The Younger Wife, page 8
‘Of course,’ she replied.
The door cracked open. ‘I like coming home to find you in my shower.’
‘I like that you like it.’ She heard him drop his keys on the vanity. ‘How was your day?’
Through the glass she saw him prop himself up on the bathroom counter. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I started divorce proceedings with Pam, so good and bad. How was your day?’
Heather turned off the shower and wrapped a plush towel around herself. ‘Oh.’
‘It’s fine. Nothing for you to worry about.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Totally sure. How was your day? Did you arrange that lunch with Rachel and Tully?’
‘Oh,’ Heather said again. ‘Not yet.’
‘My guess is that you’ll be hearing from Rachel very soon.’ He said it at the very same moment that Heather’s phone began to ring. She glanced at the screen. It was Rachel.
She held it up to show Stephen, amazed. ‘Told you,’ he said. ‘I know things.’ He gestured for her to answer it.
‘Rachel,’ Heather said.
‘Heather! I hope this isn’t a bad time? I just wanted to follow up about lunch. I was thinking I could host at my place, if that works for you.’
She lifted her gaze to gape at Stephen. ‘That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘And . . . Tully will be there too?’
‘Of course,’ Rachel said, after a slight pause. ‘Tully wouldn’t miss it.’
When Heather hung up the phone, Stephen looked positively triumphant.
She shook her head. ‘How did you know?’
He tapped his temple, still smiling, but with a slightly different look in his eyes now. Then he opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out the whisky bottle.
‘Told you,’ he said. ‘I know things.’
11
TULLY
As Tully sat on one of Rachel’s counter stools with a glass of wine in hand, she felt herself relax for the first time in weeks. Part of it was the wine. The other part of it was Rachel. As silly as it sounded, she was touched that Rachel had invited her to lunch. Generally, they caught up as a family – or they had before Mum went into the nursing home – for birthdays and Christmas, or to shop for a gift for Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. And there were the other odd things – like their cousin Caitlin’s hens’ party or the time they got tickets to see Frozen, the musical. But intimate one-on-one meet-ups at Rachel’s house weren’t something they’d ever done before, and Tully was excited.
Rachel lived in an unappealing blonde-brick unit on the hip north side of Melbourne. It should have been ugly as sin, and yet somehow she’d managed to make it charming, the kind of place people wanted to hang out. Even her tiny courtyard was lovely, decorated with fairy lights and hanging plant pots. She also had a gift for entertaining – being able to produce a good bottle of wine, spectacular lasagne and a salad with absolutely no notice, and without any apparent effort. Any time you went to Rachel’s, your glass was full, your plate was warm, and conversation flowed all night. It was a vibe Tully had been unable to re-create, even when paying caterers.
Today, as Tully sipped her wine, Rachel stood on the other side of the counter, piping intricate flowers onto a wedding cake that she’d been making for days.
‘That one isn’t straight,’ Tully said helpfully. At least she hoped it was helpful. If it was her cake, she would definitely want to know. And Rachel, to her credit, didn’t seem bothered; she merely examined the crooked flower, said, ‘You’re right,’ and straightened it.
Rachel had called the day before to invite her to lunch. Tully had been in the middle of hiding a pile of recently acquired goods in the garage and she’d been about to ignore the phone when she got a case of the What Ifs.
What if it was Dad? He was their only living functioning parent – what if he’d had a heart attack? What if he was lying on a table in an emergency room somewhere, taking his last breaths, thinking, I’d love to see my daughter Tully one more time before I go, and she didn’t answer the call?
What if it was Mum? Before she’d moved into the nursing home they’d received several worrying phone calls about her. The one from the supermarket cashier who’d found her wandering around the car park when she couldn’t remember which car was hers. The one from the cleaning lady when Mum had gone ballistic at her for ‘breaking into her home’. They’d had fewer worrying phone calls since Mum moved into the nursing home, but Tully knew enough about Alzheimer’s to know that more worrying phone calls would be coming.
What if it was bad news about Rachel herself?
Why were there always so many bloody what-ifs?
