The cake, she could admit, was just as magical as she’d promised. Three-tiered, every inch covered in fondant, buttercream or sugar flowers. It was, without question, the most beautiful cake she’d ever made. It was also the most labour-intensive cake she’d ever made, which made it all the more satisfying. She’d decided to deliver it herself, in fact, just so she could see the couple’s reaction with her own eyes. When it was finally complete, she reached for her phone to snap a photo of the cake and that’s when she saw the text message.
Hey, you.
Her phone slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.
Hey, you.
A chill ran the length of Rachel’s spine.
For goodness sake, she chided herself. Don’t be so bloody dramatic. And yet, just like that, her body pulsed with adrenaline. It was infuriating. Hey, you, after all, was such a common, benign turn of phrase. A common, benign phrase that cleaved her life neatly in two – ‘before’ and ‘after’。
She was sixteen when it happened, shockingly, in broad daylight. She was out jogging. It was around 10 am, that strange time of day when the early morning joggers and cyclists had all headed off to work and the school run was done, and hardly anyone was around. She was at that part of the path where the scrub blocked the beach from the road. The stretch was only a hundred metres or so, but very secluded. She followed the dirt track as it snaked through the scrub. At the point where the scrub was the thickest, she stopped at a lookout to admire the view down over the water. What if she hadn’t done that? she’d asked herself a thousand times since. What if she’d kept on running, like she usually did? Tully often talked about the endless ‘what-ifs’ in her head. For Rachel they weren’t endless. For Rachel, there was just that one.
She felt him a moment before she heard him. She’d heard people say things like that before, but she’d never understood it. It was a proper, tangible feeling, like an alarm going off in her body. Danger. It was possible, she knew, that the alarm in her body was overreacting. Girls her age were, after all, primed for the worst in these sorts of situations. Then she heard his voice – Hey, you – and she knew her instinct had been right.
She turned to face him. His mouth was hard. His eyes were mean. By his side was a large German shepherd.
Come here.
She tried to run, but she only made it a few paces before he caught a fistful of her hair. （The fact that her own hair had been accomplice to her attack was one of the things she fixated on, later.） Within moments she was on her stomach, her lips pressed against the dirt and sand. The dog stalked around, unperturbed by her position and her fear. Rachel had heard of people becoming superhuman in dangerous situations, able to lift cars or chew off their own arm in order to save themselves, but this didn’t happen to her. Instead, her body went rigid. Frozen. All she could do was lie there and listen to the swish of the cars on the nearby road, as the tears streamed silently down her cheeks.
Now, Rachel squatted down to retrieve her phone from the floor with a shaking hand. The message was from Darcy, who couldn’t possibly have known the effect the words would have on her. Indeed, he’d written a second message immediately after the first. Pick you up at 6 pm?
How ridiculous she’d been, thinking she could go. How totally and utterly ridiculous.
She replied to Darcy saying she wasn’t feeling well, then she put her phone on silent and placed it upside down on the table. She needed to busy herself, she realised. Take her mind off things. The hunger had already started rumbling from deep within; she knew what she had to do. She sat at the table directly in front of the wedding cake, which was ready for delivery. She had two hours until it was due at the reception centre. Two hours with that memory fresh in her mind.
Two hours.
She grabbed a fistful of wedding cake and began to eat.
16
HEATHER
Heather opened her eyes. She was fully dressed in the clothes she’d been wearing the day before – including her shoes. Mascara and lipstick were smeared on Stephen’s crisp white pillowcase. Her mouth was dry, predictably, and tasted a little of vomit. This was bad, Heather realised. This was very, very bad.
She glanced at Stephen’s side of the bed, sensing already that it was empty. He’d probably been up for hours. Meanwhile she was in bed, sleeping it off. What must he be thinking of her? She needed to find him, explain it was a one-off. That they’d had a lovely time and just let loose a little too much. She’d be sheepish and contrite. And, she hoped, he would forgive her.