Good Little Liars

by Sarah Clutton

  The sound of a car door slamming outside the bedroom window jolted Emma from her dream. She scrambled out of bed and saw Marlee getting out of the car, dressed in tight black jeans and an elegant knee-length green coat.

  She looked at the bedside clock. It was five-thirty! Why hadn’t they woken her? She pulled off yesterday’s clothes and flicked through the closet, pulling out a pink woollen top and teaming it with a clean pair of beige chinos. She pulled the hairbrush through her hair, put on a splash of pink lipstick and stumbled down the hallway and into the kitchen. Phillip was leaning down into the oven checking the potatoes. She felt her stomach do a sick little flip, in the same kind of way it used to do before her school drama performances.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ said her dad. He looked up from his chopping board at the table, a carrot in his hand.

  ‘Hi, Dad. I must have slept all afternoon. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s alright, pet. Phillip said you were still feeling off colour. Better now?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Phillip kept his back to her as he rustled in the utensil drawer. Then Rosie bounced into the kitchen and gave her a hug. ‘Mum, Grandma says to get the good wine glasses because it’s a special occasion.’

  Emma smiled at her. ‘It sure is.’

  She sighed and walked into the dining room and spent the next few minutes finishing the table settings, listening as Marlee chatted to her parents-in-law who were relaxing on the couch with their customary scotch and soda in the good crystal tumblers, waiting to be served. She tried to catch Marlee’s eye, to warn her not to say anything about Phillip, but Marlee seemed engrossed in a discussion about seventeenth century art with her father-in-law.

  Throughout dinner, Emma moved the conversation along with a kind of stilted jollity, hoping that nobody would notice the strange tension in the room. So far, they had made it to dessert without a hitch.

  ‘Can you pass that to Vivien please Phillip?’ said Marlee.

  Emma watched nervously as Marlee handed the plate to Phillip. The scorn in Marlee’s eyes when she glanced at Phillip was barely concealed. Emma could have kicked herself for telling Marlee about Pia. Marlee only just tolerated Phillip at the best of times. She wasn’t sure that Marlee would be very supportive of her decision to try to make things work between them.

  Phillip passed the plate to his mother, who regarded the melting cake with undisguised disappointment and passed it across to Roger.

  ‘Thank you, dear, but I won’t have any. That lamb was wonderful by the way, Phillip. You really are a fabulous cook. Isn’t he, Emma?’ she looked across at Emma, waiting for confirmation of her son’s general excellence.

  ‘Mmmm, it was nice,’ mumbled Emma. She looked at the cake melting on her own plate and wondered why she’d thought a psychedelic supermarket ice-cream cake was a good idea when her mother-in-law was coming.

  ‘I wish your father was as handy as you in the kitchen, Phillip.’ Vivien smiled up at Phillip then looked across at Rosie who had just slurped the last of her lemonade through the straw. As Vivien watched, Rosie poked her finger into the ice-cream cake and began licking it off. Emma’s heart sank. Why couldn’t Rosie just make an effort to have good manners occasionally? Just when Vivien visited would be enough. Emma tried to think of something to say to distract her. Phillip was no help. He’d been silent all night apart from filling in his father about a new paper he was co-authoring that looked at soil microbes and crop rotation, until Rosie reminded him it was her birthday party and he was boring everyone.

  ‘After dessert you’ll have to show me all the outfits you got for your birthday, Rosie,’ said Marlee. ‘We can see what goes with the leather jacket. Then we can spend the gift card next weekend. Get some boots maybe?’

  ‘Okay, great!’ said Rosie. She launched into a description of her favourite new clothes, filling the air with words that floated around Emma’s head like dust.

  A hot tension built in her chest as Emma watched her father put down his spoon into the purple pool of melted ice-cream. She needed to get out of the room.

  ‘Phillip, could you help me clear please,’ she said. She forced a smile as she piled up the bowls from her side of the table and walked down the hall.

  In the kitchen, Emma dumped the bowls on the sink with a clatter and stood still, waiting. The sound of Phillip’s footsteps made her stomach clench.