As it turned out, it wasn’t bad news at all. Quite the opposite.
‘Can you strain the potatoes for me?’ Rachel asked, placing a sugar flower just so on the side of the cake.
Tully leaped up. It was a rare moment when she was able to help Rachel and she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. The funny thing was, if a guest of Tully’s ever tried to strain the potatoes, she would have been mortified. If Tully was having guests over, even if it was just Rachel, the potatoes would have been strained hours ago, the pots would have been washed and put away, and the place would be devoid of all evidence of life, allowing her to devote her entire attention to her guests for the duration of their visit. It was good manners, she thought. But now, straining potatoes for Rachel while her sister decorated her cake, Tully had to admit that Rachel’s lack of attention on her wasn’t harming her experience in the least. On the contrary, Tully felt charmed at being authorised to assist in the lunch-making while watching Rachel do something as special as icing a wedding cake. She felt more special, more privileged, than if she’d been given Rachel’s undivided attention.
She placed the strainer in the sink and tipped the potatoes in.
‘Hey, Tul,’ Rachel said, still focused on the cake, ‘did Mum ever say anything to you about money?’
The steam from the potatoes rose up from the sink. ‘What do you mean?’ Tully said. ‘What about money?’
‘I don’t know. I just wondered if she might have put any aside for’ – Rachel shrugged – ‘emergencies or something.’
‘Why?’ Tully looked at her. ‘Do you need money?’
‘No, no.’
‘Because if you do, all you need to do is ask, and Sonny and I will . . . it wouldn’t even have to be a loan.’
The offer rolled off her tongue so fast she couldn’t stop it. This was, after all, how they’d been raised. Don’t be mean with money. Always pay more than your share. Money isn’t something to hoard; it is to be shared and enjoyed. If someone you loved needed it, you gave it, no questions asked. Tully had always thought of herself as generous for that reason. Now she saw it for what it was. A privilege. Giving money was an easy way to support someone. A lot of people didn’t have that ability. Now, neither did Tully. Funnily enough, the ability to be generous was one of the things she would miss the most.
‘Thanks, but I don’t need money,’ Rachel said. ‘I was just thinking about how Mum always told us we should be more independent than she was financially, and I wondered if she had ever put anything away for us.’
Tully tipped the potatoes into the serving bowl that Rachel had left out. ‘Like in a trust or something?’
‘Yes,’ Rachel said. ‘Or something.’
Tully felt a surge of hope. If Mum had put money in a trust for them, she and Sonny could be saved! They wouldn’t have to sell the house. They wouldn’t have to endure any humiliation at all. Depending on the amount, she supposed. But every little bit helped. ‘Well, Dad would know if she’d put any away for us,’ she said eagerly. ‘Why don’t we ask him?’
‘Oh,’ Rachel said. ‘No, I’m sure he would have told us.’
Tully deflated. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, he probably would.’ She took a long sip of wine.
‘But you don’t need money, right?’ Rachel said after a moment. ‘You and Sonny, you’re . . . pretty comfortable?’ She paused in her icing and looked at her sister.
This was, Tully knew, the opportunity she’d been waiting for. She could tell Rachel about Sonny losing their money. About them selling the house. Maybe she could even tell her about her . . . habit? The shame of it would be immense, but there would be relief in it too. And Rachel wouldn’t judge her. She might not be able to help her, but at least she’d send her home with a frozen meal and an offer to babysit the boys. (Tully would take her up on that offer too, as Rachel was one of the few people Miles was happy to be left with.) Yes, she decided. She was going to tell Rachel.
But just as she opened her mouth to begin, the doorbell rang.
‘Oh,’ Tully said, irritated. ‘Who is that?’
She expected to see her confusion and exasperation reflected in her sister’s face. Instead, Rachel looked wary. ‘I invited someone else,’ she said, putting down her piping bag. ‘To lunch.’
‘Who?’ Tully asked. But her body was already tense. This happened to Tully when something caught her off guard: her body reacted. Tully liked to think that she would have been excellent in the caveman days, when your fight-or-flight response was critical to your survival.
