Big Little Lies (27 page)

Samantha:
I was watching the kindy kids do a poem at school assembly the day before the trivia night and I noticed all the Renata supporters were on one side and all the Madeline supporters were on the other side, just like at a wedding. I had a little chuckle to myself.

P
irriwee Public School assemblies always took far too long to start and finish, but the one thing you couldn’t complain about was the location. The school assembly hall was on the second floor of the building and had a huge balcony that ran all the way along the side, with big glass sliding doors that revealed a glorious view out to sea. Today all the glass doors were slid open, allowing the crisp autumn air to flow through. (The hall did get a bit stuffy when all the doors were closed, with all the farting children, perfumed Blond Bobs and their lavishly cologned husbands.)

Madeline looked out at the view and tried to think happy thoughts. She felt ever so slightly snappy, which meant that tomorrow would be her peak day for PMS. Nobody better cross her at trivia night.

“Hi, Madeline,” said Bonnie. “Hi, Ed.”

She sat down on the empty aisle seat next to Madeline, bringing with her a nose-tickling scent of patchouli.

Madeline felt Ed’s hand come down and rest unobtrusively, comfortingly on her knee.

“Hi, Bonnie,” said Madeline wearily, looking over her shoulder. Was this really the only empty chair in the place? “How are you?”

“Very well,” said Bonnie. She pulled her single plait over her white, hippy-like shoulder with its little scattering of dark moles. Even Bonnie’s
shoulder
felt alien to Madeline.

“Aren’t you
cold
?” shivered Madeline. Bonnie was wearing a sleeveless top and yoga pants.

“I just taught a Bikram yoga class,” said Bonnie.

“That’s the sweaty one, right?” said Madeline. “You don’t look sweaty.”

“I showered,” said Bonnie. “But my core body temperature is still quite high.”

“You’ll catch a chill,” said Madeline.

“No I won’t,” said Bonnie.

“You will,” said Madeline. She could sense Ed on her left trying not to laugh.

She changed the subject while she still had the last word. “Nathan not here?”

“He had to work,” answered Bonnie. “I told him he probably wouldn’t miss much. Skye is so terrified of performing, she’ll probably hide behind the other kids.” She smiled at Madeline. “Not like your Chloe.”

“Not like my Chloe,” agreed Madeline.

At least you can never take Chloe away from me, the way you’ve taken Abigail.

It seemed quite outrageous to her that this
stranger
knew what her daughter had for breakfast this morning and yet Madeline did not.
Even though she’d known Bonnie for years now, even though they’d had a hundred civil conversations, she still didn’t seem like a real person. She felt like a caricature to Madeline. It was impossible to imagine her doing anything normal. Was she ever grumpy? Did she ever yell? Fall about laughing? Eat too much? Drink too much? Call out for someone to bring her toilet paper? Lose her car keys? Was she ever just a human being? Did she ever stop talking in that creepy, singsong yoga teacher voice?

“I’m sorry that Nathan didn’t tell you about canceling the math tutor,” said Bonnie.

Not here, you idiot. Let’s not talk about family business with sharp-eared mothers all around us.

“I said to Nathan we have to get better with our communication skills,” continued Bonnie. “This is all a process.”

“Right,” said Madeline. Ed fractionally increased the pressure of his hand on her knee. Madeline looked over toward him, and to Perry and Celeste on the other side, to see if she could naturally become involved in conversation with someone else, but Perry and Celeste were looking at something on Celeste’s phone, and the two of them were laughing, their heads close together like young dating teenagers. That strangeness between them over the signing of the petition had obviously been nothing.

She looked back to the front of the hall, where there was still a hubbub of noisy activity, with kids being asked to sit down please, and teachers fiddling with sound equipment, and the Blond Bobs hurrying about looking very involved and important as they did each Friday morning.

“Abigail is really developing a social conscience,” said Bonnie. “It’s amazing to see. Did you know she has some sort of secret charity project she’s working on?”

