Good Little Liars

by Sarah Clutton

  Good Little Liars

  A gripping, emotional page-turner with a breathtaking twist

  Sarah Clutton

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Emma

  2. Harriet

  3. Marlee

  4. Emma

  5. Harriet

  6. Marlee

  7. Emma

  8. Harriet

  9. Marlee

  10. Emma

  11. Marlee

  12. Emma

  13. Marlee

  14. Harriet

  15. Emma

  16. Emma

  17. Harriet

  18. Marlee

  19. Emma

  20. Emma

  21. Marlee

  22. Harriet

  23. Marlee

  24. Harriet

  25. Marlee

  26. Marleen

  27. Emma

  28. Harriet

  29. Emma

  30. Marlee

  31. Harriet

  32. Marleen

  33. Harriet

  34. Harriet

  35. Harriet

  36. Harriet

  37. Emma

  38. Marlee

  39. Marlee

  Twenty Months Later

  Hear More from Sarah

  A Letter from Sarah

  Acknowledgements

  For Justin. For everything.

  Prologue

  The photograph tumbled across the grass, blown by a short, cool gust of November wind. It slowed for a moment and the girl in the image was flipped onto her face. Across the other side of the oval, behind the old camellia hedge near the north gate, the girl herself lay equally still. Her school uniform had been lifted, well above regulation length, by the playful bend in her left leg. Where her upper body had taken the blow, bone had sheared the fragile nerves of her spinal cord, leaving her neck thrust sideways. Her nose had bled only briefly, the blood trickling like a single tear-drop into the curve of her lip. A shadow loomed over the trench in which she lay. After a moment, it disappeared and all was still again.

  The photograph didn’t stop moving though. It flipped again as another gust caught the blades of grass, making the girl’s image skitter and dance towards the gum trees at the far end of the oval. Inside the hollow of a fallen branch, a tiny pair of marsupial eyes watched as the photograph approached. The branch stretched out like a gnarled road block at the forest edge, and as the wind whipped up again, the girl flew face-first towards it. She was naked in the photograph, and her pert breasts slammed briefly against the smooth wood before she slipped down and fell backwards. A tiny smile played across her lips and her eyes, heavy with promise, stared up at the canopy. Then, with one more small whisper of wind she was tossed into the dark embrace of the forest.

  One

  Emma

  March 2018

  There were three distractions that caused the email catastrophe that morning. Unremarkable, ordinary office happenings – only to be expected while sipping coffee and settling into her Friday. But nothing unusual. Nothing that could completely explain the lapse in concentration.

  It was only later that week when Emma heard the scientist on the radio talking about the myth of multi-tasking, that she had her answer. Small, insignificant tasks happening at once couldn’t be processed simultaneously. They needed her brain to alternate quickly from one thing to the other, then back again. Three small tasks needing quick flicks of attention – the phone ringing just as she remembered she still hadn’t booked the dishwasher repairman, which happened at the same time as a junior girl came into the office holding up a coat for lost property.

  Three small distractions that each demanded the same response. Finish the personal email and get back to work. There was a momentary hesitation as she looked at the email – something grating at the edge of her brain as she pressed ‘send’ – but her neurotransmitters were on a furious collision course as they changed between tasks and hadn’t got the processing order right. The fear though, as she lifted her finger from the mouse was instant.

  ‘No!’

  A terrible plummeting knowledge. An immediate, that-can’t-have-just-happened shock. Emma stood up with a jerk. Her office chair rolled back and crashed into the wall.

  ‘No!’

  She reached down for her mouse and clicked into her sent emails box. The office receded into one black line of text as the oxygen slipped from the room. Hot panic rose in blotchy red patches up her neck as the implications of the email thudded sickly around in her head. It wasn’t possible that she’d just emailed those words to the whole group. It just wasn’t possible.

  When her breath returned it came in short bursts. There were more than fifty people on the list. All over the world. How had she accidentally pressed ‘reply all’? She never replied all on large group emails. Only really confident people or self-important idiots did that.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. Please God – you can’t do this to me!’

  ‘I don’t think it works like that.’ Lena appeared from the back office, stolid as a brick wall, her brow furrowed. ‘What’s happened, Emma? You’ll give old Moira a heart attack if she comes in and hears that sort of talk to the heavenly father.’

  ‘Oh shivers, sorry.’ Emma looked back at the photo on her computer screen – the gaudy taffeta, the big hair, the guarded, hopeful smiles. Every one of her 1993 graduating class now seemed to be staring out at her accusingly. Her stomach plummeted further. ‘I mean, umm, I’m really sorry Lena. I, err…’ She half turned, fumbling blindly for her chair and sank down. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Lena dumped her pile of papers on Emma’s desk and picked up the waste paper bin in the corner of the room, efficient and purposeful. She held it out. ‘Here. Or head to the loos.’

