Good Little Liars

by Sarah Clutton

  Marlee’s voicemail answered: Hi, it’s Marlee Maples. Can’t speak right now. Leave me a message.

  As she opened her mouth to speak, the door opened and Phillip stood in the doorway. She ended the call.

  Exhaustion and relief combined in a tumbling rush, and Emma threw her arms around him. A loud sob was out of her mouth before she could speak – grief, fear, gladness, her family all in one room again.

  Phillip stroked her hair.

  ‘It’s okay. She’s going to be okay. I spoke to the doctor on the way in.’

  Emma let go of him and turned away but the tears wouldn’t stop. She tried to stifle the sobs but they kept coming in loud hiccups.

  ‘Oh, Em. I’m so sorry.’

  She couldn’t bear to look at him then.

  Phillip walked across to the bed and perched on the edge, putting the back of his hand against Rosie’s cheek as she slept.

  ‘You gave me such a fright, munchkin.’

  Rosie didn’t stir.

  ‘You’re not the only one. I was so scared, Phil. I thought she was going to die.’ Tears ran down her cheeks and slid down her collarbone.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry you had to do this alone.’

  ‘It’s not just this, though, is it? I am alone. At night, when things go wrong. I hate it.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Emma, I’ve… I’ve split up with Pia. She’s going back to Germany.’

  Emma felt the breath go out of her. She leaned against the wall and slid onto the seat next to the window. She couldn’t manage the enormity of it. It was too awful. He’d split up their family, broken their hearts, for a sordid fling that had lasted less than four months.

  He looked across at her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Emma.’

  She couldn’t think what she wanted to say. There was nothing to say. Maybe she didn’t really love him anymore, but she’d loved him once and she thought it meant something – to be a family. It was as if every day she’d put up with being belittled by him, put down for her flights of fancy – they all amounted to nothing. She didn’t want it to amount to nothing. Her ideas mattered too. She mattered.

  ‘You ruined everything.’

  ‘Things weren’t that great between us.’

  ‘They were fine.’

  ‘Emma, you’ve always put your head the sand – you run away from all the hard stuff.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ A wave of anger coursed through her. She wasn’t the weak, helpless person he thought he knew. ‘Jonathan Brownley killed Tessa Terrano. I have evidence. I’m going to the police’

  He cocked his head to one side and frowned. It was out of place. Out of time. Everything was wrong.

  He picked up Rosie’s hand and stroked it, but she slept on, her veins full of medicine.

  ‘What evidence, Em?’

  ‘A photo. I found a naked photo of her hidden in our cottage. He used to live in it. And the Coroner’s Report. It doesn’t add up. I saw her that day Phil. They fought – I told you…’

  Her words were rushed, as if she needed to prove them to him. It was something she could finally do right, not just for Tessa but for herself, and for Rosie, who deserved a mother who stood up for things that were wrong. A mother who didn’t put her head in the sand.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you mean, “yes”?’

  ‘I mean, I remember. And if that’s what you saw, and there’s new evidence, then you should go to the police. If you think it’s the right thing to do. If the evidence stacks up.’ His voice was quiet, measured.

  ‘Will I get in trouble for not telling them what I knew?’

  ‘I don’t imagine so. You weren’t interviewed back then. You’ll just say that at the time you didn’t think it had a bearing on the case. They won’t be interested in prosecuting someone who was a frightened teenage witness who’d lost her friend. They’d only want the killer. If he is one.’

  Killer. Emma let the word float between them. It sounded so strange. So far from what she knew of Jonathan Brownley. She looked down as her phone started buzzing. Marlee. She let it go to voicemail.

  ‘I might go home and have a shower. The doctor is due back in an hour or so to check in on her. Will you be alright if I head off? Just for a bit.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The screen of her phone lit up again and it dinged with a calendar reminder, dragging her attention away from Phillip.

  25-year-reunion dinner at Staghorn 7 p.m.

  Phillip looked at her, raised his eyebrows in question.

  ‘My school reunion dinner. It’s tonight.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You should go. You were looking forward to it, weren’t you?’