‘Heather,’ Rachel said. Her face was scrunched up as if expecting a punch.
Admittedly, Tully did think about it.
‘Heather? Heather Heather? Dad’s Heather?’
Now her flight instinct was in full swing. She was already reaching for her handbag and looking at the door in panic.
The doorbell rang again.
‘I know I should’ve told you but . . .’ Rachel started but her words disappeared into the ether because, all at once, the fight instinct had caught up. Tully had been so delighted when Rachel invited her to lunch. She’d been touched! She’d thought Rachel wanted to spend some quality time with her. Instead, it turned out she’d been lured here.
‘Why on earth would you invite Heather here?’
‘Dad thought lunch would be nice opportunity to bond.’
‘Which is why we had the last lunch with her!’
‘Listen,’ Rachel said, ‘I should have told you sooner, and I’m sorry. But I promised Dad that I would get you to come and I wasn’t sure you if you would if I told you the truth.’
‘I’m insulted,’ Tully said, even though she was certain that Rachel was right.
‘Let’s just be nice,’ Rachel said as she left the kitchen to answer the door.
‘I’m always nice,’ Tully muttered, following her. ‘Nicer, in fact, to people I don’t like.’
Rachel opened the door. Heather was dressed in a black flowing dress, sandals, and large tortoiseshell sunglasses. She carried a bottle of wine and a small posy of pink peonies. She really was the picture of understated elegance. It was magnificently irritating.
‘Heather, hello!’ Tully cried from behind Rachel. Her voice sounded high-pitched and strange. For goodness sake – what was the matter with her?
‘Hi, Heather,’ Rachel said, in a normal-sounding voice. ‘Come on in. Shall I put this on ice? We already have a bottle of chardonnay open.’
Heather handed over her bottle and came inside. Almost immediately the doorbell rang again.
‘Invited someone else?’ Tully said to Rachel.
She gave Tully a beseeching look. ‘It’s my delivery person,’ she said, picking up a white cardboard box. She disappeared, leaving Tully and Heather alone in the tiny kitchen. Tully pretended to busy herself moving the potatoes around in the bowl, but the silence was thick. It made it easy to hear the conversation happening at the door.
‘So,’ a deep voice said, ‘what have you got for me today?’
Tully and Heather’s eyes met. There was something . . . sexy . . . about the voice.
‘Cream buns,’ Rachel said. ‘For an office farewell.’
‘I like cream buns and I cannot lie.’ There was a short pause. The owner of the sexy voice must have opened the box to take a look, because a moment later Tully heard a deep inhalation, followed by: ‘I swear, this is what Heaven smells like.’
Tully pictured her sister. She would be struggling with this scenario. On the one hand, she’d want to be giving the man with the sexy voice the cold shoulder, which was what she always did to men. On the other hand, he’d just complimented her baking, which was Rachel’s actual kryptonite.
The pause dragged on for a couple of seconds. A moment later, Rachel re-entered the kitchen. She grabbed a bun from the cooling rack, piped cream into the centre and popped it into a foil cupcake case. She dusted it faintly with icing sugar and slipped it into a cellophane bag. Then she returned to the door.
Tully resumed her eavesdropping position.
‘For me?’
The voice sounded genuinely thrilled. The cellophane bag rustled and then . . . a distinct, masculine moan of pleasure. Tully couldn’t help it; she had to get a look at him. She figured she’d think of an excuse by the time she got there, but unfortunately, the moment she laid eyes on him, all excuses – and words – deserted her. He was even better-looking than his voice had suggested. Dark hair and piercing green eyes and a nose to rival Elvis Presley.
‘This is my sister,’ Rachel said.
The man waved, swallowing the last of the bun. ‘Hello, sister.’
‘This is Darcy,’ Rachel said to Tully.
Tully continued to stare at him unselfconsciously, as Darcy’s attention was fixed solely on Rachel. Over the years, Tully had seen a lot of men look at Rachel like this, as if she were a rare and precious treasure. The difference this time was that Rachel was staring back.
