Beneath the Skin Read online

  There was a time when Antonia tried to put her mother straight, to tell her she was wrong or forgetful. She wanted to argue, to shout at her, to shake the mother she missed so much out of this placid, blown-up version.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she says instead. It’s all there is to say.

  ‘Has Jimmy come with you?’ The light shines behind Candy’s brown eyes as she looks to the door and she struggles to heave her body from the chair.

  Antonia opens her mouth to reply. It’s the same every week. Her mother’s excitement and her hope. Then her tears. It’s exhausting.

  ‘Now we’ve talked about Jimmy, haven’t we, Candy?’ The loud reply comes from behind Antonia, saving her from saying the words yet again. ‘Jimmy can’t visit because he died a long time ago. But your lovely girl here comes every Sunday, rain or shine. So are you going to give her a smile and tell her what you’ve been up to all week?’

  Antonia nods her thanks to the carer, hoping to conceal the irritation she feels. She understands the staff are there to help, but she hates the lack of privacy, the way her mother and her history are public property. They once spoke so blaringly that she declared, ‘Mum isn’t deaf, you know!’ but she’s learned to be compliant, to keep her mouth shut. She’s swallowed the furious words that she’s wanted so often to scream at the do-gooders, the social workers and the doctors, ‘Where were you all when we needed you?’

  ‘So, Mum, tell me all about Sacha,’ she says brightly. She shakes her head, but not so you’d notice. She hated that dog. It belonged to her father.

  Sundays are good, David loves them. Antonia goes early to visit her mum in Stoke but he has a lie-in, picking at the continental breakfast she leaves by the bed. Later, he has a pub lunch with the lads, a lazy afternoon in front of the TV and more often than not Antonia’s superb lasagne for dinner. But the best part is football, Sunday football for a local team. Eleven o’clock kick-off.

  He turns on the shower in the changing rooms, his mind and limbs still buzzing from the match. It was a tough game in the best possible way. He really got stuck in, though the result was a ‘dirty draw’, as one of the lads put it.

  David’s the oldest player by far. ‘Hey, I’m not forty yet!’ he says to the youngsters repeatedly when they take the piss. But he will be soon. Still, forty is only a number and the lads let him play every Sunday, hangover or not. ‘Go, Dave!’ they laugh when he shows some of the left-footed skill he was famous for at school and at uni.

  It’s ridiculous, he knows, the desire to crow, ‘I was the captain of the first eleven football and cricket team every year at school,’ even after all these years. ‘Yeah, Dave. Whatever,’ would be the inevitable eye-rolling reply. But it was great, it was bloody fantastic to be talented at something and sport, like drama, came so easily to him.

  ‘Larger than life. And bright with it,’ Charlie says of him to anyone who’s listening. But David isn’t bright, he knows that, he struggles with anything too intellectual or demanding. He’s just good at talking, or at least pretending.

  He sings, bellowing out an old song about a great pretender, as the hot water of the shower smacks his face.

  ‘Don’t give up the day job,’ someone calls from the changing rooms. ‘See you next week, chief.’

  At that moment David is happy. Sport makes him happy. It doesn’t give him time to think.

  Helen feels the heat of Charlie’s anger ballooning as she drives down the leafy lanes of Staffordshire towards home. He’ll burst if he doesn’t let it out soon, she muses to herself. But now isn’t the time for an argument. Rupert is slumped in the back seat of the car, cocooned in an enormous pair of headphones which she thinks look strikingly similar to the ear muffs she had as a child back in Scotland.

  She could be angry too if she wanted to, but an astonishingly wide tractor has inhibited her view of the road ahead and she needs to concentrate on any opportunity to overtake it. She hasn’t time to be stuck here all day. There’s tomorrow’s lecture plan to complete and some marking to do. Her ‘daily dose’ of yoga too. She hopes to crack the Karnapidasana position before bed. Followed by the Savasana, the corpse posture, which isn’t as easy as it looks.

  She glances at Charlie’s face, still beetroot-coloured from his explosion of squawks and spittle at the school. She hadn’t for a moment expected him to behave so bloody childishly in front of Rupert’s headmaster. He’s normally mature and sensible about everything, so cool in times of crisis. But then they are other people’s crises, not theirs. Crisis? What Crisis? she thinks randomly. A boy at Durham had bought her the Supertramp album of that name and they’d listened to it time after time, completely stoned. An early precursor to the corpse, she smiles.

