The Younger Wife, page 15
‘And evidently he is,’ Mary said, barely missing a beat.
‘And Pam has no idea, so what does it matter?’ Elsa muttered.
Silence. Stephen fought to swallow his mouthful.
‘It matters,’ Heather said. ‘Of course it matters. Stephen cares enormously for Pam, and so do I.’
‘You care about her?’ Elsa said. David put a hand on her arm, but Elsa shook it off. ‘I’m sorry, but honestly. Pam was your client, and not only did you fail to meet her brief, you took off with her husband!’
‘That’s enough, Elsa,’ Stephen said.
‘Stephen was my client too,’ Heather said. ‘I met his brief.’
‘Enough!’ Stephen said, loudly now.
The room was silent for a few moments. Even Mary couldn’t seem to find anything to say. Heather looked at Stephen, but he seemed to be avoiding her gaze.
‘I’m sorry, Mary, but I think we should go,’ he said finally.
‘You don’t have to,’ Mary said, rising to her feet. But it was clear there wasn’t really another option. Elsa was planted in her seat, glaring. Her husband was sitting awkwardly beside her.
‘We’ll walk you out,’ Michael said, as Heather grabbed her purse.
At the door, they spoke in hushed tones.
‘I’m sorry, Mary,’ Stephen said. ‘I thought it would be okay.’
‘Don’t apologise!’ Mary said. ‘It’s not your fault. I have no idea what got into Elsa.’ Then, perhaps feeling disloyal, she added, ‘She and Pam were very close. I guess everyone grieves in their own way.’
‘It was a lovely dinner,’ Heather said, even though she’d barely touched the soup. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’
‘We’ll do it again,’ Mary said. ‘Soon. Just the four of us.’
‘I’ll see you at golf,’ Michael said, shaking Stephen’s hand. ‘It was great to meet you, Heather. Hopefully next time will be less eventful.’
Michael and Mary waved, and Stephen and Heather walked to the car.
‘I’m sorry,’ she started, but Stephen held up a hand.
‘Let’s talk about it at home.’
Heather got into the car. But as Stephen got into the car beside her, she felt it, that little pinch of unease she used to get when her father was on the warpath. She used to think of it as her sixth sense. It told her something was in the air. Danger.
27
RACHEL
Rachel found it hard to recall how dinner ended. At some point, the bill was paid, they’d thanked the waitstaff, and they’d wandered out into the evening together, as if it were something they’d always done. On the way back to Rachel’s house they continued their conversation from the restaurant, but with new comfort, more teasing, and an undeniable frisson of chemistry.
‘You know,’ Darcy said as they walked home, ‘that was the best date I’ve ever been on.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Me too.’
‘Really?’ He looked so delighted she decided not to remind him it was her first date.
‘Really.’
They arrived at Rachel’s house and, without discussion, went inside. Rachel located a bottle of red and some cheese, and by the time she’d returned to the living room, Darcy had moved a throw rug from the couch onto the floor.
‘Night picnic?’ he said.
‘We definitely need more food,’ she replied, deadpan. ‘I don’t think we ate enough at dinner.’
It all felt so natural and normal. For the first time, instead of resisting, Rachel went with it. She poured them each a glass of wine, then arranged some cheese and quince paste on a cracker for Darcy. She enjoyed having something to focus on, something to keep her hands busy.
‘Maybe you could go into business arranging night picnics?’ Rachel suggested. ‘If you want to start a new business.’
‘So you like it, do you?’ he said, looking pleased. ‘Good. I’m glad.’
He put his glass on the coffee table, and smiled at her. It was a different smile from his usual, mischievous one. It sent a tingle up Rachel’s spine. The kind of tingle she used to feel around men all those years ago, before that day at the beach. A good tingle.
And yet . . .
‘Should I take this?’ he asked, gesturing towards her glass.
Rachel let him take the glass from her and put it alongside his on the coffee table. Then he looked back at her. Paused for a beat.
He was mere inches away. She could smell his aftershave, see the little pinpricks of stubble on his jaw. He lifted her chin. It was like she was outside of herself, watching it happen to someone else. He was only millimetres from her face when she pulled away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pulling away. ‘I can’t.’
28
HEATHER
Stephen was silent as he drove home from Mary and Michael’s. Heather tried to talk to him a couple of times but was greeted with only one-word answers. And when she tried to put her hand on his, he gently moved his away. The tension took Heather back to a night when she was about eight, and she’d been with her parents at a New Year’s Eve party. There had been two other children there: a twelve-year-old boy who’d taken cigarettes from his mum’s pocket and then taken Heather behind the shed so she could watch him smoke them; and a three-year-old girl, who Heather had played with like a baby doll until she’d finally fallen asleep on the living room floor. After that, Heather had hidden in one of the bedrooms, reading a magazine she’d found on a shelf. She’d fallen asleep there, in a corner next to a pile of coats. When her parents wanted to leave, they couldn’t find her. Apparently they looked for her for hours. When they finally found her, her dad was livid.
