A cake tumbles, smashes on the floor. Thousands of sugar flowers orbit and fall.
I am smeared with sticky white cream.
My father and I stumble out into the kitchen. Also, the woman in the red dress. My mother is there, and Willa too, wide-eyed and twisting her hands.
I look at the woman and say sexetary.
My father pushes me forward. He says, It just broke.
My mother says, Things don’t just break.
Take her to the hospital, my father says, tell them she fell off her pony.
And my mother, eyes pink-rimmed and brimming, says, She doesn’t have a fucking pony.
“Willa?” Liv says, and I snap out of it, opening my eyes.
“I remember being tickled,” she says, “by my dad. Bit embarrassing, really, I wet myself.”
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.”
