Forget Her Name(63)

‘Coming!’ I shout back. Hurriedly, I pull on the bra and thong. ‘Just getting dressed. Dom’s in the shower. Sorry, we’ll be right there.’

Mum says something I don’t catch, and then wanders away again.

Lunch is probably imminent.

‘Oh, what the hell.’

I drag on the little black-and-silver dress and find some heels that won’t turn my ankle over on the way downstairs. Then I drag a brush through my hair and give myself a light dusting of make-up, even though I don’t normally wear much at home. But the dress will look odd without any make-up at all.

I hesitate, and search in my jewellery box for the silver cat necklace my mother bought me from Harrods. It seems like a good occasion to wear it.

It suits the dress perfectly.



Downstairs, the smell of food is delicious and mouth-watering. I glance at the hall clock. It’s nearly half past one already. I suddenly realise how hungry I am. I had no idea how late it was. I lose all sense of time in bed with Dominic, like a captive princess in a fairy-tale castle, sleeping away my life. Well, not always sleeping.

I grin, remembering his urgent lovemaking.

‘Ah, Catherine, there you are at last.’ My father stands in the doorway of the dining room, holding out a glass of pink champagne. He looks me up and down, then adds, ‘What a lovely dress.’

‘Thank you.’

I search his face, but he appears cheerful and unconcerned. There’s no sign that he even remembers our conversation from last night.

‘Aperitif?’ he asks.

I take the champagne and drink some without hesitation, though the bubbles always go up my nose and make me tipsy quicker than ordinary wine.

‘Do you need me to do anything?’ I ask.

‘Of course not, darling. Jasmine’s been helping your mother for the past hour, and she says everything’s nearly done.’

Good old Jasmine, I catch myself thinking, rather spikily, and am surprised by my sudden feelings of dislike for her.

What’s wrong with me today?

Dad ushers me into the dining room, where the roast turkey is on the table, ready for carving and covered lightly with foil to keep it warm. I check briefly under the foil. It looks and smells delicious.

‘You know your mother,’ Dad is saying, a little awkwardly, as though he’s sensed my mood and is trying to keep the peace. ‘She hates too many people in the kitchen when she’s cooking. Distracting her, getting underfoot. I’m sure she’ll shout once she’s ready for me to carry in the serving dishes.’

I say nothing, but knock back some more champagne.

Dad glances at my clinging black dress again, then at the cat necklace I’m wearing. He bends to turn on the Christmas tree lights, nestled among baubles in the branches of the real pine tree. They start flashing merrily away to the background sound of Christmas carols.

‘There,’ he says, straightening, his voice slightly muffled, ‘that’s more Christmassy.’

‘I really should offer to help her.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Dad pulls out a chair for me. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘But—’

‘Sit,’ he insists.

Uncomfortable under his gaze, I sit down and let him pour more champagne into my glass. I don’t argue, oddly thirsty today. Dominic appears, looking clean and fresh from the shower, his hair still wet. His eyes widen at the sight of my dress, then he smiles, his expression almost wolfish.

‘Love the outfit, darling,’ he says, taking the seat opposite without waiting to be asked. ‘Thanks, just half a glass,’ he says as my father offers him some champagne. ‘I’m working tonight. Sorry, did we miss all the hard graft?’

‘Not to worry, you’re our guests today. And guests don’t cook in this house.’

My mother calls from the kitchen, a strained note in her voice, and Dad hurries out of the room, suddenly looking distracted.

Dominic grins at me across the table, then lifts his glass in a mock-salute. ‘Well, Merry Christmas. This is the high life.’

‘Don’t. I feel awful.’

‘Why?’

‘We slept in and now they’re doing all the work. On Christmas bloody Day.’ I take another deep gulp of champagne, the bubbles tingling and fizzing on my tongue. ‘It’s not right.’

‘Nonsense,’ he says crisply. ‘They’re your parents and they want you to feel at home.’

‘People who are genuinely at home help out with the housework.’

‘You’ve got an excuse, though. You’re not well.’

I stare at him, perplexed. ‘My ankle, you mean? That’s hardly an illness. And don’t try to say I had a concussion too. Because the doctor said I was fine.’

Dominic looks at me, silent for once, and then fiddles unnecessarily with his knife and fork. I get the impression he’s annoyed with himself. As though he’s said something he didn’t intend to. Or wasn’t supposed to.

‘Wait,’ I say slowly. ‘You think I’m . . . ill?’

‘Forget it.’

‘I don’t want to forget it.’

‘Catherine, please don’t make a scene,’ he says gently, but with an odd tension in his face. ‘Remember that it’s Christmas, yeah? Peace and goodwill to all men. I just meant you’ve been a little down lately. Anyway,’ he adds, ‘you shouldn’t worry so much what your parents think. You need to be your own person.’