The Younger Wife, page 10
‘Of course,’ Rachel said, ever the amenable host.
It seemed like such a good idea at the time. But, as it turned out, it definitely wasn’t.
14
TULLY
Tully woke at 3 am with a dry mouth, a thumping headache and all of the anxiety in the world. This was what happened when you got drunk in your thirties. She had memories – distant memories – of being drunk in her twenties, nights when she’d collapse happily into bed at the end of the night (often with a nice-looking boy), and when she finally got to sleep she’d drift into a slumber so deep she wouldn’t wake until noon the next day.
Today, when she woke for the second time, it was 6:21 am and Locky was sitting astride her stomach. ‘Daddy says you’re feeling sick,’ he said unworriedly.
‘I’m sure you sitting on her stomach doesn’t help, mate,’ Sonny said, lifting Locky off her.
Tully rubbed her eyes and glanced around. ‘Where’s Miles?’
‘Asleep,’ Sonny said. ‘In his bed.’
‘His big-boy bed?’
‘Yep. Been in it since seven last night.’
Tully couldn’t believe it. ‘Tell me the truth: did you drug him? Lace his bottle with alcohol?’
‘You were the only one laced with alcohol last night,’ Sonny said, smiling. It was strange, seeing him smile at her. Tully started to wonder if she was still drunk and imagining it. Then he said, ‘It was nice to see you so relaxed last night. I haven’t seen you like that in ages.’
‘Are you saying you like me drinking?’
‘I like you letting your hair down,’ he corrected, then he took Locky’s hand. ‘Come on. Let’s let Mummy sleep.’
‘Wait, I can go back to sleep?’ She gazed at him with an intensity that made her headache a little worse. ‘But . . . I’m a drunken disgrace. You should be reporting me to the police. Taking my children away from me and putting them with a very nice elderly foster family who still have one of those old-fashioned cookie jars filled with homemade biscuits!’
‘I’ll let you off with an official warning this time,’ Sonny said, and disappeared out the door.
Tully sank back into the pillows. She had almost forgotten how great Sonny was. People always reminded her, of course. Sonny’s so great! So good with the children! Such a caring husband! Just an all-around good guy! Lately, when people said it, Tully felt resentful. What about me? she wanted to cry. I’m great! Why is everyone always talking about Sonny? But they were right. Sonny was great. It was just that, when you’d been married a while, you tended to forget these things.
With that thought in her mind, Tully stretched out and fell asleep in a matter of minutes. The next time she woke it was 10 am. Not noon, but a very nice sleep-in for an old goat like her. Her mouth still didn’t taste right, but her headache was gone and she felt more human than she had four hours earlier. Best of all, there was no small child bouncing on her mid-section. She closed her eyes again, planning to doze for a bit longer, when suddenly she remembered her bag, and lurched upright.
It was a rookie error. Last night her bag had been jam-packed with things – a candle, a silk scarf, a single shoe that she’d swiped from a boutique around the corner. And Rachel’s salad servers. She felt particularly bad about taking those. She was going to return them – today, if she could find her bag. But where the heck was it?
She found it half wedged under Sonny’s side of the bed – bulging, but still zipped. Thank God. Usually, Tully stored any goodies she’d acquired in the garage as soon as was reasonably possible. It was, after all, not unusual for Sonny to rifle through her bag – for keys, a ringing phone, a breath mint. How horrible it would have been for that to happen this morning of all times, when Sonny was being so lovely. How would she have explained it? After all, she was far too hungover and pathetic this morning to come up with a lie.
She bundled all the items into her bedside table, making a mental note to move them to the garage when Sonny left the house. In the meantime, she thought a shower might be a good move. She padded across the carpet into their ensuite bathroom, and got the water going nice and hot.
When she emerged several minutes later, Sonny was sitting on the edge of the bathtub.
‘If you’re hoping for shower sex, you’re going to be sorely disappointed,’ Tully said. ‘I could barely stand up in there.’ She reached for a white fluffy towel and wrapped it around herself. ‘Why is it so quiet? Did someone die?’
