Second Skin Page 8

  Reaching the ground floor, she peered in at the sitting-room, again torn between delight and distaste. The room actually smelt – of stale wine, stale curry, cat’s pee – and it was incredibly untidy. Magazines and papers were littered all over the floor; a cluster of dirty mugs stood on top of the rickety piano, while the remains of someone’s supper occupied the sofa. Each chair was from a different era – tubular steel, thirties chintz, and a couple of genuine antiques. None the less, the room had definite charm and wherever you looked there was something to engage the eye. Every inch of wall space was covered with photographs and pictures – old prints in ornate frames rubbing shoulders with starkly modern paintings – and more canvases were stacked against one wall. Books jammed the shelves and were piled up on the floor: glossy tomes on art and film and fashion, as well as lurid-covered paperbacks. And other intriguing objects jostled for attention: an ancient mandolin leaning against a chair, an animal skull with great grinning teeth sitting high up on a shelf and looking down at a sort of abstract sculpture made of steel and string.

  She stifled a fleeting impulse to whisk away the dirty mugs, and remove the egg-stained plates from the sofa. She was a stranger here, a guest. However, Nicky had urged her to help herself to tea in the morning, so she walked through into the kitchen, which was painted mustard-yellow and (inevitably) a shambles. A tabby cat was curled up on the windowsill, a bedraggled creature with scurfy-looking fur. She put out a hand to stroke it, but it shrank away, scratching fretfully at its ear.

  ‘Poor puss,’ she said. ‘D’you want some milk?’ Ditching her rug, she opened the fridge, which contained a dozen cans of beer, a thick coating of ice, and little else. There was an empty milk carton on the table and two torn biscuit-wrappings. Well, it would have to be milkless tea and an imaginary digestive. She turned on the kettle and hunted through the cupboards for the tea bags, which she eventually found in a stone jar labelled SUGAR . The sugar itself was still in its bag – and damp. There appeared to be nothing substantial to eat; no eggs or bacon, no cereals or bread; just a tin of catfood and an impressive array of spices: coriander, turmeric, fenugreek, cardamom, and dozens more, unlabelled.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s curried Whiskas for breakfast,’ she informed the cat, but it had gone back to sleep again. There was still no sound from the rest of the household. At home, she would have been up for at least a couple of hours, helping Andrew and Antonia with their Saturday-morning schedule: hoovering and cleaning, washing the cars, sweeping the garden path – a whirlwind of activity. She made her tea and sat sipping it in deliciously decadent idleness, stretching her legs towards the boiler, which miraculously was hot. Last night had been a milestone: the first time since Gerry’s death that she had enjoyed herself wholeheartedly, without an undercurrent of either guilt or grief. She cupped her hands around the mug, feeling a glow of warmth inside her.

  ‘God, it’s perishing down here!’

  Nicky was standing in the doorway, dressed in luridly-striped leggings and a faded navy sweatshirt. ‘Hi, Catherine,’ she said with a yawn. ‘Did you sleep okay?’

  ‘Yes, thanks – amazingly well.’

  ‘Good. More than I did! I’ve got a splitting headache.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Poor you. Would you like a cup of tea? The kettle’s just boiled.’

  ‘Coffee, please.’ Nicky flopped into a chair. ‘It’s in that right-hand cupboard, next to the hob. Do excuse the mess. Sharing a house seems to make everyone sink to the lowest common denominator. Slob’s law, I suppose you’d call it. Darren’s the worst, I have to say. But I don’t like to make a fuss when he was the one who invited me here.’ Nicky lapsed into silence, looking suddenly downcast.

  Catherine washed up another mug, feeling slightly nervous. ‘Is … he in advertising?’ she asked, keen to keep the conversation going.

  ‘Yeah, my partner.’

  ‘You mean your … boyfriend?’

  Nicky’s eyebrows shot up. ‘No way! He’s only twenty-seven. We are great friends, though, which takes some doing, actually, when we see so much of each other. No – partners is the term we use at work. Every copywriter is teamed with an art director and the two of you share an office and work on ideas together. I suppose it is confusing. I remember one of the girls at the agency saying she’d told her next-door neighbour that her partner was expecting a baby. The poor woman was terribly embarrassed – she assumed they must be lesbians who’d gone in for artificial insemination.’

