The Younger Wife, page 20
Meeting in person had been Rachel’s idea. After going back and forth via Facebook Messenger and getting only one-or two-word responses, Rachel had decided that this wasn’t going to be the best forum for getting the information she needed from Fiona. The other woman had been cagey with her personal information, seeming reluctant to reveal where she lived, which was why Rachel had suggested a public venue.
Rachel hadn’t been to this cafe before. It wasn’t particularly nice. It had big glass windows along one wall, offering a view of the car park. That could have been an advantage – enabling her to watch Fiona’s arrival – if Rachel had known who she was looking for. But Fiona had a picture of a sheepdog as her Facebook profile pic and her account was private. Rachel had told Fiona she would be wearing a green dress but Fiona had provided no corresponding information. In her mind, Rachel was picturing someone her mother’s age, but who knew?
They had agreed to meet at 11 am, and at twenty past, Fiona walked in. Somehow Rachel knew immediately that it was her, and she stood and waved.
‘So sorry I’m late,’ Fiona said as she slid into the seat opposite. ‘I went to the cafe across the street by mistake.’
‘No problem,’ Rachel said. She gave Fiona a quick once-over, noting that she did indeed seem to be around her mother’s age, perhaps a touch younger. She was nicely dressed, with a short grey-blonde bob. ‘I just ordered a coffee. Would you like something?’
‘Water will be fine,’ Fiona said, folding her hands together on the table. (Rachel noticed a tissue peeking out of her sleeve.) She had a forthright way of talking that indicated she was a no-nonsense sort – or perhaps she was being brusque to hide the fact that she was nervous.
‘All right,’ Rachel said, her voice sounding similarly brusque. ‘I’ll get straight down to it then. As I mentioned via Messenger, I’m Stephen and Pamela Aston’s daughter. My mother, Pamela, has advanced dementia and is in a nursing home, and when we were clearing out her things I found a large amount of money stuffed into a hot-water bottle. There was also a piece of paper in the bottle with my sister’s name on it – and your name.’
‘My name?’ Fiona’s surprise appeared genuine.
‘Yes. I’d never heard your name before, so I asked Dad and he said he didn’t know anyone called Fiona Arthur.’
Fiona raised her eyebrows. ‘He said that?’
Rachel nodded. ‘And yet, you’re saying you and Dad used to be married. Do you know why he would lie?’
Fiona took a sip of water. ‘I’d say that’s a question for your father, Rachel.’
The waitress arrived and set Rachel’s coffee down in front of her. Rachel ignored it. ‘Do you have any idea why Mum would have written your name on that piece of paper?’
‘No,’ Fiona said. ‘None whatsoever.’
‘I thought perhaps Mum might have found out about you somehow and that’s why she wrote it.’
Rachel might have been imagining it, but at this Fiona looked faintly amused. ‘I think it’s unlikely.’
‘Why?’
‘Because your mum didn’t “find out” about me. She knew about me before I knew about her.’
Rachel took a minute to digest that. ‘You mean . . . Mum and Dad had an affair while you were married to Dad?’ Rachel couldn’t imagine it. Her parents were both such upstanding citizens. The idea of their relationship starting adulterously didn’t compute somehow.
‘It was a long time ago,’ Fiona said. ‘We don’t need to rehash it all.’
It was hard to rehash something that you’d only just learned, Rachel thought. But she decided to park that for now.
‘Okay, but Mum must have been thinking about you to have written your name. She wasn’t in touch with you in the last few years, was she? Even the last ten years, say?’
‘Not in the last thirty-five years,’ Fiona said.
She looked as though she was being truthful, but who knew? Dad had lied about knowing Fiona. Mum had never mentioned that Dad had an ex-wife. What were they trying to hide?
Rachel must have looked upset because Fiona softened.
‘Listen, I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Rachel, I truly am. But I’m afraid I don’t have any information that will help you. I don’t know why Pam wrote my name down. Perhaps she was just confused?’
