by Jane Holland
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?’
I shake my head, my heart thumping. I don’t know what to say. Or if I can even speak. My tongue feels as if it’s stuck to the roof of my mouth. I’m in hell, I think. A nightmare, only it’s for real.
Sharon glares at me. ‘Who the hell is Rachel?’
Chapter Twenty
I meet Louise for lunch at La Giravolta, the Italian bistro on the corner. It’s her day off on the new shift rota, but she looks tired, like she ought to be in bed. She’s pale, her black hair limp on her shoulders, and there are shadows under her eyes which a few dabs of concealer have not managed to erase. It must be all the night shifts she’s been doing, I decide. Dominic is exactly the same after a long stint on nights. He keeps me up too, as I find it so hard to sleep when he’s not in the bed with me. It’s even harder now that we’ve moved in with my parents.
‘How are you?’ Louise asks, standing up to kiss me on the cheek. She sits down again, her hand going automatically to her wine glass, and I realise she has started drinking without me. ‘Dominic said you had a wonderful time on honeymoon. Slept late nearly every day. God, what I wouldn’t do for a whole week of lie-ins.’
‘So book some holiday leave,’ I say lightly as I take my seat. I nod to her glass. ‘Is that a dry white?’
‘House Chardonnay.’
I turn to call the cheerful waitress, Bianca, who knows me well. ‘Two lunch menus, please. And a bottle of Chardonnay.’
‘Pronto.’
Bianca disappears into the kitchen, singing softly under her breath in Italian.
‘Oh, you know me.’ Louise shrugs. ‘I get so bored on holiday.’
‘Same here,’ I say, though it’s not entirely true.
‘Not on your honeymoon though.’ She winks at me and drains her wine. ‘Sounds like you two spent most of your time in bed.’
I blush, and glance about the restaurant. ‘Shush.’
‘Prude.’
‘Lush.’ I nod at her empty wine glass. ‘I didn’t think I was that late. How long have you been here?’
‘I only had a glass while I was waiting. And not long. Fifteen minutes?’ She looks at me with suddenly intent eyes. ‘So come on, spill. What was so urgent you had to speak to me today?’
First, I check over my shoulder, as though I half expect Sharon to be standing in the bistro doorway, which is ridiculous. Then I flick through the photos on my phone for the snap I took of one of the forms. I had to do it sneakily while Sharon was out of the office for a few minutes, dealing with an unfortunate young woman who’d started screaming at Petra. It made me nervous, knowing I was breaking all the rules. But it was my only chance to get a photocopy of my dead sister’s apparent ‘signature’.
I hand the phone across the table, and she studies the photograph while Bianca arrives with the menus and wine. She drags the cork out of the bottle with ease, then pours two large glasses. I pretend to study the menu until Bianca’s gone, then close it and look at Louise impatiently.
‘Well?’
‘Sorry.’ She is as mystified as I was on first being handed the forms. ‘What am I looking at?’
I point out the signature. ‘I’m certain I left that box blank for Sharon to sign. So how the hell did that signature get there?’ I lean forward, hoping she can advise me. Louise is always so level-headed. ‘And why would someone pull a trick like that?’
‘To get you into trouble, presumably,’ she says, studying the photo again. ‘So did you?’
‘I told you,’ I say hotly. ‘I didn’t write that.’
‘No, crosspatch. I meant, did you get into trouble?’
‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to jump down your throat.’ I make a face. ‘A slapped wrist, that’s all. Though it wasn’t very pleasant. Sharon didn’t believe a word I said. She thinks I signed the wrong name deliberately.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s been giving me her paperwork to complete. That’s against the rules, and I think she assumed I wanted someone at the charity headquarters to notice.’
‘Like signing “Mickey Mouse” on a cheque?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So did you tell her who Rachel is?’
‘God, no. I denied the whole thing.’ I drink some wine, which is dry and nicely chilled, but rather sharp. ‘Sharon would think I was mad if I told her the truth.’ When Louise looks perplexed, I add, ‘How does “My dead sister signed it” sound to you?’