Heather remembered the car ride, the silence of it. She could feel her mother’s fear and her father’s mounting rage. She knew it was all her fault. Why had she gone into that bedroom? Why didn’t she fall asleep in the living room, like the little girl? A three-year-old knew better than she did. She was an idiot. And when they got home, she and her mother paid the price. As usual.
And tonight, once again, she was to blame for the evening ending badly.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked Stephen as they pulled into the garage.
His gaze flickered to her for a moment, then he nodded.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have talked about Pam. Or said that we changed the plans.’
He turned off the ignition. ‘You can talk about Pam as much as you like, Heather. And they were going to find out about the house plans eventually. Elsa was out of line there, not you.’
‘Oh,’ Heather said, confused. ‘Then why are you upset with me?’
‘I’m upset,’ he said, ‘because you said you weren’t going to drink tonight.’
‘But Mary and Michael kept filling my glass.’
He looked straight ahead. He was quiet for a long time, as if he was really contemplating what he was going to say next. Finally, he said: ‘I think you have a problem, Heather.’
‘With alcohol?’
‘Yes, with alcohol.’
‘But I – I didn’t even drink that much.’ The comment might have been more convincing had it not been punctuated by a hiccup.
Stephen sighed. He opened his door.
‘Stephen!’ she called, as he walked into the house. She hurried after him, catching up when he was halfway down the hall.
He spun around. ‘What?’
But of course she had no idea what to say. She opened her mouth. Another hiccup emerged. She cursed internally.
‘You didn’t even drink that much?’ he said, throwing up his hands.
‘I didn’t.’
He levelled his gaze at her. ‘Do you know what I think? I think when you start drinking, you stop counting.’
It wasn’t true. Heather knew exactly how much she’d drunk. She’d had two glasses of champagne, and one glass of wine. Or maybe it was two glasses of wine? But she hadn’t forgotten because she was so drunk; she’d forgotten because his friends were so adept at filling her damn glass!
‘That’s not it. It’s just that Michael kept filling my glass.’
‘So what? So you just keep drinking? What if you were allergic to peanuts? Would you just eat them because someone kept serving them?’
Stephen had never got angry with her like this before. He was so close that Heather could feel his breath on her forehead. She thought of her father the night they returned from the New Year’s Eve party. He’d bailed her mother up against the wall almost exactly like this. She saw a flash of her father’s face, a red, contorted version of Stephen’s – or was Stephen’s a red, contorted version of his?
‘Move back,’ she whispered.
‘The last thing I want to do is tell you when or how much to drink, Heather,’ he said. ‘But I’m worried.’
He didn’t move back. Heather felt panic set in. It travelled through her belly, her chest, her lungs. She never made the decision to push him; it was as if her arm just struck out of its own volition. It happened so fast. Her arm connected with something, saw a streak of red, then Stephen staggered backwards. Then she pushed past him, heading for the front door. She’d barely taken a step when she felt someone grab her by the hair. She was yanked backwards. Her head hit the polished concrete floor. And everything went black.
29
RACHEL
There were so many parts of that horrible day that were etched into Rachel’s soul. But one of the most crushing parts to relive, even now, was the aftermath. After the man ran away, leaving her in the bushes, Rachel stood up. It felt odd, after the magnitude of what had happened, to be suddenly alone. She felt as though she were in one of those end-of-the-world movies in which the main character comes out of her home to find that everyone else has been eaten by zombies and she is the only one left. Dazed, she walked the half-dozen blocks home, marvelling at the normality around her. People mowing their lawns or walking their dogs. The lady across the street emptying her shopping bags from the boot of her car waved to Rachel and, on autopilot, Rachel waved back. No one gasped or stared or begged to know what had happened. People just went about their regular activities as if nothing had changed. It almost tricked Rachel into thinking that maybe nothing had.
Then she walked in her front door.
The shift in energy was immediate, mostly because Dad was there, right there in the front hall, holding a basket of laundry. He did a double take when she walked in. Finally, Rachel thought. Someone sees me.
Dad had always been able to read her; an irritating skill of his. They’d argued about it that very morning, when Rachel had asked if she could have a sleepover at her friend’s place and he had (correctly) intuited that her friend’s parents were going to be away and they’d be having a party. Now his irritating skill was a blessed relief. She wouldn’t have to explain anything. She wouldn’t have to find the words to describe what had happened, because Dad would already know.
Except he didn’t know.
Instead, Dad looked at his watch, then back at her. ‘Call that a run? You were barely gone fifteen minutes!’
She could have just opened her mouth and told him. Dad, I was raped. Why didn’t she? She knew he would have believed her. He would have rushed her to the hospital and called the police and stood beside her in court as she gave evidence. He would have advocated for her, protected her, done every last thing that was expected of him as a good father and then some. In the past, when she’d heard the stats of women failing to report sexual assault, she’d felt so frustrated. Tell someone, she’d thought. Make the bastard pay. Suddenly she understood. Perhaps these women had been through enough. Perhaps the murky cocktail of shame and horror and disgust that Rachel was feeling was the same one that muzzled them all?
And so, instead of telling her dad what had happened, she went to the kitchen and baked the most exquisite carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. And she ate and ate and ate until all the disgusting feelings were buried under the most exquisite, all-consuming sugar high.