‘Yes,’ Rachel said. ‘Perhaps.’
‘My advice would be that you speak to Stephen. He might have a good explanation for everything.’ She paused a second before adding: ‘He usually does.’
Fiona asked if she could help Rachel with anything else, and when Rachel declined, she stood and made her way to the door. But after she left Rachel realised she’d forgotten one very important question. She threw some cash onto the table and ran after Fiona, catching up with her in the car park. Fiona was getting into a blue sedan.
‘One more question,’ Rachel said, panting. ‘This might sound a little strange but . . . did my dad ever . . . hurt you?’
Fiona held her gaze for several moments before responding. ‘Yes, Rachel,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry to say, he did.’
Fiona waited a second or two, perhaps for any further questions. When Rachel remained silent, she nodded, shut her car door, and drove away.
44
HEATHER
Stephen stood in the front hall, dressed head-to-toe in lycra. His bike was already on the front lawn. He went cycling every Saturday afternoon with his doctor friends and claimed it was the reason for his good mental health. He’d been looking forward to this particular ride, as he’d had a tough week. He’d lost a patient, which was always difficult, but this one had been a child. ‘He was just a year older than Locky,’ Stephen told her when he came in that night, tears welling in his eyes. He’d shaken it off after a minute or two and then quickly excused himself to take a shower. As Heather lay on the bed, listening to the sounds of the shower, she asked herself: Could this man hurt me? Surely not.
Now that she was eight weeks pregnant, though, she needed to be sure.
‘I’m off,’ he called from the foyer. ‘I’ll see you in a few hours.’
‘Oh,’ she said, following him. ‘Are you going for a ride? I thought we could spend some time together today.’
Stephen frowned. ‘But Ian’s already on his way.’
‘He won’t mind, will he? It’s not like you cancel on him regularly.’
Stephen was utterly thrown. He glanced from the bike to Heather and back again. ‘I wish you had said something earlier, Heather. This is . . . awkward.’
It was, she knew, her opportunity to renege. Just go, he wanted her to say. We can do it another time. But she couldn’t. She needed to be unreasonable. She needed to provoke him.
‘I’d really appreciate it,’ she said.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll call Ian.’
He wasn’t delighted at the prospect. In fact, he seemed downright irritated. It wasn’t the first test, after all. This week alone, she’d arranged to meet him for lunch and then failed to turn up (she said she forgot and left her phone at home). She’d left an empty bottle of red wine in the recycling (which she hadn’t drunk), and when he’d asked she said she’d shared it with a friend, and sorry about the stain on the arm of the sofa. She’d also dropped one of his hundred-dollar wineglasses on the concrete floor, shattering it into a million pieces. Every time she’d done something to press his buttons, he’d been calm and considerate. She’d decided if he passed this last test, she’d tell him about the baby. It would, after all, be the biggest provocation of all.
While Stephen called Ian, Heather went to the kitchen and pulled two wineglasses from a high cupboard.
‘So,’ she said, when Stephen returned, ‘shall we have a glass of white or red?’
Stephen looked at her. It was an assessing look. ‘Nothing for me,’ he said finally. ‘It’s a little early.’
‘Fair enough,’ she said, peering into the wine fridge. She picked out a bottle – a good one. When she stood, Stephen was right behind her.
‘Heather.’
He reached around her and took the bottle from her hands.
‘Hey!’ she said crossly. ‘I was going to drink that.’
‘Look at me,’ he said, spinning her around. ‘What’s going on?’
She feigned confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. Something has been off with you for a while now.’
She tried to take the bottle back from him, but he kept it out of her reach. She let out a groan of frustration. ‘Nothing is wrong, Stephen! I just want a glass of wine. Give me the bottle.’
She lunged for it, once, and then again. She could feel that Stephen was beginning to tire of her. First the bike ride, now this. This was not how he planned to spend his afternoon. It wouldn’t take much now. His feet were bare, she noticed. She stepped forward, and pressed down hard.
‘Ow,’ he cried. ‘Jesus, Heather!’
