Chapter Thirty-Seven
We wake late the next morning, our naked bodies still entwined, to a gorgeous smell drifting through the house: turkey and roast potatoes. Dominic is awake before me, and it’s his hand playing with my hair that brings me back to full consciousness.
Rachel, I think. It’s my first thought. Her ashes.
My body goes cold. When I open my eyes Dominic is gazing at me, a smile on his lips.
‘Hey, sleepyhead.’
‘Hey.’
I snuggle against him, pushing away all thoughts of my sister with surprising ease. Perhaps she has finally lost her ability to frighten me.
‘Did we do it twice last night or did I imagine it?’ I say.
His grin disarms me.
‘Twice, definitely,’ he says. ‘Though it was morning, both times. We went to bed very late.’
I smile at him. ‘And I thought we’d have less sex once we were married.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I guess I just assumed. My parents have separate rooms. That must be for a reason. Married people fall out of lust, don’t they?’ I stroke down his body, and smile at his intake of breath. ‘Three times, just to make sure we’ve still got it?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
He rolls me over onto my back, kissing me hotly, then cups my breast.
‘Catherine! Dominic!’ my mother shouts up the stairs. ‘Lunch will be ready soon.’
I giggle. Dominic turns and calls back, ‘We’ll be down in a minute.’
He regards me hungrily as I slip out of bed and hunt through the drawers for clean clothes suitable for Christmas lunch with the family.
‘Nice view,’ he says, smiling.
I throw a pair of lacy knickers at him, and he growls, climbing out of bed after me.
‘Hey, put me down,’ I insist as he grabs me, ‘you big bear.’ He lets me go and I turn back to my lingerie drawer. ‘They’re too polite to say so, but I was probably supposed to help with lunch.’
‘I doubt you’ll be missed in the kitchen.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That your skills lie in a different direction to cooking,’ he says with a grin, and ducks when I try to hit him.
‘Very funny. All the same, I should go down and lay the table or something. I hate feeling like a parasite.’ I push him away as his arms come round me again, groping and squeezing. ‘Seriously, don’t.’
Reluctantly, Dominic opens his arms to let me escape.
‘Fine,’ he says languidly. He picks up his dressing gown. ‘I’m going to take a quick shower. But you’re far from being a parasite. You need to be here right now. And your parents know it.’
I watch him go, unsure if he’s offended or not. I’m also not entirely certain what his parting comment was about. You need to be here right now. And your parents know it. What does that even mean?
I find a matching black bra and thong. Then I pull a dress out of the wardrobe and throw it on the bed. It’s a black-and-silver dress, skin tight, clinging in all the right places. Or the wrong places, depending on your point of view. I have no idea why I chose that one, my brain somewhere else, or maybe switched off entirely. Dominic bought it for me last Christmas but I’ve never worn it on the grounds that it’s too damn revealing.
And this is a family Christmas. Not a night out on the town.
‘Cat, darling?’ my mother calls up from the bottom of the attic stairs. ‘Are you on your way down?’
‘Coming!’ I shout back. Hurriedly, I pull on the bra and thong. ‘Just getting dressed. Dom’s in the shower. Sorry, we’ll be right there.’
Mum says something I don’t catch, and then wanders away again.
Lunch is probably imminent.
‘Oh, what the hell.’
I drag on the little black-and-silver dress and find some heels that won’t turn my ankle over on the way downstairs. Then I drag a brush through my hair and give myself a light dusting of make-up, even though I don’t normally wear much at home. But the dress will look odd without any make-up at all.
I hesitate, and search in my jewellery box for the silver cat necklace my mother bought me from Harrods. It seems like a good occasion to wear it.
It suits the dress perfectly.
Downstairs, the smell of food is delicious and mouth-watering. I glance at the hall clock. It’s nearly half past one already. I suddenly realise how hungry I am. I had no idea how late it was. I lose all sense of time in bed with Dominic, like a captive princess in a fairy-tale castle, sleeping away my life. Well, not always sleeping.
I grin, remembering his urgent lovemaking.
‘Ah, Catherine, there you are at last.’ My father stands in the doorway of the dining room, holding out a glass of pink champagne. He looks me up and down, then adds, ‘What a lovely dress.’
‘Thank you.’
I search his face, but he appears cheerful and unconcerned. There’s no sign that he even remembers our conversation from last night.
‘Aperitif?’ he asks.
I take the champagne and drink some without hesitation, though the bubbles always go up my nose and make me tipsy quicker than ordinary wine.
