page featured the photo of Abigail doing her yoga pose that Madeline had seen on her Facebook page. Viewed in the context of “buy my virginity,” the photo took on a sinister sexuality: the hair falling over her shoulder, the long, skinny limbs, the small, perfect breasts. Men were looking at her daughter’s photo on their computer screens and thinking about having sex with her.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Madeline.
“I know,” said Nathan.
Madeline took a breath and clicked through the site with her professional marketing and PR eye. Along with the photo of Abigail, there were also images from the Amnesty International website about child marriage and sex slavery; Abigail had presumably helped herself without asking permission. The copy was good. Straightforward. Persuasive. Emotional without being over-the-top. Apart from the typo in the word “privileged” and the fact that the entire premise was horrifyingly flawed, it was hugely impressive for a fourteen-year-old.
“Is this even legal?” she said after a moment. “It must be illegal for an underage child to sell her virginity.”
“It would be illegal for someone to buy it,” said Nathan. She could tell he was speaking through gritted teeth.
For a moment Madeline felt disoriented as she realized that she was talking to Nathan. She must have subconsciously felt as though she were dealing with Ed, because she’d never before had to discuss a tricky parenting problem with Nathan. She set the rules and Nathan followed them. They weren’t a team.
But the thought simultaneously occurred to her that if it were Ed, it wouldn’t be the same. Ed would be horrified at the thought of a man buying Abigail’s virginity, of course he would, but he wouldn’t be experiencing the visceral agony that Nathan was feeling. If it were Chloe, yes. But there was that subtle distance in Ed’s relationship with Abigail, the distance Madeline had always denied and yet Abigail had always felt.
She clicked on the section for “bids and donations.” Abigail had set it up so that people could leave comments and register their “bids.”
The words swam in front of her:
How much for a gang bang?
You can suck my cock for $20! Any time, any place.
Hey, pretty little girl, I’ll fuck that tight little cunt of yours for free.
Madeline pushed herself back away from her desk, the taste of bile in her mouth. “How do we shut this website down right now? Do you know how to shut it down?”
She was pleased to note that she hadn’t lost control, that she was speaking as if this were a work crisis: a leaflet that needed reprinting, a mistake on the theater website. Nathan was tech savvy. He must know what to do. But as she clicked off the comments page and saw the photo of Abigail again, her innocent, ridiculous, misguided daughter—vile men were thinking and saying vile things about her little girl—her anger rose volcanically from the pit of her stomach and burst from her mouth.
“How the hell did this happen? Why weren’t you and Bonnie watching what she was doing? You fix it! Fix it now!”
Harper: Has anyone told you about Madeline’s daughter’s little drama? I mean, I hate to say it, but as I said to Renata at the time, she was over at my place for dinner I think, I said, “Now, that wouldn’t happen at a private school.” I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with public high schools per se, I just think your children are more likely to interact with, you know, a better class of person.
Samantha: That Harper is so up herself. Of course it could have happened at a private school. And Abigail’s intentions were so noble! It’s just that fourteen-year-old girls are stupid. Poor Madeline. She blamed Nathan and Bonnie, although I don’t know if that was fair.
Bonnie: Yes, Madeline did blame us. I accept that. Abigail was in my care at the time. But that had absolutely nothing to do with . . . with the tragedy. Nothing at all.
58.
After their visit to the psychologist, Jane drove Ziggy down to the beach to have some morning tea at Blue Blues before she took him back to school.
“The special today is apple pancakes with lemon-spiced butter,” said Tom. “I think you should try some. On the house.”
“On the house?” frowned Ziggy.
“For free,” explained Jane. She looked up at Tom. “But I think we should pay.”
Tom was always giving her free food. It was starting to get embarrassing. She wondered if he had somehow gotten the impression she was poverty-stricken.
“We’ll work that out later,” Tom said with a little wave of his hand, which meant that he wouldn’t accept any money from her, no matter how hard she tried.
He disappeared into the kitchen.
She and Ziggy both turned their faces to look at the ocean. There was a brisk breeze blowing and the sea looked playful, with white wavelets dancing across the horizon. Jane breathed in the wonderful scents of Blue Blues and felt an intensely nostalgic feeling, as if the decision had already been made and she and Ziggy were definitely going to move.