That was it. It was like the flick of a switch. She saw in his eyes what was going to happen. One minute they were standing in the kitchen, the next her back was to the fridge and his hands were around her throat. The bottle of wine smashed.
‘Stop,’ she tried to say, but her voice was squashed by the pressure of his hands. A shiver travelled the length of her spine. What had she done? She’d been baiting Stephen for weeks, trying to provoke this very result. Now, she might get the proof she wanted. But it would be over her dead body.
She gurgled and gasped, staring into Stephen’s eyes, which looked different now. Bluer. She could feel his thumbs against the cartilage in her neck, pressing until her body was cold and her head swam. He seemed to be doing it so easily.
‘Stop,’ she tried again, but he didn’t. She thought of her mother. This was how she’d left the world, with hands around her throat. Heather had pictured it so many times, the fear in her mother’s eyes before she became slack and slid down the wall. Now, she wouldn’t have to picture it. She would experience it. And so would her baby.
The baby.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she whispered. It was so quiet, she wasn’t sure he would hear her, but a moment later he released her. Heather slumped to the floor. She landed in spilled wine and broken glass.
45
TULLY
‘Miles,’ Tully said. ‘Sit on the potty.’
‘Nooooooo,’ he cried. ‘I not like the potty.’
‘Why don’t you sit on it and I’ll put the TV on,’ Tully pleaded. ‘And I’ll give you a chocolate!’
‘NO! NO POTTY!’
It was all Tully’s fault. Yesterday, when Miles had taken himself to the potty unprompted, Tully had had the audacity to think that it might be a good time to start potty training. Now she understood how stupid she’d been. Even if they weren’t in the middle of a financial crisis, marriage trouble and moving house, any idiot would have realised that Miles would develop a phobia of his potty. Why wouldn’t he, when he developed a phobia of everything else!
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Put your nappy back on.’
‘No nappy! I not like nappy.’
Tully swore under her breath. Half the house was packed up in boxes. The only things that remained were their clothes and some staging furniture that was getting collected tomorrow. The last thing Tully needed was for Miles to take a dump on the Persian rug. They could barely afford the bill for staging let alone an additional cleaning fee. Not that Miles gave two hoots about what they could afford. He leaped now, bare-bottomed, onto the L-shaped couch. Tully was chasing after him when her phone beeped – a text message from Michelle.
Hey babe. Listen, I wanted to let you know, I heard some pre-school mums talking about you. They said you shoplifted from that homewares shop in Armadale. I told them it was ridiculous, don’t worry. Where do people even get this stuff? Michelle finished the message with the emoji of the woman in the purple dress holding her arms out in confusion.
Tully threw down the phone and fell onto the couch beside Miles. So this was it. Her fears had been realised. There was, she supposed, some sort of comfort in having nothing else to lose. Her marriage was a shambles, her youngest child was broken, and she’d been humiliated in her community. Really, what else was there?
The doorbell rang and Miles jumped, naked, from the couch and started running for the door. ‘Wait!’ Tully called. ‘Don’t answer the door. Wait for –’
But Miles didn’t wait. Apparently answering the door naked didn’t feature on his lengthy list of phobias. Luckily it was only Rachel. By the time Tully got there, Rachel was already holding Miles on her hip.
‘I did poop on the potty,’ Miles told her, beaming.
‘Clever boy,’ Rachel said. ‘Now, let’s play hide-and-seek. You hide, I’ll count. Go!’
Rachel put him down and he ran off happily towards the living room. It was like he was a different child. Why is he such an angel for everyone else? Tully wondered.
‘I think Miles hates me,’ Tully started, but before she could finish, Rachel took her by the arm and led her past mountains of boxes into the reception room off the foyer.
‘I found Fiona Arthur,’ Rachel said.
Tully frowned. ‘Wait. Who’s Fiona Arthur again?’
Rachel lowered her voice. ‘The woman whose name Mum wrote down.’