‘What do you call a stereo made of cake?’ he asked.
Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘Just take the –’
‘A gateaux blaster!’
He laughed heartily at his own joke, which was oddly endearing. Tully supposed you could do things like that if you looked like Darcy. Tully snuck a look at Rachel, and saw she was fighting a smile.
Tully started to feel like she was intruding.
‘Right then,’ Rachel said. ‘Better get those buns moving.’
Darcy grinned delightedly. ‘Good one!’
As Rachel closed the door, the tiny smile crept back onto her face.
Tully stared at her.
‘What?’ Rachel said.
‘Better get those buns moving?’
Rachel scoffed, pushing past her and walking into the kitchen. ‘It was a silly joke.’
Tully followed her. ‘You were flirting with him!’
‘I wasn’t! I was just . . . making conversation. Sorry about that, Heather.’
‘No problem,’ Heather said.
‘That’s not how I make conversation with delivery people,’ Tully muttered.
Rachel opened the fridge and retrieved the open wine bottle. She filled her glass nice and high. ‘Heather, help me out, would you? Was I making conversation or was I flirting?’
Tully and Rachel looked at her. Heather looked like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights.
‘I’d say,’ Heather ventured bravely, ‘that you were making conversation. Slightly flirtatious conversation.’
Tully looked at Rachel triumphantly. Maybe Heather wasn’t so bad after all.
12
RACHEL
Rachel stood with her back to Heather and Tully and her head in the pantry, pretending to survey the spices. There were two French madeleines in there that she’d made yesterday, and she picked up one and shoved it in her mouth. She’d worn her black wraparound dress, so she could loosen it, if need be. The way things were going with this lunch, she suspected she’d need to.
‘He was definitely flirting,’ Tully was saying, from where she sat in the dining area. She was utterly delighted, stretched out and looking more relaxed than Rachel had seen her in months. Probably because she was already on her second glass of chardonnay. Heather was on her third. Meanwhile, Rachel hadn’t even managed to have a sip of her first. Her mouth was full so she turned around, rolled her eyes, and turned back again.
‘Where on earth did you find him?’
Rachel swallowed. ‘Long-term unemployed list. It was a government program.’
‘Wow,’ Tully said, mystified. ‘Who wouldn’t want to employ him?’
‘Maybe he’s unreliable,’ Rachel said. ‘Or forgetful. Or lazy. He was late the first time he showed up for a delivery.’
‘Who cares?’ Tully cried. ‘Do I need to remind you what he looks like? Sometimes I wonder if you actually have red blood running through your veins, Rachel, I really do.’
Rachel picked up the other madeleine and stuffed it in her mouth, saving herself from having to answer. The truth was, Darcy’s visit had rattled her a little. It was hard to put her finger on what it was about him. Probably it was the dumb jokes or the fact he complimented her food. She enjoyed dumb jokes and people complimenting her food. But she was wary of him too. He’d been unemployed for over a year before working for her, which was a long time for an able-bodied, charismatic young man like Darcy. There had to be a story there.
‘Rachel doesn’t date men,’ Tully explained to Heather, as if they were suddenly best friends. ‘Or women. When we were younger, she did. She was the rebel child, always wanting to go out at night, always hanging out with boys in places she shouldn’t. Every boy at school was in love with Rachel. It was her hair. She had this long, shiny hair . . . A boyfriend of mine once told me he had a dream about Rachel’s hair and I had to break up with him. Do you remember that, Rach?’
‘Aaron Henderson,’ Rachel said without looking up. ‘He was a giant tosser.’
‘Colossal tosser,’ Tully agreed, before turning back to Heather. ‘Anyway, one day when she was sixteen or seventeen, she shaved it all off. I’ll never forget coming home from school, and there was Rachel, sitting up at the kitchen counter, bald.’
‘I wasn’t bald,’ Rachel corrected. ‘It was a pixie cut.’
‘Mum made her grow it back, but she never wears her hair out anymore. You really should, Rach. You have the best hair. It’s your crowning glory.’
