Chapter Twenty-Five
Dominic’s kisses are an assault. Or that’s how they feel. I wrench my head sideways and struggle for air. I’m suffocating under him. I can’t bear it any longer.
‘I said no, Dominic.’ I twist away, breathless and shaking. ‘I wasn’t joking, okay? I’m not in the mood.’
For a moment he stays where he is, kneeling on the sofa, his chest heaving. Then he pushes away from me and stands up, adjusting his clothing.
‘Sorry,’ he says thickly. ‘I forget sometimes that you . . . that we have different tastes.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He makes a helpless gesture. ‘Nothing.’
‘Dom?’
He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not trying to get at you. It’s just sometimes you can be a bit too passive in bed.’
‘Too passive,’ I repeat blankly.
‘For me.’
‘What, so now we’re sexually incompatible? That’s news to me, Dominic. Perhaps you could have discussed that with me before we got married.’
‘I thought . . . I assumed . . .’
But he doesn’t finish. He makes an angry noise under his breath and buries his head in his hands.
I stare at the wall and say nothing. The minutes pass, both of us silent and unmoving. I recall Rachel lying on her bed in here once, reading a vampire novel. It looked interesting, a glossy, exciting cover with a snappy title, but she wouldn’t let me see it. ‘It’s mine,’ she kept saying, her voice mean and taunting. ‘It’s a teen romance. With sex and everything. Not suitable for little girls.’ Though she could barely have been thirteen herself. But she thought of herself as mature, of course. Almost an adult. And I suppose she was frighteningly precocious.
Sometimes you can be a bit too passive in bed.
If Rachel had still been alive, would she have caught Dominic’s eye when we first started dating? Might he have preferred my more exciting sister to me?
I push the awful thought away. But it’s unsettled me, my hands clenched into fists. I shouldn’t have moved back into my parents’ house with Dominic. It was a mistake. There are too many bad memories here.
Dominic stands up eventually and turns, studying me. He holds out a hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and I can tell that he means it. That he’s worried by my silence. ‘That was a bad call. I misjudged your mood. I shouldn’t have treated you so roughly. Or said . . . that.’
I stand up too, taking his hand. I feel numb inside after our row. But perhaps he’s right, at least in part. Perhaps I’m not as demonstrative towards him as I should be. He’s my husband, after all.
‘It was a misunderstanding,’ I say.
‘All the same . . .’
‘I love you,’ I whisper.
He smiles then, the deep frown lines disappearing. His whole face lights up, as if the sun has suddenly appeared from behind dark clouds. ‘I love you too, Catherine.’
‘I meant what I said though.’
‘About?’
‘About Rachel still being alive.’
He shakes his head, then gently strokes a finger down my cheek. ‘You know that’s actually impossible, right?’
‘Is it?’
‘Your sister died years ago, sweetheart. There was no misunderstanding about that. It was a skiing accident. Your parents were there, you told me that yourself.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t attend her funeral,’ I say urgently. ‘Mum flew home with me after the accident, and Dad stayed on to collect the body. They said the funeral would upset me too much.’
He frowns. ‘But you told me she’d been cremated. That you’ve seen her ashes. In your dad’s study.’
‘But how can I be sure they’re Rachel’s ashes?’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Darling . . .’
‘Look, my parents never talked about Rachel afterwards. Not once. They wouldn’t even hear her name mentioned. Like it was taboo. I tried a few times, but they always changed the subject.’
His brows contract. ‘Okay, I agree that’s odd.’
‘Then, about a year after she died, I asked Mum if we could scatter Rachel’s ashes in the back garden. She said no, but I kept on at her. I’d been having nightmares about her, and I thought it would help me . . . you know, lay her to rest. Eventually Mum yelled at me to shut up, then burst into tears.’ My hands tighten into fists at the memory of that appalling row. ‘I’d never seen my mother like that before. She’s usually so calm, so easy-going.’
Dominic nods, watching me.
‘I was so shocked by her reaction,’ I continue, lowering my voice, even though I know my parents can’t possibly hear me, ‘I never brought the subject up again. I didn’t dare.’
‘Poor baby.’
I pull away from him. ‘I’m serious, Dom. This is serious.’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t trying to diminish what you’re feeling.’ He takes a step back, respecting my need for space. ‘I just thought you might need comforting.’
‘What I need are answers.’
‘So go and ask your parents again. Keep asking until you get the truth.’
‘Oh, come on.’ I shake my head in frustration. ‘Now you’re being naive. You saw what Mum and Dad were like down there. They might not have said anything, but they looked at me like I’m crazy.’
‘Because you touched a sore point.’
‘I know, right?’ I shake my head, remembering Mum’s white face, the unspoken fear behind her fury. ‘This probably sounds weird, but it’s almost as though they’re . . . afraid.’
‘Afraid of what?’
‘I don’t know exactly. It’s obvious they want me to forget about Rachel. To forget everything about her.’ I meet his eyes. ‘Even her name.’
He reaches for my hand and I let him take it. His thumb caresses the soft skin of my palm. ‘Listen,’ he says quietly, ‘maybe they just want to protect you from what happened to Rachel.’
‘But I don’t know what happened. I don’t know how my sister died. Only that she did.’
‘Right,’ he says, squeezing my hand more firmly, ‘then we’ll get changed out of our work clothes, and go downstairs and ask them. Okay?’
I stare at him. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course I’m serious.’ He heads for the bedroom, pulling me gently behind him as if he’s taking me to bed. ‘We’ll ask them together.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘Straight after supper.’
‘Why not right now?’
‘Because supper’s almost on the table and we don’t want Robert to get another bout of indigestion.’ Dominic pulls a face as if he’s in pain. ‘Christ, you know what he’s like . . . all those gurgling noises. Belching discreetly behind his napkin when he thinks no one’s listening. Better wait until dinner’s gone down before mentioning the dead daughter, don’t you agree?’
‘Dom, please.’ I’m laughing, but reluctantly. I’m worried my parents may hear us downstairs. ‘Hush, not so loud.’
Dominic ignores me and gives several deliberate, pretend burps, kicking the bedroom door open. He flicks on the light. And stops mid-belch, dropping my hand as he stares at the wall opposite.
‘Christ,’ he says, his voice hoarse.
I look past him, still grinning at his irreverent impersonation of my father, and freeze in shock, too.
Someone has drawn on the wall above our bed in bright red lettering. Lipstick, I think at once, recognising the shade with a curious absence of shock. One of my own red lipsticks, in fact, is still lying on the white duvet, twisted up and with its lid off.
It’s a rough hangman’s gibbet and noose, exactly like the one in Rachel’s book from the toy chest, with the same three-letter word filled out beneath it in scarlet scrawl.
C A T