by Jane Holland
‘Right.’ Pauline studies me thoughtfully. ‘And where is this cleaner now?’
‘Kasia?’ Uneasy under her searching gaze, I look away. ‘I’m not sure. I shouted for her, but she didn’t seem to hear me.’
‘And your parents?’
‘Out.’
Ahmed has been glancing through his notebook, but stirs at this, instantly helpful and smiling. ‘You want me to give them a ring? Let them know you’re hurt?’
‘No, I’ll be fine.’
The constable nods, though I can see he’s curious. He glances about the room, taking in the elegance of his surroundings. ‘Perhaps your husband then.’ He checks his notebook. ‘Dominic.’
I say nothing, feeling dizzy.
‘Have a sip of this, you don’t look so good.’ Pauline hands me the glass of water she sent Ahmed to fetch and which I haven’t touched yet. ‘I think we should call him, don’t you?’
‘I didn’t even know Dominic had been in touch with you.’
‘Well, there you go. Keeping secrets already.’ She smiles, as though to show that she’s only joking. But I don’t find it very amusing. ‘How’s your head?’
‘Still throbbing.’
Ahmed glances past her out of the window. ‘Here’s the ambulance now.’ He heads for the door. ‘I’ll let them know where we are.’
At that moment, there’s a commotion at the door.
It’s my mother, home from her shopping expedition. I hear her voice, high-pitched and worried, thrown by the unexpected discovery of a policeman in her house. ‘What on earth . . . ? What’s happened? Has there been a burglary?’
I struggle to stand up. ‘My mum—’
‘No, don’t try to move,’ Pauline tells me, before hurrying out into the hall to explain to my mother what’s happened.
I’m alone at last.
Swiftly, I take the notebook out from the waistband of my jeans. There aren’t many good hiding places I can easily reach with a swollen ankle, but I’ve had twenty minutes to consider what to do.
Leaning as far over from the armchair as I can without overbalancing, I slide the notebook under the glass-fronted cabinet behind me.
I catch the base of the glass door by accident, and the display of cut-glass crystal and china inside rattles. But the notebook disappears underneath the cabinet, and a few seconds later I’m sitting upright in the armchair again, as if nothing has happened.
At that instant, the door is pushed wide open and my mother stumbles in, breathless and unhappy, carrying four heavy bags of Christmas shopping in both hands, her smart Gucci leather handbag in the crook of her arm.
She’s been to Harrods and Harvey Nicks, I realise, noting the logos on the gift bags. That kind of shopping expedition would normally leave her smiling and sated. But her eyes are wild, looking down at me in horror.
‘Oh my God, darling. What on earth have you done to yourself?’ She dumps her bags and bends over me, clucking with her tongue. She was always very capable with minor injuries when I was a kid. But she seems bewildered and a little lost for what to do. This is something a sticking plaster and some antiseptic cream won’t fix, I guess.
‘We did offer to call you,’ Pauline says.
Traitor, I think, flashing the policewoman a sharp look.
‘You should have done. You should have called me. Oh, your poor head.’ My mother touches the gash on my forehead. ‘The police officer says you fell down the cellar stairs. How in God’s name . . . ?’
I decide not to go through it again. Not with Pauline listening. ‘It’s nothing serious, probably just a sprained ankle,’ I start to say, trying to sound calm about it all, but Pauline interrupts.
‘Concussion may be a possibility,’ she says, correcting me. ‘Catherine gave her head quite a nasty bash, as you can see. But the bleeding’s stopped now, which is a good sign.’
My mother stares at her. ‘So she called you? The police?’
‘We were here about another matter. It was lucky we found her. She could have been stuck down there for hours.’ Pauline smiles, and holds out her hand. ‘I’m Pauline and this is Ahmed. May I ask your name?’
‘Ellen,’ Mum says warily, and they shake hands. ‘Ellen Bates. What other matter?’
‘It’s not important,’ I tell her.
She’ll find out soon enough about the wedding dress, when Dad reads the letter I’ve left in his study.
To my relief, Pauline ignores the question. ‘Don’t you worry, we’re whisking your daughter off to hospital to be checked over. Soon be right as rain.’
