The Younger Wife(51)

Obviously I’m not going to do that, but I’m in no hurry to leave either, now that I’ve had to give my details to the police. That was something I’d hoped to avoid, but the damage is done now. So I stand among the knots of people, trying to look like a concerned friend.

‘I think Pam went for Heather,’ a middle-aged woman in a pink skirt suit says. ‘Yes, she has dementia, but she was always pretty savvy. I mean, who could blame her? The woman was marrying her husband, for God’s sake.’

‘Ex-husband,’ the man standing beside says.

‘How would she know that? She couldn’t possibly have consented to the divorce; she’s not exactly of sound mind, is she?’

‘Which one is it, Daph? Is she savvy, or not of sound mind?’

‘Both!’ Daph sounds indignant. ‘Savvy but not of sound mind. Shut up, Greg.’

‘It could have been one of the daughters,’ Greg says. ‘Trying to take out the wicked new stepmother.’

Greg is enjoying the drama a little too much, and apparently Daph thinks so too because she elbows him in the guts and he makes an oof sound.

‘I hear Rachel made the wedding cake,’ another guy in the same group says. ‘So it won’t be her. If she wanted to kill Heather, she could’ve just poisoned the cake.’

‘But then she would’ve poisoned everyone, you dill.’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘The poor bloke probably had a heart attack,’ Greg says. ‘All that sex with a younger woman . . . gotta be bad for the heart.’

‘Greg!’

‘What? It would be ironic, wouldn’t it? Heart surgeon dies of a heart attack?’

All around me, people are having similar conversations. The consensus is that it was either the bride or groom who was injured. Most people blame Pamela, and it is, I suppose, the logical assumption. She has dementia, she may have got confused or violent. But I don’t think it was Pamela. Not that she wouldn’t have had cause to do it; I myself was certainly tempted, more than once. But I’m starting to think it was the daughter, the one who bakes. She was the glue that held the family together. Walking down the aisle, she looked like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, and little wonder after the pressure cooker they’ve all been in this past year. Yes, my money is on her.





30


HEATHER


Heather sat on the edge of the bed with her elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. Her head throbbed, despite the two ibuprofen she’d taken. Stephen must have put her to bed last night, because she didn’t remember how she’d got here. His side of the bed was made, so clearly he’d slept somewhere else, but she knew he was in the house. She could feel him.

She’d packed a small overnight bag – toothbrush, toothpaste, pyjamas, a change of clothes – and it sat at her feet. She had to leave. What choice did she have? The irony was that this was exactly what she wanted to avoid. This was why she’d re-created herself! For a nicer life, yes; a life where she didn’t have to worry about money. But more importantly, for a life where she didn’t have to be afraid in her own home.

She wondered if she should call someone to be here, just in case. But who? She’d never had many friends and she’d lost contact with the few she did have after she started dating Stephen. She was far too ashamed to call her work colleagues for this. And it wasn’t as if she could call Rachel or Tully. She was on her own. Like her mother had been, in the end. It was thinking of her mother that finally got Heather into a standing position. She wasn’t going to be a battered wife, like her mother. She was going to ensure a different fate for herself.

She threw her bag over her shoulder and walked out of the bedroom, down the hall and stairs, and into the living room. Stephen was sitting at the breakfast bar with his back to her.

‘I’m leaving you, Stephen,’ she said.

He turned to face her.

‘Oh my God. What . . . what happened to your face?’

He had a black eye. He also appeared to have a deep scratch under the eye that was bruised.

He blinked slowly. Suddenly her fear of him hurting her seemed ridiculous. In fact, seeing Stephen now, it felt laughable that she’d even had that fear in the first place.

‘Stephen?’

He took off his glasses. That’s when she noticed they weren’t his usual glasses but a spare pair he kept in the bedside table. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m just not sure if you’re joking or not.’

Suddenly Heather wasn’t sure either.

‘You don’t remember what happened last night?’

‘Yes,’ she said, though she was starting to doubt herself. ‘You were upset with me for drinking at the party. We had an argument. I tried to leave, and you grabbed my hair and . . .’

She trailed off, trying to remember. She knew she’d gone down. After that she didn’t remember anything.

Stephen was still looking at her, confused, as if her face were a maths problem he was trying to solve.

‘I don’t know,’ she said finally.

‘Do you want to sit down?’

‘No. Just tell me.’

Stephen nodded. ‘Well, as you say, we came home and we argued. Evidently I got too close to you. I apologise for that. I didn’t realise you were feeling so hemmed in until you shouted for me to move and then punched me.’