  ‘It’s only suspension for two weeks, Dad. I don’t know why you’re so stressed,’ Rupert declares, the unexpected sound making Helen and the car lurch. ‘Tell him, Mum.’

  ‘I think he heard, darling. And you’ve promised faithfully to revise.’

  Helen nods to herself as she negotiates a hump-backed bridge. She’s outwitted the road hog by taking an alternative route, and despite Charlie’s petulance in front of the headmaster, she’s negotiated a return for Rupert to sit his exams and then to go back to the school for a fresh start after October half term. All sorted without having to resort to Virabhadrasana, the warrior, she chuckles inwardly. She hums a tune as she drives. Everything will be in place and running smoothly by the time she’s on the aeroplane to New York, she’s sure of it.

  David lugs his football kit from the boot of his old Land Rover and stops to admire the new paving on the drive of White Gables. No sign of moss at all. As usual Antonia has done a fantastic job of organising it, he thinks automatically. But he’s suddenly caught by a thought. Paving half an acre is expensive. Has it been paid for? He has no idea. He merely glances at the bank statement when it arrives to check that it’s in credit. That it doesn’t need topping up. That’s all he’s ever needed to know.

  ‘Can we afford it?’ Antonia asked every step of the way through the year-long renovation.

  ‘Of course we can,’ he always replied. ‘And don’t worry about the price, darling. You get what you pay for and you’re absolutely worth it.’

  Antonia pays the workmen by debit or credit card. But it’s his account, the statements come addressed to him, private and confidential. He’s always topped up when he’s needed to. But what now? What now if extra money is needed? He takes a deep breath, reminding himself that it’s only the snagging which remains outstanding and that’s already been paid for, in theory at least. And Antonia doesn’t pry, thank God she doesn’t pry.

  He shakes off the thought of money, trying to rekindle the warm glow of the football match. But as he heads towards the steps he notices the steam of his breath in the cold air and there’s that familiar clasp of apprehension in his chest, the one he’s had since boyhood. He hopes Antonia has driven carefully, it’s a long way to Stoke and he worries about the weather.

  ‘Afternoon, David. I’ve got something for you,’ a voice calls, interrupting his thoughts.

  His neighbour, Naomi, disappears from the fence which separates the land their houses are built on, and then returns a moment later waving his brown wallet in the air. She’s wearing her dressing gown, he notices. But then she’s always wearing her dressing gown. He and Antonia have a laugh when they speculate why.

  ‘Someone dropped it off this morning, but Antonia was out, so he left it with me.’

  David strides to the end of the drive and hops over the long damp grass. He looked for the wallet yesterday but couldn’t find it. There was a small flash of concern that there might be something in it that shouldn’t be there when he realised it was missing. But as he focuses on Naomi’s long painted nails, he remembers that he paid for the last round in the pub on Friday, so he must have lost it there. Of course. Charlie! It was strange to see Charlie out of place in the Royal Oak. Surprisingly pissed too. He must’ve picked it up at the bar and forgotten to
hand it back.

  The football spark dulls just a little more. It was another missed opportunity to speak to Charlie alone.

  ‘Who was that then?’ he asks Naomi with a smile. ‘Charlie Proctor, I assume.’

  ‘No, not Charlie, that other friend of yours. He was here in the week.’ Naomi’s cheeks flush. ‘Do you know, I can never remember his name? He’s … well, he’s tall, rather good looking, drives a sports car?’

  David nods, feeling the cold.

  Naomi tightens her belt. ‘He’s very charming, isn’t he? And good of him to bring it round so quickly. I hate it when anything goes missing.’

  ‘Very good.’ David nods again, feeling rooted to the spot despite his dampening feet, wanting to ask questions, but not knowing what to ask or how to begin.

  The house is in darkness when Antonia arrives home from Stoke. She flicks on the lights of the hallway and the kitchen, then walks into the dim lounge, wondering idly where David might be.

  ‘You’re home.’

  ‘David! You made me jump. Why are you sitting in the dark?’

