The Younger Wife(25)

‘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.