She still felt helpless and trapped, no matter what actions she took in her increasingly desperate attempts to make the pain stop. She knew her memories did not fade like other people’s seemed to fade and she accepted that, but she didn’t get why the pain intensified the older she got and the further away she got from those times.
“Me too,” said the guy next to her. “Is your mother on her own?”
“Yes,” said the girl. She knew what he meant, but she thought, We’re all on our own. Even when you’re surrounded by people or sharing a bed with a loving lover, you’re alone.
A friendly neighbor might have called in to check on her mother after a week or two or three had passed, although if you required the concern of friendly neighbors, it helped to be a friendly neighbor yourself.
So maybe not.
Or perhaps her mother was in bed right now, peacefully unwrapping her last delicious, nutritious protein bar, sipping from her last bottle of water, floating away on a choppy endless sea of television, just as her spoiled daughter once did when she slipped free of the cruel hunger pains and into other realities and other lives.
Perhaps her mother had created a sitcom version of herself.
The girl imagined a plump, smiling version of her mother bustling to greet her, wiping her hands on her apron, pulling her close. “I woke up that morning and had a good old laugh! You locked me in, you little minx!”
Perhaps the house would smell of sugar and butter and love.
Perhaps it would not.
“My mother and I are going to isolate together,” said the guy. “She has autoimmune issues, so she has to be careful. It’s scary.”
“Yes,” said the girl. “So scary.” She touched the key around her neck. “We have to keep our parents locked up right now.”
A demented laugh rose in her chest and caught in the air between her mouth and her mask. She breathed fabric in and out and thought of a plastic bag pulled tight around her head. Her seatmate didn’t notice. He didn’t know the truth about the girl seated next to him, sharing his exit-row responsibilities. Masks were so great. So useful and protective. Nobody knew what went on behind them. She could be any type of person she chose to be, any type of person he needed her to be.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Cabin crew, please prepare for takeoff.”
She pulled her seatbelt tighter, the way a nervous flyer does, and she felt him notice and she felt him care, the way nice, well-brought-up boys care about fragile, frightened girls. He needed fragility. She could give him fragility. She wasn’t dressed right—girl next door would have been better—but it was all in your delivery.
The engines roared. That moment before takeoff always seemed impossible. Against the laws of nature. But things happened all the time that were seemingly against the laws of nature.
The plane lifted into the sky.
The girl looked down at the patchwork quilt of suburbia below: miniature houses with tiny backyards and swimming pools, matchbox cars traveling along winding streets past sportsgrounds and tennis courts.
From here above the clouds, life looked so peaceful and manageable: Jump in your matchbox car and drive to that cute little city to earn your living! Go to those dear little shops and buy your dinner! Love and feed your children! Follow your dreams and pay your taxes! Why was it so impossibly hard for some people to do those things, yet so easy for others?
Her seatmate was describing his mother. “She’s a homebody. Not exactly active.”
“My mother is the opposite,” said the girl.
She saw a woman who looked just like her, running her a bath, checking the temperature with her hand, sloshing the water back and forth to get it just right. She saw her standing at her bedroom door late at night with an extra blanket because it had “suddenly got so chilly.” She saw her pulling a dress off a rack that was “just her color” and then clapping her hands with delight when she walked out of the changing room. She saw a woman furiously scolding her for her behavior, but then moving on, as if it was possible for even the most terrible of actions to be forgiven.
The girl said, “My mother plays tennis.”
Acknowledgments
Thank you as always to my incredible editors of many years: Cate Paterson in Australia, Amy Einhorn in the US, and Maxine Hitchcock in the UK. Thank you also to Danielle Walker, Brianne Collins, Kathleen Cook, Conor Mintzer, Joel Richardson, and Alex Lloyd for your invaluable editorial comments and suggestions.
Thank you to my sisters and fellow authors Jaclyn Moriarty and Nicola Moriarty for reading the very first draft of this book and my sisters Katrina Harrington and Fiona Ostric for reading the very last draft. Special thanks to Jaci for texting me the writing prompt that began this novel.
While writing Apples Never Fall I needed to learn about competitive tennis, tennis coaching, police investigations, trading, physiotherapy, life in the seventies, accounting, and ballet. I am hugely grateful to the following people who gave so generously and patiently of their time and expertise: Matthew Futterman, Mike Lowers, James Harb, Paul Francis (please support his wonderful charity, the Humpty Dumpty Foundation), Rob Who-Knows-Who-He-Is, Mark Davidson, Kim Ivey, Rob Collins, Elina Reddy and Yan Levinski, Elina DeCinque (via Marisa Colonna), Dr. Teresa Lee, Cameron Duncan, Scott Harrington, and Julie and George Gates. Thank you to Beau Loughhead, who contributed absolutely nothing to this book, but I feel guilty every time I see him because I forgot to thank him for a real-life anecdote I put to fictional use in a previous novel.
