Big Little Lies

by Liane Moriarty

  “I think you’re lying,” said the policeman. He put down his notepad. Jane flinched at his sudden change of tone. His voice had the implacability, the weight and violence of a swinging hammer. “Are you lying?”

  80.

  There’s someone here who wants to see you,” said Celeste’s mother.

  Celeste looked up from the couch where she was sitting with the boys on either side of her, watching cartoons. She didn’t want to move from her position. The boys were comforting, warm, heavy weights against her body.

  She didn’t know what the children were thinking. They’d cried when she’d told them about their father, but she wondered if they were crying because Perry had promised to take them fishing at the rock pool this morning and now that wasn’t happening. She suspected that right now their little minds were as blank and stunned as hers and that the bright flickering colors of the cartoon characters were the only thing that felt real.

  “It’s not another journalist, is it?” she said.

  “Her name is Bonnie,” said her mother. “She says she’s one of the school mums and she’d just like to talk to you for a few minutes. She says it’s important. She brought this.” Her mother lifted a casserole dish. “She says it’s a vegetarian lasagna.” Her mother lifted an eyebrow to indicate her opinion of a vegetarian lasagna.

  Celeste stood, gently lifting the boys and letting them fall on their sides on the couch. They made little murmurs of protest but didn’t move their eyes from the television.

  Bonnie was waiting for her in the living room, standing very still, looking out to the ocean with her long blond plait falling down the center of her yoga-straight back. Celeste stood in the doorway and watched her for a moment. This was the woman responsible for her husband’s death.

  Bonnie turned slowly and smiled sadly. “Celeste.”

  You couldn’t imagine this placid, luminous-skinned woman screaming, “We see! We fucking see!” You couldn’t imagine her swearing.

  “Thank you for the lasagna,” said Celeste, meaning it. She knew that soon her house would be filled with Perry’s grieving family members.

  “Well, that’s the least . . .” An expression of pure anguish momentarily distorted Bonnie’s tranquil face. “The word ‘sorry’ is hardly adequate for my actions, but I needed to come here to say it.”

  “It was an accident,” said Celeste faintly. “You didn’t mean for him to fall.”

  “Your little boys,” said Bonnie. “How are they . . . ?”

  “I don’t think they really understand anything yet,” said Celeste.

  “No,” said Bonnie. “They wouldn’t.” She breathed out a long, slow, deliberate breath through her mouth as if she were demonstrating yogic breathing.

  “I’m going to the police now,” said Bonnie. “I’m going to make a statement and tell them exactly how it happened. You don’t need to lie for me.”

  “I already told them last night I didn’t see—”

  Bonnie held up her hand. “They’ll be back again for a proper witness statement. This time just tell them the truth.” She took another long, slow breath. “I was going to lie. I’ve had a lot of practice, you see. I’m a good liar. When I was growing up I lied all the time. To the police. To social workers. I had to keep big secrets. I even let a journalist interview me this morning, and I was fine, but then, I don’t know. I went to pick up my little girl from my mother’s place, and when I walked in the front door, I remembered the last time I saw my father hit my mother. I was twenty. A grown-up. I’d gone home for a visit, and it started. Mum did something. I don’t remember what. She didn’t put enough tomato sauce on his plate. She laughed the wrong way.” Bonnie looked directly at Celeste. “You know.”

  “I know,” said Celeste hoarsely. She put her hand on the couch where Perry had once held her head.

  “You know what I did? I ran to my old bedroom and I hid under the bed.” Bonnie gave a little bitter laugh of disbelief. “Because that’s what my sister and I always did. I didn’t even think. I just ran. And I lay there on my stomach, my heart pounding, looking at that old green shag carpet, waiting for it to be over, and then all of a sudden I thought, ‘My God, what am I doing? I’m a grown woman hiding under the bed.’ So I got out, and I called the police.”

  Bonnie pulled her plait over her shoulder and readjusted the elastic at the end. “I don’t hide under the bed anymore. I don’t keep secrets, and I don’t want people to keep secrets for me.”

  She pushed her plait back over her shoulder. “Anyway, the truth is bound to come out. Madeline and Renata will be able to lie to the police. But definitely not Ed. And not Jane. And probably not even my poor hopeless husband. Nathan will probably be the worst of the lot.”

  “I would have lied for you,” said Celeste. “I can lie.”

