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  ‘But Mrs Jones, will your son be able to meet such heavy mortgage repayments? I understand he’s only twenty-four.’

  ‘Well, if he can’t, I’ll pay them.’

  ‘I’m afraid that might prove rather difficult – with the business gone and your husband’s other debts.’

  ‘Wh … what other debts?’ Catherine closed her eyes. She felt faint and sick, and not just from the sunburn. How could Gerry have deceived her like this, left such a ghastly mess? Mr Ashby was droning on about unpaid bills, income tax overdue …

  ‘Why didn’t Gerry tell me?’ she cut in. ‘He always told me everything.’

  Mr Ashby shook his head, as if uncertain how to answer. ‘I expect he didn’t want to worry you, my dear. And remember, the business was in profit then, doing remarkably well. He probably thought he couldn’t lose.’

  ‘Well, he must have taken leave of his senses, that’s all I can say. He worked in fringe theatre himself, so he knew how insecure it was. Experimental companies were the first to go to the wall. We saw it happen often – directors bursting with ideals, but without the business nous to make it work.’ She brushed her tears away. Once she had shared those ideals; supported Gerry (emotionally and financially) when he had joined a tiny impoverished company who charged peanuts at the box office in the belief that theatre should be accessible to everyone, not just the well-heeled.

  ‘I do realize what a shock it must be, Mrs Jones. But let’s try to be positive and see what we can do to make the most of your assets. If you put the house on the market, that will release some money – yes, even with the second mortgage. And of course, there’s your late husband’s life insurance, which amounts to quite a tidy sum.’

  Catherine fumbled for her hankie. Such stupid meaningless words. Nothing was tidy, not now.

  ‘And I understand you have some fine pieces of antique furniture … ?’

  She scrunched the hankie tightly in her hand. Not just Gerry gone, but the very bricks and mortar, the chairs they’d re-upholstered, the Victorian table they had restored so lovingly. And, worst of all, her basic trust in Gerry gone; great gaping holes opening up in their marriage.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry you’re distressed, Mrs Jones, but …’

  ‘I’m not distressed. At least, not about the house. Or the bloody furniture.’ She was startled by her own words – she never swore. ‘I’m upset because my husband bloody lied to me.’ She slumped back in her chair, embarrassed by her outburst, tears still sliding down her face.

  ‘Yes, but I’m sure he did it with the best of intentions, to spare you any worry, my dear. I see it very often in this business. Many husbands mean well, but, alas, they get themselves into financial tangles and are then reluctant to admit it, even to their nearest and dearest. Look, what I suggest is that we have a second meeting when you’ve had time to digest the news. And meanwhile, here’s a detailed breakdown of …’

  She took the folder from him. She didn’t give a damn about the figures – tax returns, outstanding debts. What mattered was her marriage. Had Gerry deceived her from the start, or only in the last few years?

  ‘I’ll phone you in a day or two, Mrs Jones, and we can make another appointment.’

  ‘Thank you.’ In a daze she let him lead her to the door, aware that he was supporting her with a kindly, condescending arm. And then she was handed over to the receptionist – the bewildered child who must be guided to the exit, dismissed with a pat on the head.

  She stumbled out into the clamour of the High Street, flinching at the slap of the sun. She looked around in confusion – the place seemed utterly alien. The shop-signs and hoardings might as well have been in Urdu for all the sense she could make of them. But she was causing an obstruction, standing like a dummy in the middle of the pavement. A woman with a pushchair was trying to get past, her baby whimpering fretfully and another child dragging at her arm.

  She made herself walk on, blinded by the display of fruit outside a greengrocer’s: vicious greens, stinging yellows, a lurid pile of blood-red plums. Other people lived in 3-D Technicolor, but her world had become dark and flat, like an old black and white television set with blurred pictures, fuzzy sound. Gerry too was receding into shadow. Had she ever really known him? What hurt the most was the fact that he hadn’t confided in her. Investing in a theatre company would be a long and complex process – negotiations, phone-calls, maybe trips to Manchester, back to their old haunts. But she hadn’t known a thing about it. And when the project folded, he must have felt an appalling sense of shock. Yet he had still concealed the whole disaster. To spare her, Mr Ashby said. But how much worse to find out now and feel so bitterly betrayed.

