The Younger Wife(49)

‘That’s not it. It’s just that Michael kept filling my glass.’

‘So what? So you just keep drinking? What if you were allergic to peanuts? Would you just eat them because someone kept serving them?’

Stephen had never got angry with her like this before. He was so close that Heather could feel his breath on her forehead. She thought of her father the night they returned from the New Year’s Eve party. He’d bailed her mother up against the wall almost exactly like this. She saw a flash of her father’s face, a red, contorted version of Stephen’s – or was Stephen’s a red, contorted version of his?

‘Move back,’ she whispered.

‘The last thing I want to do is tell you when or how much to drink, Heather,’ he said. ‘But I’m worried.’

He didn’t move back. Heather felt panic set in. It travelled through her belly, her chest, her lungs. She never made the decision to push him; it was as if her arm just struck out of its own volition. It happened so fast. Her arm connected with something, saw a streak of red, then Stephen staggered backwards. Then she pushed past him, heading for the front door. She’d barely taken a step when she felt someone grab her by the hair. She was yanked backwards. Her head hit the polished concrete floor. And everything went black.





29


RACHEL


There were so many parts of that horrible day that were etched into Rachel’s soul. But one of the most crushing parts to relive, even now, was the aftermath. After the man ran away, leaving her in the bushes, Rachel stood up. It felt odd, after the magnitude of what had happened, to be suddenly alone. She felt as though she were in one of those end-of-the-world movies in which the main character comes out of her home to find that everyone else has been eaten by zombies and she is the only one left. Dazed, she walked the half-dozen blocks home, marvelling at the normality around her. People mowing their lawns or walking their dogs. The lady across the street emptying her shopping bags from the boot of her car waved to Rachel and, on autopilot, Rachel waved back. No one gasped or stared or begged to know what had happened. People just went about their regular activities as if nothing had changed. It almost tricked Rachel into thinking that maybe nothing had.

Then she walked in her front door.

The shift in energy was immediate, mostly because Dad was there, right there in the front hall, holding a basket of laundry. He did a double take when she walked in. Finally, Rachel thought. Someone sees me.

Dad had always been able to read her; an irritating skill of his. They’d argued about it that very morning, when Rachel had asked if she could have a sleepover at her friend’s place and he had (correctly) intuited that her friend’s parents were going to be away and they’d be having a party. Now his irritating skill was a blessed relief. She wouldn’t have to explain anything. She wouldn’t have to find the words to describe what had happened, because Dad would already know.

Except he didn’t know.

Instead, Dad looked at his watch, then back at her. ‘Call that a run? You were barely gone fifteen minutes!’

She could have just opened her mouth and told him. Dad, I was raped. Why didn’t she? She knew he would have believed her. He would have rushed her to the hospital and called the police and stood beside her in court as she gave evidence. He would have advocated for her, protected her, done every last thing that was expected of him as a good father and then some. In the past, when she’d heard the stats of women failing to report sexual assault, she’d felt so frustrated. Tell someone, she’d thought. Make the bastard pay. Suddenly she understood. Perhaps these women had been through enough. Perhaps the murky cocktail of shame and horror and disgust that Rachel was feeling was the same one that muzzled them all?

And so, instead of telling her dad what had happened, she went to the kitchen and baked the most exquisite carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. And she ate and ate and ate until all the disgusting feelings were buried under the most exquisite, all-consuming sugar high.


Rachel was making pancakes. After last night with Darcy, it was exactly what she needed. She’d always found such comfort in making the batter, pouring that perfect creamy circle, watching it bubble up and then flipping it to see the golden yellow of the underside. Afterwards, she covered the stack in sugar and syrup and berries and ate until she thought she might burst. Then she decided to make a second batch. She was pouring the batter into the pan when she heard the knock on the door.

‘Rachel?’

It was Darcy. Not only did she recognise his voice, he’d also told her that he’d check in on her in the morning. Rachel should have known that a phone call was not his style.

‘Will you talk to me?’ he said through the door. ‘I don’t even have to come inside. Just open a window if you like!’

Rachel put down the jug of batter, walked to the door and opened it.

‘I’ve got pancakes on the stove,’ she said, returning to the kitchen. She was glad for the busywork, the excuse not to have to look him in the eye. He’d been so kind last night, so understanding, that it only made her humiliation more intense.

Darcy followed her, shutting the door behind him.

‘What’s all this?’ he said.

She flipped the pancakes. ‘I’m baking my feelings.’

Darcy sat on a stool. His movements were tentative, slow, as if he was worried about startling her. ‘Not a bad thing to do with your feelings, I guess.’