The Younger Wife(13)
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.
About time, Darcy.
She abandoned the hot-water bottle, grabbing the gender-reveal cake instead. Darcy was ten minutes late. She’d make a comment, she decided. Just something small to let her know that tardiness wasn’t appreciated. She was a friendly, forgiving boss but it was important to set expectations and boundaries from the beginning. But when Rachel opened the door, instead of Darcy, she found a man standing on her doorstep.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Rachel closed the door slightly, placing herself in the crack. ‘Sorry, I was expecting someone else.’
The man looked surprised. ‘Who?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
It had to be said, the man on the doorstep was gorgeous. He was tall and lean, with a sweep of dark brown hair across his forehead. His eyes were green with a hint of mischief about them. ‘Who were you expecting?’
‘Why don’t you tell me who you are, and we’ll go from there,’ Rachel said coolly.
‘I’m Darcy.’
‘You’re Darcy?’
He frowned. ‘You’re Rachel, right? You were expecting me?’
She definitely wasn’t expecting him. ‘You’re my new delivery person?’
He lifted his hands demonstrably. ‘It’s crumby work . . . but I need the dough.’
Rachel stared at him.
‘Sorry’ he said. ‘Couldn’t think of a batter joke.’
Rachel felt entirely discombobulated. She cursed herself for assuming Darcy was a girl. After all, now she thought of it, Darcy was a gender-neutral name. But the fact was, if she’d known he was a man – well, she wouldn’t have hired him. She was sexist, she realised. Who knew?
‘All right then,’ Rachel said finally; since he was here, he might as well deliver this cake. She let go of the door and held out the cake. ‘It’s for a gender reveal. The address is on the side of the box.’