  She trudged on along the street, unsure where she was going, but too despondent to drive home. She ought to be thinking about practical matters: when to put the house on the market, how to pay off the debts, but she couldn’t think about anything except Gerry, her late husband. Her legs felt weak and shaky. She hadn’t eaten since last night, and then only a mug of instant soup, which she’d somehow managed to force down, gagging on the slimy noodles. Gerry liked decent home-made soup, with bone-stock and fresh vegetables. She hadn’t realized how much time it took, cooking for him, shopping. She avoided all those shops now – they held such painful memories: the baguettes she’d bought him from Upper Crust, his favourite fish from Webster’s, the butcher’s spiced game sausages. Anyway, there was no point in cooking for one.

  Yet all around, people were bustling in and out of shops or carrying loaded bags. Life went on – other people’s life. A young couple just in front of her were strolling along the pavement arm in arm, dressed in matching tee-shirts. And a woman with three children was sharing out a bag of sweets between them; a man planting rows of pansies in the flower-bed by the war memorial.

  She sat down on the bench and watched him, affronted by the richness of the purple velvet petals. Nature was so callous: flowers riotously in bloom, weeds sprouting on the path, everything lush and fulfilled but her. Yet even her own body was resilient – her fringe was growing out, her nails needed cutting, and she had noticed this morning that the hair on her legs was beginning to show through. Surely such processes ought to have stopped, in deference to Gerry.

  Gerry. The actor. The man who could be a spider, or Macbeth. And who’d had such a marvellous gift for improvisation, such an electrifying voice. She remembered him as Kent in King Lear: dropping his voice to a whisper as he accepted banishment – a shellburst of a whisper which could be heard up in the gods.

  It must have been a terrible wrench for him, giving up the theatre, like ripping out some part of himself or sacrificing a limb. He had often told her how satisfying it was to be part of a company and connected to an audience. A troupe of actors was almost like a family, intimate, supportive. It made one feel less alone; provided a sense of purpose and community. She could understand that better now when she was alone and purposeless. Yet at the time, she had let herself be influenced by trivial worries about how they’d make ends meet. If only he were here, beside her, she could apologize, explain. His sudden death had left so much unsaid. ‘It wasn’t easy, Gerry,’ she said desperately, ‘being married to an actor. You were always out, or away, or busy learning lines. And it was a constant struggle to pay the bills, especially as we had the children so early …’

  She got up from the bench and walked slowly round the flowerbed, remembering the many times they had been behind with the rent, or even short of food. It was easy to look back with nostalgia at leaky houseboats and a bohemian youth, but the reality was chronic fatigue, since she was often working full-time as well as looking after the children. That was no excuse, though. Gerry must have resented her profoundly for suggesting he took on that dreary sales job with Salford Office Supplies.

  ‘It was just to tide us over,’ she pleaded in her defence. ‘It never even crossed my mind that you wouldn’t act again. Or that we’d move down south, and that eventually you’d own a business …

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bsp; The gardener straightened up and rubbed his back. Then he packed away his seed-trays and walked past her without a word. It was as if he hadn’t seen her; as if she didn’t exist. She was alone now with the sun, which fixed her with its insolent stare. Wherever she went, it seemed to seek her out, accuse her.

  ‘You didn’t kill his passion for the theatre, you simply drove it underground. Can’t you see? – that’s why he stockpiled all those theatre programmes and kept every single copy of Plays and Players. And why he put money into a fringe company connected with his drama-school days.’

  Angrily she looked round for some shade. There was a tiny patch of shadow by the war memorial, but even there she couldn’t escape the hectoring voice.

  ‘No wonder he didn’t tell you. You’d only have been boringly practical and nagged him about the risks. But it’s obvious why he did it. It was the only way he had of keeping in touch with his profession, resurrecting the dead actor.’