‘I gave the boys a Kit Kat and an iPad each. I even put Miles in a nappy so he wouldn’t need us to take him to the toilet.’
‘Bloody hell. You’re much better at this parenting thing than I ever give you credit for.’
He gave her what started as a smile but turned into a grimace halfway through.
Tully’s brain was working so slowly it took her a minute to compute that this wasn’t normal. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I just got off the phone from the real estate agent.’ He exhaled, looking at his hands. ‘The house is officially on the market. They’re sending photographers this week. And those people who . . . you know . . . stage the house.’
Tully sat down on the edge of the tub beside him. It wasn’t unexpected; Sonny had already said the house would need to be sold. Still, there was something about this next step that felt like a sharp kick to the kidney.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Well, that’s that, then.’
‘God, I’m just so sorry, Tul,’ he said. ‘I know this is your dream house. And the boys . . .’
‘It’s not my dream house,’ she said, scooting up beside him. ‘At least, it’s not my only dream house. My dream house is wherever you and the boys are. As for the boys, do you think they give two hoots what kind of house they live in?’
Sonny looked unconvinced. Admittedly, Locky did have a taste for the finer things. When they went to Fiji last year, he’d located a button by their beach loungers that summoned the waiter. When the waiter arrived he ordered hot dogs and waffle fries and vanilla milkshakes. On the flight home, they’d asked him what was his favourite part of the holiday was and he’d replied, ‘The button.’ But now was not the time to focus on that.
‘I’m sorry, Tul,’ Sonny said again. ‘I’m just so sorry.’ He was hunched over. After a moment, he dropped his head into his hands. ‘I have a headache,’ he said.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ she said, putting an arm around his shoulders. ‘It’s really not that bad.’
‘Daaaaad!’ Locky called. ‘Miles has taken another Kit Kat, even though I told him you said we could only have one.’
Tully stood up. ‘I’ll go. You take some Panadol and get yourself together. It’s all okay, Sonny. Really.’
Tully pulled on her dressing-gown and gave him a quick kiss. On her way out the door, she felt a stab of optimism. If things were good between her and Sonny, she could handle this. This wasn’t just going to be fine; it was going to be better than fine. They would live simply for a while, that was all. If they did ever get back to a similar financial position, Tully would find charities to donate to. Perhaps she’d start volunteering her time at the local charity shop? There was so much more to life than shopping and going out for lunch. She’d end up so much more fulfilled. She actually couldn’t wait. Most important, she was going to stop stealing. This was just the shot in the arm she needed to make a change. This whole thing had been a blessing in disguise.
‘Tul,’ Sonny called after her, ‘there’s no Panadol in the medicine cabinet.’
‘Try my bedside table drawer,’ she called back.
She was almost in the living room when she realised her mistake. She turned on her heel and ran back immediately, but she was too late. Sonny was holding the shoe, the candle and the scarf in his hands. They still had the price tags on. The scarf still had the security tag. He spun around when he heard her come in.
‘What’s all this?’ he said.
Tully stared at him. Her mouth started to bend around some lies, something that would explain it. But no words came out.
15
RACHEL
‘I’m going on a date.’
Rachel stood in her kitchen and said the words out loud. They sounded ridiculous, almost comical – at least when spoken in relation to her. When she’d agreed to the date, she’d been 100 per cent sure that she would cancel – after all, a woman who hadn’t dated since she was sixteen years old didn’t just start dating because her sister decided to commandeer her phone one day at lunch. And yet today she was only ninety-nine per cent sure that she would cancel. She even put on a dusky rose sundress, the one that always made her feel especially pretty. Then, to put the whole thing out of her mind, she made the finishing touches to Peter and Emily’s wedding cake.