There is a certain kind of thoughtful, well-connected person who, upon learning that you are researching a particular topic, texts you the very next day with an introduction to someone with the exact qualifications you need. Thank you Lisa Cuddy, Jackie Aloisio, and Charles Anderson for being those sorts of people.
Thank you Molly (Cherie Penney’s dog) and Daisy (our family’s Chocolate Labrador) for helping inspire the character of Steffi.
In spite of all this generous expertise, I know there will be mistakes and they are all mine. Before you point them out, please note that I have taken some artistic license with the real world, particularly in relation to timing. (For example, the song “Popcorn” was released when Joy was nineteen, not seventeen.) However, there was nothing fictitious about Australia’s catastrophic fires early in 2020. The Authors for Fireys campaign raised funds for bushfire relief, and Sulin Ho and Nicole Jourdan-Lenoir both donated to this wonderful initiative to have their names appear as characters in this book. Simon Barrington was also the winning bidder at a Rural Aid charity auction to have a character in this book named after him. Thank you Sulin, Nicole, and Simon for your donations and your names.
Thank you Caroline Lee for superb narration of my audiobooks.
Thank you to my remarkable translators around the world.
Thank you to fellow Australian authors Ber Carroll and Dianne Blacklock for being my “office mates” for more than a decade now. Thank you to my wonderful publicists: Tracey Cheetham in Australia, Gaby Young in the UK, and Pat Eisemann in the US. Thank you to my fantastic literary and film agents: Fiona Inglis and Benjamin Paz in Australia, Faye Bender in the US, Jonathan Lloyd and Kate Cooper in the UK, and Jerry Kalajian in LA.
Thank you, with all my heart, to my readers, indisputably the loveliest readers in the world. I’m grateful every day for your support. The 2020 pandemic means that I will sadly not meet as many of you as I normally would when launching a new book. I will never ever complain about travel again and I’ll see you in real life for the next one.
Thank you to my family for everything. Thank you Adam for coffee delivered each day before I even open my eyes, thank you to my beautiful daughter Anna AKA THE BEST DAUGHTER IN DA WORLD AND FAV CHILD IN UR FACE GEORGE (this is what happens when you leave a document open on your computer for a passing eleven-year-old. I decided I would leave her words for posterity as it seemed appropriate for a book about sibling rivalry), and my beautiful son George (get her back
next time, George).
Thank you to a shy yet chatty little girl called Diane, the only kid in her class photo holding a doll, who grew up to become a gorgeous blonde bombshell, mother of six, grandmother of twelve, foster mother to many more. This one is just for you, with lots of love and gratitude that I got you as my Mum. Finally, thank you to my father. It’s my first book without you here, but you’ll stay in my acknowledgments forever Dad-Man.
* * *
The following references were helpful to me in writing this book: Late to the Ball by Gerald Marzorati, Rafa: My Story by Rafael Nadal with John Carli, Unbreakable by Jelena Dokic with Jessica Halloran, The Golden Era by Rod Laver with Larry Writer, Margaret Court: The Autobiography by Margaret Court, Home! The Evonne Goolagong Story by Evonne Goolagong Cawley and Phil Jarratt, A Spanish Love Affair by Susan Joy Alexander (I gave Joy a similar experience to Susan’s real-life experience of one particular match with a biased umpire at White City), “Counselling: Recognising Our Profession in Its Own Right,” a 2019 article by Fiona Griffith, with thanks to Melissa Shadworth for passing on.
The Migraine Guy Podcast is the name of a real podcast but everything Joy hears is fictional. This Dementia Life and Chat with Traders are also the names of real podcasts.
ALSO BY LIANE MORIARTY
Three Wishes
The Last Anniversary
What Alice Forgot
The Hypnotist’s Love Story
The Husband’s Secret
Big Little Lies
Truly Madly Guilty
Nine Perfect Strangers
About the Author
Liane Moriarty is the author of the #1 New York Times bestsellers Big Little Lies, The Husband’s Secret, and Truly Madly Guilty; the New York Times bestsellers Nine Perfect Strangers, What Alice Forgot, and The Last Anniversary; The Hypnotist’s Love Story; and Three Wishes. She lives in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and two children. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Acknowledgments
Also by Liane Moriarty
About the Author
Copyright
APPLES NEVER FALL. Copyright © 2021 by Liane Moriarty. All rights reserved. For information, address Henry Holt and Co., 120 Broadway, New York, N.Y. 10271.
www.henryholt.com
Cover design by Lisa Amoroso
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Moriarty, Liane, author.
Title: Apples never fall: a novel / Liane Moriarty.
Description: First U.S. edition. | New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021021697 (print) | LCCN 2021021698 (ebook) | ISBN 9781250220257 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250831187 (paperback) | ISBN 9781250220264 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PR9619.4.M67 A86 2021 (print) | LCC PR9619.4.M67 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021021697
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021021698
First U.S. Edition 2021
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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