  It was the actor she had fallen in love with – the wild, Byronic rebel who was such a thrilling contrast to her prudent, industrious father. Yet she had played her part in changing him into a prudent, industrious businessman.

  She searched vainly for a tissue. Her handkerchief was damp already, ridiculously small. She had better buy some Kleenex from the chemist – man-size, marriage-size.

  She crossed the road, wheeling round as someone called her name. Hastily she wiped her eyes on her sleeve, forced a semblance of a smile. It was Stella Watts from the dress shop, a woman she detested.

  ‘How are you, dear? I’m so sorry about your husband. I heard the news from Mrs Cunningham.’

  Catherine mumbled an inaudible reply. To them Gerry’s death was just another juicy item of gossip.

  ‘I have to say you don’t look well at all, dear. It must have been an awful shock.’

  Catherine backed away. Stella was standing uncomfortably close, peering into her face; her perfume cloyingly sweet, her body hot and overbearing.

  ‘It’s a dreadful business, isn’t it?’ Stella shook her head. ‘D’ you know, I heard on the news the other day that someone, somewhere, drops dead of a heart attack every half-hour.’

  ‘Really?’ Catherine muttered, as the statistic expanded into a hideous image: parents, spouses, lovers, collapsing with that strangled gasp, in every household across the globe.

  ‘Ah, well, duty calls! I’d better get back to my customers. But do pop in, dear, won’t you, and we can have a little natter. Oh, and by the way, I’ve got some lovely new autumn stock …’

  Catherine watched in relief as Stella strode off towards her shop. At least the wretched woman hadn’t talked about Gerry ‘passing away’ – the loathsome phrase her next-door neighbour used. It made him sound so flimsy, as if his reassuring bulk had crumbled and dissolved.

  But that’s exactly how it is, she thought with a shudder. He’s no more than a few ashes now, scattered in a rose garden.

  She made herself walk into Boots, her face a rigid mask. Gerry must have dissembled like that, presenting her with a cheerful facade when he had just lost thousands of pounds. What sort of inadequate wife had she been if he hadn’t dared to tell her? And shouldn’t she have sensed that something was wrong? He had often been quite irritable, now she came to think about it – snapping at her for nothing, or complaining of tension headaches – but she had simply put it down to overwork.

  She wandered desolately along the aisles, trying to remember why she had come in here. Tissues, that was it. Row upon row of useless products seemed to be shouting for her attention – everything but tissues.

  She stopped abruptly as she caught sight of herself in a mirror on the make-up counter. She looked absolutely terrible: her cheeks blotchy and inflamed, her hair hanging limply around her face. If Gerry were to see her now, he would barely recognize her. She moved closer to the mirror, shocked at the tiny lines around her eyes – she hadn’t even noticed them before. Had Gerry found her plain these last few years? Middle-aged and overweight? Undesirable?

  ‘Can I help you, madam?’

  The salesgirl was about seventeen, with long black hair and dark lustrous eyes. ‘No thanks,’ she said tersely, resenting the girl’s complacent bloom of youth. What if Gerry had been unfaithful: a liaison kept secret, like his investment in the fringe theatre? All those nights he’d been out late – visiting a stockist, having a drink with a customer – he might actually have been seeing some woman. That would explain the debts: expensive presents, hotel rooms.

  She stared at the array of cosmetics: lipstick, blushers, eye-gloss. It was true she had let herself go. She dressed up for special occasions, but not at home, for Gerry. It was too late now, too late to keep her husband. Too late to ask him outright if he had ever had a mistress, and why he’d deceived her over the pension plan. For all she knew, the two might be connected. Suppose he had only backed the venture because the woman running it was one of his old flames? Or some stunning actress he had known since drama school? They would have had so much in common: the language they spoke, their training, their ambitions and ideals. What did she and Gerry have in common? Not much these last few years – except a failing business and an over-mortgaged house.

