nice. I’d love to throw her meals straight in the bin, but they’re too damned delicious. My husband and children would kill me.”
Madeline’s expression changed. She beamed and waved. “Oh! She’s here at last! Celeste! Over here! Come and see what I’ve done!”
Jane looked up and her heart sank.
It shouldn’t matter. She knew it shouldn’t matter. But the fact was that some people were so unacceptably, hurtfully beautiful, it made you feel ashamed. Your inferiority was right there on display for the world to see. This was what a woman was meant to look like. Exactly this. She was right, and Jane was wrong.
You’re a very fat, ugly little girl, a voice said insistently in her ear with hot, fetid breath.
She shuddered and tried to smile at the horribly beautiful woman walking toward them.
Thea: I assume you’ve heard by now that Bonnie is married to Madeline’s ex-husband, Nathan? So that was complicated. You might want to explore that. I’m not telling you how to do your job, of course.
Bonnie: That had absolutely nothing to do with anything. Our relationship was completely amicable. Just this morning I left a vegetarian lasagna on their doorstep for her poor husband.
Gabrielle: I was new to the school. I didn’t know a soul. “Oh, we’re such a caring school,” the principal told me. Blah, blah, blah. Let me tell you, the first thing I thought when I walked into that playground on that kindergarten orientation day was cliquey. Cliquey, cliquey, cliquey. I’m not surprised someone ended up dead. Oh, all right. I guess that’s overstating it. I was a little surprised.
5.
Celeste pushed open the glass door of Blue Blues and saw Madeline straightaway. She was sharing a table with a small, thin young girl wearing a blue denim skirt and a plain white V-necked T-shirt. Celeste didn’t recognize the girl. She felt an instant, sharp sense of disappointment. “Just the two of us,” Madeline had said.
Celeste readjusted her expectations of the morning. She took a deep breath. Recently, she’d noticed something strange happening when she talked to people in groups. She couldn’t quite remember how to be. She’d find herself thinking: Did I just laugh too loudly? Did I forget to laugh? Did I just repeat myself?
For some reason when it was just her and Madeline, it was OK. It was because she’d known Madeline for such a long time. Her personality felt intact when it was just the two of them.
Maybe she needed a tonic. That’s what her grandmother would have said. What was a tonic?
She weaved through the tables toward them. They hadn’t noticed her yet. They were deep in conversation. She could see the girl’s profile clearly. She was too young to be a school mother. She must be a nanny or an au pair. Probably an au pair. Maybe European? With not much English? That would explain the slightly stiff, strained way she was sitting, as though she needed to concentrate. Of course, maybe she had nothing to do with the school at all. Madeline traveled with ease through dozens of overlapping social circles, making both lifelong friends and lifetime enemies along the way; probably more of the latter. Madeline thrived on conflict and was never happier than when she was outraged.
Madeline saw Celeste and her face lit up. One of the nicest things about Madeline was the way her face transformed when she saw you, as if there were no one else in the world she’d rather see.
“Hello, birthday girl!” Celeste called out.
Madeline’s companion swung around in her chair. She had brown hair scraped back painfully hard from the forehead, like she was in the military or the police force.
“What happened to you, Madeline?” said Celeste as she got close enough to see Madeline’s leg propped up on the chair. She smiled politely at the girl, and the girl seemed to shrink away, as if Celeste had sneered, not smiled. (Oh, God, she had smiled at her, hadn’t she?)
“This is Jane,” said Madeline. “She saved me from the side of the road after I twisted my ankle trying to save young lives. Jane, this is Celeste.”
“Hi,” said Jane. There was something naked and raw about Jane’s face, like it had just been scrubbed too hard. She was chewing gum with tiny movements of her jaw, as if it were a secret.
“Jane is a new kindergarten mother,” said Madeline as Celeste sat down. “Like you. So it’s my responsibility to bring you both up-to-date with everything you need to know about school politics at Pirriwee Public. It’s a minefield, girls. A minefield, I tell you.”
“School politics?” Jane frowned and used two hands to pull hard on her ponytail so it was even tighter still. “I won’t get involved in any school politics.”
“Me either,” agreed Celeste.
• • •
Jane would always remember how she recklessly tempted fate that day. “I won’t get involved in any school politics,” she’d said, and someone up there had overheard and hadn’t liked her attitude. Far too confident. “We’ll see about that,” they’d said, and then sat back and had a good old laugh at her expense.
• • •
Celeste’s birthday gift was a set of Waterford crystal champagne glasses.
“Oh my God, I love them. They’re absolutely gorgeous,” said Madeline. She carefully took one out of the box and held it up to the light, admiring the intricate design, rows of tiny moons. “They must have cost you a small fortune.”