The cake, she could admit, was just as magical as she’d promised. Three-tiered, every inch covered in fondant, buttercream or sugar flowers. It was, without question, the most beautiful cake she’d ever made. It was also the most labour-intensive cake she’d ever made, which made it all the more satisfying. She’d decided to deliver it herself, in fact, just so she could see the couple’s reaction with her own eyes. When it was finally complete, she reached for her phone to snap a photo of the cake and that’s when she saw the text message.
Hey, you.
Her phone slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.
Hey, you.
A chill ran the length of Rachel’s spine.
For goodness sake, she chided herself. Don’t be so bloody dramatic. And yet, just like that, her body pulsed with adrenaline. It was infuriating. Hey, you, after all, was such a common, benign turn of phrase. A common, benign phrase that cleaved her life neatly in two – ‘before’ and ‘after’.
She was sixteen when it happened, shockingly, in broad daylight. She was out jogging. It was around 10 am, that strange time of day when the early morning joggers and cyclists had all headed off to work and the school run was done, and hardly anyone was around. She was at that part of the path where the scrub blocked the beach from the road. The stretch was only a hundred metres or so, but very secluded. She followed the dirt track as it snaked through the scrub. At the point where the scrub was the thickest, she stopped at a lookout to admire the view down over the water. What if she hadn’t done that? she’d asked herself a thousand times since. What if she’d kept on running, like she usually did? Tully often talked about the endless ‘what-ifs’ in her head. For Rachel they weren’t endless. For Rachel, there was just that one.
She felt him a moment before she heard him. She’d heard people say things like that before, but she’d never understood it. It was a proper, tangible feeling, like an alarm going off in her body. Danger. It was possible, she knew, that the alarm in her body was overreacting. Girls her age were, after all, primed for the worst in these sorts of situations. Then she heard his voice – Hey, you – and she knew her instinct had been right.
She turned to face him. His mouth was hard. His eyes were mean. By his side was a large German shepherd.
Come here.
She tried to run, but she only made it a few paces before he caught a fistful of her hair. (The fact that her own hair had been accomplice to her attack was one of the things she fixated on, later.) Within moments she was on her stomach, her lips pressed against the dirt and sand. The dog stalked around, unperturbed by her position and her fear. Rachel had heard of people becoming superhuman in dangerous situations, able to lift cars or chew off their own arm in order to save themselves, but this didn’t happen to her. Instead, her body went rigid. Frozen. All she could do was lie there and listen to the swish of the cars on the nearby road, as the tears streamed silently down her cheeks.
Now, Rachel squatted down to retrieve her phone from the floor with a shaking hand. The message was from Darcy, who couldn’t possibly have known the effect the words would have on her. Indeed, he’d written a second message immediately after the first. Pick you up at 6 pm?
How ridiculous she’d been, thinking she could go. How totally and utterly ridiculous.
She replied to Darcy saying she wasn’t feeling well, then she put her phone on silent and placed it upside down on the table. She needed to busy herself, she realised. Take her mind off things. The hunger had already started rumbling from deep within; she knew what she had to do. She sat at the table directly in front of the wedding cake, which was ready for delivery. She had two hours until it was due at the reception centre. Two hours with that memory fresh in her mind.
Two hours.
She grabbed a fistful of wedding cake and began to eat.
16
HEATHER
Heather opened her eyes. She was fully dressed in the clothes she’d been wearing the day before – including her shoes. Mascara and lipstick were smeared on Stephen’s crisp white pillowcase. Her mouth was dry, predictably, and tasted a little of vomit. This was bad, Heather realised. This was very, very bad.
She glanced at Stephen’s side of the bed, sensing already that it was empty. He’d probably been up for hours. Meanwhile she was in bed, sleeping it off. What must he be thinking of her? She needed to find him, explain it was a one-off. That they’d had a lovely time and just let loose a little too much. She’d be sheepish and contrite. And, she hoped, he would forgive her.
She tried sitting up, but the room spun so fast she had to sink back into the bed. Her right elbow throbbed – what on earth had she done to it? There was no blood or graze, but she couldn’t even manage to straighten it. What had she done? Why couldn’t she remember?