The lease on her apartment was up for renewal in two weeks’ time. They could move somewhere brand-new, put him into a new school, start afresh with their reputations unsullied. Even if the psychologist was right and Ziggy really was experiencing bullying himself, there was no way that Jane could make the school consider that a possibility. It would be like a strategic move, as if she were countersuing. Accuse me of damages and I’ll accuse you right back. Anyway, how could they possibly stay at a school where parents were signing a petition for them to leave? Everything had become too complicated now. People probably thought she’d attacked Harper in the sandpit and bullied Amabella. She had made Amabella cry, and she felt terrible about that. The only solution was to go. That was the right thing to do. The right thing for both of them.
Perhaps it had been inevitable that her time at Pirriwee would end so disastrously. Her real, unadmitted reasons for coming here were so peculiar, so messed up and downright weird, that she couldn’t even let herself properly articulate them.
But perhaps coming here actually had been a strange necessary step in some process, because something had healed in the last few months. Even while she’d been suffering the confusion and worry over Ziggy and the other mothers, her feelings for Saxon Banks had undergone a subtle change. She felt she could see him with clear eyes now. Saxon Banks was not a monster. He was just a man. Just your basic nasty thug. They were a dime a dozen. It was preferable not to sleep with them. But she had. And that was that. Ziggy was here. Perhaps only Saxon Banks had sufficiently thuggish-enough sperm to get past her fertility issues. Perhaps he really was the only man in the world who could have given her a baby, and perhaps she could now find a fair, balanced way to talk about him so that Ziggy stopped thinking his father was some kind of sinister supervillain.
“Ziggy,” she said, “would you like us to move to another school where you could make brand-new friends?”
“Nope,” said Ziggy. He seemed in a cheeky, quirky, flip mood right now. Not at all anxious. Did that psychologist know what she was talking about?
What did Madeline always say? “Children are so weird and random.”
“Oh,” said Jane. “Why not? You were very upset the other day when those children said they weren’t—you know—allowed to play with you.”
“Yeah,” said Ziggy cheerfully. “But I’ve got lots of other friends who are allowed to play with me, like Chloe and Fred. Even though Fred is in Year 2, he’s still my friend, because we both like Star Wars. And I’ve got other friends too. Like Harrison and Amabella and Henry.”
“Did you say Amabella?” said Jane. He’d never actually mentioned playing with Amabella before, which was part of the reason it had seemed so unlikely that he’d been bullying her. She thought they traveled in different circles, so to speak.
“Amabella likes Star Wars too,” said Ziggy. “She knows all this stuff because she’s a really super-good reader. So we don’t really play, but sometimes if I’m a bit tired of running we sit together under the Sea D
ragon Tree and talk about Star Wars stuff.”
“Amabella Klein? Amabella in kindergarten?” checked Jane.
“Yeah, Amabella! Except the teachers won’t let us talk anymore,” sighed Ziggy.
“Well, that’s because Amabella’s parents think you’ve been hurting her,” said Jane with a touch of exasperation.
“It’s not me who hurt her,” said Ziggy, half sliding off his chair in that profoundly annoying way of little boys. (She’d been relieved to see Fred doing exactly the same thing.)
“Sit up,” said Jane sharply.
He sat up and sighed again. “I’m hungry. Do you think my pancakes are coming soon?” He craned his neck to look back toward the kitchen.
Jane surveyed him. The words he’d just said registered properly. It’s not me who hurt her.
“Ziggy,” she said. Had she asked him this question before? Had anyone asked him this question? Or had they all just said over and over, “Was it you, Ziggy? Was it you?”
“What?” he said.
“Do you know who has been hurting Amabella?”
It happened instantly. His face closed down. “I don’t want to talk about it.” His lower lip trembled.
“But just tell me, sweetheart, do you know?”
“I promised,” said Ziggy softly.
Jane leaned forward. “You promised what?”
“I promised Amabella I wouldn’t tell anyone ever. She said if I told anyone she would probably get killed dead.”
“Killed dead,” repeated Jane.
“Yes!” said Ziggy passionately. His eyes filled with tears.
Jane tapped her fingers. She knew he wanted to tell her.
“What if,” she said slowly, “what if you wrote down the name?”
Ziggy frowned. He blinked and brushed away the tears.
“Because then you’re not breaking your promise to Amabella. That’s not like telling me. And I promise you that Amabella will not get killed dead.”
“Mmmm.” Ziggy considered this.
Jane pulled a notebook and pen from her bag and pushed it toward him. “Can you spell it? Or just have a go at spelling it.”
That’s what they were taught at school; to “have a go” with their writing.
Ziggy took the pen, and then he turned around, distracted by the café door opening. Two people came inside: a woman with a blond bob and an unremarkable businessman. (Graying middle-aged men in suits all looked pretty much the same to Jane.)
