Tully strolled down the next aisle. Garden lamps. Two of them went into the legs of her stretchy pants. She still couldn’t breathe. A tin of chalk paint went up her jumper. A Phillips screwdriver down the back of her shirt. A packet of thumbtacks into her pocket. Some 3M hooks in her undies.

People around her were watching, obviously. She looked like a Michelin man, bulging with goods. Tully didn’t care. A little boy around Miles’s age pointed at her and laughed, and his mother grabbed his arm and dragged him away. Tully didn’t care about any of it. All she cared about was the release. The sweet, sweet release of potato after weeks of chicken. Nothing else mattered until she’d finished the last bite.

When she couldn’t physically carry another item, she strolled towards the exit. When the manager approached, she wasn’t even surprised or upset.

‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ he said politely. His name badge said Trent, Assistant Manager. ‘Can you show me what you’ve got down your shirt and your pants?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Tully said, still walking. ‘I can’t.’

‘In that case, ma’am, I’m going to have to detain you while I call the police.’ He gestured to a colleague of his, a woman. ‘Rhiannon will take you to my office to wait for them.’

‘You can’t detain me,’ Tully said. ‘It’s against my human rights.’

As a lawyer’s wife, she hated herself at this moment. Sonny and Tully routinely chortled about the rights people seemed to think they had. But it was enough to make Trent, Assistant Manager, unsure of himself.

‘We have several witnesses, including staff, who saw you putting items inside your clothing,’ Trent said. ‘Which means we can detain you.’

‘How?’ Tully said. ‘Because you’re not allowed to physically put your hands on me . . . that’s assault.’

She wasn’t sure what she was doing. Going mad, probably. It was as though she was in some suspended version of the real world, in which she could say whatever she wanted and do whatever she wanted. She strode towards the exit. ‘Bye, Trent.’

The police pulled into the car park as she got into her car. She watched the officer walk to the front door and then watched Trent point to her. By the time Tully was reversing out of her parking space, another police officer was tapping on the driver’s side window.

‘I’m going to have to ask you to get out of the car,’ the officer said to her, when she refused to open the window.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tully called, not stopping. ‘I’m late to pick up my son.’

‘I am asking you TO STOP AND GET OUT OF YOUR CAR,’ the policeman repeated, raising his voice.

Tully turned up the radio and drove away.

48

HEATHER

‘Seventeen stitches,’ the young doctor told Heather. Actually he told Stephen, and Heather just happened to be there to hear it. The doctor had practically swooned when Stephen walked in – all the hospital staff had. It was as if Mick Jagger or Barack Obama or Jesus Christ had showed up in emergency. Heather had to confess that seeing him like this, so admired and revered, made him more attractive in her eyes. He stood taller, his eyes shone brighter. He was so comfortable in this environment, nodding at other doctors and waving at nurses and administrative people. Everyone knew him. Everyone. Heather had been seen right away, a perk of his position in the hospital. She had been examined, scanned, stitched and cleaned up and they’d only been here a little over half an hour.