  Catherine laughed and passed Nicky her coffee. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t any milk.’

  ‘Shit! I bet that’s Jo. She eats us out of house and home. Well, she can bloody well go and buy some more.’ Nicky banged her mug down, slopping coffee on the table.

  ‘And what does Jo do?’ Catherine asked, hoping to sort out Nicky’s house-mates before they put in an appearance.

  ‘She’s a journalist. She works two days a week for that new glossy mag Elite. She does a sort of book column – not so much reviews, more gossip from the literary world. You know, who’s sleeping with their publisher – all that sort of stuff. And the rest of the time she works freelance.’ Nicky took a sip of coffee and pulled a face. ‘Pass the sugar, could you, Catherine. Thanks.’ She took three spoonfuls, stirring vigorously. ‘Believe it or not, Jo and Darren went to school together. They come from the same Hampshire village, and when they both got jobs in London, they decided to share a flat. Then Fiona arrived a few months later – you’re sleeping in her room. She’s a photographer and, luckily for us, she’s got a share of a tiny studio in Islington. Otherwise there’d be cameras all over the place, or she’d be trying to turn the kitchen into a darkroom or something. Still, who am I to complain? I’m the new girl here. Well, maybe not so new. I moved in almost a year ago.’ Nicky’s voice had become despondent. ‘I never really meant to stay that long. It was just a sort of … stopgap thing.’

  ‘So where were you living before?’

  ‘Battersea. In a super flat near the river.’ Nicky kicked her foot against the chair-rung. ‘That was with my real partner. But once we had a place together, the whole thing fell apart. So in the end we gave up the flat and both of us moved out. That’s how I landed up here. You could say Darren took pity on me. You see, I’d more or less hit rock bottom and just didn’t have the heart to find my own place. It was decent of him, really, because I was pretty useless at work and he covered for me there as well. Sean and I had been together eight years, so I was shattered when it all broke up.’

  ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. It must have been quite awful.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I should have seen the warning signs. I mean, he was getting really heavy, wanting kids – which I’m not ready for – and expecting me to settle down.’ Nicky scrunched up the biscuit-paper and tossed it in the bin. ‘I think it may have been jealousy on his part. You see, I was earning more than him and he couldn’t handle it. And he hated me being late home. It was like living with a nagging wife. Mind you, I miss him terribly. In other ways we had a lot in common.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine repeated, touched that Nicky should confide in her so freely when they had known each other less than twenty-four hours.

  ‘Well, I should have got over it by now. In fact, I’ve been meaning to look for somewhere on my own. I’m much too old for this lark. I had enough of flat-shares in my twenties.’

  ‘How old are you?’ Catherine asked, hoping it didn’t sound rude.

  ‘Ancient. Thirty-five.’

  ‘I’m forty-five next birthday.’

  ‘Well, you don’t look it, that’s all I can say. And anyway, it’s different for you – you’re married.’

  Catherine kept her eyes fixed on the table, studying the bare wood. ‘Actually, I’m … I’m not married.’

  Nicky looked bewildered. ‘But I thought Jon said …’

  Catherine put her mug down. ‘That was my fault. It was all extremely awkward, I must admit. You see, my husband … died. But Jonathan didn’t know, and I just
couldn’t bring myself to tell him at a party.’

  ‘Died? God, Catherine, I … don’t know what to say. Was it … recent?’

  ‘Well, no. Eighteen months ago. But we’d rather lost touch with Jonathan and …’

  ‘Hell.’ Nicky looked embarrassed. ‘Forgive me, Catherine. I’ve been rambling on about me and Sean, and we weren’t even married.’

  ‘Well, that makes it worse in some ways. I mean, people don’t tend to sympathize like they do with a bereavement. Yet it can be every bit as painful. My friend Maeve broke up with her partner and she said it was a bit like a death.’

  ‘Yeah, it did feel like that, especially the first month. D’you know’ – Nicky looked up, smiling, from her cup – ‘it’s really nice to talk to you about it. The others don’t understand. They’re much younger, for one thing, and they’ve never had a serious relationship. They just don’t realize what a wrench it is to lose your home and the whole way of life you’ve built with someone. But you don’t need me to tell you that. My situation’s nothing compared with what you’ve been through.’

  ‘Mm.’ Catherine nodded. ‘Gerry and I were married twenty-five years.’

