Forget Her Name(11)

My mum opens the door, a tall woman with ash-blonde hair like my own, only shoulder-length and more silvery.

‘Darling, how are you?’ Her eyes widen. ‘Gosh, you’ve cut your hair rather short. I’m not sure what your dad will say about that. What on earth made you do it?’

Her smile falters slightly as she searches my face. But she continues without waiting for an answer. ‘Still, it’s lovely of you to visit us at last. We’ve both missed you. The house isn’t the same. Of course, it’s wonderful that you’re so busy with your volunteering these days. But we’d love to see more of you.’

That’s what Dominic would call a passive-aggressive greeting, I think drily. But I manage a polite smile in return. ‘Hi, Mum. How are you?’

My mother is looking strained. Is that down to today’s visit, or is something else bothering her? ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she says vaguely as I kiss her on the cheek.

I slip past into the hallway, which smells heavily of flowers, and hang up my coat. I stop to admire the elegant white orchids on the hall table, then head for the living room.

‘No, not in there. Your father’s only just home from a meeting, I’m afraid. He went upstairs for a quick shower.’ Mum gestures me further down the hallway. ‘Let’s sit in the kitchen instead, shall we? It’s warmer in there anyway.’ She pauses, then says with an unfamiliar teasing note in her voice, ‘And I’ve got a little surprise for you.’

I follow her into the large, modern kitchen, with its beautiful chrome fittings kept at a high shine by Kasia, my parents’ cleaner. She’s Polish and very efficient. She taught me how to pronounce her surname once. Lecinska. Like ‘let-chin-scar’. I always get the feeling Kasia doesn’t like me, though I’ve done nothing to deserve that. But I often see her and my dad having a joke together, so maybe she’s the kind of woman who prefers men to other women.

‘No Dominic?’ Mum asks, lifting a bottle of chilled white wine out of the fridge and holding it up. ‘Chardonnay?’

‘Just a small one, thanks.’ I watch as Mum pours us each a large glassful, ignoring my request, then I take the wine with a perfunctory smile. Going to be like that, is it? ‘Dominic’s on evenings this week.’

‘Must be hard, not having him there when you get in from work.’

‘Not at all,’ I lie, but know my mum won’t be fooled. Our relationship is none of her business though, as I’ve told her before. ‘I like having extra time to myself.’

To distract her, I turn on my heel, studying the room next door, just visible through an archway. Light-blue walls and a new, gilt-framed oval mirror facing me. I check my reflection in it, then hurriedly look away, not liking what I see. The cold wind has left my cheeks tinged red, and my blonde hair looks sharp as a hedgehog’s bristles, sticking straight up over the crown. No wonder Mum stared at me on the doorstep. I look wild, like a changeling.

‘Oh, you’ve redecorated the breakfast room,’ I say, playing with the thin stem of my wine glass. ‘Is that the surprise?’

‘God, no, we had that done over the summer, while we were away in Barbados.’ My mother draws out a chair and sits down, watching me.

I feel uneasy under her gaze and avoid looking at her, prowling the room instead.

‘You must see the new decor in the guest bedroom, too,’ she continues. ‘I wanted pink wallpaper, had it all picked out. But your dad said no, it had to be something stylish and classic. In case one of his banker friends comes to stay. You know how conservative they all are, these business executives. So we went for grey and cream.’

‘I’d have preferred pink.’

‘Me too, absolutely.’ Mum’s voice has begun to tremble, as though she’s uneasy. An impression she confirms a second later, adding brusquely, ‘Do sit down, darling. You’re making me nervous. You remind me of a caged animal when you pace about the room like that. A panther, maybe.’

‘A blonde panther?’

My mother’s mouth compresses, but she goes on smiling. ‘Yes, a blonde one. I was so glad when you rang. So was your dad. It really has been too long since you came to see us, Cat.’

‘Please don’t call me that.’

There’s a short silence.

‘Sorry, I forgot. You prefer Catherine these days, don’t you?’ My mother takes a deep swallow of wine. ‘So grown-up.’

I sit down and place the glass in front of me without having yet taken a sip. The chilled wine is already frosting up the outside of the glass.

‘How’s the job?’ Mum asks brightly, then jumps up and fetches her handbag from beside the cooker, as though she’s already forgotten asking. ‘Here.’ With her most generous smile, the one reserved for moments when she knows gratitude will shortly be in order, she hands me a small, gift-wrapped box. ‘A little present for you, darling. I bought it for your Christmas present, but . . . well, you’re here now. So go ahead, open it.’

Reluctantly, I jerk on the thin gold ribbon holding the wrapping paper in place, then peel back soft layers of crepe. Inside is a small blue jewellery box.

Harrods, it says on the lid in gold lettering.

I hesitate, suddenly wary. What on earth has Mum bought for me from Harrods, of all places?

‘Shouldn’t I wait,’ I ask, ‘if this is a Christmas present?’