The Younger Wife(48)

‘You know,’ Darcy said as they walked home, ‘that was the best date I’ve ever been on.’

Rachel laughed. ‘Me too.’

‘Really?’ He looked so delighted she decided not to remind him it was her first date.

‘Really.’

They arrived at Rachel’s house and, without discussion, went inside. Rachel located a bottle of red and some cheese, and by the time she’d returned to the living room, Darcy had moved a throw rug from the couch onto the floor.

‘Night picnic?’ he said.

‘We definitely need more food,’ she replied, deadpan. ‘I don’t think we ate enough at dinner.’

It all felt so natural and normal. For the first time, instead of resisting, Rachel went with it. She poured them each a glass of wine, then arranged some cheese and quince paste on a cracker for Darcy. She enjoyed having something to focus on, something to keep her hands busy.

‘Maybe you could go into business arranging night picnics?’ Rachel suggested. ‘If you want to start a new business.’

‘So you like it, do you?’ he said, looking pleased. ‘Good. I’m glad.’

He put his glass on the coffee table, and smiled at her. It was a different smile from his usual, mischievous one. It sent a tingle up Rachel’s spine. The kind of tingle she used to feel around men all those years ago, before that day at the beach. A good tingle.

And yet . . .

‘Should I take this?’ he asked, gesturing towards her glass.

Rachel let him take the glass from her and put it alongside his on the coffee table. Then he looked back at her. Paused for a beat.

He was mere inches away. She could smell his aftershave, see the little pinpricks of stubble on his jaw. He lifted her chin. It was like she was outside of herself, watching it happen to someone else. He was only millimetres from her face when she pulled away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pulling away. ‘I can’t.’





28


HEATHER


Stephen was silent as he drove home from Mary and Michael’s. Heather tried to talk to him a couple of times but was greeted with only one-word answers. And when she tried to put her hand on his, he gently moved his away. The tension took Heather back to a night when she was about eight, and she’d been with her parents at a New Year’s Eve party. There had been two other children there: a twelve-year-old boy who’d taken cigarettes from his mum’s pocket and then taken Heather behind the shed so she could watch him smoke them; and a three-year-old girl, who Heather had played with like a baby doll until she’d finally fallen asleep on the living room floor. After that, Heather had hidden in one of the bedrooms, reading a magazine she’d found on a shelf. She’d fallen asleep there, in a corner next to a pile of coats. When her parents wanted to leave, they couldn’t find her. Apparently they looked for her for hours. When they finally found her, her dad was livid.

Heather remembered the car ride, the silence of it. She could feel her mother’s fear and her father’s mounting rage. She knew it was all her fault. Why had she gone into that bedroom? Why didn’t she fall asleep in the living room, like the little girl? A three-year-old knew better than she did. She was an idiot. And when they got home, she and her mother paid the price. As usual.

And tonight, once again, she was to blame for the evening ending badly.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked Stephen as they pulled into the garage.

His gaze flickered to her for a moment, then he nodded.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have talked about Pam. Or said that we changed the plans.’

He turned off the ignition. ‘You can talk about Pam as much as you like, Heather. And they were going to find out about the house plans eventually. Elsa was out of line there, not you.’

‘Oh,’ Heather said, confused. ‘Then why are you upset with me?’

‘I’m upset,’ he said, ‘because you said you weren’t going to drink tonight.’

‘But Mary and Michael kept filling my glass.’

He looked straight ahead. He was quiet for a long time, as if he was really contemplating what he was going to say next. Finally, he said: ‘I think you have a problem, Heather.’

‘With alcohol?’

‘Yes, with alcohol.’

‘But I – I didn’t even drink that much.’ The comment might have been more convincing had it not been punctuated by a hiccup.

Stephen sighed. He opened his door.

‘Stephen!’ she called, as he walked into the house. She hurried after him, catching up when he was halfway down the hall.

He spun around. ‘What?’

But of course she had no idea what to say. She opened her mouth. Another hiccup emerged. She cursed internally.

‘You didn’t even drink that much?’ he said, throwing up his hands.

‘I didn’t.’

He levelled his gaze at her. ‘Do you know what I think? I think when you start drinking, you stop counting.’

It wasn’t true. Heather knew exactly how much she’d drunk. She’d had two glasses of champagne, and one glass of wine. Or maybe it was two glasses of wine? But she hadn’t forgotten because she was so drunk; she’d forgotten because his friends were so adept at filling her damn glass!