She grins. ‘Fair enough.’
Bianca comes back to take our order. ‘What can I get for you ladies?’ she asks briskly.
Without bothering to open the menu again, I order my usual lunch, a tuna salad baguette, and add a bowl of green and black olives to start.
Louise orders the Special of the Day, Fusilli Giravolta, served with salad and garlic bread. ‘I bet it’s delicious,’ she says, flirting a little with the waitress.
Bianca smiles, her whole face lighting up. ‘Our new chef’s speciality. He stole the recipe from his Sicilian grandmother, or so he claims.’
‘Sicilian?’ Louise raises her brows. ‘He should be careful. She sounds positively dangerous.’
Bianca laughs. ‘That’s what my brother says.’
‘Is he a chef too?’
‘Giacomo? No, he’s a locksmith.’ She points to a stack of business cards in a holder next to the salt cellar, then plucks one out and hands it to Louise, smiling self-consciously. ‘Please, take one. In case you ever get locked out . . .’
Someone calls her from the kitchen and she hurries away, threading her way through the tables with one quick look back at Louise.
‘You’re such a wicked flirt,’ I tell Louise, shaking my head. ‘What would your girlfriend say?’
‘Amita knows what I’m like. She’s okay with it, so long as I don’t go too far.’ She studies the business card, then passes it to me with a shrug and leans back against the alcove seat, her smile mischievous. ‘Besides, it doesn’t hurt to browse occasionally. Just in case something better turns up.’
There’s a crash behind me and I jump, my heart pounding as I look round. But it was only a wine glass, knocked off a table. People are laughing. A few clap mockingly.
I slip the card into my bag, then glance at the clock on the wall opposite to check the time. Still forty minutes before I have to be back at work. Plenty of time for both of us to eat, and even have a coffee afterwards.
‘Have you told Dominic about this business with Rachel’s signature?’ Louise asks suddenly.
‘He’s at work.’
‘But will you?’ She studies me curiously. ‘You didn’t tell him about that eyeball in the snow globe. He cornered me about it a few days before the wedding. Gave me quite a talking-to.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s okay. I can handle irate men.’ Louise hands back my phone in a conspiratorial manner. ‘But this is probably something you need to discuss with your husband, rather than me. And besides, I don’t know anything much about Rachel, except what you told me at the hospital.’
‘I haven’t told Dom much either.’
‘However bad it is, you have to tell him,’ she says bluntly.
I know Louise is right, but I hate the thought of having that conversation.
‘I’ve told him most of it,’ I say.
‘Most?’
‘There’s more.’ I lower my voice and lean forward. I don’t want anyone else to hear what we’re talking about. But it’s time I was straight with Louise about the extent of my sister’s mental health issues. ‘There’s always more with Rachel.’
Louise leans forward too, intrigued. ‘Go on.’
‘Oh God, where do I start?’ I shake my head. ‘Rachel used to hear voices. Voices in her head. Devils on her shoulder, telling her what to do. Bad stuff, usua
lly.’
‘Sounds like schizophrenia.’
‘I thought it was just a neat way of getting out of trouble. Though Mum did say that when she was little, Rachel was always looking for angels in the ceiling.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Bianca stops next to our table and puts down a bowl of olives. ‘There you go,’ she says, smiling at Louise before disappearing again.
Louise watches her go, then makes an appreciative noise, gazing at my side order.
‘Have one,’ I say.
‘Thanks, they look delicious.’ She selects a fat green olive. ‘Sorry, you were saying Rachel saw angels?’
‘Not literally. Looking for angels in the ceiling means she never looked directly at Mum’s face, like normal babies do when they’re nursing. That she found it hard to make an emotional connection with other people.’ I shrug. ‘That’s what Mum told me anyway.’
‘Interesting.’ Louise plays with the stem of her wine glass, frowning. ‘Did Rachel have a Statement of Special Educational Needs?’