  “I know you can.” Bonnie’s eyes were bright. “I think you’re probably very good at it too.”

  She stepped forward and put her hand on Celeste’s arm. “But you can stop now.”

  81.

  Bonnie is telling the truth.

  It was a text message from Celeste.

  Madeline fumbled the phone as she dialed Ed’s number. It suddenly seemed as though the future of her marriage depended on her reaching him before he went in for his interview.

  The phone rang and rang. It was too late.

  “What is it?” His voice was curt.

  Relief flooded her. “Where are you?”

  “I’ve just parked the car. I’m about to go into the police station.”

  “Bonnie is confessing,” said Madeline. “You don’t need to lie for her.”

  There was silence.

  “Ed?” she said. “Did you hear me? You can tell them exactly what you saw. You can tell them the truth.”

  It sounded like he was crying. He never cried.

  “You shouldn’t have asked that of me,” he said roughly. “That was too much to ask of me. That was for him. You were asking me to do that for your ex-bloody-husband.”

  “I know,” said Madeline. She was crying now too. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “I was going to do it.”

  No, you weren’t, my darling, she thought as she brushed away her tears with the back of her hand. No, you weren’t.

  Dear Ziggy,

  I don’t know if you remember this, but last year at kindergarten orientation day I was not very nice to you. I believed that you had hurt my daughter and I now know this was not true. I hope you will forgive me and I hope that your mum will forgive me too. I behaved very badly to you both and I am sorry.

  Amabella is having a going-away party before we move to London, and we would be honored if you would attend as our very special guest. The theme is Star Wars. Amabella said to bring your lightsaber.

  Yours sincerely,

  Renata Klein (Amabella’s mum)

  82.

  Four Weeks After the Trivia Night

  Has she tried to speak to you?” said Jane to Tom. “That journalist who is interviewing everyone?”

  It was midmorning on a beautiful winter day. They stood together on the boardwalk outside Blue Blues. A woman sat at a table near the window, frowning as she transcribed notes onto her laptop from a Dictaphone attached to her ear by a single earplug.

  “Sarah?” said Tom. “Yeah. I just give her free muffins and tell her I’ve got nothing to say. I’m hoping she’ll mention the muffins in her story.”

  “She’s been interviewing people since the morning after the trivia night,” said Jane. “Ed thinks she’s trying to get a book deal. Apparently even Bonnie spoke to her before she was charged. She must have reams of stuff.”

  Tom waved to the journalist, and she waved back, lifting her coffee in a salute.

  “Let’s go,” said Tom.

  They were taking some sandwiches around to the headland for an early lunch. Jane’s sling for her broken collarbone had come off yesterday. The doctor had told her she could start doing some gentle exercise.


  “Are you sure Maggie can handle the café?” asked Jane, referring to Tom’s only part-time employee.

  “Sure. Her coffee is better than mine,” said Tom.

  “No, it’s not,” said Jane loyally.

  They walked up the stairs where Jane used to meet Celeste for their walks after school drop-off. She thought of Celeste hurrying to meet her, flustered and worried because she was late again, oblivious to a middle-aged jogger who had nearly run into a tree trying to get a second look at her.

  She had barely seen Celeste since the funeral.

  The worst part of the funeral had been those little boys, with their blond hair slicked to the side, their good white dress shirts and little black pants, their serious faces. There was the letter that Max had written to his father and placed on top of the coffin. “Daddy” in uneven scrawling letters with a picture of two stick figures.

  The school had tried to support the parents of the kindergarten class as they decided whether or not to send their children to the funeral. An e-mail had gone out with helpful links to articles written by psychologists: “Should I Let My Child Attend a Funeral?”

  The parents who didn’t let their children go were hopeful that those kids who did attend would have nightmares and be just a little bit scarred for life, at least enough to affect their university entrance results. The parents who did let their children go were hopeful their kids would have learned valuable lessons about the circle of life and supporting friends in their hour of need and would probably be more “resilient,” which would stand them well in their teenage years, making them less likely to commit suicide or become drug addicts.

  Jane had let Ziggy go because he wanted to go, and also because it was his father’s funeral, even though he didn’t know it, and there would be no second chance to let him attend his father’s funeral.

  Would she tell him one day? Do you remember when you were little you went to your first funeral? But he would try to attach some sort of meaning to it. He would look for something that Jane finally understood wasn’t there. For the last five years she’d been searching fruitlessly for meaning in a drunken nasty act of infidelity, and there was no meaning.

