Forget Her Name(10)

She’s right, of course. I need to be more professional, not keep dissolving. The problem is, I’m not sure I want to ‘get used to it’. To become so hardened to such tales of suffering that I no longer feel like crying.

A man sitting opposite me on the bus keeps staring and mouthing at me. I’m not sure what he’s trying to say, but it looks like he’s high on something.

I tug on the hem of my suede skirt, which is below the knee and hardly a come-on. I’m careful to look past him with no change of expression, but am secretly relieved when the man gets off five stops later, still glancing my way.

I’ve always been shy, and still have trouble with people who are noisy or aggressive, especially in cramped, crowded spaces like buses and tubes at rush hour. Brushing against people is one of my pet hates, and having to walk home alone in the late evening is another. But working at the food bank has made me more relaxed in certain situations. For instance, I no longer clutch my bag quite so rabidly on the bus, or stare rigidly ahead when walking down the street as though terrified someone will speak to me.

‘But you said you were brought up in London,’ Sharon exclaimed the first time I confessed one of my stupid little phobias to her and Petra.

‘I was rarely here though, and when we were, we tended to take taxis everywhere.’ I struggled to explain my unusual upbringing, aware that Sharon was brought up in a vast, sprawling family in the East End, with cousins and half-siblings on every corner. ‘I was homeschooled, and we stayed in the house most days. Then later, after—’ I caught myself. ‘That is, when I was older, I got sent off into the country with a nanny.’

‘You’re so posh,’ Petra said, smiling at me over the pallet of donated tins she was putting on the shelves. She’s always smiling. A naturally sunny personality – surprising to me, given that Petra is an amputee whose right arm was severed at the elbow in a cycling accident years ago. But she doesn’t seem to let it bother her. ‘I wish I’d had a nanny.’

‘Oh, it’s not as nice as it sounds,’ I told her quickly. It wasn’t entirely true – but the truth wouldn’t be appropriate. That’s what my mother would say. ‘Anyway, I never really spent much time in the city until I finished my education. And then I found a job within walking distance of my parents’ house, so I never had a chance to get used to . . . well, how big London is.’

Sharon grinned. ‘Bloody enormous, isn’t it? And it gets bigger whenever there’s a tube strike on, you ever notice that?’ She handed over a stack of forms. ‘Here, my eyesight’s crap. Can you sort through these for me?’ Sharon hates reading and form-filling. ‘Sorry to ask again. But you can sit in my office if you like. Out of the draught.’

I readily agreed, even though it was the third time this month that Sharon had asked me to fill out the forms. But I prefer the office with its two-bar heater to the chilly open floor of the food bank. Admin suits me better, too. Besides, Sharon is so good with people, it’s a shame for her to be cooped up with paperwork when she could be talking to ‘clients’, as she calls the people who come wandering in every day, desperate not to look like they need a handout.

I have to change bus at the next stop. I sway to the exit as the driver corners at speed with brutal precision. Then I hop off in the cold, soon crossing the road at the lights and heading downhill towards a more familiar area.

I used to wait at this bus stop as a teenager, on my way home from shopping or a walk. In those days, I was less scared of the city. Less scared of living. Back then, I would sometimes have a sneaky smoke while waiting for the bus. Like the purple-haired girl in the skin-tight dress and thigh-high boots who’s there today, oblivious to the icy winds, both hands cupped round the flame of her boyfriend’s lighter as she sucks on a cigarette.

I don’t smoke anymore, though Dominic occasionally has a cigarette after dinner or when he’s feeling stressed after a long day.

Rachel used to smoke, I remember with a jolt. Whenever our parents weren’t watching, she’d drag out a packet of fags – probably stolen from Dad, who sometimes indulged in those days – and light one up. Then crush it under her heel before Mum came in, blaming the smell on me.

‘It wasn’t me, Mum,’ she would insist. ‘You know I don’t smoke. It was Cat.’

So Mum would turn to look at me accusingly. And I was only able to shake my head and mutter something incoherent, while Rachel smiled viciously at me behind Mum’s back.

The bus arrives and I get on behind the young couple, touching my Oyster card to the pad while they giggle and head for the back row. It’s impossible not to inhale the stale smell of smoke.



It’s only a short ride to the stop nearest my parents’ home, a large double-fronted house just off the Old Brompton Road. It’s hidden by high iron railings long since taken over by an overgrown box hedge. There’s a weeping willow in the garden, which gives the front rooms a melancholy tint in summer, and now, in winter, looks bleak and somehow lonely without its greenery. The dead willow leaves are still lying on the lawn, brown-edged and curling, even littering the gravelled front path, too.

There are lights on downstairs, though the curtains have been drawn to shut out the cold of the evening. I root automatically in my bag for my key, then stop and ring the bell instead. I no longer live here, as Dad has explained several times. It isn’t appropriate for me to use my key unless they are both out.