“Just as long as her social conscience doesn’t get in the way of school marks,” said Madeline in a clipped tone, firmly establishing
herself as the awful, misanthropic parent. “She wants to do physiotherapy. I’ve been talking to Samantha about it. Lily’s mum. Samantha says Abigail needs math.”

“Actually, I don’t think she wants to do physiotherapy anymore,” said Bonnie. “She seems to be developing an interest in social work. I think she’d make a wonderful social worker.”

“She’d make a terrible social worker!” snapped Madeline. “She’s not tough enough. She’d kill herself trying to help people and she’d get too involved with their lives—and my God, that would just be so
wrong
a career choice for Abigail.”

“Do you think?” said Bonnie dreamily. “Oh, well, there’s no rush to make any decisions right now, is there? She’ll probably change her mind a dozen times before then.”

Madeline could hear herself making little puffing noises through her lips, as if she were in labor. Bonnie was trying to turn Abigail into somebody that she wasn’t, that she couldn’t be. There would be nothing left of the real Abigail. Madeline’s daughter would be a stranger to her.

Mrs. Lipmann walked gracefully onto the stage and stood silently in front of the microphone, her hands clasped, smiling benignly as she waited for her royal presence to be noticed. A Blond Bob rushed onto the stage and did something important to the microphone before rushing off again. Meanwhile a Year 6 teacher began clapping a catchy, rhythmic beat that had magical, hypnotic powers over the children, immediately causing them to stop talking, look to the front and begin clapping in the same rhythm. (It didn’t work at home. Madeline had tried.)

“Oh!” said Bonnie, as the clapping rose in volume and Mrs. Lipmann lifted her hands for silence. She leaned over and spoke in Madeline’s ear, her breath sweet and minty. “I nearly forgot. We’d love to have you and Ed and the children over to celebrate Abigail’s fifteenth
birthday next Tuesday! I know Abigail would just love to have all her family together. Would that be too awkward, do you think?”

Awkward? Are you kidding, Bonnie, that would be wonderful, glorious!
Madeline would be a
guest
at her daughter’s fifteenth-birthday dinner. Not the host. A guest. Nathan would offer her drinks. When they left, Abigail wouldn’t come in the car with them. She’d stay there. Abigail would stay there because that was her home.

“Lovely! What shall I bring?” she whispered back, while she put one hand on Ed’s arm and squeezed hard. It turned out that a conversation with Bonnie was just like being in labor: The pain could always get much, much worse.

Z
iggy is a lovely little boy,” said the psychologist. “Very articulate and confident and kind.” She smiled at Jane. “He expressed concern over my health. He’s the first client this week who has even noticed I have a cold.”

The psychologist blew her nose noisily as if to demonstrate that she did indeed have a cold. Jane watched impatiently. She wasn’t as nice as Ziggy. She couldn’t care less about the psychologist’s cold.

“So, er, you don’t think he’s a secret psychotic bully?” said Jane with a little smile to show that she was sort of joking, except of course she wasn’t. That’s why they were here. That’s why she was paying the huge fee.

They both looked at Ziggy, who was playing in a glassed-off room adjoining the psychologist’s office where he presumably couldn’t hear them. As they watched, Ziggy picked up a stuffed doll, a toy for a much younger child.
Imagine if Ziggy suddenly punches the
doll,
thought Jane.
That would be pretty conclusive. Child pretends
to care about psychologist’s cold and then beats up toys.
But Ziggy just looked at the doll, then
put it back down, not noticing that he’d missed the corner of the table and it had slid to the floor, proving only that he was pathologically messy.

“I don’t,” said the psychologist. She was silent for a moment, her nose twitching.

“You’re going to tell me what he said, right?” said Jane. “You don’t have any client/patient confidentiality thing, do you?”

“Achoo!” The psychologist sneezed a massive sneeze.

“Bless you,” said Jane impatiently.

“Patient confidentiality only starts to apply when they get to about fourteen,” said the psychologist sniffily, “which is just when they’re telling you all sorts of stuff you’d really quite like to share with their parents, know what I mean? They’re having
sex
, they’re taking
drugs,
and so on and so forth!”

