The Younger Wife, page 13
‘Mummy, I’m hungry,’ Locky said.
‘I know,’ Tully said. ‘That’s why we’re going to McDonald’s. They have yummy food.’
‘Smoked salmon?’ Locky said hopefully. ‘Or pesto gnocchi?’
‘No, but they have chicken nuggets,’ Tully said. ‘And burgers. And chips!’
She looked in the rear-view mirror. Miles sat silently in his seat. He’d been mute since they’d left the house. Speech, it seemed, was his latest issue. These last few days, due to the broken sleep and everything else going on, she’d become increasingly snappy with him about his strange behaviours. Then, at night, when he finally fell asleep, she watched his little chest rising and falling and asked herself what kind of mother snapped at a child who was so little and so troubled.
What kind of mother was she?
Tully was just turning into the McDonald’s drive-through when her phone began to ring. The screen said it was Rachel calling, and it reminded her that she hadn’t rung her sister to ask how her date had gone. It turned out she was not only failing at motherhood but sisterhood too.
‘How did the date go?’ she cried, before Rachel could get a word in. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t called! Tell me everything and don’t leave out any details.’
‘Are you in the car?’ Rachel asked.
‘Yes. I’m taking the boys to McDonald’s.’
There was a pause. ‘You’re taking them to McDonald’s? Tully, are you feeling all right?’
‘Aunty Rachel?’ Locky cried. ‘Is that you?’
‘It sure is,’ she said. ‘Hi, Lock. Hi, Miles.’
Miles didn’t respond.
‘There’s a photographer at our house so Mummy said we had to go for a drive,’ Locky said helpfully. ‘And a man who is selling our house.’
‘A man who is selling your house?’ Rachel said.
‘It’s a long story,’ Tully said. ‘Probably not one to go into over the phone.’
‘Got it.’ Rachel was quiet for a minute. ‘Hey – if you’ve got to be out of the house, why don’t you bring the boys here and I’ll make them a spinach and feta omelette.’
‘Yay!’ Locky said. Even Miles smiled a little. ‘I have to say, Mummy, I didn’t like the sound of McDougal’s!’
22
RACHEL
‘Aunty Rachel!’ Locky cried the moment she opened the door. He threw himself into her arms. Miles threw himself into her arms too, but silently.
‘I love your tummy,’ Locky said, rubbing it affectionately as if it were a puppy. ‘It’s squishy.’ He pulled away and barrelled into the house, followed by his younger brother.
‘Thanks, buddy,’ Rachel called after him. She didn’t bother adding, ‘Come on in,’ as it appeared that horse had already bolted.
By the time Rachel had ushered Tully inside and closed the door behind her, Miles was clambering onto one of the stools in the kitchen and helping himself to a red velvet cupcake, while Locky was jumping on the couch.
‘Boys!’ Tully said. ‘For goodness sake! Sorry, Rach.’
Rachel waved the apology away as Locky ran over to join them.
‘Can I have a cupcake?’ he asked, apparently noticing the smear of frosting already on Miles’s face. ‘Pleeeeease.’ He was looking at his mother for permission, rather than Rachel, and to Rachel’s surprise Tully nodded.
‘Did you want me to make the omelette first?’ Rachel asked, and Tully just shrugged. It was alarming. She’d always been so controlling with the boys – what they ate, who they played with, how they spoke. For her to be suggesting McDonald’s and allowing them to have a cupcake before dinner, something must be very wrong.
‘Sit down,’ Rachel said to Tully firmly, gesturing to an armchair. ‘Tell me what’s going on. You’re selling your house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Moving somewhere bigger and better?’
Tully laughed sadly. ‘Wouldn’t that be nice? No.’
‘Okay,’ Rachel said slowly.
‘And because I know you’re too polite to ask why’ – Tully lowered her voice and glanced pointedly at the boys, though it was unnecessary because they were utterly consumed by their cupcakes – ‘it’s because we’ve lost our money in a bad investment.’
