Second Skin Page 5

  She sat down on the elegant cream sofa to watch Morning Magazine. Normally it helped to pass the time. But today she began to feel irritated by the relentlessly jolly presenter and the stream of commercials for January sales; besides, if she wasn’t careful she’d turn into a couch potato. She switched off a Colgate toothpaste ad – yet another lovey-dovey couple, relishing a minty kiss – and went upstairs to do a quick tour of inspection. The bathroom was impeccable, as always. Champagne carpet even here, and fixtures and fittings perfectly coordinated: towels, flannels, toothbrushes and soap all harmonized with the bath and basin in a shade called ‘New Gardenia’. The only jarring colour was the Blue Flush in the toilet-bowl, but presumably they didn’t yet make lavatory cleaners to tone with bathroom suites.

  She tried to imagine Gerry here – slopping water all over the place and leaving a tidemark round the bath. Yet the well-trained Andrew managed to shave without depositing a speck of foam on the spotless oval basin, or smearing the shiny taps.

  Next she looked in at the main bedroom – the duvet virginal white and reflected in the bank of mirrored cupboards. The sight of a double bed was still stupidly upsetting, even after all this time. Her room here had a single, but she simply couldn’t adapt to sleeping on her own; sometimes felt like a Siamese twin brutally severed from its other half. And the room could be claustrophobic when she was marooned upstairs in the evenings, pretending she wanted to read or had opted for an early night (but really trying not to intrude on Andrew and Antonia’s privacy).

  Still, in many ways she had reason to be grateful. At least she hadn’t landed up in some poky little flat. And she had certainly made progress since the frozen desolation of the months following the death. She no longer lay awake all night, and she had survived a second Christmas on her own. Of course, she hadn’t been alone – they had driven all the way to Devon and spent the week at Antonia’s parents’ house, but although her face had ached with the strain of being cheerful, she hadn’t disgraced herself in public by breaking down and crying.

  The clock in the hall chimed ten. It must be later, surely? Perhaps she’d go out for a walk – that would kill half an hour. She put on her coat and fur-lined boots, locked the house carefully and emerged into the frosty air. The road was deserted, as usual – not so much as the twitch of a net curtain. Sometimes, during the day, it seemed as if no one else actually lived here; the whole place just a cardboard cut-out.

  She walked briskly to the recreation ground. There might be one or two young mothers there, pushing their children on the swings. It would be nice to talk to someone, perhaps make a local friend.

  No, not a soul, unfortunately. It was probably too miserable for people to venture out – a dank and foggy day, with a great weight of pewter-coloured sky pressing down on the dripping trees. The swings and slides looked uninviting, wet with condensation and chilly to the touch. She wished she had a dog for company. She and Kate had always wanted one, but Andrew had been asthmatic as a child (and was still allergic to fur and feathers) so pets were out of the question.

  ‘Fido!’ she called suddenly, breaking into a run and hearing her imaginary dog racing along behind her – a Dalmatian maybe, all lollopy and spotty. Or a puppy would be even better: an inducement for people to stop and talk.

  She continued running, out of the gate and up Tregunter Road, astonished at her energy. Her normal mood was lethargic, if not downright weary, and it seemed almost an affront to Gerry to feel so invigorated. She was also starving hungry. Breakfast had been Special K with delicate slices of peach. And they always had it early, so that Andrew and Antonia could catch the 7.42. (That was togetherness on a grand scale: catching the same train. But then Andrew and Antonia did everything together.)

  ‘Come on, Fido,’ she panted. ‘Let’s get back for our Pedigree Chum.’ An image flashed into her mind of Antonia serving Spiller’s Shapes instead of coq au vin; the sophisticated guests wagging their tails in excitement as they crunched their way through the biscuits and then begged for marrowbones.

  ‘Sorry, old chap, I’m afraid you’ll have to disappear. Muddy paws are definitely verboten.’

