The Younger Wife(65)

‘It was a long time ago,’ Fiona said. ‘We don’t need to rehash it all.’

It was hard to rehash something that you’d only just learned, Rachel thought. But she decided to park that for now.

‘Okay, but Mum must have been thinking about you to have written your name. She wasn’t in touch with you in the last few years, was she? Even the last ten years, say?’

‘Not in the last thirty-five years,’ Fiona said.

She looked as though she was being truthful, but who knew? Dad had lied about knowing Fiona. Mum had never mentioned that Dad had an ex-wife. What were they trying to hide?

Rachel must have looked upset because Fiona softened.

‘Listen, I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Rachel, I truly am. But I’m afraid I don’t have any information that will help you. I don’t know why Pam wrote my name down. Perhaps she was just confused?’

‘Yes,’ Rachel said. ‘Perhaps.’

‘My advice would be that you speak to Stephen. He might have a good explanation for everything.’ She paused a second before adding: ‘He usually does.’

Fiona asked if she could help Rachel with anything else, and when Rachel declined, she stood and made her way to the door. But after she left Rachel realised she’d forgotten one very important question. She threw some cash onto the table and ran after Fiona, catching up with her in the car park. Fiona was getting into a blue sedan.

‘One more question,’ Rachel said, panting. ‘This might sound a little strange but . . . did my dad ever . . . hurt you?’

Fiona held her gaze for several moments before responding. ‘Yes, Rachel,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry to say, he did.’

Fiona waited a second or two, perhaps for any further questions. When Rachel remained silent, she nodded, shut her car door, and drove away.





44


HEATHER


Stephen stood in the front hall, dressed head-to-toe in lycra. His bike was already on the front lawn. He went cycling every Saturday afternoon with his doctor friends and claimed it was the reason for his good mental health. He’d been looking forward to this particular ride, as he’d had a tough week. He’d lost a patient, which was always difficult, but this one had been a child. ‘He was just a year older than Locky,’ Stephen told her when he came in that night, tears welling in his eyes. He’d shaken it off after a minute or two and then quickly excused himself to take a shower. As Heather lay on the bed, listening to the sounds of the shower, she asked herself: Could this man hurt me? Surely not.

Now that she was eight weeks pregnant, though, she needed to be sure.

‘I’m off,’ he called from the foyer. ‘I’ll see you in a few hours.’

‘Oh,’ she said, following him. ‘Are you going for a ride? I thought we could spend some time together today.’

Stephen frowned. ‘But Ian’s already on his way.’

‘He won’t mind, will he? It’s not like you cancel on him regularly.’

Stephen was utterly thrown. He glanced from the bike to Heather and back again. ‘I wish you had said something earlier, Heather. This is . . . awkward.’

It was, she knew, her opportunity to renege. Just go, he wanted her to say. We can do it another time. But she couldn’t. She needed to be unreasonable. She needed to provoke him.

‘I’d really appreciate it,’ she said.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll call Ian.’

He wasn’t delighted at the prospect. In fact, he seemed downright irritated. It wasn’t the first test, after all. This week alone, she’d arranged to meet him for lunch and then failed to turn up (she said she forgot and left her phone at home). She’d left an empty bottle of red wine in the recycling (which she hadn’t drunk), and when he’d asked she said she’d shared it with a friend, and sorry about the stain on the arm of the sofa. She’d also dropped one of his hundred-dollar wineglasses on the concrete floor, shattering it into a million pieces. Every time she’d done something to press his buttons, he’d been calm and considerate. She’d decided if he passed this last test, she’d tell him about the baby. It would, after all, be the biggest provocation of all.

While Stephen called Ian, Heather went to the kitchen and pulled two wineglasses from a high cupboard.

‘So,’ she said, when Stephen returned, ‘shall we have a glass of white or red?’

Stephen looked at her. It was an assessing look. ‘Nothing for me,’ he said finally. ‘It’s a little early.’

‘Fair enough,’ she said, peering into the wine fridge. She picked out a bottle – a good one. When she stood, Stephen was right behind her.

‘Heather.’

He reached around her and took the bottle from her hands.

‘Hey!’ she said crossly. ‘I was going to drink that.’

‘Look at me,’ he said, spinning her around. ‘What’s going on?’

She feigned confusion. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. Something has been off with you for a while now.’

She tried to take the bottle back from him, but he kept it out of her reach. She let out a groan of frustration. ‘Nothing is wrong, Stephen! I just want a glass of wine. Give me the bottle.’