“That’s Emily J’s mum,” said Ziggy.
Harper. Jane felt her face flush as she remembered the mortifying incident in the sandpit, where Harper had accused her of assault. There had been a strained call from Mrs. Lipmann that night, advising Jane that a parent had made an official complaint against her and suggesting that she “lay low, so to speak, until this difficult matter was resolved.”
Harper glanced her way, and Jane felt her heart race, as if with a terrible fear. For God’s sake, she’s not going to kill you, she thought. It was so strange to be in a state of intense conflict with a person she barely knew. Jane had spent most of her grown-up life sidestepping confrontations. It was mystifying to her that Madeline could enjoy this sort of thing and actually seek it out. This was awful: embarrassing, awkward and distressing.
Harper’s husband tapped one finger smartly on the bell on the counter—ding!—to summon Tom from the kitchen. The café wasn’t busy. There was a woman with a toddler in the far right-hand corner and a couple of men in paint-splattered blue overalls eating egg and bacon rolls.
Jane saw Harper nudge her husband and speak in his ear. He looked over at Jane and Ziggy.
Oh God. He was coming over.
He had one of those big, firm beer bellies he carried proudly, as if it were a badge of honor.
“Hi there,” he said to Jane, holding out his hand. “Jane, is it? I’m Graeme. Emily’s dad.”
Jane shook his hand. He squeezed just hard enough to let her know that he was making the decision not to squeeze any harder. “Hello,” she said. “This is Ziggy.”
“Gidday, mate.” Graeme’s eyes flickered toward Ziggy and then straight back again.
“Please leave it, Graeme,” said Harper, who had come to stand next to him. She studiously ignored Jane and Ziggy; it was like at school in the sandpit when she’d played that freaky “avoid eye contact at all costs” game.
“Listen, Jane,” said Graeme. “Obviously I don’t want to say too much in front of your son here, but I understand you’re embroiled in some sort of dispute with the school and I don’t know the ins and outs of all that, and frankly I’m not that interested, but let me tell you this, Jane.”
He placed both palms on the table and leaned over her. It was such a calculated, intimidating move, it was almost comical. Jane lifted her chin. She needed to swallow, but she didn’t want him to see her gulping nervously. She could see the deep lines around his eyes. A tiny mole next to his nose. He was doing that ugly teeth-jutting thing that a certain type of shirtless, tattooed man did when he was yelling at reporters on tabloid television.
“We decided not to get the police involved this time, but if I hear that you go near my wife again I’ll be taking out a restraining order against you, quick-smart, Jane, because I will not stand for this. I’m a partner in a law firm and I will bring the full weight of the law down on your—”
“You need to leave now.”
It was Tom, carrying a plate of pancakes. He placed the plate on Jane’s table and cupped one hand gently over the back of Ziggy’s head.
“Oh, Tom, I’m sorry we just . . .” fluttered Harper. The mothers of Pirriwee were addicted to Tom’s coffee and treated him as a beloved drug dealer.
Graeme straightened and pulled once on his tie. “All OK here, mate.”
“No,” said Tom. “It’s not. I won’t have you harassing my customers. I’d like you to leave right now.” Tom’s teeth weren’t jutting, but his jaw was clenched.
Graeme tapped his closed fist, knuckles down, on Jane’s table. “Look, legally, mate, I don’t think you actually have the right to—”
“I don’t want legal advice,” said Tom. “I am asking you to leave.”
“Tom, I’m so sorry,” said Harper. “We certainly didn’t mean—”
“I’m sure I’ll see you both another time,” said Tom. He went to the door and held it open. “Just not today.”
“Fine,” said Graeme. He turned and pointed a finger an inch away from Jane’s nose. “Remember what I said, young lady, because—”
“Get out before I throw you out,” said Tom, dangerously quiet.
Graeme straightened. He looked at Tom.
“You just lost yourself a customer,” he said as he followed his wife out the door.
“I certainly hope so,” said Tom.
He let the door go and turned and looked back at his customers. “Sorry about that.”
One of the men in overalls clapped. “Good on ya, mate!” The woman with the toddler stared curiously at Jane. Ziggy twisted around in his seat to look out the glass windows at Harper and Graeme hurrying off down the boardwalk, then he shrugged, picked up his fork and began to eat his pancakes with gusto.
Tom came over to Jane and crouched down beside her, his arm on the back of her chair.
“You OK?”