  ‘Close the door.’ The catastrophe had to be faced. It had been the elephant in the room all night, but now the elephant had sat down squarely on top of Emma’s chest and she was struggling to breathe. She couldn’t let the charade go on another minute. Her need to confront Phillip had been tightening like a vice. She needed to hear him say he was sorry, that he still loved her, that it was a terrible, awful mistake. All night she’d forced out light conversation as if Rosie’s life depended on it, but she’d explode if she didn’t say something. Phillip closed the door with an ominous click.

  ‘How could you do it?’

  She spun to face him and he walked across and put the bowls by the sink, avoiding her eyes. The silence hung like a guillotine poised to fall.

  ‘You had an affair in our cottage! My cottage, Phillip! Sex with someone else in a part of our own home. Phil…?’

  Phillip turned his back to her and poured himself a glass of water. Then he put both hands on the kitchen bench and his shoulders slumped.

  Why wasn’t he answering her? She couldn’t remember what she was meant to say next. She’d sort of planned it in the bathroom before dinner, but now it had gone. It was something about how sick the whole scene had looked to her; how she didn’t deserve to be treated so badly; how she thought Pia was almost a friend – a lovely girl who Emma had gone out of her way to help with the endless rounds of paperwork needed for her visa extension. But Phillip didn’t look like he was up for a fight. He looked beaten.

  A picture of Emma’s mother flashed through her mind, angry and bitter. Put on your sensible shoes, girl! No point being so dramatic. He might have done something stupid, but he’s your husband.

  ‘I think we should do marriage counselling, Phillip. I thought we were okay. I thought—’

  ‘Emma, I’m sorry you had to see that.’

  Emma looked at him blankly.

  ‘You should be sorry that you did it. Not just that I saw it, Phil! I know you always want more sex than me, but getting together with the first pretty thing that bats her eyelashes at you, well, it’s just… stupid!’ Why couldn’t she find a better word when she needed it? Did he really not understand how disgusting it was?

  ‘I want a divorce, Emma. I love Pia.’

  Emma felt the words wash over her, but the meaning seemed to slip away. She sat down on the stool and put both hands on the worn timber of the old kitchen table. It was Rosie’s birthday on Monday. They’d promised to take her out for pancakes on the way to school. The new curtains had finally arrived for Phillip to hang up in their bedroom. Did he just say divorce?

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He turned to face her.

  ‘You… you can’t be serious, Phillip. You’re old enough to be her father. She doesn’t even have citizenship!’ said Emma, in a rush, as if Pia’s visa status was a crucial factor in it all.

  Phillip stared at the fridge, unmoving.

  ‘What about Rosie?’

  The door opened before he could speak and Marlee walked into the kitchen with some more dishes.

  ‘Everything okay in here?’

  An overblown balloon of silence expanded around them. Marlee looked hard at Phillip, then at Emma.

  ‘Phillip… wants a divorce,’ said Emma staring into Marlee’s glittering green eyes.

  Marlee put the dishes down carefully on the bench then closed the door. Phillip turned away and started stacking the plates. There was a long moment, in which they all seemed to focus on the scraping and clattering noises as Phillip placed dirty plates in the dishwasher.

  ‘You selfish, selfish prick, Phillip,’ hissed Marlee. Her anger
was piercing, releasing Emma from the bubble of unreality.

  ‘Stay out of it, Marlee,’ said Phillip. He slammed the door of the dishwasher.

  ‘No. I won’t! Not when it’s my goddaughter’s life you’re about to screw up.’

  ‘Get down off your high horse, Marlee,’ said Phillip.

  Marlee turned to Emma, ignoring him.

  ‘It’s late. Rosie looks tired. What about I get her to show me her outfits in her bedroom then suggest she goes to bed.’ She sounded like an annoyed parent speaking to her naughty children.

  Emma spoke. ‘I’d better come and say goodnight to her.’

  ‘You should come and say goodnight too, Phillip,’ said Marlee. ‘It’s Rosie’s party. She needs to be a priority, even if you’ve decided that your marriage isn’t one.’ Marlee’s glare landed like a javelin and Phillip seemed to deflate.

  Marlee walked up the hall leaving the door open. Emma followed her, catching the scent of her anger. It began to boil inside her too.

  They walked through to the dining room listening to the last squeaky notes of Scarborough Fair. Rosie stood with her violin in one hand and the bow in the other, making little curtsying motions, one foot behind the other. All three grandparents were clapping and smiling.