  Emma ignored the bin and put her head in her hands. When she un-scrunched her eyes, she noticed Lena’s blue lace-up leather walking shoes were topped with garish mustard-coloured socks. Her trousers sat a centimetre too high above her ankles in a practical declaration of Lena’s indifference to fashion. Why couldn’t Emma be sensible like her? Do her work, go home and walk the dogs, knit squares for charity blankets. Live a sort of life where group email fiascos were as unlikely as the Queen coming to tea.

  ‘Sorry but I’m going to have to go home for a bit. Something’s… come up.’ She stood and picked up her phone off the desk and slid it into her handbag.

  Lena tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. ‘Emma, of course you should go if you feel sick but… what’s happened?’

  ‘I – It’s just a personal thing. Sorry.’ Emma brought both her hands to her mouth to mute the scream that was threatening to escape, then she pulled them down and squeezed two tight fists at her sides. ‘I’ve finished the stationery orders and sent the parent email about the Gala Ball. There isn’t anything else I needed to do urgently. I’ll come back in this afternoon or… make the time up later in the week. Sorry Lena. I…’

  Emma looked across at her computer and imagined the responses pinging into her inbox. What would they say? She barely knew most of those girls now. Every year since graduation had removed her a little further from the group. Now, twenty-five years on, there was only the brittle knowledge that she’d never really been like them. Not smart enough or talented enough. Not from the right sort of family – her lack of breeding displayed so obviously in the width of her ankles, her pouchy, undefined knees, her plain face. To make matters worse here she was, now employed at their old school, her staff position a confirmation of where she had really always belonged. A supporting role to their leading ladies – their girls who wandered the park-like grounds of Denham House School in graceful, tittering gaggles.

  ‘I’ll call you later.’ Emma
grabbed her handbag and stumbled outside and down the steps, brushing against the sign on the garden path that announced Denham House School Administration Office. She took the quickest path to the staff carpark, through the Wentworth Gardens and over the Great Lawn that sank like lush green carpet as she hurried across. The head gardener had a fetish for perfect blades of grass and the sprinklers were like a constant, guilty presence when everything was so dry.

  Emma’s hand shook as she unlocked her car. She just needed to get home. Phillip would be completely sensible. He was good in a crisis. He’d know what to say. Nobody died. Pull yourself together. What’s the worst that can happen? Probably a lot since she’d inferred in the email that she knew something in connection with Tessa’s death.

  As Emma pulled out of the carpark her phone began buzzing on the passenger seat. She looked down at the lit screen and relief washed over her. Marlee. Emma pulled over and took the call, balancing the phone on her lap and putting it on speaker.

  ‘Please don’t say anything awful. If I was near a cliff, I might be really close to jumping off.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Marlee.

  Emma cringed with fresh horror. ‘Oh my goodness, I’m such an idiot! What have I done?’

  ‘Call it marketing. It’ll make the reunion a much hotter ticket now. We might even get Helena and her handbag dogs back from New York if we’re really lucky.’

  ‘Oh Marl, be serious! Did it look like I was saying I knew what happened to Tessa? Will everyone guess what I was talking about?’

  ‘Em, stop. It was twenty-five years ago. Nobody gives a toss anymore.’

  ‘Of course they do.’ Emma felt a mild burst of irritation. ‘If someone sends it on, I could lose my job!’

  ‘Would you stop torturing yourself? It’s bad for your metabolism.’

  ‘What? I’m not torturing myself… it was just the Year Twelve photo of everyone Selina sent. I was thinking about Tessa and it brought it all back. Now they’ll all think I’m a fruitcake.’ Emma balanced the phone between her legs, speaker up, and pulled back onto the road.

  ‘Well, you’re a very nice fruitcake. And anyway, the only bit about the email they’ll remember is that you don’t want sex with Phillip because he picks his toenails and flicks the dead bits onto the carpet.’

  ‘Oh shit. I can’t believe I said that.’ Thirty of those women might as well be strangers it was so long since she’d seen them. Now they were laughing about her most private thoughts.

  ‘I love it when you swear. Haven’t heard you swear like that since you were pushing Rosie out. Go you!’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Well the toenail thing’s disgusting. I’m not surprised you haven’t had sex for months. It was funny.’

  ‘Glad you think so,’ said Emma, staring bleakly at the wash of autumn colour as she reached the edge of the city and the trees began to thicken. She jumped as a car tooted her from behind, then she stamped on the accelerator to start through the light which must have turned green a while ago.

  ‘Em, really, it’ll all be fine.’

  Emma felt the pounding of her heart recede as she changed lanes and concentrated on the traffic on the bridge. The truck in front was blowing palls of black smoke that thinned and spread into the blue sky above the Tasman Bridge. She imagined the soot particles floating down onto the pristine waters of the Derwent River below and felt a strange urge to cry.

  ‘What if someone shows that email to Dr Brownley? What if people forward it on?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Em. Brownley’s too busy running the school to worry about something that happened when we were kids. How did you manage to press “reply all” anyway?’

