While Stephen called Ian, Heather went to the kitchen and pulled two wineglasses from a high cupboard.
‘So,’ she said, when Stephen returned, ‘shall we have a glass of white or red?’
Stephen looked at her. It was an assessing look. ‘Nothing for me,’ he said finally. ‘It’s a little early.’
‘Fair enough,’ she said, peering into the wine fridge. She picked out a bottle – a good one. When she stood, Stephen was right behind her.
‘Heather.’
He reached around her and took the bottle from her hands.
‘Hey!’ she said crossly. ‘I was going to drink that.’
‘Look at me,’ he said, spinning her around. ‘What’s going on?’
She feigned confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. Something has been off with you for a while now.’
She tried to take the bottle back from him, but he kept it out of her reach. She let out a groan of frustration. ‘Nothing is wrong, Stephen! I just want a glass of wine. Give me the bottle.’
She lunged for it, once, and then again. She could feel that Stephen was beginning to tire of her. First the bike ride, now this. This was not how he planned to spend his afternoon. It wouldn’t take much now. His feet were bare, she noticed. She stepped forward, and pressed down hard.
‘Ow,’ he cried. ‘Jesus, Heather!’
That was it. It was like the flick of a switch. She saw in his eyes what was going to happen. One minute they were standing in the kitchen, the next her back was to the fridge and his hands were around her throat. The bottle of wine smashed.
‘Stop,’ she tried to say, but her voice was squashed by the pressure of his hands. A shiver travelled the length of her spine. What had she done? She’d been baiting Stephen for weeks, trying to provoke this very result. Now, she might get the proof she wanted. But it would be over her dead body.
She gurgled and gasped, staring into Stephen’s eyes, which looked different now. Bluer. She could feel his thumbs against the cartilage in her neck, pressing until her body was cold and her head swam. He seemed to be doing it so easily.
‘Stop,’ she tried again, but he didn’t. She thought of her mother. This was how she’d left the world, with hands around her throat. Heather had pictured it so many times, the fear in her mother’s eyes before she became slack and slid down the wall. Now, she wouldn’t have to picture it. She would experience it. And so would her baby.
The baby.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she whispered. It was so quiet, she wasn’t sure he would hear her, but a moment later he released her. Heather slumped to the floor. She landed in spilled wine and broken glass.
45
TULLY
‘Miles,’ Tully said. ‘Sit on the potty.’
‘Nooooooo,’ he cried. ‘I not like the potty.’
‘Why don’t you sit on it and I’ll put the TV on,’ Tully pleaded. ‘And I’ll give you a chocolate!’
‘NO! NO POTTY!’
It was all Tully’s fault. Yesterday, when Miles had taken himself to the potty unprompted, Tully had had the audacity to think that it might be a good time to start potty training. Now she understood how stupid she’d been. Even if they weren’t in the middle of a financial crisis, marriage trouble and moving house, any idiot would have realised that Miles would develop a phobia of his potty. Why wouldn’t he, when he developed a phobia of everything else!
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Put your nappy back on.’
‘No nappy! I not like nappy.’
Tully swore under her breath. Half the house was packed up in boxes. The only things that remained were their clothes and some staging furniture that was getting collected tomorrow. The last thing Tully needed was for Miles to take a dump on the Persian rug. They could barely afford the bill for staging let alone an additional cleaning fee. Not that Miles gave two hoots about what they could afford. He leaped now, bare-bottomed, onto the L-shaped couch. Tully was chasing after him when her phone beeped – a text message from Michelle.
Hey babe. Listen, I wanted to let you know, I heard some pre-school mums talking about you. They said you shoplifted from that homewares shop in Armadale. I told them it was ridiculous, don’t worry. Where do people even get this stuff? Michelle finished the message with the emoji of the woman in the purple dress holding her arms out in confusion.
Tully threw down the phone and fell onto the couch beside Miles. So this was it. Her fears had been realised. There was, she supposed, some sort of comfort in having nothing else to lose. Her marriage was a shambles, her youngest child was broken, and she’d been humiliated in her community. Really, what else was there?