Forget Her Name

by Jane Holland

  Seconds later, Dominic bends to Jasmine’s ear, speaking above the loud, pumping beat of the music. I see Jasmine turn her head, staring up at him, wide-eyed.

  As if he’s just told her something shocking.

  ‘Okay, it’s here,’ Louise says, bounding up to me, flushed and out of breath. She hands me a closed umbrella. ‘Quick, you’ll need this. It’s raining cats and dogs.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your taxi, of course. To take you to your hotel? It’s waiting outside.’ She shakes her head, smiling. ‘Bloody hell, girl. Come on, shake a leg. How much wine have you had?’

  ‘Not enough,’ I mutter.

  But Louise has already gone and doesn’t hear. She calls Dominic over with a frantic wave. ‘Taxi’s here. And the meter’s running.’

  Dominic comes towards me and kisses my forehead. ‘Ready?’

  I nod silently.

  Jasmine has followed him, a look of consternation on her face. She glances at me, still frowning, then away. I get the impression she doesn’t want to talk to me. Which is odd, as she was madly talkative earlier in the evening, discussing her wild life in Birmingham and her passion for stock car racing.

  What the hell did Dominic say to her?

  ‘I’ll grab my coat,’ Dominic says, then disappears towards the cloakrooms.

  Louise runs after him. ‘Get mine too, would you?’ she calls. ‘Or I’m going to get soaked.’ Her hair is already wet, and she’s long since lost the tiara she was wearing at the ceremony. She must have been standing outside waiting for the taxi. Or popped out to talk to the driver when the cab finally arrived.

  I’m left alone with Jasmine.

  My cousin hesitates, then looks around at me, a question in her wide, dark eyes. But whatever she wants to know, it’s obvious she’s not going to broach the subject right now.

  ‘I’ve had a lovely time, Catherine,’ she says. ‘The wedding was such brilliant fun. Especially the speeches. Don’t know when I’ve laughed so much. Your dad’s sense of humour is a bit on the dry side, isn’t it?’ She pauses awkwardly. ‘Well, I hope you two have a great honeymoon up at the Lakes. I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard the countryside is beautiful. Even at this time of year.’

  I can’t stay quiet any longer. ‘Jasmine, what is it?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I saw you two together.’

  She looks alarmed. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t bother to deny it.’ I’m breathless with panic, worrying about what’s wrong, what she’s hiding from me. I grab her hands and squeeze them. ‘Please, what’s the matter? What did Dom say to you?’

  ‘N-nothing,’ she stammers.

  ‘Tell me, for God’s sake. I have to know.’

  ‘It’s nothing, honestly. I got a . . . a postcard, that’s all.’

  ‘A postcard?’

  ‘I thought it was a sick joke, so I just put it in the bin. That’s what I was telling Dominic.’

  A sick joke.

  ‘What kind of postcard?’

  She shrugs. ‘It was a picture of the Alps. Ski slopes, snow, those cute wooden houses, you know.’

  I do know, and I stare at her in horror.

  ‘It was a prank, probably. That’s what Dom said when I told him. He didn’t want me to mention it to you.’ She squirms, looking uncomfortable under my intent gaze. ‘He said you’ve had some trouble recently too. People sending you weird shit.’

  She tries to pull away, but I hold her hands tight. ‘Forget all that,’ I say. ‘I need to know what was written on the postcard.’

  ‘Dominic said not to—’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, tell me!’

  She is surprised by my tone. ‘It was only a few words. But look, the postmark was Westminster. So it wasn’t actually from Switzerland, you know? Like I say, most likely some sick prankster . . .’

  I can’t seem to catch my breath. ‘What did it say, Jasmine?’

  ‘It said, “I see you, Catherine”,’ she whispers.

  I see you, Catherine.

  ‘And the signature?’

  I already know what Jasmine’s going to say. But I refuse to believe it.