She almost said, Thank God you’re so rich, darling, but she stopped herself in time. She would have said it if it were just the two of them, but presumably Jane, a young single mother, was not well off, and of course, it was impolite to talk about money in company. She did actually know that. (She said this defensively to her husband in her head, because he was the one who was always reminding her of the social norms she insisted on flouting.)
Why did they all have to tread so very delicately around Celeste’s money? It was like wealth was an embarrassing medical condition. It was the same with Celeste’s beauty. Strangers gave Celeste the same furtive looks they gave to people with missing limbs, and if Madeline ever mentioned Celeste’s looks, Celeste responded with something like shame. “Shhh,” she’d say, looking around fearfully in case someone overheard. Everyone wanted to be rich and beautiful, but the truly rich and beautiful had to pretend they were just the same as everyone else. Oh, it was a funny old world.
“So, school politics, girls,” Madeline said as she carefully replaced the glass in the box. “We’ll start at the top with the Blond Bobs.”
“The Blond Bobs?” Celeste squinted, as if there were going to be a test afterward.
“The Blond Bobs rule the school. If you want to be on the PTA, you have to have a blond bob,” said Madeline. She demonstrated the required haircut with her hand. “It’s like a bylaw.”
Jane chortled, a dry little chuckle, and Madeline found herself desperate to make her laugh again.
“It shouldn’t be peroxide blond, obviously; it should be expensive blond, and then you get it cut in that sort of ‘mum’ haircut, where it’s like a helmet.”
“You’re being mean.” Celeste tapped her lightly on the arm.
“I’m not!” protested Madeline. “I love that hairstyle! I told Lucy Ponder when I’m ready to run for the PTA she can give me the approved blond bob.” She said to Jane, “Lucy Ponder is a local hairdresser, and she’s the daughter of the lady who lives in the house overlooking the school playground. Everyone is connected to everyone in Pirriwee.”
“Really?” said Jane. A flash of something both hopeful and fearful crossed her face, and she glanced quickly over her shoulder.
“It’s OK, we’re safe, no Blond Bobs in sight,” said Madeline.
“So are the Blond Bobs nice?” asked Celeste. “Or should we steer clear?”
“Well, they mean well,” said Madeline. “They mean very, very well. They’re like . . . Hmmm, what are they like?” She tapped her fingers on the table, trying to think of the right way to describe the Blond Bobs. “They’re like mum prefects. They feel very strongly about their roles as school mums. It’s like
their religion. They’re fundamentalist mothers.”
“You’re exaggerating,” said Celeste.
“Of course I am,” agreed Madeline.
“Are any of the kindergarten mothers Blond Bobs?” asked Jane.
“Let’s see now,” said Madeline. “Oh yes, Harper. She’s your quintessential Blond Bob. She’s on the PTA and she has a horrendously gifted daughter with a mild nut allergy. So she’s part of the Zeitgeist, lucky girl.”
“Come on now, Madeline, there’s nothing lucky about having a child with a nut allergy,” said Celeste.
“I know,” said Madeline. She knew she was getting too show-offy in her desire to make Jane laugh. “I’m teasing. Let’s see. Who else? There’s Carol Quigley. She’s sort of a wannabe Blond Bob; she’s not quite blond enough. She’s not actually on the PTA yet, but she’s doing her bit for the school by keeping it clean. She’s obsessed with cleanliness. She runs in and out of the classroom with a bottle of spray-and-wipe.”
“She does not,” said Celeste.
“She does!”
“What about dads?” Jane opened a packet of chewing gum and slipped another piece into her mouth like illegal contraband. She appeared to be obsessed with gum, although you couldn’t really see her chewing it. She didn’t quite meet Madeline’s eye as she asked the question. Was she hoping to meet a single dad perhaps?
“Well, I’ve heard on the grapevine we’ve got at least one stay-at-home dad in kindergarten this year,” said Madeline. “His wife is some hotshot in the corporate world. Jackie Somebody. She’s the CEO of a bank, I think.”
“Not Jackie Montgomery,” said Celeste.
“That’s it.”
“Goodness,” murmured Celeste.
“We’ll probably never see her. It’s hard for the mums working full-time. Who else works full-time? Oh. Renata. Renata is in one of those finance jobs—equities or, I don’t know, stock options? Is that a thing? Or maybe she’s an analyst. I think that’s it. She analyzes stuff. Every time I ask her to explain her job, I forget to listen. Her children are geniuses too. Obviously.”
“So Renata is a Blond Bob?” said Jane.
“No, no. She’s a career woman. She has a full-time nanny. I think she just imported a new one from France. She likes European stuff. Renata doesn’t have time to help at the school. She has board meetings to attend. Whenever you talk to her she’s just been to a board meeting, or she’s on her way back from a board meeting, or she’s preparing for a board meeting. I mean, how often do these boards have to meet?”
“Well, it depends on—” began Celeste.