  She sat on the front step to remove her boots, thinking of her daughter, as she did so often nowadays. Would Kate ever get her dog, ever settle down? She hadn’t been home since the funeral, and phone conversations were always too short and often rather self-conscious. Occasionally they talked about Gerry and she could tell from the tightness in her voice that Kate was still grieving. Yet how could she help her, halfway across the world? Perhaps they’d be reunited next Christmas.

  She let herself in, remembering to put her coat in the cupboard, rather than draping it over the banisters. Then she went into the kitchen to find something to eat. The fridge was full of food, but it was mostly for this evening’s dinner. She and Antonia had prepared the salmon pâté and coq au vin last night, Antonia watching surreptitiously in case she smuggled in any illicit substances, like butter.

  Which reminded her – she’d better have a look at the mousse and make sure that it was setting. She put it on the table and peeled the clingfilm back. Damn! It was still runny – too much brandy, no doubt. She tried a teaspoonful. Yes, runny but delicious. Using a clean spoon, a tablespoon this time, she swirled a dollop of the mixture into her mouth. It tasted wonderful: rich and dark and chocolatey, with a distinct kickback from the brandy. She scooped a portion into a dish and ate it quickly, standing up, like a thief. Not that she was stealing – there was plenty left for the others. After years of cooking for Gerry’s healthy appetite, she still tended to over-cater.

  She filled her dish to the top. This was Gerry’s favourite pudding and she was eating it for him. It slipped down so easily; its texture velvety smooth. She pulled a chair up to the table – if she was going to eat, she might as well do the thing in comfort. She moved the big glass bowl towards her and began dipping into that, one spoonful after another. After another. After another. There was a satisfying rhythm to the process, a sense of consolation. She hadn’t realized how empty she was. Since Gerry’s death she had lost two stone – the initial shock had put her off her food completely, and she had gradually got into the habit of missing meals, or grabbing a quick snack. Even here, with Andrew and Antonia, she rarely bothered to eat lunch, except sometimes at the weekends when the two of them weren’t playing golf. But today her appetite had come roaring back, along with a crazy sort of urge to indulge herself, break out.

  She continued eating almost hypnotically, mesmerized by the movement of the spoon. It seemed to dip into the bowl without any assistance from her, then glide towards her mouth, then down again and in again. She was remembering the many times she had made this mousse for Gerry: birthdays, anniversaries, dinners for his business friends. He seemed almost to be there, sitting right beside her and tucking in with his usual gusto, not giving a damn about calories or cholesterol.

  Her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. She stared, appalled – it was empty. She had gobbled the lot – a rich, fattening chocolate mousse, intended for eight people. What a disgusting greedy pig she was! She giggled suddenly. Well, Antonia had her low-calorie dessert: a big bowl full of nothing.

  She wiped her mouth, hardly believing what she had done. Hastily she washed the bowl and mopped a drool of chocolate from the table. That got rid of the evidence, but she still had to produce some sort of pudding for tonight – a light fruit sorbet, perhaps. It would mean another trip to the shops, another bout of cooking.

  She fetched her coat and car keys and was on her way out of the kitchen when she remembered the chocolate wrapper and cream carton – more incriminating evidence. She bundled them into a plastic bag to be disposed of in a litter-bin far from Manor Close. Good thieves covered their tracks.

  She was still laughing as she started the car. Okay, she was a glutton, but no one need ever know. And, amazingly, she didn’t feel the slightest bit sick. She also had the marvellous feeling that Gerry was still with her, laughing too, enjo
ying her rebellion.

  Having bought mangoes and lemons for the sorbet (and a potted plant for Antonia as atonement for her crime), she drove on to Carshalton. The Williamsons were moving in on Monday, so it was her last chance to collect the mail. She hadn’t been to the house for a fortnight – she found it too depressing to see it stripped of its furniture.