  ‘Rachel.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Lake District is breathtakingly beautiful, just as I had always imagined it would be. Off the tourist tracks, long majestic vistas of dark lakes nestle between slopes scattered with rocky outcrops and thick with trees. We spend a gloriously happy week in a cottage overlooking the gloomy water. Windermere is the perfect winter honeymoon location. Stunning scenery, quiet and isolated, yet with plenty of pretty restaurants and cafés open for when we can’t be bothered to cook for ourselves. It isn’t too cold either, despite being so close to Christmas. Chilly and often icy, yes. But nothing too extreme, thank goodness.

  It snows on the third and fourth day, but not heavily. Just enough to dust the hilltops with white, and ice the village pavements, leaving them slippery underfoot.

  We sleep late most days, our limbs tangled together under warm sheets. Then we put on thick layers of clothing and hiking boots, and walk out, hand in hand, to explore the lake and picturesque village. When the weather’s too bad for walking, we stay in beside the cosy flicker of an open fire, such a lovely contrast to the storage heaters in our flat.

  We watch films in the long evenings, and feed each other marshmallows dipped in chocolate fondue, sometimes making leisurely love on the rug or in the bedroom with its huge bed and decadent black satin sheets.

  We have been locked in our own little heaven for six days and nights now. Locked in and ecstatic about it, deaf to the demands of our lives back in the city.

  ‘How did your mum find this place?’ Dominic asks, staring out over dark waters on our last day there. ‘I mean, it’s fantastic, but . . . Jesus, these hills, these lakes. It’s like something out of a film.’

  As we watch, a few errant snowflakes spin out of the looming grey sky, threatening more bad weather on the way. Luckily, we’ll be on the train back to London first thing in the morning, so there’s little danger of getting snowed in now. But the increasing chill in the air is unmistakeable.

  I shiver. ‘Someone recommended it to her, I think.’

  ‘By someone, you mean . . .’

  ‘Probably a diplomat.’ I smile at his wry shake of the head. ‘What?’

  ‘What kind of family have I married into?’

  I lean against him, wearing only his T-shirt and a pair of fluffy slippers. It’s a little cold for such a skimpy outfit, but we only recently got out of bed after another lovemaking session, and the open fire he’s kindled should soon warm the small cottage.

  ‘I could ask the same of you,’ I say.

  Dominic keeps staring out at the chilly weather, but I can feel his stillness. ‘Now what’s that supposed to mean?’ he says.

  ‘Well, you said some of your relatives would be at the wedding. But I only met your aunt and uncle for about five minutes, and I barely caught a glimpse of your cousins . . .’

  ‘They left early,’ he says, an odd note in his voice. ‘I told you they couldn’t stay long.’

  Have I hurt his feelings?

  Dominic lost his mum and dad in a house fire, some terrible accident while he was in his first year at university, and I feel awkward sometimes that mine are both still alive. Which is crazy, of course. But it’s hard not to wonder how he feels about his family, especially when he has so few relatives and I have . . . well, not that many. But more than him.

  ‘Hey, sorry.’ I snake my arms about his waist, and stand on tiptoe to kiss his throat. He looks down at me, and again there’s that hurt look on his face. ‘I was only teasing. And your aunt was lovely.’

  His smile is grudging. ‘Yeah, Aunty Grace . . . she’s a laugh. Always my favourite aunt when I was a kid.’

  ‘So you do have other aunts.’

  ‘I’m not in touch with that side of the family anymore. Not since my parents died.’ There’s a wistful
note in his voice. ‘You’re lucky, you know. Being so close to your mum and dad.’

  ‘Too close sometimes,’ I mutter.

  He turns away, putting a couple of fresh logs on the hearth and poking the embers with a fire iron. We’ve had a relaxed last day together so far, drifting from the bed to the lunch table and back to bed without much conversation, neither of us willing to upset the easy dynamic between us. But there’s something we still need to discuss, regardless.

  I sit on the large white sofa and pull my slippered feet up beneath me, trying to get warm. ‘We haven’t talked about Jasmine yet.’

  I don’t recognise my voice, it sounds so thin and breathless.

  He straightens, but does not look at me. There’s a slight flush in his cheeks, as though bending too close to the fire has overheated him.

  ‘Jasmine?’

  ‘I know you spoke to her at the wedding.’

