The Younger Wife, page 3
‘Well –’
‘I just can’t believe she’s so young!’ Tully cried. ‘I mean, we knew she was young. But I must have been in denial. I mean . . . why would he go for someone so young? She’s not even very pretty. There’s no way she’s into Dad for the right reasons. She must want money or status or something. But even that I don’t get. She’s pretty enough. Why not find a rich young doctor?’
‘Hang on, is she pretty or not?’
Tully started pacing. ‘Look, I get it – who doesn’t want money? Her parents are dead, and presumably they left her with nothing. And life is hard on the breadline; believe me, I know.’
Tully didn’t know. She lived in one of the nicest neighbourhoods of Melbourne in a mansion with a library and a cinema room. Sonny was a criminal barrister and Tully hadn’t worked a day since Locky was born, if you didn’t count charity dinners (and Rachel didn’t). Rachel didn’t begrudge her any of it, until she started talking about her deep understanding of the breadline.
‘But setting your sights on an old man isn’t right,’ Tully finished. ‘It’s immoral!’
Rachel waited a full five seconds before attempting to respond. Still, the moment she opened her mouth, Tully started talking again. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying. I miss Mum.’
‘Me too.’
Tully sighed sadly. ‘It’s just . . . the moments of lucidity are so rare these days . . . and so short. And I feel like we’re betraying her by having lunch with Heather. What would she think if she knew we were sitting here, breaking bread with her replacement?’
‘Heather isn’t Mum’s –’
‘– replacement, I know.’ Tully ripped a useless square of toilet paper from the dispenser and attempted to wipe her face. ‘She’s not Mum’s replacement – for us. But she is for Dad. I guess I’m just . . . angry on Mum’s behalf.’
Tully made a reasonable point. Tully often did.
‘I get it,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s totally weird seeing Dad with Heather.’
Tully grabbed Rachel’s hand. ‘It is weird, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is. She’s younger than us!’
Tully smiled, as if Rachel’s recognition of this was a delightful surprise. ‘She is younger than us!’
‘It’s true there’s a lot of stuff to digest, Tul, but I’m trying not to worry about it. It’s not like they’re getting married or anything. He’s still married to Mum, for God’s sake! We’re having lunch, that’s it. Let’s keep things in perspective.’
Tully nodded, grabbing another square of toilet paper to blow her nose. ‘You’re right. It’s just lunch.’
Rachel walked over to Tully’s bag. ‘So, how about you reapply your lippy and we’ll head back out there.’ Rachel unzipped her bag and rummaged around for the lipstick. ‘Why do you have two wallets in here? And . . . is this a salt shaker?’
‘Doesn’t everyone have two wallets?’ Tully said, taking the bag from Rachel. ‘I don’t need lipstick. Let’s just go.’
Tully led the way through the busy restaurant. As her father came into view, Rachel gave him the thumbs-up and he nodded in response, visibly relieved.
‘All good?’ he asked Tully, who smiled and nodded too many times. ‘Good. In that case, I think it’s time to order champagne.’
Rachel knew then, what was about to happen. She got these feelings from time to time – premonitions of a sort. She had one the day Mum lost her keys for the third time in a week, even after Dad laughed it off as a normal sign of ageing. She had one on that family skiing holiday when she begged Tully to go for hot chocolate instead of skiing another run (Tully refused and broke her leg on the next slope). And she had one when she was sixteen, a split second before that man jumped out of the bushes. The worst part was that now, just like then, there was nothing she could do.
Her father cleared his throat. ‘Heather and I have an announcement to make . . .’
3
HEATHER
Stephen was standing in his driveway in sweatpants and a T-shirt the first time Heather laid eyes on him. It was a Saturday morning. He had a newspaper tucked under his arm and he was chatting to his neighbour over the fence. Heather had just pulled up in front of his house, ready for their first appointment, and when she got out of her car Stephen waved as if she were an old friend.
‘You must be the interior decorator,’ he said.
In fact, she was the interior designer, and it was a source of great irritation to her that people confused the two, since the difference had meant an extra four years at university for her. But on this occasion, she recalled, it hadn’t bothered her.