‘Neither of us went to school. Mum taught us at home, mostly. Though we had a nanny who looked after us for a time, while Mum was busy doing other stuff. She often sent us away.’ I shrug. ‘I suppose we got underfoot in London, you know.’
The weather outside looks grim. I watch a crowded bus lumber past outside the bistro, people behind the steamed-up windows staring vacantly ahead or looking down, presumably at their phones. It’s still early afternoon, yet already the sky is darkening.
It’s not long until Christmas, I realise with a start. I’ve been so busy with work this year, and the wedding, I’ve barely noticed the festive season creeping up.
Louise steals another olive with an apologetic smile. ‘These are gorgeous. I could eat them all day.’
‘Help yourself,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure if being homeschooled helped or hindered Rachel’s development, to be honest. Rachel was always in trouble. Perhaps she would have done better at school.’
‘Sounds like she needed proper help, not condemnation,’ Louise says, a little tartly.
I look at her, and realise that she doesn’t understand. But how could she?
‘Rachel was troubled, yes. But more than that. She was evil.’
‘Evil?’
I choose my words carefully. ‘Rachel didn’t care about other people. She was only interested in getting her own way. So she would say anything to get what she wanted. Do anything, however appalling.’ I draw a deep breath. ‘Then, afterwards, she’d walk away as if nothing had happened, leaving someone else to pick up the pieces.’ I make a face. ‘Sometimes literally.’
‘Sounds like a right bundle of laughs, your sister.’
I smile, though it’s not funny really. Not deep down, not with what I’m going through. But Louise will think I’m strange if I don’t smile.
‘Yeah, absolutely,’ I say. ‘Rachel was a real party person.’
‘And you killed her.’
Chapter Twenty-One
I stare at her, the smile frozen on my lips. ‘Wh-what?’
Louise starts to reply, but Bianca reappears at that moment with our lunches and we both fall silent. She hands us our plates, checks we have cutlery and, finally, clears away the now-empty olive bowl.
‘Have a good meal, ladies,’ she says with a smile, and then breezes back towards the kitchen.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,’ Louise says quietly once Bianca has disappeared. ‘What I meant to say was, you think you killed her.’
I don’t know how to respond to that.
‘Look, I know this is none of my business.’ Louise gives her knife and fork a quick, fastidious rub with her napkin. ‘But Dom told me how your sister died. That it was a skiing accident, and you can’t remember much about the circumstances. Only that your parents refused to talk about it afterwards, and now they get edgy whenever her name comes up.’
I look away, uncomfortable.
A woman about my own age at a nearby table is staring at us. Spiky red hair, an aggressive expression. I meet her eyes, then glare. Nosy, much?
She glances hurriedly away.
My pulse is racing. I’m beginning to regret asking Louise to meet me for lunch. This is too much, on top of the shock of seeing Rachel’s name all over that paperwork. My nerves are still too raw, too painfully scraped, to deal with what Louise is saying.
‘That’s about right,’ I say huskily.
I pour us both some more wine from the bottle, deliberately generous. Though I notice she’s been easing off since I arrived. Only a third of her glass was gone. Unlike mine. This has not been the comfortable, easy conversation I had envisaged. Quite the opposite, in fact. But the wine is helping.
‘So in some part of your brain,’ Louise says, ‘deep in your subconscious, you may think you were involved in her death, based simply on the way your parents behaved at the time.’
‘Pure psychobabble,’ I say, irritated by her tone.
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ She looks at me steadily. ‘How old were you when she died?’
‘Twelve. I’d only just had my birthday.’
‘And Rachel?’
‘Thirteen and three-quarters,’ I say promptly.
Rachel used to say that a lot, as a silly joke. Then she died and got stuck at that age forever. Thirteen and three-quarters.
The joke was on her in the end.
‘There you are, you see.’ Louise shrugs, as though this explains everything. ‘You were an adolescent.’
‘So?’
