The Younger Wife, page 4
Tully put the car into reverse and backed out of her parking space. This morning she’d had a phone call from an old friend, Bec Saunders, asking how the lunch went. Tully had confided in Bec, which, in hindsight, hadn’t been the smartest move. Bec was a sympathetic ear who could be strikingly wise at times, but she was also, at her core, an insatiable gossip. She actually lit up when she heard an interesting tidbit, glowing as if she’d just had a facial at an expensive salon. When Tully had said, ‘I have to tell you something,’ she’d practically levitated! It was an annoying trait, as it made Tully want to share information with her, even though she knew she shouldn’t.
Anyway, Bec had been full of platitudes. ‘Well, do you know what Amber said when I told her? She said it was just not right that your dad is doing this, not while Pam is alive. Viv said the same. We’re all shocked by Stephen’s behaviour. It’s just so unlike him.’ And she laughed, a short, perfunctory laugh. Everyone would be laughing, Tully realised. Heather had made their family a laughing-stock.
No wonder she had turned to her old habit of stealing things for stress release.
Tully was eleven the first time she shoplifted. Mum was convalescing at home, having broken her wrist playing squash, and Tully and Rachel were delighting in playing nursemaid. When they realised they’d run out of bread, Tully had practically fallen over herself to be the one to run to the milk bar to get more. It wasn’t a long walk to the shops, less than five minutes each way, but she did have to cross a main road. She was about halfway there when she realised she hadn’t made this particular trip without Rachel before. Tully had been no stranger to anxiety, even then, and she felt it creeping from somewhere deep within, but she continued on. She just had to get the bread and return home; it wasn’t that hard.
The bell dinged as she entered the shop and the man behind the counter looked up from a little television set and then immediately looked back down.
Tully was feeling sick to her stomach by then. She made her way to the bread and selected a loaf, intending to get out of there as quickly as she could. Then a packet of Nerds, on the shelf beside the bread, caught her eye. She didn’t remember ever making the choice to take the Nerds. Probably because, for her, there was no choice to make. It felt like swimming to the surface for air after being held under water. Her body was doing what it needed to do. She was as powerless to stop it as the body that needed oxygen.
The stupid thing was, she had enough money to buy them. Mum wouldn’t have minded, especially if she shared them with Rachel. But she didn’t want to pay for them. She didn’t even want the Nerds. She wanted escape.
On the way home, Tully shoved the Nerds into her neighbour’s letterbox, too horrified to eat them and wanting to get rid of the evidence. She knew what she’d done was wrong. And yet, the peacefulness remained. She felt cushioned from herself. Buoyed. She’d found a way to escape from herself. But the sense of calm didn’t last long. By that evening she was lying in bed in the throes of a panic attack, waiting for the police to appear on the doorstep. But by the next morning, she knew she’d do it again. She had to. She had no choice.
At the boom gate, Tully glanced into the back seat again for a glimpse of the things she’d taken. There were too many to fit into her handbag; she was going to need to get creative. This was the problem with flexible working arrangements. COVID-19 had a lot to answer for, in Tully’s opinion. In the old days, Tully was free to bring home her goods during the day, knowing they could be safely hidden or disposed of by the time Sonny got home at 6 pm. Now, if he wasn’t in court, Sonny was often at home, which was highly inconvenient for someone with a habit like hers. She thought about the picnic blanket in the boot of the car. That would work. She’d pull over before she got home and cover everything up with it.
She just had to hope Sonny wasn’t in one of his helpful moods. Lately, it felt like every time she nosed her car into the driveway he appeared, ready to help her with the bags. She suspected he was keeping tabs on her, making sure she wasn’t spending any money they didn’t have. How she would love to tell him that he needn’t worry about that! But how could she? Sonny was the ultimate law-abiding citizen. He drove the speed limit, he refused to park in No Standing zones, he waited his turn in line and told people off for pushing in. One of the biggest fights of their marriage had been when Tully had lied on her travel insurance forms, saying she’d lost her sunglasses in Italy when she’d actually misplaced them months before, back home in Australia. Her responses of ‘everyone does it’ and ‘we can’t afford to replace them’ only seemed to infuriate him more. ‘Not everyone does it,’ he replied. ‘And we can afford to replace them.’
