Forget Her Name(76)

I didn’t know I was Rachel, after all. Not until I read my father’s notebook. Or rather, I forgot that I was also Rachel. Or rather, to be completely accurate, I was induced to forget. Brainwashing, some might call what they did to me at that specialist clinic in Switzerland. I don’t remember much of that either, to be fair. It’s all a blur of snow and white rooms and pills. Pills every day. And yoga therapy.

God, I’d forgotten about the yoga. How weird.

So yes, I did it all, I hold my hands up to that naughtiness. I masterminded my own relapse. Because I was sick of being goody-two-shoes Catherine, and wanted badass Rachel back in my life.

‘Sorry about that,’ I say. I pick up the wine bottle, my mouth suddenly dry. It’s empty, of course. ‘Shit. Out of wine. Did I do that?’

I place the bottle back on the kitchen worktop but somehow miss the edge. Or maybe I deliberately miss it. I can’t be sure which, afterwards. But it drops to the tiled kitchen floor, where of course it shatters.

Glass explodes across the floor.

Jasmine shrieks again. It’s almost a default setting with her, I’m beginning to suspect. Mum jumps hurriedly out of the way to avoid the glass shards. Dominic doesn’t move from my side.

My rock, I think drily.

Dad comes back into the kitchen and stares at the mess, then looks at me.

Oops.

‘Thank God. What did he say?’ Mum asks, sounding tearful herself now. ‘What did Doctor Holbern say?’

‘He’s not in England,’ my father says flatly. ‘He’s in the States.’

‘What?’

‘I know. Talk about bad timing.’ He opens the walk-in kitchen cupboard and reaches for a broom. I didn’t even realise he knew where the broom is kept. But maybe he and Kasia get kinky in the cupboard occasionally. Dirty bastard. ‘Dr Holbern flew out there for a Christmas skiing break, apparently. Some mountain cabin he keeps up in Vermont. He flies home the day after tomorrow. But his PA is going to email him, see what can be arranged for when he’s back. We may even be able to get Cat booked back into the specialist clinic in Switzerland. There’s been a change of management since she was there before, but they still accept private referrals, thank God.’ He starts sweeping up the glass with quick, impatient movements, then stops to look around at me again, breathing hard as though he’s been thinking about Kasia. I smile and his face tightens. ‘Meanwhile, his PA suggests we do what we did last time, as an interim measure.’

‘Which is?’ Dominic asks.

‘Take away everything she could use to harm herself, and lock her in her room. And try to get a doctor out to her, for an emergency prescription of antipsychotics.’

Dominic nods. ‘Leave that last part to me, I can make a call. And I’ll stay with her in the room. Keep her safe.’

The largest fragment of the broken bottle, the heavy glass base, is glinting at me, still wet with wine, right at my feet. Like an invitation nobody in my position could be expected to resist. And being me, I don’t see the need even to consider resisting.

I stoop to pick it up, and Dominic grabs at my arm.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ He twists my arm behind my back as I struggle. I could be wrong but it sounds almost like he’s laughing at me. ‘Please don’t fight me, darling. This is for your own good.’

‘That’s what they always say.’

‘Well, I’m not them. I’m your husband.’ His breath is warm on my neck, oddly reassuring. ‘And I can do this all night if necessary.’

‘Sounds like fun,’ I gasp.

So here we are again. Back to Rachel. Back to ground zero.

I laugh, throwing my head back, and enjoy my wrestling match with Dominic. It’s a bit one-sided though. He’s strong, and he knows what he’s doing; there’ll be no getting out of this arm lock. What was it my father wrote in his notebook?

I just wish we could have our lovely Cat back.

Not while I’m alive.





Chapter Forty-Six I wake up with a start, dragging air into my lungs. It’s dark and I’m lying on my side, stiff and cold, completely naked. My back is nestled against something soft. But when I put my hand up, I find something hard in front of me. Just inches from my face. Like I’m in a coffin.

My God, they’ve actually killed me. I’m dead and this is the afterlife.

I ought to be upset by that idea. Instead, I’m curious, and maybe a little angry. Except it’s not wood, I realise. It’s too solid for that. And it’s been papered. A wall, I think, running my fingertips lightly over the surface. My fingers sting at the pressure, and I pull them back, instinctively sucking them into my mouth like a baby for comfort.

I taste blood. And the nails on my right hand are jagged and broken.

What the hell?

Reaching out more slowly, I discover that the papered wall in front of my face is covered in gouge marks. Deep grooves that seem to match the shape of my fingernails, with ragged strips of paper hanging down loose.

Then I remember . . .

It was all very ‘Sunday tea with the vicar’ at first. Sitting me down after midnight with a very nice woman in a flowery skirt who had come out specially. The duty doctor. She asked a long and irritating series of questions. I answered. I didn’t answer. I made shit up. I put my hand on her knee and squeezed. She nodded and wrote things down on a clipboard. Then she gave me two small, white, bitter-tasting pills, with a glass of water. I may have spat them out on her clipboard.