Perhaps it had something to do with Cat’s place being very much a home. Initially this had been a great comfort to Oriana, having left hers in the United States and then finding the antithesis to exist at her mother’s. Eventually though, Cat’s set-up rubbed a newly exposed nerve in Oriana so raw that it became untenable, too painful, for her to stay. Every framed photograph dotted here and there at the Yorks’ could have been – perhaps should have been – of Oriana. Oriana and husband. Oriana and husband at jolly family get-togethers. Mr and Mrs on holiday. And with friends. The long, healthy history of Mr and Mrs. And the pride of place to the scans of their unborn child – from kidney bean to Baby Suckathumb in extraordinary ultrasonic images. Cat’s home was testimony to someone who was just like Oriana but who, unlike Oriana, had made clear decisions and wise choices, got her life together and was enjoying its bounty. It didn’t make her love Cat any the less, but it did amplify the disappointment she felt in – and for – herself.
