Somehow, I get to my feet, my legs weak and unsteady, my breath ragged with shock and fear. Why would Ross do that? Why would he fake a whole relationship? He can’t have been lying about everything, surely. I’d have known if he was. I’d have sensed it, wouldn’t I?

I grab the sheet of paper from the floor where it’s fallen from my hands and put it with the others, stuff them back into the hanging file marked “Aunt Jessie.” Shut the drawer, heart pounding.

I pace the hallway. I can’t just stay here, as if nothing has happened. And I can’t confront Ross and Catherine either. I have to get away from them. Get away from this house and work out my next move.

I call Mum, but her phone rings out. They’ll be at the airport now, waiting for their flight, maybe even boarding the plane. I bet she hasn’t even got it switched on. She’s hopeless with it. Hopeless. Only turns it on when she wants to use the bloody thing. I try Dad’s number, too, on the off chance that he even has it with him, but the same thing happens. Fuck! Just when I need them the most.

They warned me about Catherine, but I didn’t listen. I try to imagine their reaction, their shock and disbelief, when they find out she’s entangled with Ross, has been from day one, and that far from being the “safe pair of hands” they imagine, Ross has duped me from the very start. Duped them, too. And when they find out I’ve invited her into my home…

My home. Who am I kidding? This isn’t my home. It never has been.

Catherine has burrowed her way back into my life like an invasive weed. If only I’d listened to my initial misgivings. If only I’d trusted my instincts. She has seized on my vulnerability and my need for friendship. Manipulated her way into my affections.

All those little quirks I chose to ignore. Because I actually felt sorry for her. The way she stood in front of the fridge this morning and stared at the contents, as if it were her fridge. Her kitchen. The way she eats her cereal on the settee instead of sitting up at the table. The way she watches telly with us in the evenings sometimes, as if she has a perfect right to intrude upon our personal space, to play gooseberry.

Now, of course, I know the truth. The only gooseberry in this house is me. That’s why she was acting so weird this morning. She’s tiring of the pretense, starting to let her true self show through.