  Emma didn’t have the energy to tell him about the ‘reply all’ email she sent all those months ago, just before she found him in the cottage with Pia.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you just go for an hour, have something decent to eat? Then you can get a good night’s sleep at home. I’ll be here. I won’t leave.’ He sounded like the old Phillip. The serious, kind man she’d fallen in love with. She tried to smile but there was a burning feeling behind her eyes.

  ‘I think I’ll just head home. Text me when she wakes up.’

  Emma walked out of the hospital, the cold of the early evening hitting her through the thin jumper she’d pulled on three days ago. She hadn’t brought a coat. The air was bracing, clearing out her thoughts. She walked towards the centre of town, wondering how she was going to get home. She’d arrived in the ambulance. She needed to get a taxi. Cars drove past, but none with taxi lights on top. She thought about Phillip’s suggestion that she go to the reunion for a while. The idea of sitting at home without Rosie made her feel hollow with loneliness.

  As she walked further down the road, Emma noticed the lights of the police station signage flickering into life. On the opposite side of the street two police cars were parked out the front in specially marked bays on the road, their chequered blue and white side panels brightening the dull, grey streetscape.

  Her phone buzzed again. Marlee’s name flashed. Then the ringing stopped before she could answer it. She clicked on the missed call and dialled Marlee’s number back but it went to voicemail again. Hi, it’s Marlee Maples. Can’t speak right now. Leave me a message.

  ‘Hi, Marl. Rosie’s going to be okay. She’s improved a bit. Phil is with her. I’m…’ She looked up as a middle-aged policeman pushed open the front door of the station. He ran down the steps in a fluid motion and slid into his car. She watched him as he checked his phone, his profile strong and comforting. She felt an odd stillness descend. ‘I’m… at the police station. I’m going to report Jon Brownley for killing Tessa.’

  She ended the call and noticed her phone was almost out of charge. Two per cent. As she crossed the road, Emma thought of the story she was about to tell. She wondered how it was going to end.

  Thirty

  Marlee

  Ben opened the car door for her and waited as she got in.

  ‘It’s not the 1950s. I can open my own door thank you very much.’ But Marlee smiled.

  ‘Sorry. It means absolutely nothing. Although I’m very good at it. It’s one of my few talents.’ He smiled back at her. ‘I cook a mean chicken teriyaki too. And I like vacuuming. But that’s about the extent of my hidden skills.’

  Marlee let him close the door. They were still feeling their way around the idea that they were having a baby. Together. She was still floored that he had wanted to stay the night when she’d told him about it. They’d talked late into the night about what a future together might look like. She smiled as she thought about it and about what had come after that, when he kissed her and undressed her slowly. It still had a bizarre sheen of unreality to it – the idea that they could have a future, a ready-made family, without any real information about how things would work or who the other person really was. She didn
’t even know his middle name.

  ‘Thanks for dropping me. I could have driven. There’ll be no wine for me for a while.’

  ‘I wanted to do it. I’ll duck home and get some things. Text me when you’re bored with rehashing all your schoolgirl stories and I’ll pick you up. Doesn’t matter if it’s late.’

  She smiled self-consciously as they drove towards the restaurant. Her phone began ringing then stopped. It was Emma. They’d been trying to get hold of each other all afternoon. A text had come through that Rosie was getting better and Marlee had felt a pall of anxiety lift. She adored her goddaughter and the possibility of losing her had been awful. Poor Emma, it must have been much, much worse for her. All alone at the hospital. Marlee felt guilty going to the reunion dinner without her.

  But Emma probably wouldn’t have come anyway, not after the email thing. She was too embarrassed about trashing Phillip in the email, and the speculation she’d caused about Tessa. Marlee felt a momentary tightening in her chest when she thought about that time. But she’d put an end to Emma’s suspicions about Jon Brownley. Helped her to see that she must be imagining it. Now they all just needed to move on.

