Forget Her Name(3)

She’s surprised by the request. Turning from the filing cabinet, Sharon glances up at the clock on the wall. Her face registers slight irritation, but only the sort that comes with tiredness.

‘You not feeling well?’

‘I’m fine. I just have a few errands to run.’ I manage a wry smile. ‘It’s been a bit manic recently, what with the wedding coming up.’

Sharon looks back at me indulgently. ‘Of course. Three weeks on Saturday, isn’t it?’

I nod.

‘You must be so excited. Have you got the dress yet?’

‘Yes.’ I smile then, despite myself. ‘I picked it up last week. It’s so beautiful. I only hope I can do it justice.’

I’d gone for the ‘mermaid’ shape in the end, fitted closely from the sweetheart neckline down to the knee, then flaring out in a lavish display to the hem. Beautiful appliqué flowers cling to one side of the ivory satin bodice; the other side dazzles with tiny sequins. By not booking an expensive reception after the church, but inviting everyone to join us at a nearby pub afterwards for drinks and a finger buffet, we’re saving a fortune. So I spent up on the wedding dress instead, maxing out my credit card on the beautiful outfit, which includes matching underwear and ivory satin pumps.

‘Of course you’ll be gorgeous, silly girl. All the men will be falling over each other to have a look at you.’ Sharon winks at me, thick black mascara clumped at the ends of her eyelashes. ‘And how’s Dominic coping?’

‘Not too bad. In fact, he texted me earlier to confirm all the tux rental details. My dad’s the only one who’s making a fuss.’ I make a face. ‘Sometimes I wonder if he actually wants me to get married.’

‘Oh, it’s just their way. Dads always hate losing their little girls.’ Sharon returns to filing the paperwork she’s been working through, happy with all this talk of dresses and weddings. ‘Go on, you run along. Get your errands done. Me and Petra can cope.’



On my way out, I grab my jacket from my chair, and then tuck the parcel carefully under my arm with the woollen garment folded over the top.

I struggle outside into the grey, windy, North London street. It’s too cold to walk far without a coat though. I stop a few doors down, put the parcel on the pavement as gingerly as if it contains a bomb, and shrug into my jacket. Then I tuck the box under my arm again, and hurry on to La Giravolta, the family-run Italian bistro on the corner where I usually eat a quick tuna sandwich or quiche for lunch.

As I hesitate in the doorway, peering inside, an acquaintance waves at me from across the room. Georgia from the book club. She’s dining alone, the seat opposite conspicuously empty.

I wave back, then abruptly change my mind about going inside.

The last thing I need is to get sucked into yet another conversation about Dominic and the wedding.

Not today.

Head down, as though I’ve just remembered some urgent mission, I turn back into the wind. It tears at my unbuttoned jacket and I shiver, dragging the two sides together with one hand. Bloody hell. I’ve left my scarf and gloves behind in my hurry to get out. It’s been a bitter start to November. My feet ache from standing since early this morning, and my hands are numb from the chilly, warehouse-like Tollgate Trust food bank, with its constantly open doors.

It’s important work. Not paid, except for Sharon, who’s employed full-time by the charity to run the place. Important and worthwhile nonetheless. I chose the position deliberately, aware that I was born with every advantage in life, while others just as deserving are less fortunate. And since my parents were happy to cover my rent while I found my feet in the world of work, that made a volunteering position possible. I have no real reason to feel guilty, of course. But it was time to give something back.

Good intentions aside, my feet still hurt.

I thread past two black-hijabbed women with buggies, then dart across the busy road in front of a lumbering double-decker bus, earning myself a glare from the woman driver. On the other side, I continue another few blocks until I reach the Costa coffee shop. It’s blissfully warm inside, and nobody looks round when I enter. I check all the tables for anyone I know.

They are all strangers.

I get in the queue, the box still awkward under my arm. The man behind me glances at it curiously, but looks away when he encounters my gaze.

Finding a quiet seat at the back, I eat half my panini, sip on my latte, then push both aside and place the parcel squarely on the table in front of me.

The address label has been printed. It looks neat and professional. I check the underside but there’s no return address, and no note inside to indicate a point of origin. The brown-paper wrapping is plain; the white polystyrene chips are generic. I can’t imagine who could have sent it to me. And to the food bank, not my home.

I reach inside and pull the snow globe free of its rustling nest. My breath catches in my throat.

It wasn’t a mistake. Or not on my part, anyway.

Even without my sister’s name on the plinth, I would have known whose globe it was. I recognise the village scene inside, the miniature Swiss chalets, the white-capped mountain with its obligatory tiny goat. Rachel loved to shake and shake the globe, only laughing when our mother pleaded with her to be careful.

‘Rachel, please don’t,’ Mum would say. ‘You’ll break it if you drop it.’