“Yup. Just like Romeo and Juliet, except it’s, you know, Geoff and Juliette,” said Lorraine, who had apparently given up hope of trying to keep the details of her conversation secret from her colleagues.
Madeline felt a slightly sick feeling, as if she’d scoffed down something sickly sweet and bad for her. “That’s awful. That’s horrendous.” She wished Renata ill, but she didn’t wish her this. The only woman who deserved a philandering husband was a philandering wife. “Does Renata know?”
“Apparently not,” said Lorraine. “But it’s confirmed. Geoff told Andrew Faraday at squash, and Andrew told Shane, who told Alex. Men are such shocking gossips.”
“Someone has to tell her,” said Madeline.
“Well, it won’t be me,” said Lorraine. “Shoot the messenger and all that.”
“It can’t be me,” said Madeline. “I’m the last person she should hear it from.”
“Just don’t tell anyone,” said Lorraine. “I promised Alex I wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“Right,” said Madeline. No doubt this juicy piece of gossip was hurtling its way like a pinball across the peninsula, bouncing from friend to friend, husband to wife, and would soon enough hit poor Renata smack in the face, just when the poor woman thought the most stressful thing going on in her life was her daughter being bullied at school.
“Apparently little Juliette wants to take him to meet ’er parents in France,” said Lorraine, putting on a French accent. “Ooh la la.”
“Oh, enough, Lorraine!” said Madeline sharply. “It’s not funny. I don’t want to hear anymore.” It was completely unfair, seeing as she’d relished receiving the gossip in the first place.
“Sorry, darling,” said Lorraine unperturbed. “What can I do for you, anyway?”
Madeline made the booking, and Lorraine handled it with her usual efficiency, and Madeline wished she’d just sent her an e-mail.
“So I’ll see you Saturday night,” said Lorraine.
“Saturday night? Oh, of course, the trivia night,” said Madeline. She spoke warmly to make up for her earlier sharpness. “Looking forward to it. I’ve got a new dress.”
“I bet you have,” said Lorraine. “I’m going as Elvis. No rules that say the women have to go as Audrey and the men have to go as Elvis.”
Madeline laughed, feeling fond of Lorraine again, whose big, loud, raucous laugh would set the tone for a fun night.
“I’ll see you then,” said Lorraine. “Oh, hey! What’s this charity thing that Abigail is doing?”
“I’m not sure exactly,” said Madeline. “She’s raising money for Amnesty International doing something. Maybe a raffle? Actually, I should tell her she needs to get a permit to run a raffle.”
“Mmmm,” said Lorraine.
“What?” said Madeline.
“Mmmm.”
“What?” Madeline swung her swivel chair around and her elbow knocked a manila folder off the corner of her desk. She caught it in time. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” said Lorraine. “Petra just mentioned something about this project Abigail was doing, and I got the feeling there was something, I don’t know, a bit off about it. Petra was giggling, being all irritating and silly, and making these obscure references about some of the other girls not approving of what Abigail was doing, but Petra approved, which is no great endorsement. Sorry. I’m being a bit vague. Just that my mother instincts went a little, you know, wah, wah, wah.” She made a sound like a car alarm.
Madeline remembered now that strange comment that somebody had made on Abigail’s Facebook page. She’d forgotten all about it because she’d been distracted by her rage over the cancellation of the math tutor.
“I’ll find out,” she said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“It’s probably nothing. Au revoir, darl.” Lorraine hung up.
Madeline picked up her phone and sent Abigail a text: Call me as soon as you get this. Mum x.
She’d be in class now, and the kids weren’t meant to look at their phones until school hours were over.
Patience, she told herself as she put her hands back on the keyboard. Right. What next? The posters to promote next month’s King Lear. Nobody in Pirriwee wanted to see King Lear lurching madly about the stage. They wanted contemporary comedy. They had enough Shakespearean drama in their own lives in the school playground and on the soccer field. But Madeline’s boss insisted. Ticket sales would be sluggish, and she’d subtly blame Madeline’s marketing. It happened every year.
She looked at the phone again. Abigail would probably make her wait till later tonight before she finally called.
“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child, Abigail,” she said to the silent phone. (She could quote great chunks of King Lear, thanks to having to listen to the cast rehearsing so often.)
The phone rang, making her jump. It was Nathan.
“Don’t get upset,” he said.
56.
Violent relationships tend to become more violent over time.
Had she read it in some of that folder of paperwork, or was it something Susi had said in that cool, nonjudgmental voice of hers?
Celeste lay on her side in bed, hugging her pillow to her and looking out the window where Perry had pulled back the curtain so she could see the sea.
“We’ll be able to lie in bed and see the ocean!” he’d crowed when they’d first looked at this house, and the real estate agent had shrewdly said, “I’ll leave you to look on your own,” because, of course, the house spoke for itself. Perry had been like a kid that day, an excited kid running through a new house, not a man about to spend millions on a “prestige ocean-view property.” His excitement almost frightened her; it was too raw and optimistic. She’d been right to be superstitious. They were surely heading for a fall. She was fourteen weeks pregnant at the time, nauseated and bloated, with a permanent metallic taste in her mouth, and she was refusing to believe in this pregnancy—but Perry was high on hope, as if the new house would somehow guarantee the pregnancy would work, because “What a life! What a life for children, living this close to the beach!” That was before he’d ever even raised his voice to her, when the idea of his hitting her would have been impossible, inconceivable, laughable.