  ‘Good God, you must have been a child bride! Sorry, that sounds awfully flippant, but …’ She broke off with a curse as the ear-splitting bray of a trumpet reverberated through the ceiling. ‘That’s Darren, I’m afraid. He’s into Wynton Marsalis. Christ! He and I may share a house and an office, but we bloody well don’t share a taste in music. Oh, well’ – she grinned – ‘at least the din will wake Jo and she can go and get some milk. I loathe my coffee black. It’s funny, you know,’ she continued, rocking back in her chair. ‘Jo can spend all day quite happily, fussing over half a measly paragraph, yet she’s bone idle when it comes to shopping and stuff.’

  At that moment a small, dark-haired girl bounced into the kitchen. ‘Ah, Jo, right on cue! I was just having a go at you. This is Catherine. We met last night.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Jo. ‘And if it’s the milk you’re slagging me off about, what can I say? I’m sorry. I forgot.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Catherine smiled, warming to the girl, who was pretty and petite, with dark curly hair and hazel eyes. The rough donkey jacket she wore looked incongruous with her stylish velvet hat. Though who was she to talk, in mismatched socks and baggy tracksuit bottoms? Actually, she found it rather refreshing that it didn’t seem to matter in this house how weird or even dishevelled you looked. Nicky’s hair was sticking up on end and there was a rent in the sleeve of Jo’s jacket.

  ‘Jo, can you get the papers while you’re out?’ Nicky asked, returning to her chair. ‘And some more digestive biscuits. I see you’ve finished those as well.’

  ‘That was Darren, if you don’t mind. He went out drinking last night and said he had to line his stomach. Okay, I’m off. And don’t talk about me while I’m gone.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got better things to do.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Nicky?’ Jo demanded. ‘If it was Darren being so shitty, I’d say he was pre-menstrual.’

  Nicky smiled, despite herself. ‘Sorry. I’ve got this terrible headache and I can’t find the sodding aspirin.’

  ‘Well why didn’t you ask? I’ve got a whole bottleful upstairs. I bought them in case I couldn’t make the deadline on that piece for Harper’s and Queen and decided to top myself. I’ll go and get them.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Are you working today?’

  Jo shook her head. ‘No, why?’

  ‘I thought we could all go out for brunch. They’ve opened this new place in Camden High Street and I want an excuse to try it.’

  ‘Mm, sounds a good idea.’

  ‘Is that okay with you, Catherine? I mean, you’re not planning to rush back home?’

  ‘Well, I … I hadn’t really thought.’

  ‘Stay, then. It’s quite fun here on a Saturday, with the market and everything. And it’s such a super day, we could go up to Primrose Hill. Darren’s got a kite he made himself – and it actually flies!’

  ‘Are you sure I won’t be in the way?’

  ‘No, ’course not. In fact, I’m dying to find out more about the gorgeous Jonathan. I only met him recently and I’m intrigued to think you knew him in his youth.’

  ‘He and Gerry were at drama school together.’

  ‘Oh, you were married to an actor. How exciting!’

  Catherine was saved from replying by Darren’s bleary-eyed arrival. At least, she assumed it was Darren, since only one man lived here and Darren looked fiercely male, despite his ponytail. He was wearing an almost indecently short dressing-gown, and very little else. His long legs were furred with thick black hair and more tufts of hair sprouted exuberantly on his chest His stubble, though, was the well-tended designer kind, and his ponytail was tied neatly with a ribbon. Catherine tried to keep her eyes from his legs. He had only to bend over and all would be revealed.

  ‘Hello,’ she said shyly, after Nicky made the introductions.

  Darren grunted in acknowledgement, then asked her if she smoked.

  ‘Sony, no,’ she said. Noxious fumes were forbidden in salubrious Manor Close.

  ‘Pity. I’m out of fags.’

  ‘Darren, you are foul. You’ve only just met Catherine and already you’re bumming fags off her.’

  ‘I’ll get you some,’ said Jo, who had returned with Nicky’s aspirin. ‘I’m going out anyway. But it’s strictly cash up front. Last time you didn’t pay me back for weeks.’

  ‘That’s libel.’

  ‘You mean slander, actually, but never mind. It’s neither – just the truth.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so pedantic, Jo. I’m not in the mood. I feel really shitty.’