She’d been at Rachel’s house yesterday, she knew that much. They’d had a lovely long lunch that had stretched on past dinnertime. She had a faint memory of someone arriving at Rachel’s on a scooter, which was folded and put neatly in the back of Heather’s Mini Cooper. The driver must have brought her here in her car, taken out his scooter and ridden away again. Heather recalled asking the driver to take her home, but she must have changed her mind en route. The details of this were a little fuzzy.
Heather stripped out of her clothes and stepped into a pair of Stephen’s sweatpants, which were comically too big. She then pulled one of his T-shirts over her head. They were as comforting as she’d hoped. She wiped off her make-up, cleaned her teeth and then tottered along the hallway and down the stairs, holding the walls for support. As she descended the stairs another memory eased into her consciousness, this one of arriving on Stephen’s doorstep unannounced. He’d been in bed when she rang the doorbell (after searching and failing to find her key), and when he answered the door he was a little cranky. Her heart constricted at the memory. She had to physically force herself into the living room to face him, when everything was telling her to run away and hide.
Stephen was in the armchair in his running gear with one ankle balanced on the opposite knee. He’d made himself a short black, which sat on the coffee table beside him and the newspaper was in his lap. He looked up as she entered.
He didn’t appear to look unhappy. Heather was used to doing this quick analysis of people’s moods. When she was little and she came out of her bedroom to find her parents awake, she had to assess them carefully. It could be a very good thing that they were up early, meaning they’d had an early night and were sober and calm. It also could be a very bad thing, meaning they’d just got in and were irritable and drunk.
‘I like your tracksuit,’ he said.
‘Sorry I . . . I couldn’t face putting actual clothes on.’
‘It looks good on you.’
She sat on the coffee table in front of him. ‘I disgraced myself last night, didn’t I?’
He hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘What would you say?’
He folded the newspaper and put it on the coffee table next to his cup. His eyes were kind. (Another thing Heather had learned growing up was to assess people’s eyes. Kind. Mean. Lecherous. They could change quickly, so you always had to keep an eye on the eyes.) ‘I’d say you had a bit too much to drink is all.’
‘And I did something to my elbow?’
He frowned. ‘You fell on the stairs. Surely you remember that?’
With that prompt, a vague memory started to come. She had – dear God – been trying to waltz around the lounge with him. He’d been less enthusiastic than she’d anticipated, refusing to turn on the music and insisting that she ‘shush’. Eventually she’d taken the hint and headed up the stairs. About halfway up she tumbled, landing hard on her elbow. Stephen had had to pick her up and put her to bed.
‘I’m so embarrassed.’
He scooted forward now and took her elbow between his hands. He manipulated it gently, perhaps feeling for injuries. ‘No need to be embarrassed.’
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘You tell me. It must have been some lunch!’
‘Actually, the lunch was wonderful. But I meant . . . why did I fall?’
Stephen shook his head. ‘I have no idea. One minute you were walking up the stairs, the next you were on the ground. You must have lost your footing somewhere.’
‘Oh.’
‘In any case, it doesn’t feel like anything’s broken, so no harm done. It’s likely just bruised, but I can take you in for an X-ray . . .’
‘No,’ she said quickly. The horror of having to get an X-ray for being drunk and falling up the stairs! ‘I’m sure it will be fine. As you say, just a bruise.’
‘I’ll put it in a sling for today. That’ll stop you putting pressure on it.’ He let go of her elbow and sat back in his chair. After a few contemplative seconds he said, ‘Heather, may I ask you a personal question?’
‘Of course,’ she said, thinking, No, you may not.
‘How is your relationship with alcohol?’
He’s starting to see me, she realised. He’s starting to see me.
‘I know that sounds loaded, but it’s a genuine question,’ he said. ‘I, for example, enjoy a drink with lunch or dinner. I consider myself a wine snob. I drink regularly but rarely more than one glass. As for you, a lot of the time you don’t drink. Some days you don’t intend to drink but then you change your mind. Last night, you were quite drunk. So . . . tell me.’