Miles appeared in the corner of the room, made a shushing gesture to Tully, and tucked himself behind the curtains.
‘Oh,’ Tully said. ‘Yes! Of course. Fiona Arthur!’
‘Well . . . it turns out she was Dad’s first wife.’
Tully blinked. ‘But Dad doesn’t have a first wife. Except Mum, I guess.’
‘That’s what I thought too.’
‘So who told you he did? Fiona Arthur?’
‘Yes.’
Miles started to move impatiently behind the curtain.
‘Hmmm,’ Rachel said loudly. ‘I wonder where Miles could be. Could he be under the table?’
Miles giggled loudly.
Tully said, ‘Well, she must be lying.’
‘But why? What would she have to gain by lying? Besides, I met her today, Tul. And she was credible. Apparently Mum and Dad met while he was married to Fiona, and Dad left her for Mum.’
‘She said that?’
‘She did.’
Tully’s mind was boggling. Even without everything else going on in her life right now, she wasn’t sure she could wrap her head around this. ‘But if that’s true, why didn’t Dad tell us?’
‘I have some theories. The leading one is that Mum was saving money to leave Dad.’
‘What?’ Tully said. ‘Why would she want to leave Dad?’
‘This is going to sound crazy,’ Rachel said, ‘but I’m starting to suspect that Dad is abusive.’
Tully opened her mouth to refute this claim, but before she could speak, Rachel held up a hand. ‘Why don’t I tell you my reasons?’
Tully didn’t respond, which Rachel must have taken as a sign to continue.
‘First, Mum has suggested it more than once when I’ve been to see her. She’s called him a sadistic bastard, and at Miles’s party she warned us to look out for him and said he’d made her life hell. And I know Mum says all sorts of things – that’s why I’ve never taken it seriously. But there’s more.’
‘Like what?’
‘Mum’s dementia. Remember how perplexed the doctors were when she was diagnosed so young with no family history of the disease? Well, I’ve been doing some research and apparently there is a strong correlation between multiple head injuries and dementia.’
Tully felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. She pressed her fingers to her temples. ‘So you’re saying what? Mum got dementia because Dad beat her up and gave her head trauma?’
‘She did get injured a lot while we were growing up. Remember all those times she had a sprained ankle or a dislocated finger?’
‘Mum was very clumsy.’
‘So she used to say. But I don’t have a single memory of her falling over or injuring herself while she was with me. Do you?’
Tully thought about that. A memory came at her – a summer holiday when she was a kid. They were at the theme park in Arthurs Seat, doing a big tree-climbing tour. Mum had been a natural at it. She’d danced along the branches, clambered up and down ropes and ridden the flying fox to the end. She’d beaten them all, including Dad.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Now you mention it, I don’t remember any incidents.’
‘All of that could be explained away, though, if it wasn’t for what Fiona said,’ Rachel added. ‘She told me he hurt her.’
‘So you’re saying—’
‘If Mum wanted to leave Dad, she would have needed to save a lot of money. She didn’t have any of her own. She didn’t even have a bank account. She might have been saving it for years.’
They looked at each other for a long time.
‘But do we really think Dad is abusive?’ Tully said finally. ‘Dad? Our dad?’
Rachel started to respond, but then she got distracted. Her gaze darted to the corner of the room. ‘Uh . . . Tul?’
‘What?’
‘I think Miles just took a dump on the rug.’
Tully closed her eyes.
46
HEATHER
Heather sat in the passenger side of Stephen’s Porsche. Stephen kept shooting her pensive looks from the driver’s seat. Perhaps he was worried about what she might say when they got to the hospital. If so, he needn’t have been. She wasn’t going to tell anyone what had happened; she had too much shame for that. But she wasn’t going to put up with it either. She’d seen Stephen’s true colours now, and she’d made her decision.
Before they’d got into the car, he’d mopped up the blood, checked her arm for glass and then wrapped it in a clean towel. She’d fallen hard, landing right on the smashed glass. Stephen thought one of her cuts might need stitches.