  ‘What’s wrong with everyone this morning?’ Jo herself looked smugly healthy. ‘Here, have some aspirin too, Darren. And if you want your fags, I’m leaving in two minutes and I need money on the table.’

  ‘He’s not as bad as he sounds,’ Nicky whispered once Darren had shambled out of the kitchen. ‘But he takes for ever to wake up. He’s at his best around midnight.’

  ‘That’s libel too,’ groused Darren, reappearing with a five-pound note in his hand.

  ‘Slander.’ Jo grabbed the note and slammed out of the front door.

  ‘Ah, blessed peace,’ said Nicky, shaking three aspirins from the bottle.

  ‘What’s the matter with the cat?’ asked Catherine anxiously. She had noticed it scratching its ear again and whimpering.

  Nicky shrugged. ‘Emotional deprivation. It’s Fiona’s cat and Fiona’s away. Her mother’s ill, so she’s had to go back home and hold the fort. She thought she’d be back in a couple of weeks, but it’s been well over a month now, and poor William’s pining for her.’

  ‘William?’

  ‘Yeah. She named him after Wordsworth, though he’s a most unpoetic beast, William the Conqueror would be more appropriate – at least before he started moping.’

  ‘Maybe it’s something physical, though? I mean, his ear seems to be bothering him.’

  ‘He’ll survive,’ said Darren. ‘Fiona should be back next week. They’re taking her mother into hospital, which lets her off the hook. And us,’ he added, extracting a dirty glass from the sink and filling it with water. ‘It’s a bloody nuisance looking after Will.’

  ‘Oh, he’s okay,’ said Nicky. ‘And it’s William. I have to warn you, Catherine, Darren insists on shortening names. He calls Fiona Fee and it drives her up the wall. I’m Nick, of course, and you’ll be Cath, no doubt.’

  ‘My father would go mad!’ said Catherine. ‘He even used to object if people pronounced it Cath-rine. I had this friend at school called Maggie, but he called her Marg-ar-ret, much to her annoyance.’

  ‘Well, I’m Nic-o-la,’ said Nicky, enunciating absurdly. ‘And I live with Jo-se-phine Ro-sann-a.’

  Darren put his glass down, ‘I didn’t know her second name was Rosanna. God, what a bloody mouthful!’

  ‘Well, don’t
let on I told you. She’ll be furious – she hates it.’

  ‘Ros,’ said Darren reflectively.

  ‘Ssh, she’s coming.’ The front door had just slammed again, and footsteps were approaching.

  ‘Which means she can’t have done much shopping.’

  ‘Jo never does much shopping.’

  ‘So is anyone cooking today?’ asked Darren, fiddling with the box of matches, as if impatient to light up.

  ‘We’re eating out – all of us.’

  ‘Oh, really? Thanks for telling me.’

  ‘I’m telling you now. We’re going to Alfredo’s.’

  ‘Who’s Alfredo – Alf, I mean, of course!’

  ‘It’s that new place Carol recommended. She went there last weekend.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. She liked the decor.’

  ‘We’ll hardly be eating the decor.’

  Jo plonked the shopping on the table: milk, biscuits, the Independent, Guardian and Sun, a couple of glossy magazines, twenty Camels and a tin of Kit-E-Kat.

  Nicky picked the tin up. ‘William’s off his food.’

  ‘What, still?’

  ‘Yeah. Catherine thinks there might be something wrong with him – an ear infection, maybe.’

  ‘Well, I could take him to the vet on Monday. I’m not that busy at the moment.’

  ‘Christ! It’ll cost a bomb,’ Darren said from behind the Sun.

  ‘No more than a week’s supply of your bloody cigarettes.’

  ‘Lay off, will you, Jo? Just because you’ve given up …’

  ‘Reformed smokers are the worst,’ agreed Nicky. ‘Once, Sean and I had some friends to dinner and one of them asked him not to smoke. Can you imagine – in his own flat! Of course, it turned out she’d just kicked a forty-a-day habit and was positively oozing virtue.’

  ‘Have you ever smoked?’ Jo asked Catherine, making an obvious effort to include her in the conversation.

  ‘No, never.’ She almost wished she had. Her life seemed suddenly so mundane – no vices, no affairs, no way-out music or high-powered job. ‘Look, let me make the tea,’ she offered. The role of Mum seemed all that she was good for.