‘Do you need me to do anything?’ I ask.
‘Of course not, darling. Jasmine’s been helping your mother for the past hour, and she says everything’s nearly done.’
Good old Jasmine, I catch myself thinking, rather spikily, and am surprised by my sudden feelings of dislike for her.
What’s wrong with me today?
Dad ushers me into the dining room, where the roast turkey is on the table, ready for carving and covered lightly with foil to keep it warm. I check briefly under the foil. It looks and smells delicious.
‘You know your mother,’ Dad is saying, a little awkwardly, as though he’s sensed my mood and is trying to keep the peace. ‘She hates too many people in the kitchen when she’s cooking. Distracting her, getting underfoot. I’m sure she’ll shout once she’s ready for me to carry in the serving dishes.’
I say nothing, but knock back some more champagne.
Dad glances at my clinging black dress again, then at the cat necklace I’m wearing. He bends to turn on the Christmas tree lights, nestled among baubles in the branches of the real pine tree. They start flashing merrily away to the background sound of Christmas carols.
‘There,’ he says, straightening, his voice slightly muffled, ‘that’s more Christmassy.’
‘I really should offer to help her.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Dad pulls out a chair for me. ‘Come and sit down.’
‘But—’
‘Sit,’ he insists.
Uncomfortable under his gaze, I sit down and let him pour more champagne into my glass. I don’t argue, oddly thirsty today. Dominic appears, looking clean and fresh from the shower, his hair still wet. His eyes widen at the sight of my dress, then he smiles, his expression almost wolfish.
‘Love the outfit, darling,’ he says, taking the seat opposite without waiting to be asked. ‘Thanks, just half a glass,’ he says as my father offers him some champagne. ‘I’m working tonight. Sorry, did we miss all the hard graft?’
‘Not to worry, you’re our guests today. And guests don’t cook in this house.’
My mother calls from the kitchen, a strained note in her voice, and Dad hurries out of the room, suddenly looking distracted.
Dominic grins at me across the table, then lifts his glass in a mock-salute. ‘Well, Merry Christmas. This is the high life.’
‘Don’t. I feel awful.’
‘Why?’
‘We slept in and now they’re doing all the work. On Christmas bloody Day.’ I take another deep gulp of champagne, the bubbles tingling and fizzing on my tongue. ‘It’s not right.’
‘Nonsense,’ he says crisply. ‘They’re your parents and they want you to feel at home.’
‘People who are genuinely at home help out with the housework.’
‘You’ve got an excuse, though. You’re not well.’
I stare at him, perplexed. ‘My ankle, you mean? That’s hardly an illness. And don’t try to say I had a concussion too. Because the doctor said I was fine.’
Dominic looks at me, silent for once, and then fiddles unnecessarily with his knife and fork. I get the impression he’s annoyed with himself. As though he’s said something he didn’t intend to. Or wasn’t supposed to.
‘Wait,’ I say slowly. ‘You think I’m . . . ill?’
‘Forget it.’
‘I don’t want to forget it.’
‘Catherine, please don’t make a scene,’ he says gently, but with an odd tension in his face. ‘Remember that it’s Christmas, yeah? Peace and goodwill to all men. I just meant you’ve been a little down lately. Anyway,’ he adds, ‘you shouldn’t worry so much what your parents think. You need to be your own person.’
I want to say more, but Jasmine and my parents parade into the room at that moment, their arms full of steaming food bowls. Dominic jumps up to help, but I just sit and stare at the turkey until my father twitches off the foil and starts to carve it up, his long knife flashing in and out of the white breast.
We eat lunch without saying much, though Dad insists on regaling us with a story about the Christmas Eve when he and Mum first met. They got stuck in an elevator together in New York for over twelve hours. I know the story well and don’t listen properly, smiling dutifully in all the right places instead.
Dominic, to whom the story is new, listens with rapt attention, and laughs out loud at the punchline: ‘So after that we had to get married, of course.’
Even Jasmine grins, though I’m sure she will have heard it before. But then, my bubbly cousin is far better company than me. More sociable, more animated. Constantly smiling. Smiling at my husband.
‘How did you two meet?’ she asks Dominic, glancing at me.
‘Well, it wasn’t quite as dramatic as that.’ He laughs, brushing my fingertips across the table. ‘Was it, baby?’
‘Not dramatic at all,’ I mutter.
I see the flash in his eyes. ‘I was leafleting round here on a Saturday morning, on my bicycle, and managed to drop the bloody thing on one of Ellen’s pots—’
‘It was a very expensive terracotta herb pot,’ Mum says, interrupting, ‘housing a delicate young fennel. You squashed the poor thing flat.’
