‘Remind me of everyone’s names and what they do,’ she called to him as she stepped into the dress. ‘I want to make a good impression.’
Stephen just laughed. ‘You’ll make a good impression whether you remember their names or not.’
Heather pulled the dress up and zipped herself into it. Then she stepped into the sandals, which were a good choice. Yes, she thought. This is the one.
‘Come on,’ Stephen called. ‘Don’t make a man wait!’
Heather walked into the bedroom and did a self-conscious twirl.
Stephen whistled. ‘I remember that dress. From our first date, right?’
‘You remembered,’ she said, mock touched.
‘How could I forget?’ He winked, and Heather had a memory of his hands sliding up the skirt then, later, fumbling with the invisible zip. Heather had been terrified that he was going to rip it.
‘I take it from your expression that you approve?’
‘I definitely approve,’ he said, and then he winced slightly. ‘Although . . .’
‘Although?’ she repeated. She definitely didn’t want any ‘although’s’。
‘Although,’ he said, ‘would it be strange if I asked you to wear something else?’
Heather blinked. ‘Why?’
‘It’s just . . . I have my own memories attached to that dress. Don’t get me wrong – I love it. I love it so much I don’t want to share it with anyone.’
‘That’s sweet,’ she said. But she was disappointed. She loved that navy dress. She felt good in it. ‘In that case, what should I wear?’
Stephen thought for a moment. ‘What about that black pantsuit with the double-breasted jacket? You know the one I mean.’
Heather did know the one. She regularly wore it to work. It was a nice, well-cut suit. A designer label. But an odd choice for dinner.
She looked at him for a sign that he was pulling her leg, and found none. He was completely earnest. As if she’d be doing him the most enormous favour by putting on the pantsuit. And what else could she say to that but . . . ‘The pantsuit it is.’
Stephen rewarded her with an approving smile.
24
TULLY
One of the cruellest things about moving house is that, in the days leading up to selling, your house will never look better. It was certainly the case with Tully’s house. Since meeting with the agent, they’d repainted the interior, laid new carpet, power-cleaned the pool and outdoor area, and there were still tradesmen coming and going. They’d also had a visit from a home stylist – a thin blonde woman who’d ordered them to remove two-thirds of the contents of their home so she could replace it with lovely pieces of artwork and ‘statement’ furniture. A lot of the stuff they removed belonged to the boys, and Tully had made the catastrophic mistake of having the removalists come while they were at home.
‘Not my trike!’ Locky had cried, as the removalists carried away the tricycle he hadn’t used in years. ‘Wait, that’s my favourite toy!’ he’d said about the bath toy he’d never opened and which had sat in the gift cupboard ever since.
Tully had stuck to her guns and removed all items and then bought the boys ice cream to console them. Healthy food, she realised, really was a privilege of the wealthy. When you had less help, more to do and less money to spend, junk food was really all you had to appease tired, angry children.
They’d also brought in a garden stylist – a bohemian-looking man named Bodhi who placed ornamental rocks, garden benches and bonsai plants around the property. Tully had been appalled at the price of it （and, frankly, at the idea of a garden stylist）， but she had to admit, the garden looked bloody gorgeous.
Now, Tully looked out the bedroom window, watching the boys bouncing on the trampoline that had been allowed to stay only if it was tucked in the far corner of the garden, out of sight. Tully could hear them shouting, ‘I’m going higher than you . . . No, you’re not . . . I am . . . Daddy, he said he’s going higher!’ It reminded her of herself and Rachel when they were younger, always fighting to be higher, or faster, or better.
‘You’re both going equally high,’ Sonny said.
Sonny had always been an exceptionally good dad. Determined not to be like his own unreliable, largely-absent father, he made sure to spend time with the boys every day, and hung his parenting hat on the fact that if he said he was going to do something, he did it. （Tully, on the other hand, regularly promised the kids all sorts of things she had no intention of delivering. Her children, she’d figured out, were incredibly focused and intense, but also very forgetful, so this technique worked well for her.） Unfortunately, while he was spending a lot of time with the boys, he hadn’t been spending time with Tully, not since she’d told him her secret. The other night, when she got home from Rachel’s, he hadn’t even turned around when she came to his office door to say hello. Eventually she’d taken herself to bed, stuffing the cash-filled plastic bag in her bedside table, where her stolen goods had once been kept.