  Poor Emma, who thought that she was the only one haunted by Tessa. Marlee had spent years working out which gin brand suited her best in an effort to wash away the ghosts of that day. But now she was having to manage without her mother’s little helper. The irony of it. But she couldn’t think about the past anymore, she had to focus on the future. Little Ned. She’d told Ben about his name and he’d been thrilled with it. Adopted it immediately, dropped it into their conversation a dozen times since.

  A voicemail notification flashed onto the screen of her phone. She felt the warmth of Ben’s hand on her thigh as she dialled in to listen to it.

  Hi Marl. Rosie’s going to be okay. She’s improved a bit. Phil is with her. I’m… I’m at the police station. I’m going to report Jon Brownley for killing Tessa.

  Marlee’s pulled the phone away from her ear and watched it shake in her hand. No. That couldn’t be right.

  ‘No.’ She heard the word from a distance.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Ben pulled over to the side of the road in front of the restaurant. They’d reached Staghorn, the venue for the reunion dinner – a funky new modern Asian place that apparently did amazing cocktails, just down the road from Denham House.

  ‘She’s reporting Jon Brownley to the police. For killing Tessa.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Marlee?’

  Marlee saw the confusion in his eyes. ‘A girl who died in our final year at Denham. She was killed after a fall. Emma’s gone to the police saying Jon Brownley did it.’

  ‘That’s crazy. He’s a great guy… he’s Harriet’s brother. Why would she say that now?’

  Marlee stared at him. In her mind’s eye she saw the naked photograph of Tessa, so young and lovely and confused.

  ‘She found some new evidence.’ Air. She needed air. She pulled the car door handle and got out onto the street, clutching at her colourful embroidered purse.

  She turned back around and bent down, putting her head back into the car. ‘I’d better go in. I’ll ring you… if I hear anything.’ She slammed the door shut and stood on the pavement, staring at the closed door, a wave of terror closing in. She saw the window coming down. Ben leaned across.

  ‘Marlee, are you alright?’

  ‘I…’ His face was so earnest, so kind. She had to get away before he saw the black, hollow core of her. She raised her hand in a wave then turned and walked inside, her mind a whirl. At the door of the restaurant she stood still, felt the hot rash rising up her neck. The waitress came towards her. Marlee wanted to turn and run.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘The Denham House Reunion?’

  The waitress led her towards a private room at the back. Marlee followed her through and into a beautiful room strung with fairy lights and dotted with huge potted palms. About twenty women stood around in clusters, champagne glasses in hand, elegant outfits and vibrant clutch purses and diamonds sparkling. It was a mistake, to come. She turned back towards the entry.

  ‘Marleen Maples!’ Two women descended on her in a cloud of hugs and perfume. They stood back, assessing her outfit, her facial lines, her hair. She felt dizzy, sick. She kissed their cheeks in return, pulled out their names from some distant recess of her memory.

  ‘Laura, Annabelle, hi…’ She stared at them, willing some more words to come out, but her mind was blank. The music swirled around them. A Beatles song.

  A voice broke through the music then, wild and loud like a carnival hustler. The women’s stares shifted behind Marlee’s shoulder.

  ‘Well hellooooooo, ladies!’ Clementine was grinning, her arms spread wide, as if she were embracing the elegance of the restaurant and all the seasoned, glamorous women who turned their heads to look at her. She looked like she was going to a St Patrick’s Day fancy dress parade. Marlee watched the disbelief flitting across the women’s faces as they tried to find the right words to greet this bizarre, famous apparition who they’d once known simply as the larrikin cool-kid who was constantly on detention.

  ‘Holy shit! What a boot-scooter! Twenty-five years – it screws with your head, doesn’t it?’ Clementine smiled at Laura and Annabelle, then faltered when she looked at Marlee. She must have seen the panic in her eyes.

  ‘Laura Leyton and Annabelle Dixon. You girls look the bomb! But listen here, ladybirds. My old mate Marleen and I have to have a quick chat about something. I just need her for two minutes. Okay?’ Clementine pulled Marlee to the corner of the room and sat her on an armchair.

