My mouth drops open. Are you shitting me? She’s going to claim that as her earliest memory, even after Liv has gone to such lengths to explain that stealing other people’s memories is her exact area of research? That was me. Me who got tickled, me who pissed myself, me who got hit. Not Willa. Willa was watching. It’s so outrageous that a hoot of astonished laughter flies out my mouth. Everyone turns to look at me, so I have to quickly cover it up with a fit of pretend coughing.

Liv says, “What about you, Claudette?”

“I remember breaking my arm. And also eating cake,” I say. I keep my eyes on Willa. Remember?

“Cake?” Jamie asks. “Was it a special cake?”

I speak slowly, holding Willa’s eyes. “Yes, a birthday cake. On a marble shelf. Inside a pantry.”

“Was it your own birthday cake?” Willa asks, and I know exactly what she’s doing. She wants me to say, No, no, my birthday is November the third.

I glance at Nate. “Non,” I tell her, “mine is in March.” This is true. Well, it’s true enough. Claudette’s birthday, the one on my passport and, more importantly, the one my boyfriend knows, is in March.

“And about how old were you?” Liv asks.

“I was six.”

Then Liv tells Willa her memory is just a generalized impression, and a happy one at that.

Willa blinks rapidly. “I never said it was happy,” she says, and, to my amazement, glances over at me, like she’s asking for backup. Fucking cheek.

“Yeah, well, that’s what she said to me too,” Jamie says, “Anyway forget it. The whole thing is hogwash.”

“Coffee anyone?” Cat says, and as she moves away from the table, I catch a look of pure irritation on her face. Interesting, I think. It’s not just me who doesn’t like Jamie. And Liv too, she’s definitely not a fan. What the hell is Willa doing with him? I’ve got to work this one out. And I suspect with Jamie there’s an easy way to do it. Time to turn on the charm.

I smooth my expression into a decent impression of female interest.

“So, Jamie,” I say, propping my chin on my hand. “I’m trying, but I can’t quite place your accent.” I give him a playful smile.

Too easy. He laughs, instantly basking in the spotlight of a woman’s attention, a slight swagger in the movement of his head. “Well,” he says, “I’m English born and bred, but I lived in South Africa for a while, so you might be hearing a hint of that.”

I make my voice as rich as double cream. “Of course it’s easy to pick up an accent if you are hearing it all the time.” Dead easy, actually. I glance at Willa, then quickly back. I need to keep Jamie’s focus on me and I suspect I’m on limited time: his face already has the fuzzy look of a man who has drunk way too much—slow, uncoordinated blinks and the sort of speech that suggests his tongue is taking up way too much room in his mouth.

“You should try Cape Town,” he drawls. “Fantastic city. One of our favorite places.”

From the corner of my eye I see Willa’s head snap up. What? I think. What happened then? I desperately want to read her expression, but I can’t afford to take my eyes off Jamie. I need to keep him with me for as long as this takes. But there was definitely something not right about that; I just can’t quite place my finger on what it could be. Okay, move on. I still haven’t found out where they live.

“But you and Weela live in London now?”

“Yah, Brook Green,” Jamie says. “Utter shit hole when we got it. Total wreck. Forced to hole up at the family citadel, Martenwood Towers.”

They’re living at Laburnum House? You’ve got to be shitting me.

“Fucking great wall, drawbridge, hot oil—”

Jesus. What is she doing with him?

“What do you need a wall for?” I say, feeling my voice harden. “Is it to stop Willa from escaping?”

I’m looking at Jamie, but I can feel the intense focus of my sister’s eyes on me, listening to every word. The others too. “Nah,” he says, “keeping out the garbage. Vagrants, scumbags. Immigrant types.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Yah. We’ve got a serious problem with immigrants in this country. A load of spongers, if you ask me.”

Christ, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My heart is scudding in my chest and it’s all I can do to keep my face expressionless. I try to keep my voice from shaking.

“You don’t think refugees need our help?” I realize I’m gritting my teeth. He’s got to get this. I try again. “You understand, yes, that these are people coming from places where simply to cross the street is to take your life in your hands? Where every day babies die silently in the arms of their mothers, because they don’t even have the strength to cry? We’re talking about people in dire need. People with nothing. People living in terror.”

I flick my eyes toward Willa. What the fuck is she doing with this prick? Unless—fuck—does she believe this shit too? Who is she anyway? It’s twenty-two years since I last saw her—is this what she’s become? How could she even be with someone like that, unless—the breath catches in my throat. I look at her again, at that expensive green dress, the enormous diamonds stuck through her lobes. What kind of woman is she? Someone so wrapped up in her own comfortable life that she’s no longer capable of looking beyond the end of her own nose? I look down the table, feeling an unstoppable fury rising inside me, Laika working her way up through my flesh like a chip of old bone, “And Willa, this is what you think?” My sister jumps to her feet, looking for all the world as if I’ve just put a knife to her throat, and that’s when I notice it—the tiny silver dolphin on a thin silver chain around her throat, glinting like a torch in a wood. Shock charges through my body. What is she doing with that?

I whip back to Jamie. “You should be ashamed.”

Jamie pushes his jaw toward me. Keeping his eyes on mine, he leans back in his chair with a sneer on his face. “What in God’s name happened to your accent? You sound exactly like a Brit.”

And there it is. You asshole. Of all the possible buttons he could have pushed at that moment, he somehow picked exactly the right one. I feel revealed, viciously exposed. I stand up and slam my hands on the tabletop. “Leaving home is terrifying. There’s only one reason why anyone would do it and one reason alone. And that one, single reason is that place is hell on earth.”

Nate gives me a look that says You okay? No. I’m not. I can’t be around this pig. I’m leaving. Right now. I snatch up my bag and storm toward the door but, without warning, Willa steps into my path, a movement so fast and so unexpected that I end up banging into her. She staggers. I grab her, feeling a flash of pure rage. She got everything. Mum, her own real life, my necklace—hell, she’s even laid claim to my fucking memories.

I pull her upright. My mouth by her ear.

A heartbeat to decide.

Say nothing—or break this whole thing apart.

***

“It wasn’t you who pissed yourself. That was me.”

24 Paper Chains Robyn

It’s the morning after our supper party, a night that came to a particularly abrupt end: Nate following Claudette out the door and Michael calling for taxis for the others, while Willa stood encased in the fortress of Jamie’s arms, silent and unreachable, as bright tears coursed down her pale face.

I’m still trying to process the whole thing when, shortly after ten, I hear Cat answering the front door.

“Claudette,” she says, “it’s just us today. Come and meet the kids.”

I stick my head out of the kitchen, my hands covered in flour, where our children are already tackling Nate like the Eiger.

“You’ve got to check out our mad tree before we head out,” Cat says, hauling Nate plus entourage toward the lounge. “The kids decorated it. Sophie’s making a paper chain long enough to go round the entire house.”

“It’s a lot quieter in the kitchen,” I tell Claudette, and she follows me in, dumping an orange backpack on a chair while I turn down the radio a notch.

No mention is made of the spat with Jamie. By all accounts she is back to the zen-like woman we met at the beginning of last night, a picture of serenity and calm. I tell her about the plans for the rest of the day: how she, Cat and Nate will take the kids to see the Christmas lights while I prep the food for tonight.

“I can stay and help if you like,” she says. “I like to cook.”

“Are you sure? Wouldn’t you prefer to see a bit of London?”