The Younger Wife(11)

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.