  The church had been packed with Perry’s grief-stricken family. Perry’s sister (Ziggy’s aunt, Jane had told herself as she sat in the back of the church with the other school parents who didn’t really know Perry) had put together a little movie to commemorate Perry’s life. It was so professionally done, it felt like a real movie, and it had the effect of making Perry’s life seem more vibrant, rich and substantial than the lives currently being lived by the congregation. There were crisp, clear photos of him as a fair-haired chubby baby, a plump little boy, a suddenly handsome teenager, a gorgeous groom kissing his gorgeous wife, a proud new father of twins with a baby in each arm. There were video clips of him rap-dancing with the twins, blowing out candles, skiing with the boys between his legs.

  The sound track was beautiful and perfectly synchronized for maximum emotional impact, so that by the end even school parents who barely knew Perry were sobbing violently, and one man accidentally clapped.

  Ever since the funeral, Jane kept remembering that movie. It seemed irrefutable evidence that Perry was a good man. A good husband and father. Her memories of him in the hotel room and on the balcony—the casual violence with which he’d treated Celeste—felt flimsy and unlikely. The man with two little boys on his knees, laughing in slow motion at someone off-camera, could not possibly have done those things.

  Forcing herself to remember what she knew to be true about Perry seemed pointless and pedantic, almost maliciously so. It was better manners to remember that nice movie.

  Jane hadn’t seen Celeste cry at the funeral. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, but Jane hadn’t seen her cry. She looked like she was clenching her teeth, like she was waiting something out, for some awful pain to pass. The only time it looked like she might have broken down into tears was when Jane had seen her outside the church, comforting a tall, good-looking man who could barely walk he seemed so weighed down by his grief.

  Jane thought she heard Celeste say, “Oh, Saxon,” as she took his arm, but perhaps that was her mind playing tricks on her.

  “Are you going to speak to her?” asked Tom as they reached the top of the stairs.

  “To Celeste?” said Jane. They hadn’t spoken, or at least not properly. Celeste’s mother was staying with her, helping her with the boys, and Jane knew that Perry’s family was also taking up a lot of her time. Jane felt as though she and Celeste would never talk about Perry. On one hand there was far too much to say, and on the other, there was nothing. Madeline said that Celeste was moving to an apartment in McMahons Point. The big beautiful house was going on the market.

  “Not Celeste.” Tom gave her an odd look. “To that journalist.”

  “Oh,” said Jane. “God, no. No, I haven’t. I won’t. Ed said I should say no thank you when she calls in a firm, polite voice and hang up fast, the same way you do with a telemarketer. He said people get this strange idea that they have to talk to journalists, and of course you don’t. They’re not like the police.”

  She had no desire to talk to the journalist. Too many secrets. Just thinking about the policeman interviewing her in the hospital made her feel breathless. Thank God Bonnie had decided to confess.

  “Are you feeling OK?” Tom stopped and put his hand on her arm. “I’m not walking too fast?”

  “I’m fine. Just out of condition.”

  “We’ll get you back to your normal athletic self.”

  She flicked his chest with her fingertip. “Shut up.”

  He smiled. She couldn’t see his eyes because he was wearing sunglasses.

  What were they now? Very dear friends who were more like siblings? Flirty friends who knew they would never take it any further? She honestly couldn’t tell. Their attraction at the trivia night had been like a tiny perfect blossom that needed tender nurturing, or at least a drunken first kiss up against a wall in the school car park. But then everything that happened, happened. Their little seedling got stomped on by a big, black boot: death and blood and broken bones and police and a story she hadn’t yet told him about Ziggy’s father. They couldn’t seem to get back on track now. Their rhythm was all off.

  Last week they’d been out together on a date-like night to the movies and dinner. It had been perfectly nice, perfectly comfortable. They were already such good friends from all the hours they’d talked when she worked in Blue Blues. But nothing had happened. They hadn’t even gotten close.

  It appeared that Tom and Jane were destined for friendship. It was mildly disappointing, but not devastating. Friends could last a lifetime. The statistics were better than for relationships.

  This morning she’d gotten a text from her friend’s cousin, asking if she wanted to get together for that drink. She’d texted back Yes please.

