And tonight, once again, she was to blame for the evening ending badly.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked Stephen as they pulled into the garage.
His gaze flickered to her for a moment, then he nodded.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have talked about Pam. Or said that we changed the plans.’
He turned off the ignition. ‘You can talk about Pam as much as you like, Heather. And they were going to find out about the house plans eventually. Elsa was out of line there, not you.’
‘Oh,’ Heather said, confused. ‘Then why are you upset with me?’
‘I’m upset,’ he said, ‘because you said you weren’t going to drink tonight.’
‘But Mary and Michael kept filling my glass.’
He looked straight ahead. He was quiet for a long time, as if he was really contemplating what he was going to say next. Finally, he said: ‘I think you have a problem, Heather.’
‘With alcohol?’
‘Yes, with alcohol.’
‘But I – I didn’t even drink that much.’ The comment might have been more convincing had it not been punctuated by a hiccup.
Stephen sighed. He opened his door.
‘Stephen!’ she called, as he walked into the house. She hurried after him, catching up when he was halfway down the hall.
He spun around. ‘What?’
But of course she had no idea what to say. She opened her mouth. Another hiccup emerged. She cursed internally.
‘You didn’t even drink that much?’ he said, throwing up his hands.
‘I didn’t.’
He levelled his gaze at her. ‘Do you know what I think? I think when you start drinking, you stop counting.’
It wasn’t true. Heather knew exactly how much she’d drunk. She’d had two glasses of champagne, and one glass of wine. Or maybe it was two glasses of wine? But she hadn’t forgotten because she was so drunk; she’d forgotten because his friends were so adept at filling her damn glass!
‘That’s not it. It’s just that Michael kept filling my glass.’
‘So what? So you just keep drinking? What if you were allergic to peanuts? Would you just eat them because someone kept serving them?’
Stephen had never got angry with her like this before. He was so close that Heather could feel his breath on her forehead. She thought of her father the night they returned from the New Year’s Eve party. He’d bailed her mother up against the wall almost exactly like this. She saw a flash of her father’s face, a red, contorted version of Stephen’s – or was Stephen’s a red, contorted version of his?
‘Move back,’ she whispered.
‘The last thing I want to do is tell you when or how much to drink, Heather,’ he said. ‘But I’m worried.’
He didn’t move back. Heather felt panic set in. It travelled through her belly, her chest, her lungs. She never made the decision to push him; it was as if her arm just struck out of its own volition. It happened so fast. Her arm connected with something, saw a streak of red, then Stephen staggered backwards. Then she pushed past him, heading for the front door. She’d barely taken a step when she felt someone grab her by the hair. She was yanked backwards. Her head hit the polished concrete floor. And everything went black.
29
RACHEL
There were so many parts of that horrible day that were etched into Rachel’s soul. But one of the most crushing parts to relive, even now, was the aftermath. After the man ran away, leaving her in the bushes, Rachel stood up. It felt odd, after the magnitude of what had happened, to be suddenly alone. She felt as though she were in one of those end-of-the-world movies in which the main character comes out of her home to find that everyone else has been eaten by zombies and she is the only one left. Dazed, she walked the half-dozen blocks home, marvelling at the normality around her. People mowing their lawns or walking their dogs. The lady across the street emptying her shopping bags from the boot of her car waved to Rachel and, on autopilot, Rachel waved back. No one gasped or stared or begged to know what had happened. People just went about their regular activities as if nothing had changed. It almost tricked Rachel into thinking that maybe nothing had.
Then she walked in her front door.
The shift in energy was immediate, mostly because Dad was there, right there in the front hall, holding a basket of laundry. He did a double take when she walked in. Finally, Rachel thought. Someone sees me.
Dad had always been able to read her; an irritating skill of his. They’d argued about it that very morning, when Rachel had asked if she could have a sleepover at her friend’s place and he had （correctly） intuited that her friend’s parents were going to be away and they’d be having a party. Now his irritating skill was a blessed relief. She wouldn’t have to explain anything. She wouldn’t have to find the words to describe what had happened, because Dad would already know.