  He nods, giving nothing away. ‘Yeah, she texted me the next morning, said she’d been indiscreet. Too much beer.’

  ‘Indiscreet?’

  ‘I asked her not to get into it with you.’

  I wait for him to explain. But Dominic says nothing more, carefully replacing the fire iron on its stand.

  ‘So?’

  His gaze meets mine at last, curiously hard. ‘So?’ he echoes me.

  ‘She told me about the postcard.’

  ‘A fake,’ he says dismissively. ‘I knew it would upset you. Perhaps even ruin the honeymoon. That’s why I didn’t say anything. Jasmine knew it too, otherwise she would have contacted your family as soon as it arrived. The fact that she didn’t is pretty much self-explanatory.’

  ‘But why would someone do that? Send her a fake postcard from . . . from my sister?’

  I can’t bring myself to say her name out loud. Even thinking it is hard. As if naming my dead sister might give her the power to be alive again.

  Which is ridiculous.

  Rachel.

  Her name has been a secret darkness at the heart of our honeymoon. I don’t want that darkness to persist into our marriage, too. I’d rather spend a peaceful last evening here with my husband. Maybe play some Scrabble or a game of chess. Or watch another film. Or perhaps make love again.

  I have to exorcise her though, whatever the cost.

  ‘Some people are like that,’ he says. ‘They thrive on hurting other people. On sowing the seeds of unhappiness in relationships. Especially marriages.’

  ‘You think someone is trying to break up our marriage?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Someone who doesn’t want the two of us to be together,’ I say slowly, trying to work it out. ‘And who knows exactly which buttons to press. So it has to be someone who knows me well. And who knows about Rachel. Maybe someone who knows more than I do about her death.’ I stare at the flickering fire, half mesmerised by the flames. ‘After all, I was a kid when it happened, and my parents wanted to protect me. That’s why they never discussed it afterwards, I guess.’

  I frown, thinking about the eyeball in the snow globe, and my ruined wedding dress, and now Jasmine’s postcard. There’s a pattern here. A vile, twisted pattern of hostility and attack. But I can’t see what it means.

  ‘Well, it’s a nice theory,’ I continue, a little unnerved by Dominic’s silence. ‘But who the hell ticks all those boxes? I don’t know anyone who’s so bothered about us getting married that they’d go to all this bloody trouble.’ I pause in my little rant, looking up at him. ‘Do you?’

  Dominic’s expression is grim, yet he says nothing. He stands and opens a wooden chest, taking out a soft tartan blanket, which he shakes and drapes around my shoulders. Physical comfort instead of words. Perhaps I prefer it. Right now, the fact that he’s here for me should matter more than what he says. Or doesn’t say.

  ‘Thanks.’ My voice is husky. I pat the sofa, which suddenly feels very big. ‘Join me?’

  Dominic hesitates, then sits next to me. The sofa gives slightly under his weight and I slump towards him, not very gracefully. The T-shirt rides up, revealing my bare thighs. I see his gaze flicker across them, slowly moving higher. His hand finds my shoulder, then caresses my collarbone, the curve of my throat, his fingers trailing across my cheek.

  ‘You think too much,’ he tells me softly.

  ‘Better than too little.’

  ‘Not when you’re on your honeymoon.’

  ‘Shit, sorry.’ I bite my lip at the quiet accusation in his voice. I’m not sure how I got there, but I’m on the verge of tears. ‘I’m ruining our honeymoon, aren’t I? We were having such a peaceful time up here, hiding away from everything, and now . . .’ I suck in a deep breath. ‘Rachel always finds a way to spoil things.’

  ‘Forget Rachel,’ he says, almost angry.

  Shaken, I meet his gaze.

  ‘I don’t want you to think about her again, you hear me?’ he continues. ‘Rachel is dead and gone. She can’t hurt you anymore.’

  God, I want to believe him. To forget about my sister. To dismiss all the things that have been happening lately. It would make everything so much easier if I could just shut her out of my head.

  I close my eyes as he kisses me.

  Rachel is dead and gone. She can’t hurt you anymore.

