Forget Her Name Read online

  ALSO BY JANE HOLLAND

  Kissing the Pink

  Last Bird Singing

  Miranda

  Girl Number One

  Lock the Door

  All Your Secrets

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Jane Holland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542046640

  ISBN-10: 1542046645

  Cover design by Ghost Design

  For sisters everywhere

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Through the glass, everything is white, white, white. The winding road into the village resort, the Swiss chalets in the distance, the ski slopes, the high Alps beyond, all of them laced with thick, deep, white snow like a Christmas postcard.

  Leaning both hands against the chill window frame, I press the tip of my nose to the glass. My breath mists up the glass in a wobbly circle round my face. The fog it makes on the window is stronger each time I exhale, the only warm thing in the room; then fainter as I breathe in. It’s hard to make anything out through that fog. I don’t really need to see outside though, since it’s all the same lumpy, formless white. Even the sky is too pale to be grey.

  It feels as though every drop of colour has been sucked out of the world, and this is what’s left over. Total white. Pure as a pill.

  Daddy comes back at last, snow still clinging to his boots and coat. He stamps his feet, looking at me.

  ‘Cat,’ he says heavily.

  I run towards him for a hug, and we hold each other. He feels cold, too. Like a snowman.

  I ask in a small voice, ‘Where’s Rachel?’

  When he doesn’t answer, I peer up at him, trying to read his face.

  Daddy is pale, like the snow-laden sky. Even his lips are pale. He brushes my blonde fringe out of my eyes, gazing down at me. He hates the way it flops over my face, but I like the way I can look out at the world through it. Look out and know they can’t see in.

  ‘I thought your mother already spoke to you. I thought she told you—’

  ‘I didn’t believe her.’ I raise my voice, trying to make him understand. ‘Mum tells lies. She’s always telling lies.’

  ‘Sweetheart, don’t say that. You know it’s not true.’

  I’m shaken by his calm acceptance of what is happening. He shouldn’t be here in this horrid little room, talking to me. He should be out there, doing something to help my sister. She’s the one who needs him today. Not me.

  ‘Where’s Rachel? Tell me.’

  ‘I want you to listen very carefully, okay? No, you need to stop shouting and listen.’ His hands drop to my shoulders, and he squeezes lightly as though to emphasise his words. ‘I know this is hard. The hardest thing you’ve ever faced. But what your mother told you is true.’

  ‘No, no . . .’

  ‘Rachel is dead and we’re never going to see her again. Never, ever again.’ He pauses, searching my face. ‘Do you understand me, Catherine?’

  I feel numb. Like I’m out there in the cold with Rachel. Like nothing will ever be the same again.

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  ‘What did I just say? Repeat it back to me.’

  ‘Rachel is . . .’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘Rachel is dead.’ I hear my voice wobble on those momentous words, and his face blurs through my tears.

  I sniff loudly and look away. I hate crying. It makes me feel like a kid again. A little kid after a nightmare, helpless and frightened in the dark, even though I’m twelve now. Practically a grown-up, Mum always says.

  His hoarse voice nags at me. ‘And?’

  He’s crying too, I realise.

  I push my own unhappiness away and focus on his. It’s hard, but I can just about manage it without collapsing.

  My sister is dead.

  I struggle to understand what I’m feeling, but my thoughts slip out of reach even as I try to grasp them, bobbing away on a tide of grief, refusing to be pinned down. All I feel right now is this appalling numbness, and beneath it, a wicked, secret, niggling sense of relief.

  ‘Rachel is dead,’ I whisper, ‘and she’s never coming back.’

  Chapter One

  The woman cradling the baby starts crying again just as Sharon dumps a brown-paper parcel on my workstation.

  ‘For you,’ she says shortly, ignoring my startled glance, then turns to the crying woman, who is gazing in despair at the shelves of tins and packets she’s not allowed to have. ‘As my colleague told you, we need a letter of referral before we can release any food,’ she tells the woman. ‘I’m sorry, love. Those are the rules at the Tollgate Trust and we have to abide by them. Perhaps if you speak to someone at the benefits office? They have a fast-response scheme if it’s an emergency. I can give you an information leaflet from the council if that’s any help.’

  The woman has a telltale split lip, and a fading bruise on her cheek. Teary-eyed, she glances at me as though hopeful that I’ll intervene.

  I look down at the paperwork on my desk instead, fiddling with my pen. I used to smile in a sympathetic manner when people came in without referral letters. But as Sharon explained to me, that often m
akes the situation worse.