Yes, yes, little people, little problems.

“Jane, I don’t think Ziggy is a bully,” said the psychologist. She steepled her fingers and touched her fingertips to the outside of her red nostrils. “I brought up the incident you mentioned at the orientation day, and he was very clear that it wasn’t him. I’d be very surprised if he’s lying. If he’s lying, then he’s the most accomplished liar I’ve ever seen. And frankly, Ziggy does not show any of the classic signs of a bullying personality. He’s not narcissistic. He most certainly demonstrates empathy and sensitivity.”

Tears of relief blocked Jane’s nose.

“Unless he’s a psychopath, of course,” said the psychologist cheerfully.

What the fuck?

“In which case he could be faking empathy. Psychopaths are often very charming. But—” She sneezed again. “Oh, dear,” she said, wiping her nose. “Thought I was getting better.”

“But,” prompted Jane, aware that she was demonstrating no empathy whatsoever.

“But I don’t think so,” said the psychologist. “I don’t think he’s a psychopath. I’d definitely like to see him for another appointment. Soon. I think he’s suffering from a lot of anxiety. I believe there was a lot that he didn’t share with me today. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that Ziggy himself was being bullied at school.”

“Ziggy?” said Jane. “Being bullied?”

She felt a rush of instant heat, as though she had a fever. Energy thrummed through her body.

“I might be wrong,” said the psychologist, sniffing. “But I wouldn’t be surprised. My guess is that it’s verbal. Perhaps a smart kid has found his weak spot.” She took a tissue from the box on her desk. She made a little
tch
sound. “Also, Ziggy and I talked about his father.”

“His father?” Jane reeled. “But what—”

“He’s very anxious about his father,” said the psychologist. “He thinks he might be a Stormtrooper, or possibly Jabba the Hutt, or, worst-case scenario”—the psychologist couldn’t hold back a broad grin—“Darth Vader.”

“You’re not serious,” said Jane. She was somewhat mortified. It was Madeline’s Fred who had gotten Ziggy into
Star Wars
. “
He’s
not serious.”

“Children often get caught halfway between reality and fantasy,” said the psychologist. “He’s only five. Anything is possible in a five-year-old’s world. He still believes in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. Why shouldn’t Darth Vader be his father? But I think it’s more that he has somehow picked up the idea that his father is someone . . . frightening and mysterious.”

“I thought I’d done a better job than this,” said Jane.

“I asked if he’d talked to you much about his father, and he said yes, but he knows it upsets you. He was very firm with me. He didn’t want me upsetting you.” She looked down at her notes and up again. “He said, ‘Be careful if you’re talking to Mummy about my daddy, because she gets a funny look on her face.’”

Jane pressed the flat of her hand to her chest.

“You OK?” said the psychologist.

“Do I have a funny look on my face?” asked Jane.

“A little bit,” said the psychologist. She leaned forward and gave Jane a woman-to-woman look of understanding as if they were chatting in a bar. “I take it Ziggy’s father was not exactly a good guy?”

“Not exactly,” said Jane.

P
erry drove Celeste back home after the assembly.

“Do you have time to stop for a coffee?” asked Celeste.

“I’d better not,” said Perry. “Busy day.”

She looked at his profile. He seemed fine, his thoughts focused on the day ahead. She knew he’d enjoyed seeing his first school assembly, being one of the school dads, wearing his corporate uniform in a noncorporate world. He liked the daddy role, relished it even, talking with Ed in that gently ironic, this-is-all-a-bit-of-a-laugh dad-type way.

They’d all laughed at the boys careering about the stage, wearing the big green crocodile suit. Max had the head and Josh had the tail; sometimes the crocodile seemed in danger of being torn in two as they headed in opposite directions. Before they left the school, Perry had taken a photo of the boys wearing the suit on the balcony outside the hall, the ocean in the background. Then he’d asked Ed to take a photo of all four of them: the boys peering out from underneath the costume, Perry and Celeste crouched down next to them. It would
already be on Facebook. Celeste had seen him fiddling with his phone as they’d walked back to the car. What would it say?
Two stars are born! The boys rocked it as a scary croc!
Something like that.

