Her father cleared his throat. ‘Heather and I have an announcement to make . . .’
3
HEATHER
Stephen was standing in his driveway in sweatpants and a T-shirt the first time Heather laid eyes on him. It was a Saturday morning. He had a newspaper tucked under his arm and he was chatting to his neighbour over the fence. Heather had just pulled up in front of his house, ready for their first appointment, and when she got out of her car Stephen waved as if she were an old friend.
‘You must be the interior decorator,’ he said.
In fact, she was the interior designer, and it was a source of great irritation to her that people confused the two, since the difference had meant an extra four years at university for her. But on this occasion, she recalled, it hadn’t bothered her.
‘Just been for a jog,’ he explained, gesturing at the clothes.
‘You don’t need to explain yourself to me,’ she said, opening the passenger door and retrieving a box filled with samples and swatches.
Stephen laughed. ‘Force of habit. I have a wife and two daughters. I spend my life explaining myself to women. Oh God, that sounds terribly sexist, doesn’t it? Don’t tell Pam I said so.’
Heather had already characterised him as an affable sexist, which was fine by her. She worked in an office full of affable sexists, and they weren’t as bad as people made out. If anything, she felt most powerful around this kind of man. They tended to be largely confused by, and subservient to, women. Sure, they were surprised when women proved to be their intellectual or creative equal – often disconcertingly so – but by and large they didn’t impede her existence in any way. So, affable sexist it was.
Stephen appeared beside her and took the box of samples out of her hands without asking. He was a big man, she noticed, with a ramrod-straight back and a broad chest. ‘Just so you know, I explain myself to men a lot too. To everyone really.’
‘Well . . . that’s a nice quality. A lot of people I know never bother to explain themselves at all. I’m Heather Wisher, by the way.’
‘Stephen Aston.’
They shook hands, as people did back then, and then walked side by side towards the grand front steps of the Astons’ home, an upside-down house with the kitchen and living areas on the top floor so they had a view of Brighton Beach. At the bottom of the stairs, Stephen slowed a little. ‘Listen, before we go in, I need to fill you in about Pam. I probably should have called you earlier but –’
‘You’re here!’ a woman called from the top of the stairs. ‘Are you early or am I late?’
Stephen smiled. ‘You’re both right on time.’ He shot Heather a look that said he’d finish the conversation later.
They started with a home tour, which was typical, but it was led by Stephen, which wasn’t. Usually husbands made themselves scarce for these visits, apart from a brief speech on arrival about how the budget was not to be blown, and to insist that no space be taken from the garage. But that day, Stephen did all the talking. As they made their way around the house, he kept his hand on Pam’s shoulder, guiding her through the house as if she didn’t know the way. It was curious. Pam didn’t say much, and whenever Heather asked her opinion, she shrugged and asked if anyone wanted a cup of tea. After the fifth or sixth time of this, Stephen put an arm around her shoulders and said, ‘All right, we’ll take the hint. It’s tea time.’ He grinned at Heather. ‘Pam makes a mean cup of tea. She has just about every flavour you could think of.’
They’d sat in the living room, which was cluttered and a little chaotic. As an interior designer, Heather was one of the minority who actually liked clutter. Stark, vast spaces, with clean lines and sharp surfaces, always seemed so unliveable to her. Naturally, she would do whatever a client asked of her, but when it came to her own personal style, she favoured warm wood, rugs, eclectic artwork, texture. Love. So different from her own childhood home, with its mismatched op shop couches that perennially smelled of dog even though Heather’s family had never owned one. There was always a terracotta pot in the middle of the coffee table, filled with cigarette butts, and a giant TV on the wall, one of the few things her dad could always seem to find money for.
‘What is it you want from the renovation, Pamela?’ Heather asked, as Stephen carried the empty mugs back to the kitchen. ‘What is your style?’
‘I like cosy,’ she said. ‘Cosy and comfy, that’s my style. Stephen prefers modern.’