The Younger Wife(39)

And, as luck would have it, the groom had accepted delivery of the cake without noticing anything was amiss (despite having been present for three tastings), and when Rachel had emailed the bride the next morning to apologise for the mix-up, Emily had said the cake was delicious and there was no need for a discount. She also had had many requests from guests who wanted the same cake for their own wedding.

All in all, it was a spectacular save. And not only had Darcy come up with the idea and driven her to the supermarket, he had also stayed with her while she assembled, iced and decorated the cakes, making no mention of the fact that she didn’t seem unwell. When she told him he was welcome to go, he’d merely smiled and said, ‘Nowhere else to be.’ At one point, as she was adding the final layer of icing, she looked up and saw him watching her intently.

‘What?’ she said.

‘I’ve never seen an artist at work before,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty awesome.’

She waited for him to turn it into a joke. He didn’t. She wasn’t sure she believed him, and yet there was something about him standing there that made her feel a little taller.

When she was done, he took the cake to the wedding. He returned afterwards to let her know it had been successfully delivered.

‘I’m not sure how I can thank you,’ she said.

‘Go on a date with me,’ he replied, without missing a beat.

‘Unfortunately,’ she said, ‘I don’t date.’

‘You don’t date?’ His confused expression nearly made her laugh out loud. ‘You mean . . . not at all?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Are you religious?’

‘No.’

It was as if she’d told him she didn’t eat food, but feasted on the spines of lizards instead. ‘Then . . . why?’

‘I just . . . don’t.’

Darcy stared off into space for a minute, as if trying to get his head around this unexpected piece of information. It seemed to take him a while. And then, just when Rachel thought he was going to move on, he straightened. ‘If you don’t date, then why did you agree to go out with me?’

Rachel felt a pulse of shame. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘my sister agreed to the last date. She took my phone.’

‘Your sister?’ A beat of silence. ‘So you didn’t really want to go out with me?’

He looked so stricken, Rachel wondered if it was possible to die of shame.

‘Listen,’ she heard herself say, ‘as I said, I don’t date. But after what you’ve done for me today, I think I can make an exception.’

They’d agreed to have dinner tomorrow night. Just a casual dinner, in a public venue. She avoided asking herself what was the worst that could happen because, well, she didn’t want to go there.

Rather than agonise over it in advance, Rachel decided to focus on her mother.

It always took her a little time to get into the headspace to see her mother. It was just so hard to anticipate what would happen. She had to prepare for the possibility that her mum would be having a bad day. That Mum might not want to see her . . . or would be delighted to see her because she thought Rachel had come to take her home. Once, when Rachel visited, Mum had screamed at her to ‘get the fuck out of my room’. Each day was a fresh, new, heartbreaking challenge. And today, as well as dealing with that new challenge, she was hoping to get some information out of Mum.

She found her in the communal area of the home, flanked by two older ladies who appeared much more on the ball than Pam. One of the ladies held her mother’s hand. The sheer volume of emotion Rachel felt at witnessing this was overwhelming. Gratitude to the lady for her kindness. Sadness for Mum, who had never been particularly tactile, and generally didn’t like anyone to touch her other than her husband and daughters. But Rachel’s new mum didn’t seem to mind the hand-holding. This too made Rachel sad.

Rachel kneeled in front of her mother’s chair. ‘Hello,’ she said, holding back the word ‘Mum’. If it was a bad day, a day when she didn’t remember Rachel, that would just confuse her. But today she perked up a little.

‘Hello there,’ she said.

Rachel scanned her eyes. She definitely saw some lucidity.

‘Would you like to take a walk?’ Rachel asked.

‘Why not?’ Mum said, letting go of the older woman’s hand. Rachel smiled at the woman as she helped her mother to her feet.

‘Where to?’ Mum asked.

‘How about the garden?’

‘Sounds beaut,’ Mum said. ‘Lead the way.’

Rachel felt her heart lift. Beaut was one of Mum’s words. At her fiftieth, two of her friends, Elsa and Mary, had made up a song called ‘Beaut’ and performed it for the crowd while Mary’s husband accompanied them on the guitar. It had been a while since Rachel had heard her say it.

Rachel led Mum to the sensory garden, a lovely space where residents could explore all five senses, including eating the snow peas that grew there. She and Mum sat in the wrought-iron chairs at one end.

‘So,’ Mum said, ‘what’s news?’

This was Mum’s go-to conversation starter of late. Rachel assumed it helped to kick things off without her having to remember her shared history with visitors.

‘I’ve been going through some of your stuff, actually,’ Rachel said. ‘Stuff that you left at home. Dad . . . Stephen gave it to me.’