Just as she says this, two paramedics in green uniforms appear in the doorway – a middle-aged man and a young, freckle-faced woman.
‘Where’s Kasia?’ my mother asks, standing back to let them pass. ‘Why isn’t she here? She should be here.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
‘Hello, Catherine,’ the young paramedic says with a friendly smile. ‘I’m Frieda and this is Medhi.’ She puts her green emergency kit down beside the armchair and snaps on a pair of latex gloves. ‘Hurt your ankle too, did you?’
‘Yes.’
The police had already taken my trainer and sock off my right foot, so she sets to work examining the swollen ankle, her fingers cold through the latex, pressing gently.
‘Yes, it’s sprained, I’d say. Not too badly though, to judge by the amount of swelling. A cool-pack and a few hours’ elevation should see that right. Your head’s another matter. We’ll need to take you into A & E for that, okay? Get you checked over by a doctor.’
I am just agreeing reluctantly when there are footsteps on the stairs, quick and light. Suddenly Kasia is there in the doorway. Her hair is messy and her cheeks look a little flushed, like she’s been sleeping.
‘There you are,’ my mother exclaims, sounding almost angry, which surprises me.
Kasia stares in at us, her expression shocked.
‘Wh-what’s going on?’ She looks at the police uniforms in horror, then spots me in the armchair, my swollen ankle resting on a footstool, the paramedic strapping on some kind of cold compress. ‘Catherine?’ Her gaze lifts to my mother’s face, and I see guilt there at last. ‘Was there accident?’
My mother’s face is cold. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘And you didn’t hear anything?’
Kasia glances at the police, then shakes her head. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Bates. I was . . . I was . . .’
‘Were you asleep?’
The cleaner bites her lip deeply, looking ashamed. ‘Just a little sleep. Half-hour in the guest bedroom. I was up all night with my little one.’ She taps her mouth. ‘Teething.’
‘Well, you’re here now.’ My mother’s face is stiff with outrage. ‘You’d better make yourself useful. Call my husband. Let him know what’s happened and tell him to ring me later. I’m going to the hospital with Catherine.’
Kasia blinks. ‘Call . . . ?’
‘His mobile.’ My mother adds impatiently. ‘The number is on the wall by the kitchen phone. Really, Kasia. Wake up.’
‘Yes, Mrs Bates.’
She disappears.
Frieda, the paramedic, smiles up at me as she finishes strapping my ankle. ‘Right, that should reduce the swelling. Ready for a ride in an ambulance?’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Shortly after my arrival at St Hilda’s, being pushed into A & E in a wheelchair as though I’m an invalid, Dominic appears at my bedside, out of breath, as though he’s run all the way from the staffroom.
‘Catherine, are you okay? Sally told me you’d been brought in with a head wound. What the hell happened?’ While my mother explains, he snaps on a fresh pair of latex gloves and tilts my head sideways with professional care. If he’s horrified by her story, Dominic doesn’t show it, soon calming down and even winking at me when he hears the part about the cat. ‘Well, the good news is, this cut isn’t as serious as it looks. No stitches required. The bad news is, I think my wife
may be crazy.’
‘That’s not funny,’ I say crossly. ‘I wasn’t imagining it. I definitely heard mewing.’
He dabs the wound gently. ‘Maybe a neighbour’s cat got in.’
‘That doesn’t explain the light turning off, and me getting locked in,’ I say hotly. ‘Dom, someone else was down there.’
‘Who?’
I hesitate. ‘I didn’t see exactly. But I heard footsteps.’
‘It sounds like a mistake of some kind.’ He frowns, concentrating on what he’s doing. ‘An accident, I’m sure.’
‘Seriously?’ I lower my voice. ‘After everything that’s happened lately, you don’t find this a little bit suspicious?’
His eyes flick to mine, then he reaches for some bandaging. ‘You’re worrying your mum,’ he says softly.
I glance over his shoulder at my mother’s pale face, and relent.
‘Okay, maybe it was a . . . an accident.’ I’m suddenly glad he’s the one taking care of me. I’m not very keen on hospitals. Not when I’m the patient, anyway. ‘I was convinced I heard a cat though. I feel like such an idiot.’