“It was a rhetorical question,” interrupted Madeline. “My point is she can’t go more than five minutes before she mentions a board meeting, just like Thea Cunningham can’t go more than five minutes without mentioning she has four children. She’s a kindergarten mother too, by the way. She has four children. She can’t get over it. Um, do I sound bitchy?”
“Yes,” said Celeste.
“Sorry,” said Madeline. She did feel a bit guilty. “I was trying to be entertaining. Blame my ankle. Quite seriously, it’s a very lovely school and everyone is very lovely and we’re all going to have a lovely, lovely time and make lovely, lovely new friends.”
Jane chortled and did her discreet gum-chewing thing. She seemed to be drinking coffee and chewing gum at the same time. It was peculiar.
“So, these ‘gifted and talented’ children,” asked Jane. “Are the children tested or something?”
“There’s a whole identification process,” said Madeline. “And they get special programs and ‘opportunities.’ They stay in the same class, but they’re given more difficult assignments, I guess, and sometimes they’re pulled out for separate sessions with a specialist teacher. Look, obviously you don’t want your child being bored in class, waiting for everyone else to catch up. I do understand that. I just get a little . . . well, for example, last year I had a little conflict with Renata.”
“Madeline loves conflict,” said Celeste to Jane.
“Renata somehow found time in between board meetings to ask the teachers to organize an exclusive little excursion just for the gifted kids. It was to see a play. Well, come on now, you don’t have to be bloody gifted to enjoy theater. I’m the marketing manager at the Pirriwee Peninsula Theatre, you see, so that’s how I got wind of it.”
“She won of course,” grinned Celeste.
“Of course I won,” said Madeline. “I got a special group discount and all the kids went and I got half-price champagne at interval for all the parents and we had a great time.”
“Oh! Speaking of which!” said Celeste. “I nearly forgot to give you your champagne! Did I— Oh, yes, here it is.” She rummaged through her voluminous straw basket in her typically breathless way and handed over a bottle of Bollinger. “Can’t give you champagne glasses without champagne.”
“Let’s have some now!” Madeline lifted the bottle by the neck, suddenly inspired.
“No, no,” said Celeste. “Are you crazy? It’s too early for drinking. We have to pick the kids up in two hours. And it’s not chilled.”
“Champagne breakfast!” said Madeline. “It’s all in the way you package it. We’ll have champagne and orange juice. Half a glass each! Over two hours. Jane? Are you in?”
“I guess I could have a sip,” said Jane. “I’m a cheap drunk.”
“I bet you are, because you weigh about ten kilos,” said Madeline. “We’ll get on well. I love cheap drunks. More for me.”
“Madeline,” said Celeste. “Keep it for another time.”
“But it’s the Festival of Madeline,” said Madeline sadly. “And I’m injured.”
Celeste rolled her eyes. “Pass me a glass.”
Thea: Jane was tipsy when she picked up Ziggy from orientation. So, you know, it just paints a certain type of picture, doesn’t it? Young single mother drinking first thing in the morning. Chewing gum too. Not a good first impression. That’s all I’m saying.
Bonnie: For heaven’s sake, nobody was drunk! They had a champagne breakfast at Blue Blues for Madeline’s fortieth. They were just a little giggly. That’s what I heard, anyway; we actually couldn’t make orientation day because we were doing a family healing retreat in Byron Bay. It was an incredible spiritual experience. Would you like the website address?
Harper: You knew from the very first day that Madeline, Celeste, and Jane were a little threesome. They arrived with their arms around one another like twelve-year-olds. Renata and I didn’t get invited to their little soiree, even though we’d known Madeline since all our boys were in kindergarten together, but as I said to Renata that night, when we were having the most divine degustation menu at Remy’s (that was before the rest of Sydney discovered it by the way), I really didn’t care less.
Samantha: I was working. Stu took Lily to orientation. He mentioned some of the mothers had just come from a champagne breakfast. I said, “Right. What are their names? They sound like my sort of people.”
Jonathan: I missed all that. Stu and I were talking about cricket.
Melissa: You didn’t hear this from me, but apparently Madeline Mackenzie got so drunk that morning, she fell over and sprained her ankle.
Graeme: I think you’re barking up the wrong tree there. I don’t see how an ill-advised champagne breakfast could have led to murder and mayhem, do you?
• • •
Champagne is never a mistake. That had always been Madeline’s mantra.
But afterward, Madeline did wonder if just this once it might have been a tiny error of judgment. Not because they were drunk. They weren’t. It was because when the three of them walked into the school, laughing together (Madeline had decided she didn’t want to stay in the car and miss seeing Chloe come out, so she hopped in, hanging on to their elbows), they trailed behind them the unmistakable scent of party.
People never like missing out on a party.
6.
Jane was not drunk when she arrived back
at the school to pick up Ziggy. She had had three mouthfuls of that champagne at the most.