‘I offered to pay,’ Dominic says mildly.
My mum makes a face at him.
‘Leafleting?’ Jasmine repeats, looking puzzled.
‘Save our NHS,’ I say, not looking at him. ‘He was knocking on doors and stuffing leaflets through letter boxes. Wearing a bloody T-shirt with “Save Our NHS” across it, and a matching baseball cap. After he’d rung the bell and apologised for the damage he’d done, he had the nerve to ask me to the pub with the other activists; bored me half to death with his endless slogans.’
‘But as you can see, slogans or not, Catherine was smitten at first glance,’ Dominic tells Jasmine, his tone rich with satisfaction.
My dad gets up and refills my glass with champagne. ‘Dominic?’ he asks politely, holding out the bottle.
‘Not for me, thanks, Robert,’ he says, covering his glass. ‘Night shift, remember?’
After the meal, we move to the sofas in the living room to open our presents. My parents have bought us a large, silver-framed, oval mirror for our bedroom. It looks like an antique – and is, Mum is keen to tell me. Early Victorian, apparently. I show it to Dominic, who is deeply impressed, and we both thank her.
Dominic has bought me a gorgeous new dressing gown: grey silk, with pink and yellow butterflies on the back.
I kiss him lingeringly as a thank you, and see the heat in his eyes, hurriedly disguised when my father glances our way.
Jasmine exclaims in delight, unwrapping her gift. ‘I love charm bracelets,’ she says, thanking my mother, who is watching her fondly. ‘Thank you so much. This is perfect.’
I’ve bought my parents tickets to a West End musical of their choice. I can see Dad isn’t too excited but I know Mum will love a night out in town. And she adores musical theatre.
I unwrap my last present, which is from Dad. It’s a fine, leather-bound, illustrated edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
My heartbeat seems to snag on something.
It was Rachel who enjoyed those old Lewis Carroll novels.
Not me.
‘Thank you,’ I say huskily, and try not to meet his eye.
Dad smiles. ‘You’re welcome.’
A genuine mistake, I decide. Not an attempt to wound me. I put the book with my other presents to be taken upstairs later. Maybe I should try reading it. Find out why Rachel enjoyed it so much. And it is a beautiful object.
I insist on making a pot of coffee for everyone after the wrapping paper debris has been cleared away, and this time nobody rejects my offer. Too full to move, I suspect. Dominic slips out to join me in the kitchen, but hinders more than helps, his arm constantly round my waist, bumping my hip and kissing me whenever I stand still for long enough.
‘Stop it,’ I tell him, mock-sternly.
‘I can’t help it, I find you edible today,’ he whispers in my ear, glancing back to make sure we’re still alone. ‘It’s your high heels, and this dress. It makes you look amazing.’
‘I am amazing,’ I say tartly.
‘Like a sex bomb.’
‘You have a one-track mind.’
‘I told you, it’s this dress.’
‘And last night, in bed? I wasn’t wearing anything then.’
‘God, you tease.’ He groans in mock torment. ‘Better give me that tray before I bend you over the kitchen table. Can you imagine your dad’s face if he walked in?’
I grin and allow Dominic to carry through the tray of cups and a silver coffee pot, while I follow.
‘I like your arse in those jeans,’ I say, sotto voce, and am rewarded by him wiggling his behind suggestively as he turns through the living room doorway.
Dad looks at us suspiciously, but I merely smile and sit down again. Dominic’s right. This may be Dad’s home, but he invited us to live here, we didn’t invite ourselves. And I need to stand up to Dad’s disapproval. Not let him constantly intimidate us into a meek acceptance of his old-fashioned rules.
Besides, if I can’t flirt with my husband at Christmas, when can I?
Jasmine is standing by the window, looking out at the lengthening shadows. Dusk falls so quickly at this time of year.
‘That was a delicious lunch, thank you,’ I say to my parents, watching as Dominic pours us each a cup of steaming coffee. ‘And the presents are fantastic. But I haven’t forgotten what we talked about last night.’
They look at each other warily.
‘You said I could see Rachel’s ashes.’
There’s a sudden silence in the room.
Dominic stops pouring and looks up at me. Then he continues what he was doing, but his smile has gone.
‘I’d like to see her ashes today, please,’ I say as firmly as I can. ‘And maybe I could scatter them in the garden under the magnolia tree, if you don’t object.’ I pause. ‘Before the light goes.’