He grins.
As soon as my mother excuses herself to ring my dad, I ask Dominic to close the cubicle curtains, and tell him what the police said about the wedding dress.
‘Pig’s blood?’ he repeats blankly, then shrugs. ‘No wonder they’re not interested in pursuing it. But I’d love to know who was responsible for ruining your dress. Some sick bastard who deserves a punch in the face.’
I shudder. ‘Please, let’s just forget about it.’
‘Sure, if you want.’ Dominic bends and kisses me on the lips. ‘I was frantic when Sally told me you were in A & E,’ he murmurs. ‘You’ve got to take better care of yourself, Mrs Whitely. You hear me?’
‘Miss Bates,’ I remind him. ‘And don’t you forget it.’
‘You stubborn feminist,’ he says, and laughs when I poke my tongue out at him.
The curtain rattles, and he straightens.
Mum comes back in, looking flustered, her hair blown about by the wind. ‘I couldn’t get hold of Robert. He’s not answering his phone. I left a message instead.’ She sighs. ‘I’ll stay with you though. I just hope it doesn’t take forever.’
Dominic stays with me and Mum while I’m examined by one of the duty doctors. I am checked for signs of concussion, and an X-ray is taken of my swollen ankle, which reveals no broken bones. As he thought, the gash on my forehead is not deemed serious enough to need stitches, but it is thoroughly cleaned and covered with a large plaster, padded with cotton wool. After a few hours I am given the all-clear and Dominic is granted permission to take me home himself.
‘Early clock-off today,’ Dominic says cheerfully, helping me out of the wheelchair. During our long wait, he’s managed to wrangle a pair of crutches for me. ‘Ever used these, darling?’
I shake my head.
‘Come on, one under each arm.’
Once I’m steady on the crutches, Dominic helps me out to the taxi rank. His manager, Sally Weston, who’s been hanging around the cubicle too, insists on coming to see us off. I get the feeling she’s curious about me.
It’s already dark outside. There’s a Christmas tree outside the hospital’s main entrance, strung with lights and baubles that wink and sway. The night air is cold, with a bitter, gusting wind that leaves me shivering.
‘Don’t forget concussion can still develop several days after a bang on the head. Watch out for any headache, dizziness, nausea . . .’ Sally begins to recite the list of symptoms, then grins at Dominic’s expression. ‘Sorry, Dom. You know what to look for, of course.’ She opens the back door of the waiting taxi for us. ‘Good to see you again, Catherine. Take care, both of you. We should go for drinks sometime.’
‘Sure,’ Dominic tells her smoothly.
Mum has come after us, hunched in her coat and fussing about me. But she’s not really needed with Dominic there, and she knows it.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him.
Dominic helps me hop into the back of the black cab, while Mum sits on one of the pull-down seats. ‘What on earth are you apologising for? You fell down a flight of stairs, you great softie.’ He puts the crutches on the floor. ‘This is hardly self-inflicted.’
I can tell from Mum’s briefly raised eyebrows that she does not agree. But she sees me looking and smiles. ‘Are you okay, darling?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You know what? I’m going to invite Jasmine to stay over Christmas.’ Mum shifts her feet to one side as Dominic climbs in beside me. There’s a firm note in her voice, as if everything is already decided and there’s no point even arguing about it. ‘I discussed it with your dad on the phone while you were in Radiography, and he agrees it’s a good idea.’
I stare at her. ‘Jasmine?’
‘Why not?’ she demands. ‘The two of you are second cousins and you don’t see enough of each other. And the poor girl’s on her own this Christmas because everyone else is flying off to . . . I don’t know, the Caribbean or somewhere. Only she can’t go because she stupidly let her passport lapse and it was too late to renew in time. Anyway, it will be lovely to have her for Christmas, and I’ve already been on the phone to her mother too. Barbara is ecstatic about the idea.’
Barbara is Jasmine’s mum, and one of Mum’s first cousins. I glance at Dominic, who shrugs and looks away, a wry smile on his face.
‘But where will she stay?’ I ask.
