Forget Her Name(80)

‘Now listen, Jasmine, no doing anything stupid and breaking your neck,’ I tell her sternly, checking the bonds. ‘Okay? Promise? They’ll only blame it on me if you get killed, and then I’ll be really cross. I’m sure that’s something you want to avoid.’

She says nothing.

I straighten and check myself in the mirror. God, I look wild. Hair in a mess, bruises on my arms and legs, my face flushed with excitement.

And naked.

‘You’re right,’ I say, grinning, and open the wardrobe. ‘I need clothes. Can’t go around like this all day. I’ll get arrested.’

I begin to dress, then stop suddenly, frowning over the mushroom-coloured skirt I’ve automatically selected from the range hanging in the wardrobe.

‘God, what in the name of holy shit is this?’ I toss it aside and flick through the rest of the skirts hanging up. ‘Dull, dull, dull. Too long, too brown, too . . . grim. And what is this frilly thing? It looks like she wears it to church.’ I shake my head, swinging round to glare at Jasmine. ‘Doesn’t Cat have any clothes that aren’t boring as shit?’





Chapter Forty-Eight

Sharon comes out of her office as I saunter into the food bank and drop my shopping bags next to my workstation. Cat’s workstation, that is. But mine today. Since she’s not here to object.

‘Catherine? I didn’t think you were coming in today,’ Sharon says, staring at me like she’s never seen me before. ‘Your husband rang to say you were in hospital. That you were really sick.’

‘They let me out,’ I tell her. ‘For good behaviour.’

‘Well, that’s good news,’ she says uncertainly. ‘But you’re not down to work today, Catherine. Not on the time sheet. You’ll have to go home again.’

I look around. The place seems empty. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘It’s still Christmas holidays. We’re only open two hours today, for emergency relief.’ She’s frowning. ‘I was just about to close up, actually.’

I study Sharon thoughtfully. What an odd-looking woman she is. Like overcooked mutton. Still, no doubt some men find that look attractive. The scarlet lipstick, tan tights with everything, hair-in-a-beehive look.

‘Sorry, but what on earth are you wearing?’ Sharon looks me up and down, her mouth slightly open, a little dusting of black mascara splodges under each eye. ‘You look like a . . . a . . .’

‘Tart?’

Her eyes widen. ‘I was going to say “entertainer”.’

‘My God, what kind of parties do you go to?’

I glance down at the little black PVC skirt I found at the back of a drawer, coupled with a black leotard, plus fuck-me heels and a thigh-length black leather coat. A bit retro, perhaps. A bit Jane Fonda with her knees behind her ears. But definitely a reflection of how I feel today.

‘Don’t you like it?’ I say. ‘It needs a belt, of course, you’re right. Something thin and silver. But it was the best I could do at short notice. Don’t worry though, I’ve been shopping.’ I wink at Petra, who has appeared from a side aisle followed by a grubby-looking couple. Petra also stares at me with a shocked expression. ‘No more mushroom-coloured outfits, I promise. And all that beige.’ I shudder. ‘Why did nobody stop me?’

Sharon appears to be speechless. At least, she doesn’t say a word in response, merely gapes at me.

The black leotard is a little tight, I admit. My boobs keep escaping from it. I must have grown since I last wore it. Or rather, Cat did. The cab driver who brought me here from Harvey Nicks could barely contain his lust, staring at me in the mirror the whole way. That was where I bought the leather coat, ditching that horrid woollen thing I found in the hall. I bought a few other bits and pieces, deeply unsuitable designer dresses and skirts and see-through tops, all wildly expensive and guaranteed to annoy my aged parents.

Before hitting the shops, I dropped into The Ritz for a delicious breakfast. Smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, Cumberland sausages and caviar. And a bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne. With Dom in the name, I had to order it, didn’t I? It would have been greedy to drink the whole bottle on my own, especially at breakfast, but I did my best. The waiters didn’t bat an eye, nor did they complain when I knocked over the ice bucket on my way to the powder room.

Such darlings, and so gorgeously fit, I could have paid them all in blow jobs and not thought twice about it.

But I had the day job to think about instead. Couldn’t be late for that. Moral conscience and all. So I charged it all to dear Dad’s debit card instead, since he’d rather foolishly left his wallet on the desk in his study last night. And we all know his PIN, because whenever he runs out of brandy he sends me or Mum to the off-licence with his card. I like to think he did it deliberately. Because he’s as sick of Catherine and her beige wardrobe and sensible flatties as I am.

I don’t feel even remotely guilty, of course. Guilt is for saps like Catherine. Besides, if Daddy had not told me his PIN, it wouldn’t have been so easy for me to clean him out. So it’s entirely his own fault, not mine.

‘What’s the matter with you both?’ I look from Petra to Sharon, and laugh. ‘Here I am, come to do my very worthy volunteering job, and you don’t look at all pleased to see me. Anyone would think I had two heads.’ My laugh deepens as I realise what I’ve said. ‘Two heads. Get it?’ But they just look at me blankly. ‘Oh, forget it.’