Forget Her Name(12)

‘No, go on.’ My mother is watching with childlike eagerness, almost as though the present is for her, not me. ‘I can always buy you something else for Christmas. Besides, I want to see what you think.’

‘I think you’ve spent too much money on me.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly. You’re my daughter and it’s not as though we’re hard-up. Besides, my goodness, your bloody dad never lets me spend more than we can afford. Well, you know what he’s like.’ She laughs, but without any real humour. ‘Ebenezer Scrooge, to a T.’

I don’t laugh.

I’m remembering the young widow with sad, desperate eyes today. The one with four equally desperate kids, all crammed together in two dingy rooms, and barely any money to buy food.

Whatever’s inside this jewellery box from Harrods, it would probably feed that whole family for six months.

‘Yes, Catherine, open the damn box,’ a deep voice says from behind us, startling me to the core. ‘Let’s see what Ellen has been hiding from me for weeks.’





Chapter Seven I jump up, my heart suddenly racing. The box waits unopened on the table as I throw both arms about his neck.

‘Daddy.’

He looks down at me with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes that always make me think of home and childhood. Not entirely happily, it has to be said. He glances at my mother. ‘Sorry I’m late, Ellen. Traffic was insane, as usual.’ He kisses my flushed cheek, then pinches it. ‘Catherine, where have you been? You know I like to keep a very special eye on my daughter, to make sure she’s not in any trouble. Yet weeks go by and you don’t get in touch.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Too busy with Dominic to bother with your old mum and dad, is that it? Well, never mind, you’re here now,’ he says, in an echo of my mother earlier. His voice deepens with affection. ‘Not sure about the drastic haircut. But if it makes you happy—’

‘It does,’ I say.

‘Well then.’ Despite the indulgent smile, there’s an edge to his voice, making it clear he doesn’t approve. ‘Now, why don’t you open that box? Put us all out of our misery.’

I turn back to the jewellery box, meaning to open the lid, but my hand shakes at his words and I suddenly can’t bring myself to do it.

Why don’t you open that box? Because I’m remembering my sister’s snow globe, heavy and cold to the touch, an eyeball bobbing about inside, staring back at me.

‘Go on, darling,’ Mum prompts, her eyes shining.

I open the lid of the box.

Inside is a beautiful cat in profile, cast in silver and nestled against a bed of black velvet. The cat’s back is arched as if it’s spitting, tail raised, head forward. Its single eye winks at me under the kitchen spotlights. A tiny diamond, I realise. At the apex of its hunched back is a loop with a delicate silver chain threaded through it.

‘What do you think?’

I look blankly round at Mum. ‘It’s a cat.’

‘You always wanted a cat as a child. Do you remember? Because of your pet name. Cat. Only we were worried about all the traffic. Central London . . . A kitten might have got itself killed under a car’s wheels, and we couldn’t bear the thought of that.’ She looks at my face, and concern creeps into her voice. ‘Cat? What is it?’ She glances at the silver necklace. ‘You don’t like it?’

It’s all I can do not to scream in her face.

‘No, it’s . . .’ I unthread the necklace from the box with unsteady fingers. ‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’

My parents say nothing, watching me.

‘Daddy, could you possibly . . . ?’ I smile, awkwardly miming putting on the necklace. ‘These things are so fiddly.’

‘Turn around,’ he says in his deep voice.

I stand still while Dad positions the necklace around my neck. It fits perfectly. His warm fingers brush my skin, fumbling a little as he fastens the clasp.

‘It is a little fiddly,’ he agrees after a few seconds, breathing heavily next to my ear. ‘There,’ he says at last, and steps back. ‘All done.’

I close the lid of the jewellery box and straighten the silver cat on my chest. It hangs to just above my cleavage. I’m pretty sure Dominic will love it.

‘Thank you.’ I smile politely at Dad, and then at Mum. ‘It’s super. Thank you so much.’

‘You’re welcome, darling,’ Mum says, beaming. ‘Oh, it does suit you.’

Dad says nothing.

‘If you don’t need me, I think I’ll go up to my old room for a bit,’ I tell them, wishing my voice did not sound so high and breathless. ‘I’ve got one of my headaches coming on. Probably the wine.’

My mother glances at my face. ‘Do you need painkillers?’

‘It’s fine, I have something in my bag.’

‘Of course.’

I glance vaguely about the kitchen. ‘Unless you need help?’

‘God, no. We’re only having steak and salad. Your dad’s agreed to cook the steaks, and Kasia made us a big salad before she left tonight. It’s in the fridge, chilling.’

‘Like the wine,’ Dad says, and winks at me.

‘Then I’ll see you both later.’