Tully’s smile faded.

‘But as I said, I want my boys to be proud of me too, and for that reason, I’m going to have to ask you not to return to my shop. I hope you understand.’

‘Yes,’ Tully said. ‘Yes, I understand.’

And then, because there was nothing else to say, Tully barrelled towards the front door, practically bowling over another customer in her haste to get out of there.

10

HEATHER

Heather sat on Stephen’s bathroom floor nursing a glass of whisky. She’d got home from work an hour ago, poured herself a drink and immediately taken it to the giant ensuite. She’d always found it soothing, drinking in the bathroom. Beyond the privacy the bathroom offered, she liked the way her thoughts felt in there – the coolness of them, the space they had to bounce against the tiled walls.

In a way, it was a tribute to her mother, who used to drink in the bathroom. The first time she saw her do it, Heather was eleven years old. The night before Heather had woken to the sound of her mother crying and her dad shouting. They’d been at a party and Heather had expected them to be gone most of the night, but they’d got home early. It wasn’t even midnight.

‘If you ever embarrass me like that again,’ Dad was saying to her mum, ‘I’m going to kill you. Do you understand?’

Heather had got out of bed and followed the noise as far as the lounge. By then her mum was crying loudly, saying ‘please’ and ‘stop’ in halting bursts. Heather peered around the corner. Mum’s back was against the fridge and Dad was holding her by the throat.

‘It would be so easy,’ he was saying to her, ‘I could just press my thumbs a little harder. Like this . . .’

Her mum made a gagging sound. He’s killing her, Heather thought. My dad is killing my mum. The worst part was that Heather didn’t do anything. She didn’t run to help her. She just stood there, frozen.

After what felt like an eternity, he let go and Mum fell to the ground, gasping for air. Heather heard the sound of her scrabbling away from him on the kitchen floor.

‘So easy,’ her dad repeated.

Heather ran back to her room, but she didn’t fall asleep for hours. In the morning, when she came out of her room, Mum was in the bathroom. The shower was running, but when Heather opened the door she found her Mum sitting on the floor drinking wine straight from the bottle. Her eyes were glassy and tired.

‘Why is the shower running?’ Heather asked.

‘Because when the shower’s running,’ Mum said, not looking at her, ‘he doesn’t come in.’

‘I wanted to check you were all right,’ Heather said, closing the door and sitting beside her. ‘You know . . . after last night.’

Her mum frowned for a second, as if trying to remember what had happened last night. Then her hand rose to the pinkish mark on her neck. ‘Oh.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘I’m fine.’