But she was feeling euphoric. There had been something about the pop of the champagne cork, the naughtiness of it, the unexpectedness of the whole morning, those beautiful long fragile glasses catching the sunlight, the surfy-looking barista bringing over three exquisite little cupcakes with candles, the smell of the ocean, the feeling that she was maybe making new friends with these women who were somehow so different from any of her other friends: older, wealthier, more sophisticated.
“You’ll make new friends when Ziggy starts school!” her mother had kept telling her, excitedly and irritatingly, and Jane had to make a big effort not to roll her eyes and behave like a sulky, nervous teenager starting at a new high school. Jane’s mother had three best friends whom she had met twenty-five years ago when Jane’s older brother, Dane, started kindergarten. They all went out for coffee on that first morning and had been inseparable ever since.
“I don’t need new friends,” Jane had told her mother.
“Yes you do. You need to be friends with other mothers,” her mother said. “You support one another! You understand what you’re going through.” But Jane had tried that with Mothers Group and failed. She just couldn’t relate to those bright, chatty women and their bubbly conversations about husbands who weren’t “stepping up” and renovations that weren’t finished before the baby was born and that hilarious time they were so busy and tired they left the house without putting on any makeup! (Jane, who was wearing no makeup at the time, and never wore makeup, had kept her face blank and benign, while she inwardly shouted: What the fuck?)
And yet, strangely, she related to Madeline and Celeste, even though they really had nothing in common except for the fact that their children were starting kindergarten, and even though Jane was pretty sure that Madeline would never leave the house without makeup either, but she felt already that she and Celeste (who also didn’t wear makeup; luckily, her beauty was shocking enough without improvement) could tease Madeline about this, and she’d laugh and tease them back, as if they were already established friends.
So Jane wasn’t ready for what happened.
She wasn’t on alert. She was too busy getting to know Pirriwee Public (everything so cute and compact; it made life seem so manageable), enjoying the sunshine and the still novel smell of the sea. Jane felt filled with pleasure at the thought of Ziggy’s school days. For the first time since he was born, the responsibility of being in charge of Ziggy’s childhood weighed lightly on her. Her new apartment was walking distance from the school. They would walk to school each day, past the beach and up the tree-lined hill.
At her own suburban primary school she’d had views of a six-lane highway and the scent of barbecued chicken from the shop next door. There had been no cleverly designed, shady little play areas with charming, colorful tile mosaics of grinning dolphins and whales. There were certainly no murals of underwater sea scenes or stone sculptures of tortoises in the middle of sandpits.
“This school is so cute,” she said to Madeline as she and Celeste helped Madeline hop along to a seat. “It’s magical.”
“I know. Last year’s school trivia night raised money to redo the school yard,” said Madeline. “The Blond Bobs know how to fund-raise. The theme was ‘dead celebrities.’ It was great fun. Hey, are you any good at trivia, Jane?”
“I’m excellent at trivia,” said Jane. “Trivia and jigsaws are my two areas of expertise.”
“Jigsaws?” said Madeline. “I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.”
She sat down on a blue painted wooden bench built around the tree trunk of a Moreton Bay Fig and put her ankle up. A crowd of other parents soon formed around them, and Madeline held court, introducing Jane and Celeste to the mothers with older children she already knew and telling everyone the story of how she twisted her ankle saving young lives.
“Typical Madeline,” a woman called Carol said to Jane. She was a soft-looking woman wearing a puffy-sleeved floral sundress and a big straw sun hat. She looked like she was off to a white clapboard church in Little House on the Prairie. (Carol? Wasn’t she the one Madeline said liked to clean? Clean Carol.)
“Madeline just loves a fight,” said Carol. “She’ll take on anyone. Our sons play soccer together, and last year she got in an argument with this giant dad. All the husbands were hiding, and Madeline was standing this close to him, poking her finger into his chest like this, not giving an inch. It’s a wonder she didn’t get herself killed.”
“Oh, him! The under-seven age coordinator.” Madeline spat the words “under-seven age coordinator” as if they were “serial killer.” “I shall loathe that man until the day I die!”
Meanwhile Celeste stood off slightly to the side, chatting in that ruffled, hesitant way of hers, which Jane was already beginning to recognize as characteristic of Celeste.
“What did you say your son’s name was again?” Carol asked Jane.
“Ziggy,” said Jane.
“Ziggy,” repeated Carol uncertainly. “Is that an ethnic sort of a name?”
“Hello, there, I’m Renata!” A woman with a crisp gray symmetrical haircut and intense brown eyes behind stylish black-framed spectacles appeared in front of Jane, hand outstretched. It was like being accosted by a politician. She said her name with strange emphasis, as if Jane had been expecting her.
“Hello! I’m Jane. How are you?” Jane tried to match her enthusiasm. She wondered if this was the school principal.
Big Little Lies Page 3
