Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(71)

McAuley’s isn’t opening today.

All part of Jacqui’s ‘proper family day’ treaty, no doubt. A treaty I’ve already flouted by turning up ten minutes before lunch.

Dad snares me at the kitchen door. The attention’s suffocating and feels more like a chokehold than a bear-hug. It also seems a little left-field given the last time I saw him I accused him of sleeping with Maryanne Doyle. I’d expected him to be civil, of course. Maybe to feign a little affection even, if only for Finn’s sake. But there’s an intensity to the way he’s holding me, the way he’s breathing me in like I’m a newborn.

I daren’t breathe him in. He reeks of something awful – a chemical lemony scent, like bug-spray.

Jacqui, flushed from the kitchen, clocks my face. ‘Yeah, I know, it’s disgusting. It’s called Silver Man. Finn chose it.’

‘Because Grandad’s got silver hair,’ says Finn, hugging my thigh as tight as a tourniquet.

Dad looks down, ruffles his hair. ‘Yeah, thanks for reminding me, champ.’ A bit quieter. ‘I’ll wash it off in a bit, he probably won’t notice.’

Which is probably true. He certainly never notices that Auntie Cat and Grandad Mike barely say two words to each other.

‘Drink?’ asks Dad, loosening his grip and easing me out of my coat. ‘We have red, white, Prosecco, Aperol .?.?.’

‘That was my choice,’ shouts Jacqui, her head practically swallowed by the oven. ‘Apparently it’s all the rage in Australia.’

‘So’s skin cancer.’ Noel’s voice lurks behind the kitchen door. I should probably peer round and offer some kind of festive pleasantry but I’m loath to wish him a Happy Anything.

‘Wrong actually,’ says Jacqui. ‘The Aussies are a lot more sun-savvy than us Brits.’

‘A white wine, please.’ I say to Dad, keeping it civil but clipped.

I follow the sounds of Finn whooping at Super Mario and find myself standing in the living room. It’s less stark in here than the rest of the flat and my face smiles down at me from every surface.

Soaked on the log flume at Alton Towers.

Decked out like a fat fairy for my Holy Communion – a pair of rosary beads in one hand, a packet of Haribo in the other.

Me and Jacqui dressed up as witches for Halloween.

That one kills me. We both look so happy and so, so pleased with ourselves in our cute little costumes that it makes me want to weep. It makes me want to go into the kitchen and tell her that I’m truly sorry I didn’t get here earlier like she wanted.

But I don’t. I’ve only got the strength for one argument today.

Jacqui’s done a stellar job, right down to the gingerbread men garnishes bobbing away at the top of our champagne flutes. Dad sits at the head of the table – perfectly decorated in reds, greens and golds – and I position myself two seats away. Ash stations himself in between, happy to play the human firewall.

And it’s OK for a while.

Tolerable, at least.

Ash keeps things interesting with a story about a colleague whose girlfriend jilted him at the altar twice, over two consecutive Christmases, and wonderful Finn acts like a prism, casting rainbows among the rumbling black clouds. The food’s complicated enough to warrant long, time-killing explanations from Jacqui about how it came to be on the table. And the crackers are fun, I suppose. I win a giant paperclip.

‘So you’re working on that case – the Doyle girl, right?’

It’s Noel that brings it up. Whatever happens now, I can always point to the fact that it was Noel, not me, who tore open the can of worms and dumped them all over the Christmas table.

‘There’s a lot of people working on it,’ I say, flatly.

‘Have you arrested anyone?’ he says, eyes glinting. ‘It’s usually the husband, isn’t it? Bet it’s the husband.’

‘Can we talk about something else?’ I tap Jacqui with my foot under the table. ‘Hey, have you still got that Saturday girl in the shop, Jacqs, the one with the crazy eyebrows?’

She taps me back, a little harder. ‘Ah, come on, Cat, give us the scoop. We knew her, for God’s sake!’

Dad stares blankly but there’s a microscopic flutter in his eye – the kind of thing you only notice when you know someone inside out. When you’re alert to every slight mood shift.

‘Well, I suppose we didn’t know her.’ Jacqui loads more carrots onto Finn’s plate – a futile endeavour. ‘I remember her though, I hung about with her a few times. You probably don’t remember Cat, you were only a kid.’

‘I do, actually.’ I look straight at Dad. ‘She was gorgeous. You’d hardly forget her in a hurry.’

Jacqui laughs, elbows Noel. ‘Do you remember, Geri had just left the Spice Girls and Cat reckoned Maryanne was going to replace her, that’s why she’d disappeared.’

I don’t remember this at all, not one misty memory of ever saying that. And I’d have staked my life on being able to recount every single thing that happened that day.

What other details could I be missing?

Noel grunts. ‘Didn’t think she was that fit actually. Average, I’d say.’

Ash laughs. ‘Oh, you’ve turned down better, have you?’

‘Too right I have, mate. You want to see some of the Spanish women, some of the dancers at the club.’ He kisses the tips of his fat gnarly fingers. ‘Precioso.’