  Nervously she let herself in and stood shivering in the hall. An empty house was so unwelcoming, so cold. There were dark patches on the parquet where the furniture had stood; ghost-shapes on the walls where the pictures used to be. Losing the family home was like another death. All the things she and Gerry had bought together had been cleared out by the auctioneers as so much filler for their catalogue. Yet she had to admit it was a huge relief to be rid of the hordes of prospective purchasers. For fifteen solid months she had shown them round, repeating the same selling points like some fatuous estate agent; a smile clamped to her face, while inside she was screaming with frustration. No one seemed inclined to buy, as if they sensed instinctively that the house had been witness to a death, or could feel the weight of her past grief still hanging in the air. It had enraged her to think that a stream of thoughtless strangers were trampling over Gerry; sitting in his chair; criticizing his taste.

  ‘It’s a bit dark, this room, isn’t it? We’ll have to change the colour scheme.’

  ‘We can always tear that fireplace out. It’s terribly old-fashioned.’

  ‘Good riddance!’ she shouted at their departing shades, hearing her voice echo dully through the hall.

  She collected up the letters from the mat – several addressed to Gerry. How could they not realize he was dead? For her, it was the first numbing fact she woke to every morning; her last despondent thought each night.

  She took the letters into the sitting-room and perched on the window-seat, wishing she could light a fire and warm her chilly hands. Most of the stuff was junk mail – circulars and catalogues – and there was a letter from an old customer enquiring about the business. Peculiar how she missed it. Although she had never really liked the work, at least it had kept her fully occupied. There hadn’t been time to wonder whether she was happy or fulfilled, with the phone ringing every minute and all the bills to pay and deliveries to chase and customers to keep sweet. And of course it was such a help to Gerry if she dealt with the admin, leaving him free to do the selling. Not that he ever thanked her – he simply took her role as general factotum for granted. But then she had taken him for granted; never thought to tell him how grateful she was that he was simply there – alive. And as for the business with the fringe theatre company, well, having tried (and failed) to find out more about it, she had finally managed to convince herself that it was simply an example of Gerry’s famous generosity – albeit on a reckless scale. And then she had done her best to put it out of her mind.

  Frowning, she picked up the last envelope, which was addressed to them both and contained an invitation. The Directors of Shaw Hilliard request the pleasure of your company to celebrate the publication of From Rep to Riches – An Actor’s Life by Jonathan Monroe.

  Jonathan! They hadn’t seen him for an age, not since they’d moved south. They had followed his progress at a distance, of course, and she recalled Gerry snorting once when he read of some new triumph. ‘He’s sold out to television, but then he never had much talent in the first place.’ Poor Gerry – he was clearly jealous. The once impecunious Jonathan had now become a household name, the current star of a new sit-com and regularly featured in the gossip columns. And here he was publishing his memoirs and celebrating with a launch party in Mayfair!

  Well, good for him, that’s all she could say. She must send him a brief note and break the news about Gerry. Not immediately, though – no point in being the spectre at the feast. It seemed odd he hadn’t heard already, but then for the last few years they’d moved in completely different circles. And though Andrew had put a notice in The Times, not many people read death notices for fun. She peered at the date on the embossed white card – the launch was tonight, seven-thirty. So, while she was steaming the mangetout for Antonia, velvet-voiced Jonathan would be greeting his celebrity guests.

  She stuffed the invitation back into its envelope and dragged herself upstairs. There was one remaining thing to be done: clear out Gerry’s clothes. Everything else had gone – either sold or moved to Stoneleigh, but she had refused to disturb the clothes, or let anyone else so much as lay a finger on them. They were still hanging in the built-in wardrobe, exactly as he’d left them. Last time she was here she had brought her largest suitcase, determined to pack them up and dispose of them. But she had lost her nerve and left the case empty on the bedroom floor. Now she flung the lid open and began yanking the suits off their hangers, ruthlessly bundling them in. It was no good weeping over every one, as she had done so many times already; smelling them and fondling them, conjuring up sad memories. If she mummified her grief for ever, she would turn out like her father, who had made her childhood home a shrine to his Great Loss, wearing black, metaphorically, for his remaining thirty years. He had died at sixty-two, but she might live until her eighties, like Gerry’s hardy parents. Which meant she was only half-way through her life.