Except now they couldn’t, because their money was gone. Or, if not all of it, a sizable chunk. It still stunned her to think about it. Sonny had always been so good with money. Not only had he always made a stack of it, he also did wonderful-sounding things with it, like investing to offset their tax burden, self-managing their superannuation, and setting them up as ‘companies’ and ‘individual entities’ and other important things that she didn’t understand. So when he announced two weeks ago that there was a problem with one of their investments, she hadn’t understood that either.
‘Remember last year when I met with that financial adviser about reducing our tax burden?’ he said.
Tully didn’t. ‘Yes.’
‘Yeah, well, he told me about an investment – a solid, long-term investment that would deliver good returns and significantly reduce our tax liability . . .’ He trailed off.
‘And?’
‘And we lost our money.’
Tully started to get nervous. ‘What do you mean, “lost our money”? How much money are you talking about?’
He paused, which made Tully more nervous. ‘Two million.’
‘Two million dollars?’ She gaped at him. ‘Do we even have two million dollars?’
Sonny’s cheeks were pink. ‘I borrowed it. And the loan was secured against our house.’
‘You mean we’ll lose the house? We’ll be homeless?’
An image of the four of them in their car flashed into her mind. It was dark and they were in a deserted car park. She was tucking Miles and Locky into the back seat with blankets and pillows and singing them a lullaby while Sonny sat in the front, illuminated by the light of his laptop, typing furiously, trying to find a way to get them out of this mess. As horrific as the scene was, something about it felt vaguely romantic to her.
‘We won’t be homeless,’ Sonny said. ‘We’ll just have to rent for a while until we get back on our feet. And tighten our belts – no more spending.’
Tully thought of the bill from lunch yesterday. After Dad announced his engagement to Heather, Tully had slipped into an odd sort of mania and insisted on paying the bill. She’d expected her father to fight her, and he did a little, but she was adamant. Sonny would choke on his own saliva when he saw the credit card statement, but in her defence, she was still getting used to her new life as a pauper. And, in her very-recent old life, if she wanted to do something, she did it. She didn’t have to save up or shop around for a bargain. How privileged she’d been. She pictured herself in a sumptuous silk gown, dripping with jewels, her hair adorned with feathers and pearls. Let them eat cake!
She was going mad. Maybe she’d always been a bit mad?
She stopped at the traffic lights. The high from her retail therapy was starting to wear off. She felt so jittery that when her phone started ringing she screamed.
‘Oh,’ she said, when she realised where the sound was coming from. The phone. She accepted the call. ‘Tully Harris.’
‘Tully, it’s Rachel.’
That was a surprise. Rachel never called her. Rachel preferred text messages – short perfunctory statements with clear action items. Dad’s birthday. Might get wine from Laura’s vineyard on Saturday. Want to chip in? Or, Visited Mum today. Dad says she needs more underwear. Bonds cottontails, size 12, 4 pairs. Can you drop them off tomorrow? Why was she calling?
‘Hi, Rach,’ she said. ‘I’m just leaving Westfield.’
‘Bought anything good?’
Tully glanced at the back seat again. ‘Some running leggings. I thought I might start running. Hey, maybe we could go together sometime?’
Rachel used to love running. As a teen, she used to disappear for hours, running along the beach path, and would come back sweaty and resplendent. She used to say there was nothing that made her feel as good as running. But when she was about sixteen, she stopped abruptly and never ran again.
‘I’m not sure I could run to the end of the street right now, Tul,’ Rachel said. ‘But thanks. Anyway, how are you?’
How are you? How long had it been since someone asked her that? Tully would have been touched if she weren’t simultaneously worried that the question was directly related to an R U OK? day or something. Rachel was always so tapped into those sorts of days. So ‘woke’. And there was nothing wrong with being woke, obviously. But in this particular instance, the question would have meant more if not the result of wokeness.
