Second Skin - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Wendy Perriam was expelled from a strict convent boarding-school and escaped to St Anne's College, Oxford, where she read History. After a stint in advertising and a succession of more offbeat jobs, she now writes full time.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

(Catherine has plucked up courage to attend a publisher's party - her first solo outing after the death of her actor husband Gerry. Nervous on arrival, she's now visibly more relaxed, although she hasn't mentioned the fact she's widowed.)

'You won't believe this, Simon,' she said, lolling back in her chair as she swallowed the last spoonful of creme brulee, 'but earlier today I ate a whole chocolate mousse - I mean enough for eight or ten. I simply wolfed the lot.'

'You didn't!' He opened his eyes wide; unusual eyes, green, with long fair lashes.

'Yes. Wasn't that wicked of me?' She giggled. It seemed hilariously funny. She was laughing a lot. And drinking a lot. The wine just kept coming and coming. There had been Muscadet with the sole, claret with the duck, and some unpronounceable sweet wine with dessert. Not to mention all the champagne beforehand. Well, never mind, they'd be bringing coffee soon, and she would have hers strong and black. It wouldn't do to sit giggling on the train all the way to Stoneleigh. She should have gone home hours ago, but Jonathan had asked her to stay on for the dinner hosted by the publishers, Shaw Hilliard, for a select few party guests. Simon had added his own inducements and then bagged the seat beside her, gradually edging closer and closer throughout the course of the meal, until now his thigh was squeezed tightly against hers. It felt really rather nice; warm and sort of tantalising.

There was a minor commotion as Jonathan lurched to his feet. He looked distinctly the worse for wear and had spilt red wine down his shirt. 'I'd like to propose a toast,' he said, seizing his glass and slopping more wine on the tablecloth. 'To my fantastic editor, who's not only beautiful but a bloody genius.' He bowed to the fragile-looking woman on his right. She had been drinking only Perrier all evening, Catherine had observed. In fact, most of the Shaw Hilliard contingent had remained sober, in all senses, while the author and his friends subsided into various degrees of drunkenness. Nicky had taken off her earrings and her shoes, and was draped across an actor called Sebastian. Angus and his neighbour were duelling with their cheese-knives, and a brash woman in television whose name she'd completely forgotten was using her untouched pudding as an ashtray.

'Without Margery,' Jon continued, swaying slightly on his feet, 'this book would never have been written.'

He had evidently forgotten that he had already proposed a toast to her when they'd first sat down to dinner, and used almost the same words (though minus the 'bloody'). And everyone had toasted him: drunk to the success of his book and the success of his new TV series.

'And while I'm on my feet ...'

'You won't be for much longer, by the looks of it!' Kevin called jeeringly from the far end of the table.

'Shut up and stop barracking,' Jonathan snorted. 'As I was saying ... What was I saying? Now you've put me off my stroke.' His eyes flicked from face to face, as if seeking inspiration, then came to rest on Catherine. 'Ah, yes!' - his face brightened - 'I want to drink to absent friends. And especially my old friend Gerry Jones. I haven't seen him for ages, but we were very close at one time. Catherine here is his wife.' He gestured to her grandly. 'And a very wonderful woman. But unfortunately Gerry couldn 't come himself.'

Aghast, Catherine tried to stop him. 'Listen, Jon ... I ... he ...' It was useless - he couldn't hear. He was still rambling on about his old friend from the north. Her cheeks were on fire and she was aware of Simon looking at her oddly, perhaps worrying about a jealous husband's wrath.

At last, Jonathan sat down, and Catherine somehow managed to stumble to her feet. 'I'm terribly sorry, but I ... I'm afraid I'll have to go.'

'Can I order you a taxi?' asked the Shaw Hilliard sales director, who was sitting opposite.

'Thank you, but I'm going by train.'

'Train? At this hour?'

'Why? What is the time?'

'Ten to one.'

'It can't be!' The last train to Stoneleigh was 11.51.

'I'm afraid it is. But don't worry, let me phone a cab.'

A cab, she thought - all the way to Stoneleigh, and after midnight. That would cost a fortune.

'I'm sorry I can't offer you a lift,' said Simon, also getting up. 'But I never drink and drive - well, not since my brother got done last year.'

Nicky uncoiled her long body sinuously from Sebastian's lap. 'Why not stay the night with me, Catherine? I'm just about to leave.'

'No, honestly, I ...'

'It's no trouble, really. We've got a room free at the top of the house.'

'But are you sure? I mean, it's very kind of you, but I don't like to impose.'

'Don't be silly, I'd be pleased to help out. And if Jonathan speaks so highly of you, you must be okay! Isn't that right, Jon?' She kissed him on the cheek. 'Give me a buzz tomorrow and we'll arrange a drink or something. Oh, and talking of phones, I've got my mobile here, Catherine. D'you want to ring your husband and tell him where you are?'

'He's ... away,' she blurted out, feeling more and more embarrassed. 'But I really ought to phone my son, if you don't mind. He'll be getting rather worried.' She looked down at her jumpsuit, almost surprised to see that her finery hadn't turned to rags. Midnight had struck (unnoticed) and the glamorous freewheeling actress had changed back into a suburban wife and mother.