The Younger Wife(43)

Now, having completed the survey, they lay on his bed together – their bed – flicking through wedding magazines. Heather’s head was in Stephen’s lap. It was the first time since Heather had moved in that they’d done this, and there was something peaceful about it. She felt like the type of person she saw in the wedding magazines. Not beautiful; she didn’t mean that. But . . . enviable. Legitimate. Not like a girl playing the part of a bride.

‘I’m happy,’ she said out loud. ‘I’m so, so happy.’

Stephen shifted so he could see her face. Then he smiled. ‘Me too,’ he said.

They gazed at each other, caught in a blissful, loved-up bubble. Suddenly Heather caught sight of the clock on the bedside table. ‘Ooh, it’s getting late!’ she said, rolling off the bed. ‘I need to decide what to wear.’

She walked over to the walk-in wardrobe she’d designed – the one that was larger than her bedroom in her previous home. They were having dinner with Mary and Michael, who were old friends of Stephen. Michael and Stephen had gone to medical school together and Mary had been a good friend of Pam. There was going to be another couple there too, also friends of Stephen and Pam. It was the first time they’d done this, and Heather was incredibly nervous.

‘How about a fashion show?’ Stephen said.

‘All right,’ Heather said, reaching for her navy dress. It was silk, with a low V neckline and voluminous blouson sleeves – probably the nicest dress she owned and definitely the most expensive. It was on the short side, but she planned to pair it with T-bar sandals to give it a casual vibe. She knew Stephen liked this dress, because the last time she’d worn it he’d spent most of the night commenting on how well it fit her and how beautiful she looked.

‘Remind me of everyone’s names and what they do,’ she called to him as she stepped into the dress. ‘I want to make a good impression.’

Stephen just laughed. ‘You’ll make a good impression whether you remember their names or not.’

Heather pulled the dress up and zipped herself into it. Then she stepped into the sandals, which were a good choice. Yes, she thought. This is the one.

‘Come on,’ Stephen called. ‘Don’t make a man wait!’

Heather walked into the bedroom and did a self-conscious twirl.

Stephen whistled. ‘I remember that dress. From our first date, right?’

‘You remembered,’ she said, mock touched.

‘How could I forget?’ He winked, and Heather had a memory of his hands sliding up the skirt then, later, fumbling with the invisible zip. Heather had been terrified that he was going to rip it.

‘I take it from your expression that you approve?’

‘I definitely approve,’ he said, and then he winced slightly. ‘Although . . .’

‘Although?’ she repeated. She definitely didn’t want any ‘although’s’.

‘Although,’ he said, ‘would it be strange if I asked you to wear something else?’

Heather blinked. ‘Why?’

‘It’s just . . . I have my own memories attached to that dress. Don’t get me wrong – I love it. I love it so much I don’t want to share it with anyone.’

‘That’s sweet,’ she said. But she was disappointed. She loved that navy dress. She felt good in it. ‘In that case, what should I wear?’

Stephen thought for a moment. ‘What about that black pantsuit with the double-breasted jacket? You know the one I mean.’

Heather did know the one. She regularly wore it to work. It was a nice, well-cut suit. A designer label. But an odd choice for dinner.

She looked at him for a sign that he was pulling her leg, and found none. He was completely earnest. As if she’d be doing him the most enormous favour by putting on the pantsuit. And what else could she say to that but . . . ‘The pantsuit it is.’

Stephen rewarded her with an approving smile.





24


TULLY


One of the cruellest things about moving house is that, in the days leading up to selling, your house will never look better. It was certainly the case with Tully’s house. Since meeting with the agent, they’d repainted the interior, laid new carpet, power-cleaned the pool and outdoor area, and there were still tradesmen coming and going. They’d also had a visit from a home stylist – a thin blonde woman who’d ordered them to remove two-thirds of the contents of their home so she could replace it with lovely pieces of artwork and ‘statement’ furniture. A lot of the stuff they removed belonged to the boys, and Tully had made the catastrophic mistake of having the removalists come while they were at home.

‘Not my trike!’ Locky had cried, as the removalists carried away the tricycle he hadn’t used in years. ‘Wait, that’s my favourite toy!’ he’d said about the bath toy he’d never opened and which had sat in the gift cupboard ever since.

Tully had stuck to her guns and removed all items and then bought the boys ice cream to console them. Healthy food, she realised, really was a privilege of the wealthy. When you had less help, more to do and less money to spend, junk food was really all you had to appease tired, angry children.

They’d also brought in a garden stylist – a bohemian-looking man named Bodhi who placed ornamental rocks, garden benches and bonsai plants around the property. Tully had been appalled at the price of it (and, frankly, at the idea of a garden stylist), but she had to admit, the garden looked bloody gorgeous.