  ‘A smile can be taken the wrong way,’ Sharon told me after a few uncomfortable incidents in my first week. ‘They’re already upset, yeah? So if you say no, but with a big smile, it looks like you’re taking the piss.’

  Most of the people who come in here are lovely people, really lovely. But a few of them are definitely on the edge. One man with mental health issues threatened to punch me in the face. Another spat at me, and the police had to be called. We’re on the edge of Chalk Farm here, which is North London. Not a bad area, but there are pockets of trouble.

  I came here initially to help out in a practical way. The constant sight of people sleeping rough on the streets of London finally got to me, and I wanted to be useful. But Sharon’s training sessions were an eye-opener. ‘Always be polite and friendly,’ she told me and the other new volunteers. ‘But if you can’t help them because they don’t have an official referral, don’t give them any reason to get nasty with you. And that includes smiling too much. Got it?’

  I got it.

  The woman looks away, and I smile at the baby in the pink romper suit instead. She stares back at me with large, solemn blue eyes.

  Sharon starts rummaging for an information leaflet for the woman. I put down my pen and examine the parcel, unsure what to make of it. At first glance I assumed it was another donation to the food bank. They come in quite frequently from anonymous donors. It’s not particularly heavy though. And it’s addressed to me personally, not the food bank, which is unusual in itself.

  An early wedding present, perhaps?

  I tear off the brown-paper wrapping. It’s a plain cardboard box and inside is a snow globe.

  I freeze, staring down at it.

  I see the face of a familiar, smooth glass sphere, glittering water inside, half buried in a heap of protective white polystyrene chips.

  It’s Rachel’s snow globe.

  My fingertips touch the glass, hesitant. I could be mistaken. Must be mistaken, in fact. It can’t be her snow globe. How could it be?

  But when I brush away a few polystyrene chips, there on the black plastic plinth below the glass is my sister’s name. Printed long ago in block capitals onto a stick-on label that’s now smudged and peeling slightly at one corner.

  RACHEL.

  My hand starts to tremble.

  ‘What on earth’s that?’ Sharon asks, peering over my shoulder.

  The woman with the baby has gone, I realise.

  Hurriedly, I cover the snow globe again and close up the cardboard box. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s personal. Not for the food bank.’

  ‘Okay, well, when you’re ready . . . I’ve got a Mrs Fletcher here with a referral note from social services.’ Sharon sounds impatient, as though I’ve been caught slacking. An East End accent that thickens when she’s annoyed. Salt of the earth, as my father might say. Not that Dad is ever likely to come into the food bank and meet my boss. Thankfully. ‘Could you possibly see to her if you’ve got a moment? Family of two adults, three teenagers, wheat allergy.’

  ‘Of course, sorry.’

  I shove the parcel out of sight under the desk, and turn to Mrs Fletcher with a broad smile. Smiles are allowed for people with the proper documentation. ‘Hi, I’m Catherine,’ I tell her cheerily. ‘Have you brought a list of what you can’t eat?’

  Mrs Fletcher, a harassed-looking woman in her early forties, gives me a wary smile in return. ‘Here.’ She shoves a scrap of paper into my hand. Her hands are red and swollen, with a gold ring on nearly every finger, almost hidden by flesh. ‘We’ve only the one kid with an allergy though. The rest of us need bread and pasta.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted out.’ I glance over the handwritten list, and then lead the way across to the food storage area. ‘If you could just follow me, Mrs Fletcher?’

  My heart is thumping and I feel a little light-headed. Who on earth would send me Rachel’s old snow globe?

  And why?

  ‘This is the first time I’ve ever used a food bank,’ Mrs Fletcher is telling me. ‘I’m not out of work.’

  ‘There’s no need to explain, Mrs Fletcher.’

  ‘We’re not poor. Not homeless or anything. Been in the same flat three years now, never caused nobody any trouble. It’s only because I’m on one of those zero-hour contracts. Only they’ve not called me in for two weeks, have they?’ she adds bitterly. ‘Like they think we can survive on thin bloody air.’

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. Let’s cover the basics first.’ I take a plastic bag and shake it out, then start filling it with standard items from the list on the wall above me. ‘Sugar? Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says to all of them, nodding.

  Some of those who come here look embarrassed or start to excuse themselves, as if they’ve done something wrong by not being able to afford basic food for their families. They haven’t, of course. Far from it. But a few still feel the need to explain.

  I’ve noticed most are less defensive with Sharon and Petra though. My accent, probably. I don’t sound like I fit in, my voice too cultured, even though I try to disguise it. ‘Too posh’, as Sharon often says. They instinctively see me as an enemy. Even aggressive. Someone who’s had it easier than them. Someone who hasn’t had to struggle for everyday needs. All true, of course. I can’t deny my posh accent or my privileged background. But there are things they don’t know about me, too. Things long-buried and forgotten about.