Jane took a deep, shaky breath. Tom smelled sweet and clean. He always had that distinctive fresh, clean smell because he surfed twice a day, followed by a long, hot shower. (She knew this because he’d once told her that he stood under the hot water, replaying all the best waves he’d just caught.) It occurred to Jane that she loved Tom, just as she loved Madeline and Celeste, and that it would break her heart to leave Pirriwee, but that it was impossible to stay. She’d made real friends here, but she’d also made real enemies. There was no future for her here.
“I’m OK,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you for that.”
“Excuse me! Oh dear, I’m sorry!” The toddler had just spilled hi
s babycino all over the floor and was crying.
Tom put his hand on Jane’s arm. “Don’t let Ziggy eat all those pancakes.” He stood and went over to help the woman, saying, “It’s OK, little buddy, I’m going to get you another one.”
Jane picked up her fork and took a mouthful of the apple pancakes. She closed her eyes. “Mmmm.” Tom was going to make some lucky man extremely happy one day.
“I wrote it down,” said Ziggy.
“Wrote what down?” Jane used her fork to cut another edge of the pancake. She was trying not to think of Harper’s husband. The way he’d leaned over her. His intimidation tactics were absurd, but they’d also worked. She’d felt intimidated. And now she felt ashamed. Had she deserved it? Because she’d kicked at Harper in the sandpit? But she hadn’t actually kicked Harper! She was positive she hadn’t actually made contact. But still. She’d let her temper get the better of her. She’d behaved badly, and Harper had gone home upset, and she had a loving, overprotective husband who had felt angry on her behalf.
“The name,” said Ziggy. He pushed the notepad at her. “The name of the kid who does stuff to Amabella.”
Samantha: So apparently Harper’s husband won’t let her go into Blue Blues anymore. I said, “Harper, it’s not 1950! Your husband can’t forbid you to go into a café!” But she said he’d see it as a betrayal. Bugger that. I’d betray Stu for Tom’s coffee. Jeez. I’d murder for it! I’m not the murderer, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t think coffee was involved.
• • •
Jane put down her fork and pulled the notebook toward her.
Ziggy had scrawled four letters across the page. Some were enormous. Some were tiny.
M a K s
“Maks,” said Jane. “There’s no one called—” She stopped. Oh, calamity. “Do you mean Max?”
Ziggy nodded. “The mean twin.”
59.
It’s two o’clock. I’m going for my meeting now,” said Perry. “Madeline is picking up the kids. I’m going to be back by four, so just stick them in front of the TV until I’m home. How are you feeling?”
Celeste looked up at him.
It was a kind of lunacy, really. The way he could behave like this. As if she were in bed with a bad migraine. As if this had nothing to do with him. The more time that passed, the less anguished he looked. His guilt slowly seeped away. His body metabolized it, like alcohol. And she colluded in his lunacy. She went along with it. She was behaving as if she were ill. She was letting him take care of her.
They were both crazy.
“I’m all right,” she said.
He’d just given her a strong painkiller. She normally resisted analgesics because she was so susceptible to them, but the pain in her head had finally become more than she could stand. Within minutes the pain had begun to melt away, but everything else was melting as well. She could feel her limbs becoming heavy and somnolent. The walls of the bedroom seemed to soften, and her thoughts became languid, as if she were sunbathing on a hot summer’s day.
“When you were little,” she said.
“Yes?” Perry sat beside her and held her hand.
“That year,” she said. “That year when you were bullied.”
He smiled. “When I was a fat little kid wearing glasses.”
“It was bad, wasn’t it?” she said. “You laugh about it, but it was a really bad year.”
He squeezed her hand. “Yes. It was bad. It was very bad.”
What was her point? She couldn’t turn it into words. Something to do with the frustrated anger of a terrorized eight-year-old and how she always wondered if that’s what this was all about. Each time Perry felt disrespected or humiliated, Celeste bore the brunt of a fat little boy’s violent, suppressed rage. Except that now he was a six-foot man.
“It was Saxon who helped you in the end, wasn’t it?” she said. Her words were melting too. She could hear it.
“Saxon knocked out the ringleader’s front tooth,” said Perry. He chuckled. “Never got picked on again.”
“Right,” said Celeste. Saxon Banks. Perry’s hero. Jane’s tormentor. Ziggy’s father.
Ever since the night of the book club, Saxon had been in the back of her mind. She and Jane had something in common: They had both been hurt by these men. These handsome, successful, cruel cousins. Celeste felt responsible for what Saxon had done to Jane. She was so young and vulnerable. If only Celeste had been
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