  ‘Come on, Maestro,’ said Marlee. ‘You wanted to show me some outfits, didn’t you? Let’s have a fashion parade in the bedroom. You’d better say goodnight first though. It could take a while.’

  ‘Awesome,’ said Rosie, placing the violin on the sideboard. ‘Will I come out and show you too, Mum?’

  ‘How about I we do another parade tomorrow, darling? I’ve got a bit of a headache so I might head to bed in a minute.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks for dinner and all the presents.’ Rosie walked around the table to kiss everyone before heading off to the other end of the house with Marlee.

  ‘Goodnight, darling,’ said Emma, smelling Rosie’s freshly washed hair as she leaned in to hug her. She wanted to hold on to her forever. Capture the pubescent smell of musky hormonal innocence and bottle it, before Rosie’s world came crashing down.

  Emma watched her walk down the hall and felt new anger twisting inside her gut. She sat down across from her father and her parents-in-law. Without the razzle of Marlee’s party banter or the guarantee of Phillip’s dry academic lecturing disguised as conversation, she felt alone and exposed. Her head hurt. She wasn’t up to the tennis match of loaded questions and insincere compliments Vivien would serve out. She might have been the perfect grandmother to Rosie, but she’d never thought that Emma was good enough for her gifted eldest son. Her clever prince.

  Phillip walked in to the dining room and looked from his parents across to Emma. There was a warning in his eyes.

  ‘Well, that was a nice night,’ said Roger, leaning back in his chair after refilling his wine glass.

  ‘And who’d believe our little Rosie is a teenager?’ said Vivien. She looked across to Emma’s father. ‘She’s a darling girl isn’t she, Ian?’

  ‘Emma was the same at that age,’ said her father proudly. ‘The light of our lives.’

  Emma’s heart began to crumble.

  ‘Well, she certainly takes after Phillip with her musical ability,’ said Vivien. ‘He was always so dedicated to practising the piano.’ She looked up at Phillip. ‘We’ll give you the baby grand when we move into the villa, Phillip. You really should have it here. You and Rosie could both use it then. It would fit nicely in the living room, or perhaps you’d prefer to put it in here, Emma?’ Vivien looked at Emma, expecting gratitude for her largesse; agreement that there was certainly room for the huge, ugly piano in their house, whether Emma wanted it or not.

  Emma felt her head getting hot. Her chest expanded with resentment as she watched Vivien wait for the thanks she felt was due.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be wanting the piano to be honest, Vivien. Phillip and I are getting a divorce.’ The words gave Emma a ping of satisfaction. Look Vivien, he did do the wrong thing in choosing me. You were right all along! Emma watched the shock fly across Vivien’s face.

  Phillip’s eyes widened. Then he tensed his jaw and gave a brief shake of his head as if she were a naughty child.

  ‘What? That’s ridiculous!’ said Vivien. ‘Why would you do that, Emma? You can’t do that to Rosie.’

  Both of the grandfathers remained silent, staring, open-mouthed.

  ‘Well, maybe Phillip should tell you why Rosie’s going to have to go through this,’ said Emma. Her headache ratcheted up a notch, throbbing behind her eyes.

  Phillip went to the door and closed it before he spoke. ‘Tonight isn’t the right time to discuss it, Emma.’ He had that imperious look on his face that annoyed her – as if she was just a tiny bit slow and he deserved an award for his forbearance. She tilted her head to the side and waited. Why should she be the one to feel guilty?

  He looked across to his mother.

  ‘Phillip, darling, this can’t be right,’ said Vivien.

  He shifted from one foot to the other and looked down.

  ‘Is it true, dear?’

  ‘Well… since Emma insists on raising it now… as it happens… Emma and I haven’t been getting on for some time,’ said Phillip, avoiding Emma’s stare.

  Emma felt a crack as a volcano began spitting hot grief inside her chest. The lie, the unfairness, the injustice of it. ‘What? Are you kidding me, Phillip? Are you freaking kidding me!’

  Vivien’s head jerked backwards but Emma was beyond caring. She let her rage boil over.