‘Just been for a jog,’ he explained, gesturing at the clothes.
‘You don’t need to explain yourself to me,’ she said, opening the passenger door and retrieving a box filled with samples and swatches.
Stephen laughed. ‘Force of habit. I have a wife and two daughters. I spend my life explaining myself to women. Oh God, that sounds terribly sexist, doesn’t it? Don’t tell Pam I said so.’
Heather had already characterised him as an affable sexist, which was fine by her. She worked in an office full of affable sexists, and they weren’t as bad as people made out. If anything, she felt most powerful around this kind of man. They tended to be largely confused by, and subservient to, women. Sure, they were surprised when women proved to be their intellectual or creative equal – often disconcertingly so – but by and large they didn’t impede her existence in any way. So, affable sexist it was.
Stephen appeared beside her and took the box of samples out of her hands without asking. He was a big man, she noticed, with a ramrod-straight back and a broad chest. ‘Just so you know, I explain myself to men a lot too. To everyone really.’
‘Well . . . that’s a nice quality. A lot of people I know never bother to explain themselves at all. I’m Heather Wisher, by the way.’
‘Stephen Aston.’
They shook hands, as people did back then, and then walked side by side towards the grand front steps of the Astons’ home, an upside-down house with the kitchen and living areas on the top floor so they had a view of Brighton Beach. At the bottom of the stairs, Stephen slowed a little. ‘Listen, before we go in, I need to fill you in about Pam. I probably should have called you earlier but –’
‘You’re here!’ a woman called from the top of the stairs. ‘Are you early or am I late?’
Stephen smiled. ‘You’re both right on time.’ He shot Heather a look that said he’d finish the conversation later.
They started with a home tour, which was typical, but it was led by Stephen, which wasn’t. Usually husbands made themselves scarce for these visits, apart from a brief speech on arrival about how the budget was not to be blown, and to insist that no space be taken from the garage. But that day, Stephen did all the talking. As they made their way around the house, he kept his hand on Pam’s shoulder, guiding her through the house as if she didn’t know the way. It was curious. Pam didn’t say much, and whenever Heather asked her opinion, she shrugged and asked if anyone wanted a cup of tea. After the fifth or sixth time of this, Stephen put an arm around her shoulders and said, ‘All right, we’ll take the hint. It’s tea time.’ He grinned at Heather. ‘Pam makes a mean cup of tea. She has just about every flavour you could think of.’
They’d sat in the living room, which was cluttered and a little chaotic. As an interior designer, Heather was one of the minority who actually liked clutter. Stark, vast spaces, with clean lines and sharp surfaces, always seemed so unliveable to her. Naturally, she would do whatever a client asked of her, but when it came to her own personal style, she favoured warm wood, rugs, eclectic artwork, texture. Love. So different from her own childhood home, with its mismatched op shop couches that perennially smelled of dog even though Heather’s family had never owned one. There was always a terracotta pot in the middle of the coffee table, filled with cigarette butts, and a giant TV on the wall, one of the few things her dad could always seem to find money for.
‘What is it you want from the renovation, Pamela?’ Heather asked, as Stephen carried the empty mugs back to the kitchen. ‘What is your style?’
‘I like cosy,’ she said. ‘Cosy and comfy, that’s my style. Stephen prefers modern.’
‘I prefer what Pam likes,’ Stephen countered cheerfully. ‘Happy wife, happy life.’
They both chuckled. Heather did too. But after a few seconds, the smile faded from Pam’s face. ‘How rude of me. I haven’t even offered you a cup of tea! Will you have a cup?’
When Heather looked at Stephen, he held her gaze for just a second longer than would be considered normal. And then she understood.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said to Pam. ‘But I’m fine.’
‘What is the announcement?’ Tully said, looking from Stephen to Heather and back again. ‘Come on. Out with it!’
‘Hold on a minute,’ Stephen said. ‘We need champagne!’ He glanced around for a waiter; Tully shot Heather a wary look.
