Forget Her Name(56)

But there’s no sign of it.

Who took the notebook from its hiding place? And where the hell is it now?



On Christmas Eve, Dominic takes me and Jasmine out to the pub for drinks with some of his colleagues. We grab a meal first at Sushi Hiroba in Holborn, the sort of Japanese restaurant where the food goes around on a conveyor belt and you help yourself. It’s busy and fun, and a good way to avoid the chaotic atmosphere at home. We left Mum and Kasia struggling to manoeuvre a gigantic turkey into the fridge, while Dad alternately stirred a vast vat of mulled wine and brought bottles up from the cellar for a drinks party they’re giving tonight for their friends and a few of Dad’s colleagues from the Foreign Office. We were also invited, of course, but excused ourselves.

‘I doubt there’ll be anyone there who’s under forty,’ I tell Jasmine as we lean forward to select colour-coded dishes from the revolving belt. ‘But we can head back early after the pub, if you want.’

‘I love your mum and dad to bits, God bless them,’ Jasmine says, turning heads with her hoarse Brummie accent, ‘but to be honest, this is more my scene.’ She gestures to the sharply dressed young professionals around us, and raises her voice above the din of their chatter. ‘I’d rather stay in the pub than go back to the house, if that’s all right. Posh parties like that terrify me. What if I end up stuck next to some toffee-nosed ambassador? I wouldn’t have a clue what to say.’

Dominic grins, pouring soy sauce over yellowtail sushi. ‘You could always tell him about your love of stock car racing,’ he suggests lightly, and she giggles.

After dinner, we take a taxi to meet his colleagues at a pub called The Ship and Shovell, near Victoria Embankment. Louise’s choice, apparently, because it does good ales. We have to stand outside at a barrel table, as the pub is packed with festive drinkers.

I wish I could sit because my ankle aches. First day without the walking stick I’ve been using to replace the crutches that have gone back to the hospital. But I don’t want to spoil the evening by mentioning it.

‘You okay?’ Dominic says in my ear.

‘Never better,’ I lie.

He examines my face. ‘Back in a minute,’ he says suddenly, and disappears into the pub.

His colleagues emerge a moment later. Louise is carrying a tray of drinks, and Sally has bought several bags of peanuts. I wave my hand until they spot us and head in our direction. Louise is walking awkwardly in heels that look new.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she says, putting the tray down. ‘I hope I got everyone’s order right.’

Sally dumps the bags of peanuts on the table too, and then tucks a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. ‘Nuts, anyone?’

‘Me,’ Jasmine says, and helps Louise tear open the bags of peanuts for sharing.

Sally’s phone rings and she turns away to answer it.

Louise watches Sally anxiously as though worried they are going to be called back to St Hilda’s for some major emergency. I hope not, watching Sally, too. This is Dominic’s first night off in ages. I don’t know how he wrangled it but maybe he had to promise extra overtime later this week.

But Sally is laughing, her head back, chatting with whoever it is in a relaxed way. Not a work call, thank God.

‘So, we didn’t have much of a chance to talk before. How have you been since the wedding?’ I ask Jasmine, raising my voice to be heard above the revellers and the sound of constant traffic.

‘Not too bad, thanks.’ She hesitates, glancing back over her shoulder at the pub. No sign of Dominic returning yet. ‘By the way, about that postcard . . .’

I feel suddenly cold, and not just because of the chill December air. ‘The postcard supposedly from Rachel?’

‘Yeah.’ She looks unhappy. ‘I’m so sorry about that. I felt really bad afterwards.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mentioning something like that to you on your wedding day.’ Jasmine makes a face. ‘Your mum rang me later, tore a strip off me.’

I’m confused. I don’t remember mentioning the postcard to Mum at the time. So how did she know about it? Dominic probably told her, I realise. He’s so overprotective, always looking out for me – even when I don’t need him to. They all are, in fact. It’s like being suffocated in cotton wool.

‘If I’d known . . . ’ Jasmine says.

‘Known what?’

She opens her mouth, then closes it again and shakes her head.

‘Jasmine?’

‘Nothing,’ she says abruptly. ‘Forget it.’

‘No, I want to know. If you’d known what?’ When she still doesn’t say anything, I lean in closer, meeting her worried gaze. ‘Please, Jasmine. This is important. What exactly did Mum tell you?’

‘Look, I’m sorry. She asked me not to say.’

‘Not to say what?’

I don’t mean to, but I’ve raised my voice.

Dominic comes up behind us unnoticed and puts a bar stool down next to the barrel. ‘There you go,’ he says to me. ‘Now you can sit down.’

‘Darling, that’s so thoughtful of you,’ I say, and perch on the bar stool with relief. My ankle feels less painful immediately. ‘That’s much better, thank you.’