‘I’d like to, though. It would be nice to –’
Sonny yanked open the passenger door. His face was like thunder. And he hadn’t even seen what was in the back seat. This was going be bad.
‘Why is there a six-hundred-dollar charge on the credit card, Tully?’
5
RACHEL
Rachel stood in the kitchen in front of three enormous chocolate mud cakes. They were for a wedding cake for Peter and Emily, a couple who were so particular about their cake that they came for three tastings last month, along with the entire bridal party and both sets of parents. Rachel wasn’t prone to stress, but she’d had the odd anxiety dream about this cake. She’d started making the sugar flowers five days before. They were made petal by petal and took hours. Last night, she’d dreamed that she’d accidentally lain in a bed of sugar flowers and ground each one into dust. Bizarrely, Heather and Dad had also been in that dream. And why not? They’d been in her every waking thought ever since their lunch.
She threw a couple of chocolate buttons into her mouth, and then realised the packet was finished – the second packet she’d finished this morning. This morning when she got dressed, her underwear had felt tight. Her underwear! Rachel was not the sort who weighed herself, or worried about weight gain, but she’d noticed her weight creeping up lately. Her thighs, her breasts . . . even her face was rounder. She attributed the stress-eating to everything that had been going on in the family. Everyone had their coping mechanisms. This was hers. Better than drugs, she told herself! Or was it? She had to admit, in a lot of ways, it was exactly the same as drugs. A way to obliterate. A way to hide.
When she’d called Tully yesterday, she’d wanted to unpack the lunch with Heather. It had been a gamble, obviously. Tully was rarely a good person to unpack things with, at least metaphorically speaking. Literally, she was a fantastic person to unpack with. She had helped Rachel move last year and the entire house had been unpacked in twelve hours, efficiently, with a clear system. But when it came to mentally unpacking things, it was trickier. Tully tended to become caught up in emotion and Rachel preferred to remain clear-headed and practical. Still, Rachel had to try. After all, no one in the world understood what she was going through as well as Tully did.
But as soon as Tully answered the phone, Rachel regretted calling. For one thing, Tully was in the car and she was always mildly hysterical in the car. Sure enough, she’d immediately started rattling on about the boys and running and then, just as Rachel thought they were getting to the heart of things, she hung up. So that, she supposed, was that.
What else could she do other than bake her feelings?
Once upon a time, Rachel had run her feelings, but baking had taken over when she was sixteen and she’d never looked back. It was amazing how she could suddenly breathe when surrounded by butter, sugar and eggs. The methodical nature of baking provided an equilibrium of sorts, an opportunity to process her feelings. And lately, she’d had a lot of feelings. About Mum, who’d already slipped away. About her nutty sister. About Dad, who was starting a new life in his sixties. About Heather, who was a frustrating blend of perfectly nice and ordinary; nothing about her to hate, nothing to love. The most difficult type of person to withstand, really.
On the table, already cooled and iced and boxed, was a gender-reveal cake, ready to go off to a baby shower. Her new delivery girl – Darcy – was supposed to be here five minutes ago to collect it. Not a good start to a new job, Darcy, Rachel warned her mentally. She’d hired the girl from a long-term unemployed list at an agency, thinking she was doing a good deed, but now she worried that had been a mistake. Maybe there was a reason Darcy had been unemployed for so long?
While she waited, Rachel perused the pile of bizarre goods on the dining table – souvenirs from Mum’s shoplifting period that Rachel had told Dad she would return. Mum’s shoplifting period. How ridiculous that sounded. Mum, who’d once driven forty-five minutes back to a service station when they were on a road trip and she realised they’d driven off without paying for their soft drinks. Now she was a shoplifter? Dad had been so grateful when Rachel offered to take care of it, and Rachel had to admit she enjoyed the gratitude. It reminded her of a time when she was twelve or thirteen and she’d accompanied him to David Jones to help him choose a birthday present for Mum. He’d looked so panicked as the sales assistant showed him fragrances and hand creams that Rachel had stepped in. To this day, she basked in his gratitude.