  So who sent that postcard?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sharon calls me into her office just after nine o’clock on my first day back at work after the honeymoon. She has changed her hair, I realise, as I follow her into the warm room. She used to wear it loose over her shoulders, all bouncy, honey-blonde, dyed curls. Now it looks stricter, coiled up in a bun at the back of her head. She has toned down her lipstick, too. Usually scarlet, it’s a darker red today, and less glossy. As if she means business.

  ‘How was the Lake District?’ she asks, indicating that I should close the door.

  ‘Fantastic, thank you. The scenery was breathtaking.’

  ‘Sounds lovely. Did you do much walking?’

  I smile, though I’m still puzzled by this unexpected summons. If Sharon has something to say, normally she would do so in front of everyone else. Is this just about the honeymoon?

  ‘We went out a couple of times. It was a bit cold for anything major.’

  ‘Snowed, did it?’

  I nod, and Sharon makes a wry face.

  ‘That’s the Lake District in December, love,’ she says. ‘I did say you should have gone to Benidorm.’

  ‘And you were right. I hate flying though, so . . .’ I shrug. ‘By the way, we both absolutely love the cruet set. Thank you so much.’

  ‘No problem.’ Sharon looks uncomfortable again, but manages a thin smile. ‘You’d better sit down.’

  I sit in one of the plastic chairs in front of her desk.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ I ask.

  ‘A problem?’ Sharon sits behind her desk, smiling at me in a perfunctory manner. ‘I’m not sure I would put it like that, no.’

  ‘So why am I here?’

  She looks annoyed by the question, as if I’m straying from the script in her head. Picking up some papers, she shuffles them, glancing at one or two, then hands them to me.

  ‘You recognise these?’

  I study the first few sheets. It’s paperwork I sorted out for her in the weeks before my wedding. Simple accounting for the food bank. Part of her job as manager here – but knowing I have an affinity with numbers, Sharon often gives me the forms to fill out while she mans my workstation.

  A quid pro quo arrangement that suits us both.

  There has never been a problem before.

  I nod, still mystified, and offer her the papers back again.

  ‘No, keep them for now.’ Sharon sits back. Her face is troubled. ‘I didn’t notice the issue until last week, when I had to provide our monthly figures to the charity.’

  ‘Issue? What issue?’

  Her mouth tightens. My tone obviously irritates her.

  ‘You have no idea what this is about, Catherine?�
�

  I don’t like the way she emphasises my name.

  Now I’m irritated, too.

  ‘None whatsoever, sorry. Should I?’

  I flick through the loose sheets again, checking the details on each. Some people I recall perfectly. The ones with the worst stories. Others are harder to place. A few were dealt with by different volunteers, or they came to the food bank outside my shift times.

  There’s nothing here that strikes me as wrong.

  Sharon taps the desktop with one painted fingernail, studying me through narrowed eyes. ‘Okay, let’s do this properly. You know how you have to input the details on the computer, then print out two copies for the files?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And each printout has to be signed at the bottom, in the box that says “Handling Officer”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re supposed to leave that part blank so that I can add my signature later?’

  A cold feeling creeps over me. Did I sign the printed forms by mistake? Guiltily, my hand clenches the sheets, staring back at her.

  I did rush through some of those forms in the weeks before the wedding, my head full of flower arrangements and invitations and packing up our stuff for the post-wedding move to my parents’ house. Plus, of course, the horror of the snow globe’s arrival.

  ‘Look at the signature on each sheet.’

  I look down at the first sheet, expecting to see my own name in the box left blank for the Handling Officer’s signature.

  My heart stutters.

  There’s a name written in the signature box. Signed in bold, black ink. The scrawl is not quite legible, almost underdeveloped. As though the writer hasn’t fully decided yet how to sign their name.

  A familiar, sloping signature, all the same.

  Just one word.

  The sheets in my hand begin to tremble.

  This is fear. Sudden, primal, brain-numbing fear.

  When I don’t say anything, Sharon clears her throat. Her look is cold, brittle. She doesn’t understand, and who can blame her?

  ‘Well?’ she says. ‘Do you have an explanation for me? Any explanation at all?’