‘I’m fine,’ Tully said cautiously. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘A girl can ask her sister how she is, can’t she?’
‘A girl can,’ Tully said. ‘But a girl usually doesn’t.’
‘Anyway, I just wanted to check in. There’s been a lot going on. Mum moving into the nursing home. Dad starting up with Heather. The engagement. The divorce.’
‘Did Dad ask you to check on me?’ Tully asked.
‘No.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know that I’m fine. Or I will be when I can get Miles sleeping in his own bed! I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks. Lately I’ve been wondering if I should pull him out of pre-school. He’s been so funny about going. He cries when I drop him off and cries when I pick him up. When I ask him why he says it’s because they make him “have fun”.’
‘Why don’t you pull him out?’ Rachel said. ‘Have another year with him at home. It’d save you some money. Not that you have to worry about that, I suppose.’
Tully hadn’t told Rachel about the money they’d lost yet. She’d started to, once or twice. She fantasised about Rachel putting the kettle on, producing something freshly baked, and telling her about something much worse that had happened to someone she knew, which would make Tully feel much better about it. And yet she hadn’t told her. If she were to admit that Sonny had lost their money, Rachel would think he was irresponsible or stupid. Smart, responsible people didn’t lose their money – that was the act of a cowboy, a salesman, a get-rich-quick kid, and perfect Tully didn’t marry men like that.
‘Yesterday was a weird day, wasn’t it?’ Rachel said, as Tully turned onto her street. It was a beautiful street. Sunny and tree-lined, it was often visited by camera crews in spring to get footage of the blossoms for their ‘Spring has Sprung’ news segments. Tully supposed she should feel grateful that she’d been able to live here for a little while. Instead, she felt like crying.
‘Heather seemed more like one of our friends than one of Dad’s,’ Rachel said.
‘She didn’t seem like one of my friends,’ Tully said immediately. But, again, it wasn’t true. In different circumstances, Tully would have been utterly enamoured of Heather, with her trench coat, pretty hair and understated style. She probably would have invited her over for tea already.
‘I meant age-wise,’ Rachel clarified.
‘Oh,’ Tully said, pressing the button to open the gate. ‘Age-wise, yes.’
The garage door was open, and the sight of Sonny’s car reminded Tully that she’d forgotten to cover up the stuff in the back seat. She saw him notice her through the window of the front room and rise from his chair. Tully put the car into park.
‘Anyway,’ Rachel was saying, ‘I guess I felt a little weird after yesterday, so I thought you might too. The idea of Dad divorcing Mum? It’s . . . a lot.’
There was something different about Rachel’s voice. It was softer. More . . . vulnerable. It occurred to Tully that maybe Rachel was the one who needed to be asked if she was okay. Tully was about to, but before she could get the words out, Sonny opened the front door.
Tully felt her heart rate rise. She needed to get the stuff out of her car before Sonny saw it. The heady feeling she’d had at the shopping centre was long gone, and she just felt breathless, strung out and a little sweaty. That was the thing about addiction. The high got shorter and shorter.
‘Rach, do you mind if I call you back? I’ve just got home.’
Sonny trotted down the front steps.
‘Oh, you don’t need to,’ Rachel said. ‘I was just checking in.’
‘I’d like to, though. It would be nice to –’
Sonny yanked open the passenger door. His face was like thunder. And he hadn’t even seen what was in the back seat. This was going be bad.
‘Why is there a six-hundred-dollar charge on the credit card, Tully?’
5
RACHEL
Rachel stood in the kitchen in front of three enormous chocolate mud cakes. They were for a wedding cake for Peter and Emily, a couple who were so particular about their cake that they came for three tastings last month, along with the entire bridal party and both sets of parents. Rachel wasn’t prone to stress, but she’d had the odd anxiety dream about this cake. She’d started making the sugar flowers five days before. They were made petal by petal and took hours. Last night, she’d dreamed that she’d accidentally lain in a bed of sugar flowers and ground each one into dust. Bizarrely, Heather and Dad had also been in that dream. And why not? They’d been in her every waking thought ever since their lunch.