  ‘Tell them truthfully, Phillip, why you have decided that you don’t want to remain married to me anymore. And make sure you put in the bit where I had absolutely no idea about any of this until yesterday, and I actually thought we were getting along fine. And maybe even share the bit about how I walked in and found you having sex with our cleaner in the cottage, you selfish pig!’

  Everyone stared at Emma in slack-jawed silence. Their faces became blurry.

  ‘Keep your voice down. You’re being silly!’ hissed Phillip, ‘Do you want Rosie to hear you?’

  Emma took her voice down a notch. ‘Oh, I’m sorry for upsetting you, Phillip, by telling everyone about your sordid little affair with a girl twenty years your junior. You make me sick!’ In the ugly throes of adrenalin, Emma wanted to smack him. She stopped and looked around at the stricken faces of her father and her parents-in-law.

  ‘Dad, I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Oh pet, don’t… don’t…’ Her dad got up shakily from his chair, his face sagging.

  ‘I think I really need to go to bed. Vivien, Roger, I’m…’ Emma’s mind went blank. She turned her head away from them. ‘Sleep somewhere else, Phillip.’

  As she said it, she knew that he’d go to Pia tonight.

  Emma walked out and down the hallway. She kicked at the suitcase from Phillip’s trip to Perth that he’d promised to put up in the loft storage a week ago. It scuttled along the hall and fell over with crash onto the floorboards. Her toe flamed with pain.

  Eight

  Harriet

  Harriet watched the baggage circulate on the carousel and wondered why people crowded so closely together in a huddle around the machine, when it was perfectly easy to identify when your bag was coming out from the seating area. It was then a simple matter of standing to collect it at the end, thereby obviating the need for an unpleasant scrummage with the rest of humanity.

  She sat down on the bench – an enormous rugged length of lacquered timber showing off the natural terrain of the tree’s delicate edges. One more giant felled from a Tasmanian old-growth forest, she thought dismally. She sighed. She’d been in a bad mood all week, ever since Clementine had announced her arrival date and Ben had refused to move out of their granny flat to accommodate her. He seemed to think that it was reasonable that Clementine could stay in the main house with Harriet, and he would stay out in the garden flat until they sold the house. She couldn’t decide if it was the unusual way that
he refused to capitulate to her demands, or the fact that she was going to have to live in close quarters with Clementine and her mess that was making her more irritable. It would have been much more pleasant having Ben in the spare room than having Clementine. At least he was tidy and out of the house most of the time. What exactly he had been doing with his newly busy social life she wasn’t sure, but she’d noticed the absence of his car a lot in the preceding weeks. The fact that she found herself so interested in his comings and goings irritated her. She still loved him, but she wasn’t about to beg him to return. He probably just needed to ‘find himself’. His mid-life crisis was right on time, and if she was honest, she probably should have seen it coming. Should have taken measures to avert it. Bought him a sports car or something.

  Harriet took out her phone and clicked onto her calendar, wondering exactly what she might have to move around in her diary to accommodate Clementine in the next few days if she wanted to spend some time catching up. A lot. She put the phone back in her handbag and snapped it shut.

  Harriet watched the passengers starting to come into the arrivals hall, hopefully from Clementine’s domestic transfer from Melbourne. She stood up, a small flutter of anticipation surprising her. She hadn’t seen Clementine for nearly two years, since they’d met in New York for Clem’s fortieth birthday weekend.

  The crowd thinned as suitcases were plucked off the carousel and Harriet scanned the remaining travellers for Clementine’s small blond frame. A woman with baggy pants and chunky lace-up boots was running her fingers through her spiky, dark hair and staring at a quarantine officer. His little beagle was jumping on and off the carousel, sniffing at bags for contraband fruit and other items. The woman’s pants had a strange crotch that appeared to hang all the way down to the knees. A most peculiar ensemble. Suddenly the beagle jumped on top of one of the suitcases and began sniffing madly and riding it around the carousel. The handler gave it a treat from his pocket and pulled the bag off, landing it next to the woman’s feet. She turned to move out of the way then caught Harriet’s eye and smiled. With a start, Harriet realised it was Clementine. She had ruined her beautiful blond hair. Without her wispy bohemian style, Clementine looked like a different person. Harriet suppressed any obvious sign of disapproval. It would make Clementine far too happy.