  She bends to turn on a small table lamp next to the sofa. ‘You look sad. Are you OK?’

  ‘I was worried about the ice, that’s all,’ he says, holding out his arm.

  She takes his large hand for a moment and then places it against her cheek as she kneels by the side of his armchair. ‘There wasn’t any ice.’

  ‘There might have been black ice,’ David says. ‘It’s there but you can’t see it.’

  Antonia nods, bringing David’s hand to her mouth and kissing it gently. Once long ago, in a moment of frivolity, she gave Charlie a clumsy hug. ‘Thank you for always looking out for us. You’re the best dad anyone could have!’ She’d turned to David. ‘Don’t you agree, David? Charlie’s a brilliant dad?’ Charlie didn’t return the hug. He frowned and Antonia immediately regretted her words. She’d meant them affectionately, with love. Of course Charlie wasn’t nearly as old as anyone’s dad, he just looked it. She’d obviously offended him. It was only later, when they were alone, that he explained in a gruff voice how David had suffered when his parents died. Of course she knew they were dead, but David had never said when it had happened or how.

  ‘He was twelve. Still a boy. A car crash on the ice,’ Charlie told her. ‘On a country road, just turning a corner. Losing both parents in the blink of an eye. Tragic. Very tragic.’

  David now breaks the silence. ‘How’s your mum?’ he asks. ‘You know I’d come too, if you wanted me to.’

  ‘I know, love.’ Then after a moment. ‘She’s fine, thanks,’ she says, her automatic reply which needs no further detail. ‘Look at the time. I’ll put the lasagne in the oven, shall I?’

  ‘Sounds nice,’ David replies. But still he keeps hold of her hand.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Antonia climbs out of her car and looks up. It’s a substantial and imposing period home, bay-fronted and semi-detached in a tree-lined cul-de-sac near the centre of Chorlton. A large property, probably five or six bedrooms, yet a far cry from White Gables. Olivia and Mike Turner have neighbours immediately either side for a start.

  She stands for a moment looking around. There’s a small boy with his mum digging in the next garden. She’s wearing a spectacular African dress. A young man in lycra squats down by his bike, another man in a white turban washes his van in the road. The house opposite has been converted into flats. She can smell the sweet aroma of spices from one flat, hear the thump of music from another. It reminds her of childhood. But the people, the noises and the smells feel friendly here.

  The doorbell sounds loud to Antonia’s ears as she presses it, almost insistent. Perhaps she should’ve knocked. Clasping the flowers with one hand, she puts the other in the pocket of her wool coat and stands back. There’s a very thin crack between the panels of the red front door and she wonders if it lets in the cold breeze. She breathes in, and then out. It’s silly to feel nervous. She’s been here several times before. But never for coffee and not on her own.

  The door opens, letting out a rush of warm air, which blows the newly fallen autumn leaves around Antonia’s ankles. The telephone’s ringing inside.

  ‘Hi! Come on in.’ Olivia smiles. ‘Let me grab the phone and I’ll be right with you.’

  Antonia steps into the hall. She can’t describe how exactly, but the house smells different from the one she shares with David. Not an unpleasant smell, but layers of smell, of children, of cooking, of family. Not that her childhood home smelt this way. Tobacco, beer and dog is all she can recall on the rare occasions she allows her mind to wander. She glances at the pink and white freesias still clutched in her hand as she walks into the kitchen, regretting her choice. It’s clearly a family home. Perhaps chocolates or biscuits would have been better.

  The kitchen’s a jumble. Half-eaten bowls of cereal, toast, fruit juice and crumbs. Discarded spoons and spilt milk. A red plastic basket full of damp washing sits on the floor. A solitary piece of buttered, seeded toast lies on the work surface with just one bite missing.

  Olivia returns from her phone call, her cheeks slightly pink. ‘Sorry,’ they both say at once.

  Olivia is wearing jeans and a checked shirt tied in a knot at her waist. She always looks fresh, Antonia thinks, fresh and healthy and hearty, even though she’s so petite. ‘That was my sister. I’ll ring her back later. What were you about to say?’