‘Seriously?’
Tully nodded.
Wordlessly, Rachel walked to the kitchen, poured a large glass of wine and carried it back to her sister, stopping to hand the boys another cupcake each on the way past. She sat down again and instructed Tully to drink.
‘Wow,’ Rachel said, once Tully had had a few deep gulps. ‘That’s . . . I had no idea.’
‘It’s a reasonably new thing. I’m still getting my head around it myself. I mean, I know it’s happened, but I keep thinking that somehow we’ll be able to keep the house. We’ll . . . I don’t know – win the lottery or something.’
The lottery. It gave Rachel an idea. She walked into her bedroom, picked up the plastic bag she’d stuffed the cash into, and returned, thrusting the bag at Tully.
Tully looked at it warily. ‘What’s this?’
‘Consider it a lottery win,’ Rachel said. ‘I mean . . . it’s not millions of dollars. But ninety-seven thousand-odd dollars should help, right?’
‘Ninety-seven thousand dollars?’ Tully said. ‘Good God, Rachel. Where did you get this?’
‘Found it,’ Rachel said. ‘Stuffed inside a hot-water bottle that belonged to Mum.’
Tully shook her head. ‘What?’
‘It’s true,’ Rachel said. ’Bizarre as it sounds.’
‘But where would Mum get this kind of money? And why would she keep it in a hot-water bottle?’ Tully pulled out a fistful of cash and looked at it closely, as if expecting it to be fake. ‘Does Dad know?’
‘I told him,’ she said. ‘But he doesn’t have a clue where it came from either. He just told me to keep it.’
‘He told you to keep it?’ Tully said, affronted. ‘Just like that? Without even consulting me?’
‘I guess he assumed that you were doing okay financially,’ Rachel said. ‘As did I. If I’d known the truth, I would have given it to you immediately.’
‘Oh, I know that,’ Tully said without hesitation, and Rachel felt relieved. It was true, Rachel never knew how Tully would react to things on a day-to-day basis, but she knew that when push came to shove, Tully had her back. She was glad that Tully knew the same applied to her. That knowledge had been a strange, powerful undercurrent to her life. Rachel experienced a sudden swell of gratitude for it.
‘Can we have another cupcake?’ Locky called from the kitchen.
‘Yes,’ Tully and Rachel said in unison.
Tully peered into the bag again. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, fishing out the note with her name and Fiona Arthur’s.
‘That was stuffed into the hot-water bottle with the cash. I don’t suppose you know anyone called Fiona Arthur, do you?’
‘Yes,’ Tully said. ‘She’s one of Locky’s swim teachers.’
Rachel stared at her. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yes . . . no, wait! It’s Fiona Archer, not Arthur. I remember one of the parents commenting that she should have been called Fiona Swimmer.’
‘Oh.’ Rachel deflated. ‘So you don’t know a Fiona Arthur? Maybe a friend of Mum’s?’
Tully thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so.’
Rachel sighed. ‘It’s driving me mad. I searched for the name on Facebook, and it turns out there are three Fiona Arthurs in Australia. I’ve sent a direct message to each of them but haven’t had a response.’
Tully put the note back in the bag. ‘I get why you want to know who it is, but just because Mum wrote her name down doesn’t mean she’s anyone important. Fiona Arthur could be the ironing lady. Or the name of the person Mum spoke to about getting Dad’s car serviced. Or a hairdresser one of her friends recommended. Or the name of a milliner who makes hats for women with large heads. Remember Mum had to get her hat specially made for the Melbourne Cup because she had such a large head circumference? You got her large head, actually.’
‘That’s true,’ Rachel said. ‘Except that when I asked Mum about Fiona Arthur, she started to cry. And then she said, Stephen hurt that poor woman terribly.’
Tully thought about that. ‘Maybe Dad performed surgery on her, and there were complications?’
‘Or maybe Mum was talking nonsense,’ Rachel said. ‘The frustrating part is we’ll never know.’