‘The girls are going to love you,’ Stephen had said last week, when he suggested the meeting. She asked him to tell her as much as possible about each of them, and Stephen, to his credit, had done a reasonable job. He told her about Tully’s neuroses. About the fact that Rachel, to his knowledge, had never had a serious – or even casual – relationship. But there were things Stephen left out of his summaries. Like the fact that Rachel was not just ‘pretty’ but breathtaking – as divine a creature as Heather had ever seen. And the fact that Tully’s entire being came alive when she talked about her little boys. And the fact that both girls looked at Stephen with an adoration that was palpable, but also something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
‘Dad!’ Tully tried again, but the waiter was already approaching the table.
Stephen glanced at the wine list for a second or two before sighing helplessly. ‘A bottle of your best champagne, please. And four glasses.’
‘Three,’ Heather corrected. ‘None for me.’
Stephen frowned at her. ‘Really? You’re sure?’
Heather wasn’t sure. Heather was rarely sure of anything. It was an unappealing trait, she’d always thought. Get a spine, she told herself constantly. Be more decisive. She’d decided yesterday that she wasn’t going to drink today. Or at the very least, she’d only have one. It had felt like a prudent decision at the time.
Heather never trusted herself after a couple of drinks; she relaxed a little too much. All the bad decisions she’d made in her life, all the ones she regretted, had happened after a couple of drinks. Today she wanted to be on her best behaviour. After all, she knew how she must look to Stephen’s daughters. A new, younger girlfriend. They’d assume she was a gold-digger or someone with daddy issues. She’d suggested they wait another six months or more before she met the girls, but Stephen had insisted. She envied his certainty that they would love her. It was yet another thing that she wasn’t sure of.
Three sets of eyes were staring at her. She had, she realised, made a faux pas. Heather had spent enough time in the middle-class world to know the rules, even if she didn’t understand them. Champagne was a team sport. When it was suggested, regardless of the time, date or occasion, the correct response was to squeal and clap. If someone didn’t want to partake, the wind was taken out of everyone’s sails.
‘Just one glass,’ Stephen cajoled. ‘It’s a special occasion.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’ve twisted my arm.’
‘So,’ Tully said, the second their glasses were full, ‘what’s this announcement?’
‘Tully has always been like this,’ Stephen told Heather. ‘When she was little, she was the one up at dawn, desperate to open her Christmas presents, while Rachel was still fast asleep.’
‘Dad!’
‘Fine.’ Stephen smiled, reaching for Heather’s hand. ‘I’m very excited to tell you that Heather and I have decided to get married!’
Heather hardly dared to look at Rachel or Tully. Unlike Stephen, who seemed utterly certain that his daughters would be delighted for them, Heather knew how this was going to land. No matter how polite this family was, no matter how hard they slapped on the strained smiles, this was not going to be good news for them.
‘Well,’ Rachel said. ‘Well, that’s . . . wow, that’s really . . .’
Tully didn’t even attempt to hide her horror. ‘You can’t get married. You’re already married to Mum!’
Stephen’s smile dimmed only the slightest bit. ‘Straight into the logistics, that’s my Tully-girl.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll admit, there are some things that need to be worked out. And I’ll include you both every step of the way. But the main thing is . . . Heather and I have decided we want to spend our lives together.’
‘Include us every step of the way with what?’ Tully demanded.
Heather picked up her drink and took a large sip. She felt a whisper of irritation at Stephen. Why had he been so determined to announce it now? They should have taken it slower. Met the girls a few times first, then announced the engagement down the track. She hadn’t even worn her engagement ring. She was delighted about the engagement – ecstatic, even! – but sometimes even the most charming of men were hopeless when it came to reading a room.
‘You’ll wait until . . . until after Mum passes away, I assume,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s not like this is going to happen soon.’ It was ostensibly a statement, but Rachel looked at her father for confirmation.
Heather took another sip of her drink.
‘Well,’ Stephen said, ‘obviously Mum is very healthy – physically, at least. And’ – Heather felt his gaze on her, but she studiously avoided eye contact – ‘we can’t keep our plans on hold forever.’