  Antonia nods towards the toast. ‘Oh, it was just that … I’ve interrupted your breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. It’s usually lunchtime before I realise that I haven’t eaten anything, but my stomach felt a bit dodgy this morning. Another bug brought home by Hannah, no doubt. Reception is the worst possible class for it. Earache one day, the runs the next. And, of course, the dreaded head lice.’

  Olivia catches Antonia’s slight grimace and laughs. ‘Don’t worry. The nits were a couple of weeks ago. Even Mike was enlisted to do some wet combing, much to the girls’ dismay. Men just don’t understand long hair and knots, do they?’

  Men and long hair. Long curly hair, Antonia immediately thinks. She replaces it with a smile and a much fonder memory. The nit nurse from school, when she and Sophie went in together, holding hands. Sophie’s head teemed with nits, hers didn’t. ‘It’s the curls,’ the nit nurse had said, as though Antonia had done something wrong. ‘Nits don’t like them.’

  ‘I don’t suppose men do,’ Antonia replies, wondering if Olivia knows she used to be a hairdresser in her ‘former life’, as she calls it in her head. Of course there’s nothing wrong with hairdressing, but a clean sheet starting with David feels so much easier. ‘I brought you some flowers.’

  ‘What a lovely smell. Thank you. Let me just fill the washing machine with some bedding and then I’ll put on the coffee. Feel free to clear yourself a space at the table.’

  Antonia sits down on a chair for a moment before standing up again and taking the pots and cutlery from the table to the sink. Something tells her that a real friend doesn’t stand on ceremony, but gets stuck in with the chores. By the time Olivia comes back with her arms full of bedding, Antonia has cleared the table, washed up the crockery and put the kettle on.

  Olivia smiles as she surveys the results. ‘You can come again,’ she laughs.

  The traffic lights on Princess Parkway are on red. They always seem to turn from amber to red the moment the car reaches sixty and purrs like a cat. Sami usually bears down on the accelerator, hoping to jump the lights with only a second to spare, just for the soft thrill, but today his thoughts are elsewhere.

  God, I want her now, right now, he sighs. I wonder if she’s been thinking about me.

  The thought is uninvited and for a moment Sami wonders if he’s said it out loud.

  ‘Stop it, man,’ he chides, deliberately aloud to test the sound. He adjusts the mirror and then glances to the right, his sixth sense telling him he’s being admired. An attractive woman in sunglasses is appraising him from a shiny black M
ercedes sports car. He glances at the wheels, noting the discreet badge of the performance-tuning company. See? he thinks, grinning back with a nod. Plenty of shapes and sizes to be had. I mustn’t get hung up. It’s only temporary fun. It’s only a laugh.

  Yet as he presses his foot on the accelerator of his car and listens to the throb of the engine, his mind’s with her, with him and her, her touch, her breath and her skin, so unbelievably soft. His body is tingling, alert. He wants her now as much as he ever has.

  ‘Fuck,’ he says as the road opens out. Fuck, fuck. It isn’t supposed to be this way.

  Charlie sits opposite David in his office, talking. His face is puce and he’s gesticulating far more than usual, so perhaps ranting would be a more accurate description. But David isn’t listening. He’s thinking about God. The God he doesn’t believe in, if anyone asks. Not just thinking, but talking. He finds it helps when his heart starts to race, the chat slows it down and helps him breathe. He isn’t sure whether he actually talks to God, or just to himself. He doesn’t go to church, he hasn’t been to church since belting out the words to ‘Jerusalem’ at school every Sunday morning, but he finds it helpful to say, ‘Dear God’ or ‘Dear Lord God’, when he’s talking to himself. When he’s hoping and praying and trying to stay calm.

  ‘I mean who pays the blasted school fees?’ David eventually hears.

  He tries to focus on Charlie and for a moment he watches the animation of Charlie’s mouth. Small bubbles of saliva are accumulating at one corner.

  ‘That’s what I said to the bloody headmaster. I’ve probably paid for a whole new tennis court with the charitable donations alone,’ Charlie rants.

  David was brought up by his parents to say his prayers at night, tucked up in bed before sleep. Eyes closed and palms together, the Lord’s Prayer voiced in unison. It was the one moment of demonstrative affection between father and son.

  His parents weren’t churchgoers. ‘It would be strange, listening to sermons in all those different languages,’ David’s father had explained.