‘I wish we could ask her,’ Tully said. ‘Wouldn’t you love that? One more conversation where she was really with us. Where she knew who we were and who she was. Where she could access her memories and tell us what we want to know.’
‘It would be amazing. Though I have to say, I think she’d be pretty happy to know that you and I were sitting here together, talking like this. She’d be over the moon.’
‘You’re right.’ Tully dropped her gaze, either shy or perhaps horrified by the emotional turn of the conversation. Rachel averted her eyes too, for everyone’s comfort, and that’s when she noticed Miles. He was in the kitchen, still sitting on the stool, eating the cupcake directly from the plate with his mouth. It wasn’t dissimilar to how Rachel had eaten the wedding cake the other day.
‘Is Miles all right?’ Rachel asked.
Tully glanced at him then quickly looked away. ‘Honestly, I have no idea. He’s been doing all kinds of weird things lately.’
‘Like what?’
Tully sighed, then started counting them off on her fingers. ‘Won’t sleep in his bed. Freaks out if his hands are dirty. Scared of leaves, and sparkling water, and bananas. Only wears soft clothes. Today, to mix things up, he’s a mute.’
‘Sounds like you.’
‘Excuse me!’ Tully said, sitting forward.
‘Come on, Tul. You were an utter lunatic as a child.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You were. You had a strange eye twitch for a while. And remember when you used to pull your hair out from the roots? And what about that time you made us all walk home from school and back again because Mum – not you: Mum – stepped on one of the cracks in the pavement. You were convinced that if we didn’t do it, Mum would die.’
‘I remember that,’ Tully said. ‘Mum was dreadful at missing the cracks. She stepped on every one.’
‘There you go then,’ Rachel said. ‘Your son is just like you.’
Tully raised an eyebrow. ‘A lunatic?’
‘A sensitive child who feels things deeply,’ Rachel corrected. ‘I imagine there’s been a fair bit of tension in your house of late, with losing the money, selling the house –’
‘His mum being a kleptomaniac.’
Rachel blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh,’ Tully said, ‘I hadn’t told you that part yet, had I?’
Rachel shook her head as she rose to her feet. ‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘I suspect we’re going to need another glass of wine for this.’
23
HEATHER
Heather and Stephen had spent the afternoon wedding planning. Or, rather, planning for wedding planning. They’d hired a wedding planner, an efficient woman named Eleanor who had given them a survey to complete – a multiple-choice questionnaire about the elements of their dream wedding. Heather had expected that she would complete the survey alone at her desk during a lunch break, but instead Stephen had insisted that they do it together. Each time she asked a question, he frowned thoughtfully, weighed up the options, then gave his opinion, before acknowledging that, ultimately, it was up to her. It was one of those afternoons that Heather used to think were for other people.
Now, having completed the survey, they lay on his bed together – their bed – flicking through wedding magazines. Heather’s head was in Stephen’s lap. It was the first time since Heather had moved in that they’d done this, and there was something peaceful about it. She felt like the type of person she saw in the wedding magazines. Not beautiful; she didn’t mean that. But . . . enviable. Legitimate. Not like a girl playing the part of a bride.
‘I’m happy,’ she said out loud. ‘I’m so, so happy.’
Stephen shifted so he could see her face. Then he smiled. ‘Me too,’ he said.
They gazed at each other, caught in a blissful, loved-up bubble. Suddenly Heather caught sight of the clock on the bedside table. ‘Ooh, it’s getting late!’ she said, rolling off the bed. ‘I need to decide what to wear.’
She walked over to the walk-in wardrobe she’d designed – the one that was larger than her bedroom in her previous home. They were having dinner with Mary and Michael, who were old friends of Stephen. Michael and Stephen had gone to medical school together and Mary had been a good friend of Pam. There was going to be another couple there too, also friends of Stephen and Pam. It was the first time they’d done this, and Heather was incredibly nervous.
‘How about a fashion show?’ Stephen said.
