‘I’m sorry, Mary,’ Stephen said. ‘I thought it would be okay.’
‘Don’t apologise!’ Mary said. ‘It’s not your fault. I have no idea what got into Elsa.’ Then, perhaps feeling disloyal, she added, ‘She and Pam were very close. I guess everyone grieves in their own way.’
‘It was a lovely dinner,’ Heather said, even though she’d barely touched the soup. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’
‘We’ll do it again,’ Mary said. ‘Soon. Just the four of us.’
‘I’ll see you at golf,’ Michael said, shaking Stephen’s hand. ‘It was great to meet you, Heather. Hopefully next time will be less eventful.’
Michael and Mary waved, and Stephen and Heather walked to the car.
‘I’m sorry,’ she started, but Stephen held up a hand.
‘Let’s talk about it at home.’
Heather got into the car. But as Stephen got into the car beside her, she felt it, that little pinch of unease she used to get when her father was on the warpath. She used to think of it as her sixth sense. It told her something was in the air. Danger.
27
RACHEL
Rachel found it hard to recall how dinner ended. At some point, the bill was paid, they’d thanked the waitstaff, and they’d wandered out into the evening together, as if it were something they’d always done. On the way back to Rachel’s house they continued their conversation from the restaurant, but with new comfort, more teasing, and an undeniable frisson of chemistry.
‘You know,’ Darcy said as they walked home, ‘that was the best date I’ve ever been on.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Me too.’
‘Really?’ He looked so delighted she decided not to remind him it was her first date.
‘Really.’
They arrived at Rachel’s house and, without discussion, went inside. Rachel located a bottle of red and some cheese, and by the time she’d returned to the living room, Darcy had moved a throw rug from the couch onto the floor.
‘Night picnic?’ he said.
‘We definitely need more food,’ she replied, deadpan. ‘I don’t think we ate enough at dinner.’
It all felt so natural and normal. For the first time, instead of resisting, Rachel went with it. She poured them each a glass of wine, then arranged some cheese and quince paste on a cracker for Darcy. She enjoyed having something to focus on, something to keep her hands busy.
‘Maybe you could go into business arranging night picnics?’ Rachel suggested. ‘If you want to start a new business.’
‘So you like it, do you?’ he said, looking pleased. ‘Good. I’m glad.’
He put his glass on the coffee table, and smiled at her. It was a different smile from his usual, mischievous one. It sent a tingle up Rachel’s spine. The kind of tingle she used to feel around men all those years ago, before that day at the beach. A good tingle.
And yet . . .
‘Should I take this?’ he asked, gesturing towards her glass.
Rachel let him take the glass from her and put it alongside his on the coffee table. Then he looked back at her. Paused for a beat.
He was mere inches away. She could smell his aftershave, see the little pinpricks of stubble on his jaw. He lifted her chin. It was like she was outside of herself, watching it happen to someone else. He was only millimetres from her face when she pulled away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pulling away. ‘I can’t.’
28
HEATHER
Stephen was silent as he drove home from Mary and Michael’s. Heather tried to talk to him a couple of times but was greeted with only one-word answers. And when she tried to put her hand on his, he gently moved his away. The tension took Heather back to a night when she was about eight, and she’d been with her parents at a New Year’s Eve party. There had been two other children there: a twelve-year-old boy who’d taken cigarettes from his mum’s pocket and then taken Heather behind the shed so she could watch him smoke them; and a three-year-old girl, who Heather had played with like a baby doll until she’d finally fallen asleep on the living room floor. After that, Heather had hidden in one of the bedrooms, reading a magazine she’d found on a shelf. She’d fallen asleep there, in a corner next to a pile of coats. When her parents wanted to leave, they couldn’t find her. Apparently they looked for her for hours. When they finally found her, her dad was livid.
Heather remembered the car ride, the silence of it. She could feel her mother’s fear and her father’s mounting rage. She knew it was all her fault. Why had she gone into that bedroom? Why didn’t she fall asleep in the living room, like the little girl? A three-year-old knew better than she did. She was an idiot. And when they got home, she and her mother paid the price. As usual.