The Younger Wife(4)

‘Fat,’ Rachel had said to her, when Tully had used the word ‘voluptuous’ to describe her. ‘You don’t have to whisper it or use some euphemism like “generous” or “plus-sized” or “Botticelli-like”. “Fat” doesn’t mean disgusting, slothful, or lazy ... that’s just the meaning society attaches to it.’

Tully had been mortified. She didn’t think Rachel was disgusting or lazy or slothful. She thought Rachel was beautiful. She merely couldn’t use the word ‘fat’ at full volume. It felt wrong somehow. Like being asked to say ‘fuck’ in church. That, she suspected, was Rachel’s point though, and, she had to admit, it was a good one. Why couldn’t she say the word?

‘Stephen has shown me about a million photos of Miles and Locky,’ Heather was saying. ‘I know people say all kids are cute, but I have to say, they are particularly adorable.’

‘They are, aren’t they?’ Tully said, her ears pricking up at the sound of her sons’ names. It was a smart move on Heather’s part; only a serial killer could fail to warm to someone who called their children adorable. Tully found herself reaching for her phone and pulling up a photo she’d snapped of them that morning, eating Weet-Bix at the kitchen counter, a pair of beaming, blue-eyed angels. A second later Locky dumped his bowl of cereal over Miles’s head, and Miles lost his mind because the texture made him feel like he had slugs in his hair, and slugs were on Miles’s most recent list of phobias.

Heather took the phone and gushed appreciatively. ‘They’re two and five?’

‘Nearly three and five,’ Tully said. There was supposed to be a birthday party coming up, but given that parties had also appeared on Miles’s list of phobias, it was anyone’s guess whether that would happen.

‘So, Heather, why don’t you tell me about yourself?’ Tully said, when conversation about the boys dried up. She pasted on a smile which faded when Dad gave her an odd look. Sometimes, when she wasn’t concentrating, Tully had been known to smile a bit too hard. Apparently everyone didn’t have Heather’s skill for smiling just the right amount.

‘Well,’ Heather said, ‘I’m sure Stephen told you I’m an interior designer.’

Stephen had. In fact, Heather had been the one responsible for the redesign of Mum and Dad’s house. Tully didn’t know all the details about how Heather had progressed from employee to girlfriend, but it wasn’t difficult to piece together. Clearly Heather arrived at Mum and Dad’s very nice, very expensive house, took one look at Mum and saw an opening. Yes, Dad was old, but he was wealthy and a doctor. All you needed was a daddy issue or two and Stephen was a lamb to the slaughter.

‘I’m also a keen gardener,’ Heather continued, reaching for her water glass.

Her teeth belonged in a movie-star’s mouth, Tully noticed. Almost certainly veneers. Tully glanced at Dad’s teeth. Not movie-star teeth, but surprisingly white. It prompted a recollection of a tooth-whitening kit Tully had spotted in his bathroom last time she’d visited. She’d meant to ask him about it, but she’d been distracted when she noticed his grout desperately needed a clean. She’d ended up giving him a rundown of the best grout cleaners to use and then just cleaning it herself to make sure it was done properly. As a result, she’d forgotten all about the whitening kit. Until now.

‘I also love yoga. I’m a bit of an addict, if I’m honest.’

Yoga. Gardening. Interior design. It was as if she’d just plucked her profession and hobbies out of a how-to-be-dull catalogue.

‘Wow,’ Tully said, monotone. ‘Amazing.’

‘I’ve also taken an interest in cooking recently,’ Heather added, giving Dad a playful smile.

‘Her speciality is charcoal chicken,’ Dad said, giving her an affectionate nudge.

Heather giggled. ‘I’m getting better!’

The strangeness of this flirtation sent a mild electric shock through Tully. It dawned on her almost anew that Dad was . . . dating this child. Probably having sex with her! As soon as the thought entered her head, Tully tried to quash it, but it was too late, it was spiralling. Dad. Heather. Sex. Tully closed her eyes, but that only made it worse. Her gag reflex triggered and she pushed back her chair and bent forward at the waist.

‘Natalie!’ Dad sounded alarmed. ‘Are you all right?’

Tully judged it to be a rhetorical question, since it must have been obvious to anyone that she was not all right. Her eyes were closed and her forehead rested on her knees. She inhaled deeply, trying to force oxygen in, and the images of Dad and Heather out. Unsuccessful on both counts. With her head between her knees, Tully opened her eyes. Heather’s bag was under the table, unzipped and open. Her purse sat right at the top.

‘Tully?’ Dad pleaded.

Tully’s hands acted on autopilot, from muscle memory, from instinct – like a baby dancing to music. One minute the wallet was on top of Heather’s bag; the next, it was deep inside Tully’s. By the time Tully sat up again, the air was already returning to her lungs. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Dad and Heather. ‘I’m fine.’





2


RACHEL


As soon as Rachel hurried through the doorway of the restaurant, she saw that there were bigger problems at play than the fact that she was late. For one thing, Tully’s head was between her knees (dramatic, but not altogether unusual for Tully, especially at a lunch of this magnitude). For another, there was not a morsel of food on the table yet, not even a bread roll! Rachel was entertaining the idea of skipping out of there and claiming car trouble when Tully sat up, and Dad noticed Rachel in the entrance.