  ‘Is that baby turning your guts upside down or have you just seen a ghost? Spill. Come on. You look awful.’

  ‘Emma’s gone to the police. With some sort of evidence that Jon Brownley killed Tessa.’

  ‘What? Oh, shit. I told her that was rubbish. She had a bee in her bonnet about it, weeks ago. Jonno would never have pushed her into that ditch.’

  ‘I know.’

  Marleen watched the women across the room. They kept glancing over in their direction, sipping their champagne, air kissing newcomers. The music seemed to be sinking like molasses into her head.

  ‘He didn’t,’ she said. ‘He definitely didn’t do it.’ She sat perfectly still but she felt herself merging with the chair, decades of fatigue engulfing her. She grasped at the arms. ‘I did it.’

  Clementine became completely still. Then she narrowed her eyes and leaned in, her voice a fierce whisper. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I pushed her… I was—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Clementine, you need to tell your mother.’

  Clementine stared, her eyes glassy, mouth agape. The she let out a choking sound. ‘And here’s me thinking this night couldn’t get any more screwed-up.’

  ‘Please. Just ring your mother.’

  ‘You think you’ll need a lawyer? Or that Jon will?’

  ‘I think she’ll know what to do.’ Marlee paused, then looked across to Laura and Annabelle who were eyeing them curiously over their champagne glasses. ‘Please, Clem. She always knows what to do.’

  Thirty-One

  Harriet

  25 November 1993

  Harriet looked at her watch for a third time, then looked back through the windscreen, willing Clementine to appear. The carpark was empty, apart from a black sports car parked in the far corner and a new looking blue Mercedes Benz that had driven in after her and parked, quite rudely, in the space in front of her, directly adjacent to the exit gate. A girl approached the Mercedes, backpack slung over one shoulder. She got into the front passenger seat and slammed the door.

  Harriet watched as a shower of late-blooming jacaranda flowers floated down from the canopy between her car and the Mercedes like pretty, lavender-hued snowflakes. As she watched, the car reversed over them then turned towards the exit an
d drove off. A streak of brownish-purple flower corpses remained, clinging wetly to the gravel. It struck Harriet as portentous. Clementine was unlikely to come off much better if she didn’t arrive within a minute or two.

  They had a dentist’s appointment to get to and Harriet abhorred lateness. Where was that girl? Perhaps she’d gone down to Jonathan’s cottage. A movement in the corner of the carpark caught her eye. A young man seemed to appear from nowhere through the trees. He’d come from the direction of old Alice Pemberton’s house, a small dilapidated cottage that bordered the school grounds. Harriet watched as the boy settled himself lazily against the bonnet of the black car. He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He was a good-looking boy, dark-haired and tall, and his shirt hugged the contours of his well-muscled chest, inviting attention. He turned and looked briefly in Harriet’s direction and she felt a hum of recognition – even from this distance she couldn’t mistake him. Tommy Terrano. Enzo Terrano’s good-for-nothing son. Harriet recalled that he’d escaped a drug dealing charge a year ago when his father had hired a pompous QC from the chambers next door to Harriet’s to defend him. The boy’s sister was in Clementine’s class. A mixed-up girl if ever there was one. Perhaps he was waiting for her.

  The wind whipped up suddenly, lurching through the canopy of the forest that bordered the carpark. The leaves heaved in unison and Harriet shuddered as the gust of wind pushed through the slit in her car window and a tumbling rush of noise followed in its wake. Harriet wound up the window as a flurry of dust settled on the car bonnet. Annoyance surged in her chest. Selfish bloody teenagers. She’d have to go and look for her. She’d park at Jonathan’s in case Clementine came down that way, although if Harriet wasn’t mistaken, Clementine was probably caught up in the art room, oblivious to everything but the brush and paint and canvas. As she drove past the Terrano boy, another gusty squall of wind tugged at his hair, showing his square-jawed profile and a lovely olive complexion. Such a shame that the rotten apples came in such shiny packages. She hoped none of the Denham House girls were silly enough to get involved with him.