She threw a couple of chocolate buttons into her mouth, and then realised the packet was finished – the second packet she’d finished this morning. This morning when she got dressed, her underwear had felt tight. Her underwear! Rachel was not the sort who weighed herself, or worried about weight gain, but she’d noticed her weight creeping up lately. Her thighs, her breasts . . . even her face was rounder. She attributed the stress-eating to everything that had been going on in the family. Everyone had their coping mechanisms. This was hers. Better than drugs, she told herself! Or was it? She had to admit, in a lot of ways, it was exactly the same as drugs. A way to obliterate. A way to hide.
When she’d called Tully yesterday, she’d wanted to unpack the lunch with Heather. It had been a gamble, obviously. Tully was rarely a good person to unpack things with, at least metaphorically speaking. Literally, she was a fantastic person to unpack with. She had helped Rachel move last year and the entire house had been unpacked in twelve hours, efficiently, with a clear system. But when it came to mentally unpacking things, it was trickier. Tully tended to become caught up in emotion and Rachel preferred to remain clear-headed and practical. Still, Rachel had to try. After all, no one in the world understood what she was going through as well as Tully did.
But as soon as Tully answered the phone, Rachel regretted calling. For one thing, Tully was in the car and she was always mildly hysterical in the car. Sure enough, she’d immediately started rattling on about the boys and running and then, just as Rachel thought they were getting to the heart of things, she hung up. So that, she supposed, was that.
What else could she do other than bake her feelings?
Once upon a time, Rachel had run her feelings, but baking had taken over when she was sixteen and she’d never looked back. It was amazing how she could suddenly breathe when surrounded by butter, sugar and eggs. The methodical nature of baking provided an equilibrium of sorts, an opportunity to process her feelings. And lately, she’d had a lot of feelings. About Mum, who’d already slipped away. About her nutty sister. About Dad, who was starting a new life in his sixties. About Heather, who was a frustrating blend of perfectly nice and ordinary; nothing about her to hate, nothing to love. The most difficult type of person to withstand, really.
On the table, already cooled and iced and boxed, was a gender-reveal cake, ready to go off to a baby shower. Her new delivery girl – Darcy – was supposed to be here five minutes ago to collect it. Not a good start to a new job, Darcy, Rachel warned her mentally. She’d hired the girl from a long-term unemployed list at an agency, thinking she was doing a good deed, but now she worried that had been a mistake. Maybe there was a reason Darcy had been unemployed for so long?
While she waited, Rachel perused the pile of bizarre goods on the dining table – souvenirs from Mum’s shoplifting period that Rachel had told Dad she would return. Mum’s shoplifting period. How ridiculous that sounded. Mum, who’d once driven forty-five minutes back to a service station when they were on a road trip and she realised they’d driven off without paying for their soft drinks. Now she was a shoplifter? Dad had been so grateful when Rachel offered to take care of it, and Rachel had to admit she enjoyed the gratitude. It reminded her of a time when she was twelve or thirteen and she’d accompanied him to David Jones to help him choose a birthday present for Mum. He’d looked so panicked as the sales assistant showed him fragrances and hand creams that Rachel had stepped in. To this day, she basked in his gratitude.
Among the pile of pilfered goods she found a hot-water bottle. It was the only item from the pile that Rachel could actually imagine her mother using. Mum loved hot-water bottles. Nana, Mum’s mother, had made her one every night when she was a little girl and Mum was always nostalgic about that. When Rachel and Tully were little she’d often put a hot-water bottle into their beds ‘to warm their bones’. This hot-water bottle was pink, and inside its own cream knitted cosy. Rachel decided she might use it to warm her bones now. It would be nice to make sugar flowers with toasty feet. She flicked on the kettle at the same time as the doorbell rang.