“See you at the trivia night!” everyone had called to one another as they’d left that day.

Yes, he was in a good mood. Things should be OK. There hadn’t been any tension since he’d gotten back from his last trip.

But she’d seen the lightning-quick flash of rage when she’d made her comment about leaving him if he signed the petition to have Ziggy suspended. She’d meant it to sound like a joke, but she knew it hadn’t come across that way, and that would have embarrassed him in front of Madeline and Ed, who he liked and admired.

What had come over her? It must be the apartment. It was almost completely furnished now, and as a result, the possibility of leaving was always present, the question being constantly asked:
Will I or won’t I? Of course I will, I must. Of course I won’t.
Yesterday morning when she was there she’d even made up the beds with fresh linen, taking a strange, soothing pleasure in the task, turning down the sheets just so, making each bed look inviting, making it possible. But then in the middle of the night last night, she’d woken in her own bed, Perry’s arm heavy across her waist, the ceiling fan turning lazily the way Perry liked it, and she’d thought suddenly of those made-up beds and she’d been as appalled as if she’d remembered a crime. What a betrayal of her husband! She’d rented and furnished another apartment. What a
crazy
, secretive, malicious and self-indulgent thing to do.

Maybe threatening Perry that she’d leave him was because she wanted to confess what she’d done; she couldn’t bear the burden of her secret.

Of course, it was also because the thought of Perry, or anyone, signing that petition filled her with rage, but
especially
Perry. He owed a debt to Jane. A family debt because of what his cousin had
done. (
May have done,
she kept reminding herself. They didn’t know for sure. What if Jane had misheard the name? It could have been
Stephen
Banks, not Saxon Banks at all.)

Ziggy might be Perry’s cousin’s child. He owed him at least his loyalty.

Jane was Celeste’s friend, and even if she weren’t, no five-year-old deserved to have a community begin a witch hunt against him.

Perry didn’t take the car into the garage, pulling up outside the house in the driveway. Celeste assumed that meant he wasn’t coming in.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she said, leaning over to kiss him.

“Actually, I need to come in to get something from my desk,” said Perry. He opened the car door.

She felt it then. It was like a smell or a change in the electrical charge in the air. It was something to do with the set of his shoulders, the blank, shiny look in his eyes and the dryness in her throat.

He opened the door for her and let her in first, with a courtly gesture.

“Perry,” she said quickly, as she turned around and he closed the door, but then he grabbed her by the hair, twisting it behind her and pulling so hard, so astonishingly hard, that pain radiated through her scalp and her eyes filled with instant, involuntary tears.

“If you ever, ever embarrass me like that again, I will kill you, I will fucking kill you.” He tightened his grip. “How dare you. How
dare
you.”

He let go.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

But she mustn’t have said it right, because he stepped forward slowly and took her face in his hands the way he did when he was about to tenderly kiss her.

“Not good enough,” he said, and he slammed her head against the wall.

The cold deliberateness of it was as shocking and surreal as the first time he’d hit her. The pain felt intensely personal, like a broken heart.

The world swam as though she were drunk.

She slid to the floor.

She retched once, twice, but she wasn’t sick. She only ever retched. She was never sick.

She heard his footsteps walking away, down the hallway, and she curled up on the floor, her knees near her chest, her hands interlaced over the back of her cruelly throbbing head. She thought of the boys when they hurt themselves, the way they sobbed:
It hurts, Mummy, it hurts so much.

“Sit up,” said Perry. “Honey. Sit up.”

He crouched down next to her, pulled her up into a sitting position and gently laid an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel on the back of her head.

As the blessed coldness began to seep through, she turned her head and studied his face through blurry eyes. It was dead white, with purplish crescents under his eyes. His features were dragged downward, as though he were being ravaged by some terrible disease. He sobbed once. A grotesque, despairing sound, like an animal caught in a trap.

She let herself fall forward against his shoulder, and they rocked together on their glossy black walnut floor beneath their soaring cathedral ceiling.