The Younger Wife(60)

The silence was deafening.

The auctioneer had warned them that this would happen. No one ever wanted to make the opening bid, and they’d likely have to offer a vendor bid in order to get things going. And that was exactly how it went. Except the vendor bid didn’t get things moving either.

Tully didn’t dare look at Sonny.

The auctioneer seemed unfazed. He just continued with his spiel like the cocky little fucker he was, throwing in a few words about the marble benchtops, custom cabinetry, double garage and heated swimming pool. But at the end of it, when he called for bids – crickets.

‘Come on,’ Sonny said under his breath, sending Tully’s anxiety into a tailspin. If Sonny was getting anxious, it meant things were bad. Even the cocky, tight-suited auctioneer was looking a little dejected. Then, just when Tully thought her anxiety couldn’t get any worse, she realised where she knew the woman standing by Celia from. She owned the little shop up on High Street . . . Sophie! She was the woman who’d caught Tully stealing from her shop. Tully made the connection a split second before Sophie raised her hand and made a bid on Tully’s house. Not a great bid, mind you. An insultingly low bid, in fact. But fifteen minutes later, it was the bid that bought their house.

Snobby Celia cheered. Sonny swore under his breath. Tully studiously ignored Sophie and focused on smiling and waving at people who traipsed across her front garden and back out onto the street to continue with their mornings.

Irritatingly, Celia was one of the last to leave.

‘My sister Sophie bought your house!’ she said to Tully excitedly. ‘She wasn’t even seriously looking, but when there were no bids she thought, What the hell? I’ll throw my hat into the ring. Lucky for you, I suppose.’

Tully kept the smile pasted onto her face, when on the inside all she could think was: Your sister? Your sister is the lady from the shop? And now she’s bought my house? Tully stared at Celia, trying to read from her face what her sister might have told her. From their brief interaction, Sophie certainly seemed more discreet than Celia. And sisters could have different sensibilities; look at her and Rachel.

‘Well,’ Tully said, ‘I hope she loves it. We had a lot of happy years here.’

‘I’m sure she will,’ Celia said, and then Tully saw it in her eyes. A hardening. A knowing. ‘After all, she got it for a steal.’





39


RACHEL


Rachel had just fed Darcy a dinner of lamb moussaka and salad followed by a traditional Greek dessert of Galaktoboureko and they’d drunk a bottle of red wine. Now they were lying in each other’s arms on a blanket on the floor. Rachel had expected that in this situation she’d be thinking about that day, but as Darcy’s kisses moved from her mouth to her neck, she found it couldn’t be further from her thoughts.

‘Come here,’ Darcy said.

Rachel laughed. ‘I don’t think I could get much closer to you.’

‘Try.’

Rachel did. She was amazed to find that she felt safe. It was just so unexpected. For nearly twenty years, Rachel had equated being in close proximity to men with being powerless and terrified, but this felt . . . different.

‘Can I do . . . this?’ Darcy asked, taking the strap of her top between two fingers and sliding it down her arm.

Rachel nodded. His face was so serious, she felt an odd urge to laugh.

A few moments later, he did the other side. Her top came off, and her bra. She removed Darcy’s shirt. He had the most magnificent pectoral muscles. Wordlessly, they wriggled out of their pants.

‘Do you want to . . .’ He gestured towards the bedroom.

‘No,’ Rachel said. She was afraid that moving would break the spell. ‘Let’s stay here.’

Darcy was tentative to begin with. Rachel didn’t know when the tentative part ended, but she knew it was okay with her. It bore no resemblance to what came before it . . . or anything else. It was like chocolate fondue. Like a mild opiate. The deepest, most intense pleasure. To compare it to what happened on the beach would be ridiculous. Like comparing soft cheese to a car axle. So it was a surprise that afterwards, as she lay with her cheek against Darcy’s chest and his hand running lightly up and down her spine, her mind turned back to the day on the beach.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Darcy asked. She was lying with her head on his chest. They were relaxed and sated and tangled in the blanket.

‘I was just thinking that I . . . I wasted so much time.’

Darcy rolled onto his side and propped himself onto an elbow. ‘Maybe. But we’re here now.’

‘Yes. I guess I’m just kicking myself that I didn’t get here sooner. I didn’t realise how healing it would be, telling someone what happened.’

Darcy stared at her. ‘You mean, you’ve never told anyone? Not even your parents?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It sounds weird, I know.’

‘Not weird. But you must have had a reason. Explain it to me.’

‘Actually, I’m not sure I can. I remember seeing Dad the moment I got home from the attack. I wanted to tell him . . . I was about to. But I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.’

‘Why not?’

‘Lots of people don’t report rape,’ she said. ‘Some statistics say up to ninety per cent of rapes go unreported.’