Rachel was making pancakes. After last night with Darcy, it was exactly what she needed. She’d always found such comfort in making the batter, pouring that perfect creamy circle, watching it bubble up and then flipping it to see the golden yellow of the underside. Afterwards, she covered the stack in sugar and syrup and berries and ate until she thought she might burst. Then she decided to make a second batch. She was pouring the batter into the pan when she heard the knock on the door.
‘Rachel?’
It was Darcy. Not only did she recognise his voice, he’d also told her that he’d check in on her in the morning. Rachel should have known that a phone call was not his style.
‘Will you talk to me?’ he said through the door. ‘I don’t even have to come inside. Just open a window if you like!’
Rachel put down the jug of batter, walked to the door and opened it.
‘I’ve got pancakes on the stove,’ she said, returning to the kitchen. She was glad for the busywork, the excuse not to have to look him in the eye. He’d been so kind last night, so understanding, that it only made her humiliation more intense.
Darcy followed her, shutting the door behind him.
‘What’s all this?’ he said.
She flipped the pancakes. ‘I’m baking my feelings.’
Darcy sat on a stool. His movements were tentative, slow, as if he was worried about startling her. ‘Not a bad thing to do with your feelings, I guess.’
Rachel shrugged. She wasn’t so sure about that.
‘Listen, Rachel, I’m sorry about last night . . . I mean, if I’d known you weren’t feeling it, I wouldn’t have tried to –’
‘It’s not your fault. Really. It’s the classic case of it’s not you, it’s me.’
She stacked up the pancakes on a plate and covered them in berries and syrup. With Darcy here, she suddenly felt stuffed, so she pushed them in front of him. He picked up his cutlery, but made no move to eat.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she said, after several moments.
‘Sure.’
‘Why did you come back here today?’
He thought for a minute.
‘I came back because I was hoping you’d lain awake all night thinking about me and realised you couldn’t live without me.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Also I was hungry and fancied a pancake feast.’
Rachel tried to smile. ‘Something happened to me,’ she said. ‘When I was sixteen.’
Darcy’s expression changed.
‘I was out jogging. He jumped out of the bushes. Don’t . . . say anything. It’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, really. But that’s the reason. That’s why I don’t date. That’s why . . . well, that’s what happened last night.’
Darcy closed his eyes. ‘Rachel, I . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ She waved her hand with an airiness she didn’t feel.
‘And yet I imagine it’s not the kind of thing that ever really leaves you?’
Rachel shrugged. ‘I manage. Perhaps not in the healthiest of ways, but I do.’
Darcy put down his cutlery. His undivided attention did something to her. For the first time ever, she felt the inclination to share more. ‘I don’t think you’ll be surprised to learn that food is my drug of choice. I eat my feelings, Darcy. I bake my feelings. I order my feelings at restaurants and cafes, and through Uber Eats.’
‘Makes sense,’ Darcy said, nodding.
Rachel blinked. ‘What do you mean . . . makes sense?’
‘I mean . . . why not bake and eat your feelings? It’s not the worst thing to do with your feelings, is it?’
This stopped Rachel for a minute.
‘I mean, sure,’ Darcy allowed, ‘it’s not ideal if you eat a wedding cake hours before it’s due to be delivered. And you are a better judge of whether this is a problem or not in your life than I am. But—’
‘But what?’
‘From what I can see, you’ve done something incredible. You’ve not only learned to manage your feelings, you’ve also found a way to make a living out of it.’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ she said. And it wasn’t. But also . . . it was.
There was no doubt that her food fixation had hurt her at times. It had stopped her from ‘sitting in the pain’ and ‘healing’ and ‘becoming a stronger person’. At the same time, she couldn’t deny that food had saved her. Over and over and over again.
‘I know it’s not simple,’ he said. ‘And if baking and eating your feelings isn’t working for you, it might be wise to try a different form of therapy. I just mean, don’t beat yourself up for single-handedly saving yourself with the tools you had available to you. Where I come from, that’s called survival.’
Rachel felt a rush of emotion. Tears came to her eyes and she tried hard to blink them away. When she failed, she took a deep breath and walked around the counter to stand right in front of Darcy. With him sitting on the stool and her standing, they were the same height. ‘A different kind of therapy?’
‘I was thinking more of counselling,’ he said, as she leaned toward him. ‘But we could try this.’
‘Let’s try this,’ Rachel agreed. And after that, they didn’t talk anymore.
THE WEDDING
The ambulance wails as it tears away from the chapel. I wonder if the sirens indicate hope? After all, if a person – or persons – had been declared dead, the ambulance wouldn’t be in any hurry, would it?
The wedding cars remain out the front of the church, empty now, and useless. It makes me think of tables that will be set somewhere, the canapés and fish and chicken that will never be eaten. Police stand around in clumps, talking to guests and taking down names.
Standing on the street outside the chapel, I listen as new theories are advanced. Most people now think it was Heather who was injured, rather than Stephen. It does make sense. After all, it was a young woman’s scream that we’d heard. Then again, there were quite a few young women in the vicinity when it happened.
