if Mummy was safe in heaven? She hadn’t cried – not then. She hadn’t dared. If she wasn’t a good girl, Daddy might die too.

  The black nothingness was building up, filling the whole room: a thick, black, smothering duvet pressed against her face. She heard her husband’s panicked cry in the ambulance – or was it coming from her own mouth? It was the last sound he had ever made. But she had continued talking to him, frantically, relentlessly, against the wailing of the siren. ‘Gerry, you’re going to be all right. We’re nearly at the hospital. The doctors will know what to do. Don’t leave me, Gerry. I love you, do you hear?’

  She plunged out of bed and switched on every light in the room: the central light, the light above the dressing-table, both the bedside lamps. The dark was still there – beyond the curtains, inside her. She hugged her body to stop it shaking. Just breathe, she told herself. Breathe deeply. Morning will come. It always does. Eventually.

  Thank God it was summer. It would be light by five o’clock and she could get up and start the day. Daylight always helped. Just the sense of things happening as they should: dawn breaking, sun rising. You took so much for granted – until it wasn’t there.

  The alarm clock said ten to three. Nights were a new land for her: the different shades of darkness, the different sounds. Or no sounds. Silence could keep you awake. Total numbing stillness. She was so used to Gerry’s comforting disturbance.

  She ran her hand across the smooth curv
e of the phone. She couldn’t ring Andrew, not at this hour. He and Antonia had been staying since … since … They’d been marvellous, both of them, but they kept wanting to tidy her up, stop her crying. They had suggested pills, or counselling, and continually looked anxious, which made her feel worse still.

  You had to cry. It was a physical necessity, like breathing. She had cried like this just after Kate was born. Post-natal depression, the midwife said. Odd how you cried over birth the same as death. She watched her tears dripping on her nightdress, making blotches on the flimsy pink-sprigged cotton. She ought to be wearing black. There was nothing black in her wardrobe except the new outfit she had bought for the funeral. It had seemed heartless to go shopping for a death, browsing through rails of dresses, posing in front of mirrors.

  Kate had worn blue – a respectful blue, drab, like faded ink. She had looked faded altogether and had barely said a word during the whole of her two-week stay.

  Perhaps Kate blamed her for the death. And it was her fault in some ways. She should have been stricter over his drinking and his diet; made sure he had proper check-ups with the doctor. And they should have talked to each other more, as they never failed to do in public, with friends, reps, stockists, customers. They could put on a show at parties, even kiss each other at parties, but, alone again, they would revert to their fretful busyness. And she was usually too tired for …

  Sex. Such an insignificant word. Too short for all it meant – like death.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘Stop wallowing in misery. Hundreds of people are far worse off.’ Children killed; whole families wiped out. Death stained every newspaper; darkened every bulletin on radio and television: carnage, earthquakes, terrible diseases. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well do something useful, rather than cower in the bedroom feeling sorry for herself.

  She found her slippers and crept downstairs. It had become second nature to creep, so as not to disturb Andrew and Antonia. They had wanted her to stay with them, but she preferred to be here with Gerry. It wasn’t just his presence. There were actual tangible bits of him still around the house. She had found his nail-clippings in the waste-bin, and laboriously picked out each tiny fragment from the mess of dirty Kleenex. She had put them in an envelope and locked them in the bureau drawer. And then she’d discovered a few stray hairs in his comb and laid them in there reverently as well. She wished she could preserve his smell – that indefinable smell on his clothes which she was terrified might fade. Last night, she had taken his jacket to bed and held it tight against her, stroking the rough-textured tweed, burying her face in it.