  ‘I was distracted,’ said Emma. ‘I’m not checking my email for a week. I can’t bear to think about it.’ She tried to ignore the sick throbbing in her head as the truck pulled off to the left at the end of the bridge, giving out one more juddering thick plume of smoke. She flicked on the recycled air button, then reached into the middle compartment of the car and dug out an old packet of mints. The top one was dusty and had something suspiciously like BluTack stuck to it. Today could be the day she cleaned the car. She’d been meaning to do it for months.

  ‘Good idea not to check your email,’ said Marlee. ‘And if you’re tempted just get Rosie to check for you. But she should only tell you about the nice replies.’

  ‘Are you kidding? I’m not letting her near that email! Parents and sex in the same sentence? She’d die of shame.’

  ‘Mmmm. Maybe ask Phillip then, although I’m not sure that school gossip is really his bag. And he might have a problem with the toenail thing.’

  ‘Well that, and the fact that I’d have to do a naked jig to get Phil away from his own computer this week. He’s trying to finish the paper he’s giving at the World Soil Conference. Submission day looms.’

  ‘He’s such a barrel of fun, your fella.’

  ‘Oh, Marl. Leave him alone.’ Emma felt a heaviness descend as she thought about Phillip and his constant, distracted grumpiness.

  ‘Well, go and get the cottage ready for your next guests or something. Do not check your email. I’ll come over tomorrow night early and do it for you, okay? And tell me what I can bring. Salad?’

  ‘No, don’t bring anything. Rosie’s asked for roast lamb, so I’ll just do veggies. I’d better go. Talk to you later.’ Emma fumbled with the phone as she disconnected, then she unwrapped the top of the mint packet with her teeth and threw the dirty one into the side pocket of the car door. The next one looked perfect. She squeezed it into her mouth as she took the Cambridge exit off the highway. She looked across at the dry grey-brown paddocks dotted with dirty sheep and wondered if the brief bit of rain yesterday would make a difference to the garden. She needed to water the pots. There was plenty she could do around the garden to stop herself from checking the computer. Maybe the car cleaning could wait.

  Emma pulled into their driveway and parked next to the huge jumbled stack of firewood that had been delivered yesterday by weird Wesley, pleased she’d been out when he came. It saved her from hiding in the study to avoid a freaky conversation about the roadkill he collected and buried at his farm to see how fast it would decompose and make his plants grow. Although if she’d been here, she might have convinced him to dump it closer to the shed. She was the one who’d have to stack it. Phillip wouldn’t have time, despite being the one who had pushed for them to move out of the city to be closer to nature.

  She’d been reluctant to leave the centre of Hobart, but when Phillip had found the gorgeous old timber farmhouse with its high ceilings and picture windows looking out across the endless paddocks, it had entranced them both. It needed a little work, but he had convinced her that they would enjoy the challenge and Phillip was thrilled to have his work life right at the back door. As an environmental scientist studying the effect of microorganisms in different kinds of soil, Phillip was able to set up large-scale experiments and now had three huge greenhouses behind the sheds. She still missed the convenience of living in the city, but over the last year had thrown herself into renovating a small guest cottage that had come with the house, and renting it out to tourists. She glanced across the paddock. Outside the cottage she could see Pia’s old white hatchback. Maybe it was good that she was home early. They could clean the cottage together. Another good distraction. Pia’s earnest Germanic nature hid a wicked sense of humour and she was glad Phillip had suggested her for the cleaning job. Some of his other PhD students sounded incredibly boring, but Pia was fun. She would cheer Emma up.

  Inside the house, Emma called out to Phillip as she neared the office, but everything was quiet except for the comforting churn of the clothes dryer. Maybe he was in one of the greenhouses.

  She changed into her cleaning clothes and headed outside, walking quickly across the paddock. She cringed as the email rolled around and around in her head. Silly woman. Silly, hopeless person. What a stupid thing to do.

  At the do
or of the guest cottage, Emma took off her gumboots and opened the door into the kitchen. The only sound was the buzzing of a lone fly, bashing itself repeatedly against the kitchen window in a mad tapping frenzy. Pia must still be doing the bathroom or the beds.

  Emma padded through the newly carpeted lounge room. As she reached the hall a murmuring sound made her look up. She felt a flicker of confusion at the sight in front of her. It was Pia, framed by a doorway at the end of the hall, with her back turned. Her bottom glared at Emma – two full white moons cratered with cellulite, split in two by a tiny strip of black lace. She was otherwise naked. Emma’s confusion gave way to a sharp cringe of embarrassment – the poor girl was obviously in the middle of getting changed! But why was she changing her clothes in the cottage?

  The startled, bird-like chirp that escaped through Emma’s lips surprised them both.

  Emma’s hands flew to her mouth as Pia swivelled around and shot her a look of pure alarm. She ducked down to the floor and bent forward, grappling to cover her huge breasts. Crouched over her knees, with her G-string rising up from between her bum cheeks, Pia looked like a terrified white rhino caught in the sight of a hunter’s rifle.

  ‘Emma!’

  It was Phillip’s voice. Behind Pia he stood frozen, stark naked, with a huge, quivering erection.