‘The guest bedroom, of course. I’ll get Kasia to give it a quick tidy-out. Oh, darling, it will be lovely for you. You’re off over Christmas, aren’t you?’
There’s a slight strain behind the question. I know she hates me volunteering at the food bank.
‘Yes, I was meant to finish the day after tomorrow. Back again the day after Boxing Day.’ I make a face, touching the padded plaster on my forehead. ‘Assuming I’m fit. I must look a mess. And I doubt they’ll want me hopping about on crutches.’
‘You won’t need crutches for more than a day or two,’ Dominic reassures me.
‘The doctor said it was a bad sprain.’
‘It looks worse than it is. The swelling will go down quite rapidly, you’ll see.’
I’m not sure I believe him, given how painful my ankle is right now. But I say nothing. Besides, I’ve got other things to worry about. Like Jasmine coming to visit.
I like Jasmine, but I’m uncomfortable now, and not simply because of the pain in my ankle. Just the mention of my cousin is a reminder of what she told me at the wedding. Of the unsettling postcard she received, supposedly from Rachel.
‘I’ll have to ring Sharon tonight,’ I say, trying to distract myself. ‘Let her know what’s happened. That I can’t work until after the holidays.’
‘It’s okay, let me do it,’ Dominic says at once, and turns on his phone. The screen lights up the indulgent look on his face. ‘I think I’ve got her number in my contacts list.’
‘Thank you,’ I say softly.
He gives me a sideways smile, then focuses on the phone screen.
I sit back and close my eyes, trying not to worry too much. I love how protective he’s being with me. It’s like he senses I’m nervous about Jasmine’s visit, and wants to reassure me. I only hope his love will be enough to keep me sane, when everything else in my life seems to be falling apart with alarming speed.
When we get home, Dad is waiting for us in the brightly lit porch while Dominic supports me over the threshold. Seeing him reminds me of the letter waiting in his study. Has he found it already? Has he read it?
There’s no sign of Kasia, I realise, looking past him into the empty hallway. But it’s getting late. She must have left to be with her kids. I’m glad. And not just because I’m still a little suspicious she deliberately locked me in the cellar. I don’t like the thought of her and Dad being home alone together for so long. The horrible idea that they’re having an affair has got hold of me now, and I can’t seem to shake it
, even though I’m sure it can’t be true. All the same, I avoid his gaze.
It ought to be a relief to be home.
But it isn’t.
Quite the opposite, in fact. I find myself shivering again, even though the hall feels suffocatingly warm after the cold night air.
‘Good grief, girl, what on earth have you done?’ is my father’s opening question, staring at my crutches in disbelief. ‘I got your mother’s message. What were you doing poking around in the cellar?’
‘She took a tumble, that’s all,’ Dominic tells him coolly, and then gives him an even more truncated account of my misadventure than the one Mum told my father in the hospital.
To my surprise, Dad doesn’t lay into me for my clumsiness but merely watches in silence as Dominic helps me hobble up the stairs. I half expect Mum to follow, but she disappears into the kitchen instead. To mix herself a stiff gin and tonic, probably. She hates hospitals even more than I do.
Dad follows her, vanishing before we’re even at the top of the stairs. Perhaps he wants a drink, too. A drink and a proper explanation.
‘Bloody hell,’ I whisper in Dominic’s ear, ‘I think Dad’s scared of you.’
‘It’s the scrubs,’ he whispers back.
Briefly, I consider asking Dominic his opinion of Kasia, and whether she may have set her sights on my dad. But I dread his answer. What if he agrees with my suspicions? Worse, what if he admits to finding Kasia attractive himself?
I don’t think I could bear to hear that. I’m not feeling strong enough.
Not tonight.
‘Home sweet home,’ he mutters when we reach our suite of rooms at the top of the house. I throw myself down on the bed, and he lands beside me, careful not to hurt my bandaged ankle.
Nasty little memories keep slipping back into my mind – the eyeball in the snow globe, Jasmine’s cryptic postcard, the forms at the food bank signed Rachel, the unseen figure who locked me in the cellar – but I push them away with as much force as I can muster.