‘All right,’ Heather said, reaching for her navy dress. It was silk, with a low V neckline and voluminous blouson sleeves – probably the nicest dress she owned and definitely the most expensive. It was on the short side, but she planned to pair it with T-bar sandals to give it a casual vibe. She knew Stephen liked this dress, because the last time she’d worn it he’d spent most of the night commenting on how well it fit her and how beautiful she looked.
‘Remind me of everyone’s names and what they do,’ she called to him as she stepped into the dress. ‘I want to make a good impression.’
Stephen just laughed. ‘You’ll make a good impression whether you remember their names or not.’
Heather pulled the dress up and zipped herself into it. Then she stepped into the sandals, which were a good choice. Yes, she thought. This is the one.
‘Come on,’ Stephen called. ‘Don’t make a man wait!’
Heather walked into the bedroom and did a self-conscious twirl.
Stephen whistled. ‘I remember that dress. From our first date, right?’
‘You remembered,’ she said, mock touched.
‘How could I forget?’ He winked, and Heather had a memory of his hands sliding up the skirt then, later, fumbling with the invisible zip. Heather had been terrified that he was going to rip it.
‘I take it from your expression that you approve?’
‘I definitely approve,’ he said, and then he winced slightly. ‘Although . . .’
‘Although?’ she repeated. She definitely didn’t want any ‘although’s’.
‘Although,’ he said, ‘would it be strange if I asked you to wear something else?’
Heather blinked. ‘Why?’
‘It’s just . . . I have my own memories attached to that dress. Don’t get me wrong – I love it. I love it so much I don’t want to share it with anyone.’
‘That’s sweet,’ she said. But she was disappointed. She loved that navy dress. She felt good in it. ‘In that case, what should I wear?’
Stephen thought for a moment. ‘What about that black pantsuit with the double-breasted jacket? You know the one I mean.’
Heather did know the one. She regularly wore it to work. It was a nice, well-cut suit. A designer label. But an odd choice for dinner.
She looked at him for a sign that he was pulling her leg, and found none. He was completely earnest. As if she’d be doing him the most enormous favour by putting on the pantsuit. And what else could she say to that but . . . ‘The pantsuit it is.’
Stephen rewarded her with an approving smile.
24
TULLY
One of the cruellest things about moving house is that, in the days leading up to selling, your house will never look better. It was certainly the case with Tully’s house. Since meeting with the agent, they’d repainted the interior, laid new carpet, power-cleaned the pool and outdoor area, and there were still tradesmen coming and going. They’d also had a visit from a home stylist – a thin blonde woman who’d ordered them to remove two-thirds of the contents of their home so she could replace it with lovely pieces of artwork and ‘statement’ furniture. A lot of the stuff they removed belonged to the boys, and Tully had made the catastrophic mistake of having the removalists come while they were at home.
‘Not my trike!’ Locky had cried, as the removalists carried away the tricycle he hadn’t used in years. ‘Wait, that’s my favourite toy!’ he’d said about the bath toy he’d never opened and which had sat in the gift cupboard ever since.
Tully had stuck to her guns and removed all items and then bought the boys ice cream to console them. Healthy food, she realised, really was a privilege of the wealthy. When you had less help, more to do and less money to spend, junk food was really all you had to appease tired, angry children.
They’d also brought in a garden stylist – a bohemian-looking man named Bodhi who placed ornamental rocks, garden benches and bonsai plants around the property. Tully had been appalled at the price of it (and, frankly, at the idea of a garden stylist), but she had to admit, the garden looked bloody gorgeous.
Now, Tully looked out the bedroom window, watching the boys bouncing on the trampoline that had been allowed to stay only if it was tucked in the far corner of the garden, out of sight. Tully could hear them shouting, ‘I’m going higher than you . . . No, you’re not . . . I am . . . Daddy, he said he’s going higher!’ It reminded her of herself and Rachel when they were younger, always fighting to be higher, or faster, or better.
‘You’re both going equally high,’ Sonny said.