‘Adolescence is one of the most sensitive ages for trauma, barring infancy. All those shifting hormone levels, all that identity crisis shit that gets thrown at you during puberty, it makes mental trauma of the kind you suffered all the more dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’
Louise smiles drily. ‘Don’t look so worried. All I mean is, trauma at that age can have a long-lasting effect. It can turn inwards and eat away at you for the rest of your life.’
‘So,’ I say, putting down my baguette, ‘you think losing my sister at that age may be affecting me now.’
Her gaze flickers across my face, but Louise merely says, ‘Perhaps’, and continues to eat, mopping up some of her thick sauce with a slice of garlic bread.
A suspicion strikes me.
‘You think I did it myself, don’t you? You think I was the one who signed Rachel’s name on those sheets.’
Louise stops eating, and meets my eyes. ‘Did you?’
‘Of course I bloody didn’t.’
‘Have you considered it to be a possibility?’
‘No.’
‘You might have done it without realising what you were doing.’
I stare. ‘Without . . . what?’
‘In a kind of fugue state,’ she says. ‘It’s like a trance where you forget who you are and what you’re doing.’ When my eyes widen, she makes a face. ‘Please don’t bite my head off. It can happen, especially when someone’s under a lot of unusual stress.’
‘How am I under stress?’
‘Getting married is one of the most stressful events in a person’s life. Don’t you know that? It’s only beaten by getting divorced and moving house.’
‘I was not stressed out by marrying Dominic,’ I say, though part of me acknowledges that to be a lie. ‘I love him.’
‘No one says you don’t. And I know you’re upset, but this is hard for me too. Believe me, we all have your best interests at heart.’ She pauses, biting her lip delicately. ‘Have you considered, for instance, that you might have cut up your wedding dress yourself and simply have no memory of doing it?’
I blink in horror. ‘No, absolutely not.’
‘Or maybe taken your sister’s snow globe and posted it to yourself with . . . with the eyeball inside?’
‘Why would I do something like that? Now you’re being ridiculous.’ My heart is thudding. I stand up, pushing my chair back. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m going back to work
.’
‘Wait, please. Sit down.’
My chest is heaving and I feel like screaming. But something in her tone makes me stop and sink slowly back into my chair.
‘There is a particular phenomenon, Catherine,’ she says slowly. ‘A condition. And it’s not your fault. I’ve seen people with this condition brought into casualty, often after an episode of self-harming, and it’s much more common than people realise.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Survivor’s guilt.’
I shake my head, looking away. I don’t want to hear this.
‘People who’ve survived a traumatic event where others died,’ she continues gently, ‘even when they don’t remember it properly, can experience an overwhelming sense of guilt. It’s so strong sometimes, it can change the way they behave. In extreme cases, it can even make them take on certain facets or behavioural traits of loved ones who didn’t survive, like a kind of penance to the dead person.’ She hesitates, then adds, ‘Openly, or on a subconscious level.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘It’s a well-recognised condition.’
‘Has D-Dominic been talking to you about this?’ Hearing the slight stutter in my voice only annoys me further. My heart races when she says nothing, merely watching me. But there’s a flicker in her eyes again, a touch of guilt. ‘Oh God.’
‘Catherine . . .’
I feel the telltale blush of anger fill my cheeks and can’t control it. ‘This is Dominic’s theory, isn’t it? Not yours at all. He’s the one who thinks I’m going mental.’
‘That’s such an unhelpful word.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ My voice is a hiss, and she stares at me, clearly startled. ‘How would you describe my condition, then? In your expert opinion?’
‘I’m not a doctor, it’s true,’ she says slowly, ‘but I am an experienced mental health specialist, and I don’t think we should—’
‘Has “survivor’s guilt” made me hysterical, would you say? Hysterical and hormonal? Or does Dominic think it’s worse? What did he tell you?’ My voice starts to rise, even though I know people are looking our way. The woman with spiky red hair is staring again, but I ignore her. ‘Am I a bit on the flaky side, perhaps? Unhinged? Disturbed?’
