‘Heather isn’t Mum’s –’

‘– replacement, I know.’ Tully ripped a useless square of toilet paper from the dispenser and attempted to wipe her face. ‘She’s not Mum’s replacement – for us. But she is for Dad. I guess I’m just . . . angry on Mum’s behalf.’

Tully made a reasonable point. Tully often did.

‘I get it,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s totally weird seeing Dad with Heather.’

Tully grabbed Rachel’s hand. ‘It is weird, isn’t it?’

‘Of course it is. She’s younger than us!’

Tully smiled, as if Rachel’s recognition of this was a delightful surprise. ‘She is younger than us!’

‘It’s true there’s a lot of stuff to digest, Tul, but I’m trying not to worry about it. It’s not like they’re getting married or anything. He’s still married to Mum, for God’s sake! We’re having lunch, that’s it. Let’s keep things in perspective.’

Tully nodded, grabbing another square of toilet paper to blow her nose. ‘You’re right. It’s just lunch.’

Rachel walked over to Tully’s bag. ‘So, how about you reapply your lippy and we’ll head back out there.’ Rachel unzipped her bag and rummaged around for the lipstick. ‘Why do you have two wallets in here? And . . . is this a salt shaker?’

‘Doesn’t everyone have two wallets?’ Tully said, taking the bag from Rachel. ‘I don’t need lipstick. Let’s just go.’

Tully led the way through the busy restaurant. As her father came into view, Rachel gave him the thumbs-up and he nodded in response, visibly relieved.

‘All good?’ he asked Tully, who smiled and nodded too many times. ‘Good. In that case, I think it’s time to order champagne.’

Rachel knew then, what was about to happen. She got these feelings from time to time – premonitions of a sort. She had one the day Mum lost her keys for the third time in a week, even after Dad laughed it off as a normal sign of ageing. She had one on that family skiing holiday when she begged Tully to go for hot chocolate instead of skiing another run (Tully refused and broke her leg on the next slope). And she had one when she was sixteen, a split second before that man jumped out of the bushes. The worst part was that now, just like then, there was nothing she could do.

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.