The girls fell silent. At a table nearby someone started singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and a waiter appeared with a cake.
‘So . . . what are your plans?’ Rachel asked finally.
Stephen sighed. ‘I’ve met with Bill Thompson, and he said we can be granted a divorce, under these circumstances.’
‘You’re going to divorce Mum?’ Tully cried.
‘It’s just a formality, Tully-girl. Mum doesn’t even know we’re married most of the time. And of course I’d continue to look after her – and you. Mum would get sixty per cent of our assets, which would be handed down to you two after she passes.’
Tully and Rachel appeared so bewildered, Heather didn’t know where to look.
Eventually Rachel was the one to speak. ‘This is a lot. I don’t know quite what to say!’
‘Why don’t we drink to it then?’ Stephen suggested, lifting his glass.
Hesitantly, the rest of them followed suit. But after they clinked their glasses together, Heather was the only one who took a sip.
4
TULLY
The day after the lunch, Tully sat in the car park of Westfield and looked in the rear-view mirror. Items were strewn all over the back seat of her Range Rover, spilling into the footwell – a silk camisole, a pair of Lululemon running leggings, a leather wallet. There was also a fine gold necklace, a pair of toddler scissors, and a packet of post-its. A random assortment of items, but it didn’t matter what it was. That’s what most people didn’t get about her habit. It wasn’t about the getting. It was about the taking. She’d determined, a while back, that she was an addict. When the urge to put something into her handbag or stuff it under her sweater overcame her, she was powerless to stop herself. Most of the stuff she stole was later stored in the garage, stuffed under beds or dropped off at charity shops. Heather’s wallet, for example, she’d handed in to the police station yesterday with all cash and cards accounted for.
Like any addict she knew that she’d feel the guilt and self-loathing and remorse. But since this was a given, she decided she might as well enjoy the high.
And enjoying it she was. It was exactly what she needed after all the ‘meeting Heather’ malarkey yesterday. Tully had been unaware of the stress she’d been carrying around in the lead-up to that meeting. Heather hadn’t been a welcome relief nor had she put any of Tully’s fears to rest. Heather had been exactly as she’d feared . . . though perhaps slightly less trashy, with slightly smaller boobs. And now she was going to become Tully’s stepmother! The idea was too horrific to contemplate.
She’d spent the last twenty-four hours analysing and unpacking every moment of the lunch, sorting out what she did and didn’t have to worry about. There was a lot to work through. Every flickering eyebrow, every moment of discomfort, every slightly-longer-than-normal pause, required analysis and conclusions to be drawn. No wonder she didn’t have time for a job. She had no idea how all those type A lawyerly types did it. For Tully, managing her anxiety was a full-time occupation.
If there had been one highlight of the lunch (and ‘highlight’ was pushing it), it was the declaration that Heather didn’t want children. If she were honest, Tully had never understood those women who didn’t want to have children. She nodded along and loudly championed their rights on social media, and she’d have been aghast if anyone denounced childless women aloud at a dinner party and would immediately take the side of the childless woman who argued her case. But she thought it was strange.
Admittedly, when you looked at it practically, making the decision to have children was much stranger. If her own children were any sort of representation, children were difficult, anxiety-inducing little parasites. Cute, difficult, anxiety-inducing little parasites. Parasites with an aptitude for kindness, poignant observation and the most adorable pad of fat on the backs of their hands that Tully liked to press. ‘Mummy loves my squishy hands,’ Miles said whenever she did it.
In any case, when Heather had refused the champagne, Tully had worried for a moment. She’d been relieved when she finally drank the champagne, even if that didn’t necessarily prove she wasn’t pregnant. After all, Tully herself had had the odd drink during her pregnancy. She’d had four champagnes at Anna and Jake Silverstone’s wedding! (She’d always wondered if that was the reason for Locky’s slightly odd gait.) But still, reassuring. Unless Heather was an alcoholic? This was the problem with your father getting a girlfriend. There was so much you didn’t know. So much to worry about.