  It was such a sobering thought, she stopped what she was doing and stood staring into space. What had she achieved since Gerry’s death? Admittedly, selling the house had kept her really busy, but that chapter in her life had closed two months ago. Yet she had made no move to get a job, and was behaving as if she’d retired – not just from work, from life. Gerry would be horrified. He had always assumed she could juggle several jobs at once – children, housework, the business – and still have time to ice party-cakes or run up home-made clothes. Yet because he had died she was living in a sort of purdah, battening on her son and frittering away the time watching mindless soaps. She had thought herself lucky that she could scrape by without working – just about. But why the hell should she choose to live like that? She had all the necessary skills to get another job, for heaven’s sake. The thought of toiling in some soulless office wasn’t exactly inspiring, but better that than spending the next forty years stagnating on the sidelines, and forced to deny herself luxuries like holidays and decent clothes.

  She returned to the wardrobe and folded the last suit – one of Gerry’s favourites: charcoal-grey and flatteringly cut. She clicked the suitcase shut and carried it down the stairs. The clothes could go to a charity shop, then she’d find a good employment agency and put herself on the market – like the house.

  The British Heart Foundation shop was squeezed between a Chinese restaurant and Croydon Camera-Mart. She had driven all this way to avoid meeting anyone she knew; it also seemed appropriate, since Gerry had died of a heart attack. Carshalton had only Age Concern, and it was right opposite Stella Watts’s boutique.

  She heaved the suitcase out of the boot and lugged it to the doorway. Should she simply dump it and flee, or take it in and unpack the clothes (which might upset her all over again)?

  ‘Excuse me, are you going in? If not, do be an angel and let me past, would you? I’m fearfully late for an appointment.’

  Catherine was startled by the voice, which sounded vaguely familiar – commanding yet melodious. She turned to see a striking woman with auburn hair swept up on top, and wearing a scarlet fun fur and long black shiny boots. She too was carrying a case, a distinctive-looking one in olive-coloured leather.

  Catherine stood back to let her pass, wondering what so dazzling a creature was doing in this dreary place. Then, hesitantly, she followed her inside and watched her dart towards the young girl at the till and kiss her on both cheeks.

  ‘I’m back! Did you have a lovely Christmas, Janet? Mine was utterly loathsome!’ She gave a dramatic throaty laugh, then lifted the case on to the counter and began tossing garments to left and right – exotic items in brilliant colours, quite unlike the rejects hanging forlornly round the shop. ‘I decided it was high time for another clear-out,
’ she continued in her ringing voice. ‘I’m such a dreadful hoarder, you know!’

  ‘Gosh, thank you,’ said the girl, picking up a shimmering sequined dress and inspecting it admiringly. ‘They’re absolutely beautiful. The last lot sold like hot cakes.’

  ‘Splendid! Glad to be of help. Must dash, though – I’m atrociously behind schedule.’

  Catherine stood immobile, watching the grand exit as the woman seized the empty case and swept out of the door. She saw her dash across the street and zoom away in a low-slung sports car, the same red as her coat.

  Back at the counter, a second, older, assistant had joined the younger one and they were examining the clothes together, jabbering excitedly.

  ‘You know who that was, don’t you, Peg?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere, but I just can’t place her at the moment.’

  ‘It’s Marsha Booth. You know – from EastEnders. Apparently she lives up near the golf club, in one of those big swanky houses. She’s ever so friendly, though. I’ve only met her twice and she treats me like I’m family or something.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed! I have to say I warm to that. I mean, you’d think she’d be a bit of a snob, wouldn’t you? Most well-known people wouldn’t dream of coming to a shop like this.’

  Catherine listened in surprise. She had seen Marsha Booth just yesterday – on screen – but had failed to recognize her in the flesh. And it seemed odd that she should live in plodding Croydon, rather than upmarket Hampstead or Belgravia.

  She cleared her throat, feeling distinctly drab. ‘I’ve, er, brought these clothes,’ she murmured, pointing to the case.

  ‘Oh thanks, dear. If you’d like to take them out and pop them on the counter here. I’m afraid there’s not much room. Let’s see if we can clear some space.’