  They walked to the park bench with the plaque dedicating it to VICTOR BERG, WHO LOVED TO WALK AROUND THIS HEADLAND. Those we love don’t go away, they sit beside us every day. It always made Jane think of Poppy, who was born the same year as Victor.

  “How’s Ziggy?” asked Tom as they sat down and went to open their sandwiches.

  “He’s good,” said Jane. She looked out at the expanse of blue. “Great.”

  Ziggy had made friends with a new boy at school who had just moved back to Australia after living in Singapore for two years. Ziggy and Lucas were suddenly inseparable. Lucas’s parents, a couple in their forties, had invited Jane and Ziggy over for dinner. There were plans to set Jane up with Lucas’s uncle.

  Tom suddenly put his hand on Jane’s arm. “Oh my God.”

  “What?” said Jane. He was looking out to sea as if he’d seen something.

  “I think I’m getting a message.” He put a finger to his temple. “Yes! Yes, I am. It’s from Victor!”

  “Victor?”

  “Victor Berg, who loved to walk around this headland!” said Tom impatientl
y. He jabbed a finger at the plaque. “Vic, mate, what is it?”

  “God, you’re a dork,” said Jane affectionately.

  Tom looked at Jane. “Vic says if I don’t hurry up and kiss this girl, I’m a bloody fool.”

  “Oh!” said Jane. She felt a rush of goose bumps. Her stomach lurched with elation as if she’d won a prize. She’d been trying to comfort herself with little lies. My God, of course she’d been disappointed that nothing was happening. She’d been so, so disappointed. “Really? Is that what he’s—”

  But he was already kissing her, one hand on the side of her face, the other removing the sandwich from her lap and putting it on the seat next to him, and it turned out that little seedling hadn’t been crushed after all, and that first kisses didn’t necessarily require darkness and alcohol, they could happen in the open air, with the sun warm on your face and everything around you honest and real and true and thank God she hadn’t been chewing gum because she would have to have swallowed it quick-smart and she might have missed the fact that Tom tasted exactly the way she always suspected he’d taste: of cinnamon sugar and coffee and the sea.

  “I was worried we were destined for friendship,” she said when they came up for air.

  Tom brushed a lock of hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. “Are you kidding? Besides, I’ve got enough friends.”

  83.

  Samantha: So we’re done then? You’ve got everything you need? Quite a saga, eh? We’re all back to normal now, except all us parents are being extremely nice to one another. It’s kind of hilarious.

  Gabrielle: They’ve canceled the spring ball. We’re sticking to cake stalls now. Just what I need. I’ve put on five kilos from the stress of all this.

  Thea: Renata is moving to London. The marriage is kaput. I would have tried harder myself, but that’s just me. I can’t help myself, I just have to put my children first.

  Harper: Naturally, we’ll be visiting Renata in London next year! Once she’s settled, of course. She says it might take a while. Yes, I am giving Graeme a second chance. One trashy little nanny isn’t going to destroy my marriage. Don’t worry. He’s paying. Not just with his cracked ribs. We’re all off to see The Lion King tonight.

  Stu: The biggest mystery is this: Why didn’t that French bird ever make a move on me?

  Jonathan: She actually did make a move on me but that’s off the record.

  Miss Barnes: I have no idea what happened to the petition. No one spoke of it again after the trivia night. We’re all looking forward to a new term and a fresh start. I thought we might do a special unit on conflict resolution. It seems appropriate.

  Jackie: Hopefully the kids can be left alone now to learn to read and write.

  Mrs. Lipmann: I think perhaps we’ve all learned to be a little kinder to one another. And to document everything. Everything.

  Carol: So apparently Madeline’s book club didn’t actually have anything to do with erotic fiction at all! It was all a joke! Such prudes they turned out to be! But funnily enough, just yesterday, a friend from church mentioned she belonged to a Christian Erotic Fiction Club. I’m already three chapters into our first book, and I won’t lie, it’s quite fun and really rather, well, what’s the word? Spicy!

  Detective-Sergeant Adrian Quinlan: I thought it was the wife, to be honest. All my instincts were telling me it was the wife. I would have put money on it. Goes to show you can’t always trust your instincts. So there you go. That’s it. You must have all you need by now, right? You’re turning that off? Because I was wondering, I don’t know if this is appropriate, but I wondered if you fancied a dri—

  84.

  A Year After the Trivia Night