The Younger Wife(33)

She glanced at Stephen’s side of the bed, sensing already that it was empty. He’d probably been up for hours. Meanwhile she was in bed, sleeping it off. What must he be thinking of her? She needed to find him, explain it was a one-off. That they’d had a lovely time and just let loose a little too much. She’d be sheepish and contrite. And, she hoped, he would forgive her.

She tried sitting up, but the room spun so fast she had to sink back into the bed. Her right elbow throbbed – what on earth had she done to it? There was no blood or graze, but she couldn’t even manage to straighten it. What had she done? Why couldn’t she remember?

She’d been at Rachel’s house yesterday, she knew that much. They’d had a lovely long lunch that had stretched on past dinnertime. She had a faint memory of someone arriving at Rachel’s on a scooter, which was folded and put neatly in the back of Heather’s Mini Cooper. The driver must have brought her here in her car, taken out his scooter and ridden away again. Heather recalled asking the driver to take her home, but she must have changed her mind en route. The details of this were a little fuzzy.

Heather stripped out of her clothes and stepped into a pair of Stephen’s sweatpants, which were comically too big. She then pulled one of his T-shirts over her head. They were as comforting as she’d hoped. She wiped off her make-up, cleaned her teeth and then tottered along the hallway and down the stairs, holding the walls for support. As she descended the stairs another memory eased into her consciousness, this one of arriving on Stephen’s doorstep unannounced. He’d been in bed when she rang the doorbell (after searching and failing to find her key), and when he answered the door he was a little cranky. Her heart constricted at the memory. She had to physically force herself into the living room to face him, when everything was telling her to run away and hide.

Stephen was in the armchair in his running gear with one ankle balanced on the opposite knee. He’d made himself a short black, which sat on the coffee table beside him and the newspaper was in his lap. He looked up as she entered.

He didn’t appear to look unhappy. Heather was used to doing this quick analysis of people’s moods. When she was little and she came out of her bedroom to find her parents awake, she had to assess them carefully. It could be a very good thing that they were up early, meaning they’d had an early night and were sober and calm. It also could be a very bad thing, meaning they’d just got in and were irritable and drunk.

‘I like your tracksuit,’ he said.

‘Sorry I . . . I couldn’t face putting actual clothes on.’

‘It looks good on you.’

She sat on the coffee table in front of him. ‘I disgraced myself last night, didn’t I?’

He hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘What would you say?’

He folded the newspaper and put it on the coffee table next to his cup. His eyes were kind. (Another thing Heather had learned growing up was to assess people’s eyes. Kind. Mean. Lecherous. They could change quickly, so you always had to keep an eye on the eyes.) ‘I’d say you had a bit too much to drink is all.’

‘And I did something to my elbow?’

He frowned. ‘You fell on the stairs. Surely you remember that?’

With that prompt, a vague memory started to come. She had – dear God – been trying to waltz around the lounge with him. He’d been less enthusiastic than she’d anticipated, refusing to turn on the music and insisting that she ‘shush’. Eventually she’d taken the hint and headed up the stairs. About halfway up she tumbled, landing hard on her elbow. Stephen had had to pick her up and put her to bed.

‘I’m so embarrassed.’

He scooted forward now and took her elbow between his hands. He manipulated it gently, perhaps feeling for injuries. ‘No need to be embarrassed.’

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘You tell me. It must have been some lunch!’

‘Actually, the lunch was wonderful. But I meant . . . why did I fall?’

Stephen shook his head. ‘I have no idea. One minute you were walking up the stairs, the next you were on the ground. You must have lost your footing somewhere.’

‘Oh.’

‘In any case, it doesn’t feel like anything’s broken, so no harm done. It’s likely just bruised, but I can take you in for an X-ray . . .’

‘No,’ she said quickly. The horror of having to get an X-ray for being drunk and falling up the stairs! ‘I’m sure it will be fine. As you say, just a bruise.’

‘I’ll put it in a sling for today. That’ll stop you putting pressure on it.’ He let go of her elbow and sat back in his chair. After a few contemplative seconds he said, ‘Heather, may I ask you a personal question?’

‘Of course,’ she said, thinking, No, you may not.

‘How is your relationship with alcohol?’

He’s starting to see me, she realised. He’s starting to see me.

‘I know that sounds loaded, but it’s a genuine question,’ he said. ‘I, for example, enjoy a drink with lunch or dinner. I consider myself a wine snob. I drink regularly but rarely more than one glass. As for you, a lot of the time you don’t drink. Some days you don’t intend to drink but then you change your mind. Last night, you were quite drunk. So . . . tell me.’