  She crashed her basket to the floor. She didn’t want beauty products, or tissues for that matter. Why the hell should she cry for a man who’d betrayed her? She was furious with him – furious with him for dying. Furious with the lot of them: registrars, accountants, those clumsy bungling ambulancemen who could have saved him if they’d tried. And the witless cardiologist who could only bleat, ‘I’m sorry, it’s too late, Mrs Jones.’

  She turned on her heel and blundered to the door, tears streaming down her cheeks. Someone caught her arm, tried to steady her. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She shook her head, pulled her arm away. She had lost her husband twice over – that was what was wrong. One Gerry had died six weeks ago, and another just today – the man she thought she knew.

  Part Two

  Chapter Four

  Catherine sloshed a glassful of brandy into the melted chocolate mixture, grinning to herself. It was the first time she’d rebelled. She was tired of being the perfect mother-in-law in Antonia’s immaculate house, tired of eating healthily. She wondered sometimes why Andrew didn’t object to all the self-righteous salads and weight-watchers’ this and that, especially as he had never been fat in his life. But she, at least, had decided to take a stand, and so was making her most wicked chocolate mousse (defying Antonia’s request for a low-calorie dessert).

  She set the saucepan aside while she whipped a pint of double cream, showering in caster sugar. Then she blended the cream with the chocolate, and poured the mixture into a large glass bowl. Actually, she wasn’t looking forward to tonight. Antonia’s dinner parties were something of an ordeal. It was kind of them to include her, but she always felt the odd one out. Everyone else was glowingly young – and in couples – and she certainly wasn’t clever enough to compete with Antonia’s fellow solicitors or Andrew’s Cambridge friends.

  She covered the mousse with clingfilm and put it in the fridge, then did the washing-up. She had promised Antonia she would tidy the whole house before the guests arrived. It shouldn’t take longer than ten minutes, since nothing was ever out of place. Once a show-house, always a show-house – that was number one Manor Close. Andrew and Antonia had snapped it up the minute they had seen it in the so-called executive development in Stoneleigh; enchanted by the champagne-coloured carpets, the Laura Ashley curtains, and stylish printed blinds. Although the house was small (‘compact’ in estate-agent-speak), they had achieved their longed-for third bedroom and a well-tended mini-lawn.

  She drifted into the sitting-room, straightened a couple of cushions, repositioned one out-of-line carnation in the vase of flowers on the table. Frankly, she didn’t feel at home here. She missed the comfortable clutter of her own house; the sense of space and freedom. But her own house had been finally sold, after being on the market for wel
l over a year. She kept wondering if she had made the right decision in moving in with Andrew and Antonia. At the time she’d been so inert, she had let Andrew sort things out, and though she suspected he had offered her a home chiefly out of duty, she had accepted with relief. The prospect of living on her own had seemed too terrifying, after a lifetime of safe coupledom. She had moved directly from her father’s care to Gerry’s, hardly realizing how dependent she had been. But part of her still clung to that dependency.

  Besides, as Andrew pointed out with his usual practicality, living here saved money – she had no rent or mortgage to pay. In fact, her finances weren’t as dire as she had expected. After settling her various debts, including the solicitors’ and accountants’ bills, and paying for the funeral, she was left with a small capital sum. Mr Ashby had worked wonders to ‘maximize her assets’ and, although (infuriatingly) she was just too young to qualify for a widow’s pension, she could manage reasonably well. Indeed, she wished Andrew would let her make a bigger contribution. She was continually offering to pay for things – food, petrol, the major household bills – but he seemed loth to accept her money, treating her as a helpless child who must be taken in and fed, rather than his once capable mother. She tried to earn her keep in other ways, by doing most of the chores, but then she worried that they’d see her as interfering, or that her standards were less meticulous than theirs. Whatever happened, she didn’t want to be a nuisance.

  She picked up Antonia’s graduation photograph, resplendent in its silver frame. There were photos of her daughter-in-law in almost every room – in riding gear, a ballgown, even in her pram. Although she would never dream of admitting it, she wished Andrew had a photo of her somewhere in the house, or, better still, of her and Gerry. But perhaps they weren’t quite suitable for a show-house – too worn around the edges.