I stay at the table, talking politics with Dad.
‘Are you happy with this man?’ he asks suddenly, reaching for my hand.
‘Of course I am.’
‘You’d tell me if you weren’t? You wouldn’t hide it from me?’
‘Don’t be silly, you know I would.’ Embarrassed, I pull my hand away, and feel his gaze narrow on my face. ‘Look, everything’s fine. You don’t need to worry.’
‘Your mum said you sounded unhappy on the phone. She thought there might be a problem.’
‘Not with Dominic.’
He nods slowly, his expression giving nothing away. ‘Okay.’
‘I love Dominic.’ I have to struggle not to raise my voice. Would he be this overprotective if I were his son? ‘How can you even think that? For God’s sake, I’m marrying him in a few weeks.’
‘People change their minds sometimes.’
‘I haven’t changed my mind.’
‘Okay,’ he repeats, but continues to watch me closely.
‘I wish you wouldn’t treat me like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like some stupid kid who doesn’t know her own mind.’ My mother comes back in, carrying a tray of coffee. ‘I told you before, everything’s going fine with our wedding plans. We know what we’re doing. So you don’t need to worry. Either of you.’
Mum looks worriedly from me to my father. ‘I only left you two alone for five minutes. Don’t tell me you’ve argued again?’
‘Not at all,’ my father says smoothly.
He reaches out again and pats my hand before I can stop him. A deeply patronising gesture, though I know Dad’s probably unaware of his own latent sexism. I suppress my little burst of temper and say nothing.
‘Typical dad–daughter stuff, that’s all,’ he says easily. ‘And it seems we’ve had a false alarm. No probs with the delectable Dom, after all.’ He sniffs the air appreciatively. ‘That smells amazing, Ellen. It’s been a long day. Endless bloody problems at work. I could murder a cup of coffee.’
Mum pours us all a cup of coffee, her movements precise and studied. Then she sits back in her place and smiles at me. It looks like she’s brushed her silvery-blonde hair while out of the room. There’s not a strand out of place.
The perfect society hostess.
‘So, darling,’ she says, ‘if the wedding’s still on, and you and Dominic are still madly in love, what on earth’s bothering you? I don’t want to come across as one of these irritating mother-hen types, but you did sound a little upset on the phone. And you hardly ever pop over to see us these days.’ She searches my face, then her smile fades. ‘Oh God, you’re not . . . you’re not expecting, are you?’
I almost laugh out loud, but then see a similar look of alarm etched on my dad’s face. ‘Of course not. It’s nothing like that.’
‘Let’s hear it then.’ Dad sips his black coffee and settles back in his seat, crossing his long legs. Like a crane fly, we used to say as girls, giggling at him in shorts. Daddy-Long-Legs. ‘What’s this visit about?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Rachel.’
Chapter Nine A thick silence follows my sister’s name, as I guessed it might.
My parents never like to discuss Rachel with me, not even in passing conversation. Mum is sitting so still, she seems to be holding her breath. My parents look at each other down the length of the dining table as though I’ve said something explosive. Talk about the black sheep of the family, I think, gulping down a mouthful of hot coffee to hide my nerves and only succeeding in scalding my mouth.
I can hardly blame them for that reaction, of course. My own memories of my older sister are not exactly fond. In fact, I still have nightmares . . .
Dad puts his cup down carefully.
‘Rachel?’
Looking directly at him, I say, ‘A parcel arrived for me at the food bank. I don’t know who sent it. But when I opened it . . . Rachel’s snow globe was inside.’
He stares at me. ‘Her snow globe?’
‘With an eyeball inside it.’
My mother makes a noise of protest, a hand at her mouth. ‘Oh God.’
‘It was a horrible shock. Which I imagine was the whole point.’ Noting my mum’s sudden pallor and wide eyes, I say, ‘Though it turned out not to be as gruesome as it appeared. I took it to Louise – she’s a nurse at the hospital, a friend of Dominic’s – and she confirmed my suspicions. It isn’t human.’
My mother lets out a shaky breath. ‘You mean it was a fake? One of those joke-shop eyeballs?’
‘No, it was a real eyeball.’ I think back over the phone call from Louise. ‘Just not human. Probably a cow’s eye, Louise told me.’
‘Oh my God,’ Mum says faintly.
‘They’re quite easy to get hold of, apparently. Butcher shops have them. And abattoirs. Places like that.’
Dad stirs at last, sitting forward with obvious interest. ‘So who on earth sent you this . . . cow’s eyeball?’
‘I told you,’ I say, ‘I don’t know. There was no sender’s address on the parcel. And nothing inside either.’
‘How convenient.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
But he sidesteps the question, asking instead, ‘What did Dominic say?’
Now it’s my turn to feel uncomfortable. ‘He doesn’t know.’
For a moment, nobody says anything.
My father frowns, studying my face. ‘You’re telling us you received something that ghoulish in the post . . . and didn’t tell your fiancé?’
I shrug.
‘Why, may I ask?’
‘I didn’t want to alarm him,’ I say, not entirely untruthfully.
‘You didn’t want to alarm him?’ my dad repeats. ‘Darling, don’t be ridiculous. The man works in a hospital. He can hardly be squeamish.’
That wasn’t what I meant, of course. I hesitate. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘I see,’ he says drily.
Mum glares at him. ‘Robert.’
‘Oh, very well.’ He shrugs, a vague hunching of his shoulders. But I can tell he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said tonight. He’s just humouring me for Mum’s benefit. And perhaps mine, too. ‘So let’s see if I’ve got this right. The cow’s eyeball was inside Rachel’s snow globe?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re certain it was her snow globe? Not simply a similar-looking one?’
‘Yes,’ I say again.
‘But how can you be so sure?’
‘Well, for a start, “Rachel” was written on the plinth. It was a typed label, just like the one I remember.’ I’m struggling to sound credible, hearing myself and thinking wildly: I wouldn’t believe this either. ‘Obviously, I should have brought it with me. But to be honest, I didn’t think you wouldn’t believe me. And I couldn’t stand to look at the horrible thing again. I’ve hidden it.’
‘Hidden it?’
‘In our flat,’ I tell them.
He glances at my mother again.
I look from one to the other, reading their shuttered expressions with dismay. They think I’m losing it.
I want to leave. That’s my first unhappy impulse. Leave now before they humiliate me any further. Snow globes and eyeballs. What must they be thinking? I made a mistake coming here tonight. I could have been snug at home in front of the telly, or falling asleep in a deep bubble bath, waiting for Dominic’s key in the door. He’s my rock, my safe haven.
I should have told Dominic instead. He would have believed me without question. He would have understood how much this incident is shaking my confidence. He wouldn’t speak to me as if I were deranged. But I didn’t want to drag him into the nightmare of my past.
I’m angry now. Angry and confused.
‘I thought maybe . . .’
Dad raises his brows, his searching glance on my face again. ‘Yes?’
‘That maybe it was you.’
‘Me?’
‘Who sent me the snow globe.’
Mum says something in quick denial, clearly distressed. But I miss it in the sudden grate of my dad’s chair on the marbled floor of the dining room.
‘Get up.’
I stand in confusion, staring at him. Is Dad throwing me out? He grabs for my wrist. His fingers curl round the narrow bones like a manacle, and he squeezes, jerking me forward.
‘Come with me, Catherine.’
I’m scared for a second, but he isn’t threatening me. Not with violence, anyway. His voice is one I recognise from childhood. That ‘you’re in trouble now’ tone. It makes me instantly defensive.