Forget Her Name(19)

‘Quick, quick.’ I’m repeating myself stupidly. Like a trained bird in a cage. My hands grip the banisters like claws as I twist my head and stare down, trying to see through the bars. It’s ridiculous to feel jealousy at a moment like this. But I do, all the same. ‘Who was that woman with you? I can’t see her. Who is it?’

He takes the stairs two at a time, his face flushed. ‘It’s nobody,’ he says, rounding the stairs below, almost as breathless as me after the speed of his ascent. ‘Only Laura, from downstairs.’

‘Laura?’

Dominic is nearly at the top of the house, carrying a small white plastic bag that swings violently back and forth as he rounds the stairs. ‘From Flat Two. You know Laura. The woman with glasses. And the racer bike.’ He reaches me and stops, staring down into my face. ‘Christ, you look awful. What on earth’s the matter?’

‘Why were you with Laura? You came in with her from the street. I heard you.’

‘She was at the Chinese takeaway.’

‘What?’

‘I grabbed a chow mein on my way from the tube, and she was there. So we walked back together.’ He sounds bewildered. ‘Baby, you’re crying. What’s all this about?’

Now that he’s here, I can’t seem to tell him what’s happened. What I’ve seen. Instead, I wave him towards the flat. The door is still open. And inside . . .

‘I found . . .’

But the words die on my lips.

‘What? You found what?’ He bends and kisses my mouth. His lips are cold, though, like the inside of the flat, and I don’t respond. He searches my face. ‘Sweetheart, you’re worrying me. And you must be freezing to death out here without a coat. Come on, let’s get you inside.’

He bustles me through the door, suddenly the healthcare professional, his touch carefully solicitous rather than intimate.

‘Right,’ he says, and locks the door behind us, even putting the metal chain on. ‘Now, what’s upset you, baby?’

‘In . . . there,’ I manage to say, pointing to the bedroom door. That too is still open, the light on inside. Just as I left it.

‘In the bedroom?’

I nod frantically.

He frowns and hands me the plastic bag containing his Chinese takeaway. I hold it close, the smell of chow mein wafting up as I watch him approach the bedroom, his stance cautious and wide-legged, like a dog expecting trouble.

He stops on the threshold and leans round the bedroom door, peering inside.

In my mind, I replay what I saw. My wedding dress lying across our bed like a dead bride. Cut into pieces, smeared with blood. Its beauty ruined forever. The vile smell is still in my nostrils. It feels like I’ll never get rid of it.

‘Dom?’

But Dominic doesn’t reply. He’s unmoving, standing like a statue in the doorway to the bedroom.

I hold my breath. A sudden fear floods me. Was the appalling desecration of my wedding dress real?

Or did I imagine it?





Chapter Twelve There were instances in my childhood where strange things happened, and then turned out afterwards not to have been real. Though I’m still convinced Rachel was behind most of them. All those cruel tricks my sister loved to play on her victims. She was particularly skilled at emotional sleight of hand. Turning the screw in our minds until we cracked. Most of Rachel’s little games were barely significant, taken on their own. Minor acts of deception or theft. Yet they always caused upset, nonetheless. Things disappeared with frightening regularity, never to be seen again. Here one minute, gone the next. Like the snow globe that vanished from the wooden chest at my parents’ house.

Though that’s since turned up, I remind myself. And not in a pleasant way.

Yes, my sister would have been delighted with all this chaos.

If the wedding dress was her work, Rachel would have turned and laughed at me, shaking her head. ‘Oh dear, poor Catty gone a bit mental, has she?’

Will Dominic do the same?

‘Jesus.’ He moves abruptly, disappearing inside the room. I wait, my heart thundering with sickly nerves. Then I hear a faint rustling noise, and his breathing speeds up. ‘Jesus Christ.’

I follow him to the door.

No, the violated dress is real.

He’s picked up one of the severed, bloodied strips of satin, and is examining it with all the care and specialist attention he might give a wounded patient at the hospital.

‘Did you do this?’ he asks blankly, not looking round at me.

‘God, how can you ask me that?’

‘Then who?’

‘I have no idea.’ I shrug helplessly, though he still isn’t looking in my direction. ‘I just walked in and found it like this.’

‘How long ago?’ He glances back at me, his eyes speculative. ‘You were planning to see your parents tonight, weren’t you? I thought you might stay over.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘Why?’

‘I just . . . I couldn’t, okay?’

‘Did you have an argument with them?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Right.’ He sounds calm, but I know he isn’t. ‘So you came home, and . . . what then? Can you talk me through what happened?’

‘I was late back.’ I’m hesitant, unsure what he wants to hear. ‘Like you. The place was dark. Bloody freezing too.’ A thought occurs to me, and I shudder. ‘Oh shit, the bathroom window. That’s how he got in.’