  I say nothing though. What would be the point?

  ‘Thanks, love,’ Mrs Fletcher repeats, watching me select a family-sized packet of dried pasta. ‘And some rice, maybe? That goes a long way, doesn’t it?’

  When the shopping part of the process is finished, I find a cup of tea for Mrs Fletcher so she can wait to speak to someone about additional help. Then I pop my head round the office door to ask Sharon if I can go for my lunch early.

  She’s surprised by the request. Turning from the filing cabinet, Sharon glances up at the clock on the wall. Her face registers slight irritation, but only the sort that comes with tiredness.

  ‘You not feeling well?’

  ‘I’m fine. I just have a few errands to run.’ I manage a wry smile. ‘It’s been a bit manic recently, what with the wedding coming up.’

  Sharon looks back at me indulgently. ‘Of course. Three weeks on Saturday, isn’t it?’

  I nod.

  ‘You must be so excited. Have you got the dress yet?’

  ‘Yes.’ I smile then, despite myself. ‘I picked it up last week. It’s so beautiful. I only hope I can do it justice.’

  I’d gone for the ‘mermaid’ shape in the end, fitted closely from the sweetheart neckline down to the knee, then flaring out in a lavish display to the hem. Beautiful appliqué flowers cling to one side of the ivory satin bodice; the other side dazzles with tiny sequins. By not booking an expensive reception after the church, but inviting everyone to join us at a nearby pub afterwards for drinks and a finger buffet, we’re saving a fortune. So I spent up on the wedding dress instead, maxing out my credit card on the beautiful outfit, which includes matching underwear and ivory satin pumps.

  ‘Of course you’ll be gorgeous, silly girl. All the men will be falling over each other to have a look at you.’ Sharon winks at me, thick black mascara clumped at the ends of her eyelashes. ‘And how’s Dominic coping?’

  ‘Not too bad. In fact, he texted me earlier to confirm all the tux rental details. My dad’s the only one who’s making a fuss.’ I make a face. ‘Sometimes I wonder if he actually wants me to get married.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just their way. Dads always hate losing their little girls.’ Sharon returns to filing the paperwork she’s been working through, happy with all this talk of dresses and weddings. ‘Go on, you run along. Get your errands done. Me and Petra can cope.’

  On my way out, I grab my jacket from my chair, and then tuck the parcel carefully under my arm with the woollen garment folded over the t
op.

  I struggle outside into the grey, windy, North London street. It’s too cold to walk far without a coat though. I stop a few doors down, put the parcel on the pavement as gingerly as if it contains a bomb, and shrug into my jacket. Then I tuck the box under my arm again, and hurry on to La Giravolta, the family-run Italian bistro on the corner where I usually eat a quick tuna sandwich or quiche for lunch.

  As I hesitate in the doorway, peering inside, an acquaintance waves at me from across the room. Georgia from the book club. She’s dining alone, the seat opposite conspicuously empty.

  I wave back, then abruptly change my mind about going inside.

  The last thing I need is to get sucked into yet another conversation about Dominic and the wedding.

  Not today.

  Head down, as though I’ve just remembered some urgent mission, I turn back into the wind. It tears at my unbuttoned jacket and I shiver, dragging the two sides together with one hand. Bloody hell. I’ve left my scarf and gloves behind in my hurry to get out. It’s been a bitter start to November. My feet ache from standing since early this morning, and my hands are numb from the chilly, warehouse-like Tollgate Trust food bank, with its constantly open doors.

  It’s important work. Not paid, except for Sharon, who’s employed full-time by the charity to run the place. Important and worthwhile nonetheless. I chose the position deliberately, aware that I was born with every advantage in life, while others just as deserving are less fortunate. And since my parents were happy to cover my rent while I found my feet in the world of work, that made a volunteering position possible. I have no real reason to feel guilty, of course. But it was time to give something back.

  Good intentions aside, my feet still hurt.

  I thread past two black-hijabbed women with buggies, then dart across the busy road in front of a lumbering double-decker bus, earning myself a glare from the woman driver. On the other side, I continue another few blocks until I reach the Costa coffee shop. It’s blissfully warm inside, and nobody looks round when I enter. I check all the tables for anyone I know.

  They are all strangers.

  I get in the queue, the box still awkward under my arm. The man behind me glances at it curiously, but looks away when he encounters my gaze.