Big Little Lies (32 page)

I
know what to do,” said Ed.

“No you don’t,” said Madeline.

They were sitting at the living room table, listening to the rain and gloomily eating Jane’s muffins. (It was terrible the way she kept
giving
them to Madeline, as if she were on a mission to urgently expand Madeline’s waistline.)

Abigail was in her bedroom, lying on the sofa bed they’d moved in to replace her beautiful four-poster bed. She had headphones on and was lying on her side with her knees up to her chest.

The website was still up. Abigail’s virginity was still available for purchase anywhere in the world.

Madeline had a grimy, exposed feeling, as if the eyes of the world were peering in her windows, as though strange men were right now silently creeping down her hallway to leer and sneer at her daughter.

Last night Nathan had come over and he and Madeline had sat with Abigail for more than two hours: begging, reasoning, cajoling, yelling, crying. It had been Nathan who cried, finally, with
frustration, and Abigail had been visibly shocked, but the ridiculous child still would not budge. She would not give them the password. She would not take it down. She might or might not go ahead with the auction, but that wasn’t really the point, she’d said; they needed to stop “obsessing over the sex part.” She was leaving the website up to raise awareness of the issue and because she was “the only voice those little girls have.”

The
egocentricity
of the child, as if international aid organizations were sitting around twiddling their thumbs while little Abigail Mackenzie on the Pirriwee Peninsula was the only one taking decisive action. Abigail said she couldn’t care less about the horrible sexual comments. Those people were nothing to her. That was completely irrelevant. People were always writing mean stuff on the Internet.

“Don’t suggest calling the police,” said Madeline to Ed now. “I really don’t—”

“We contact the Australian office of Amnesty International,” said Ed. “They don’t want their name associated with something like this. If the organization that really does represent the rights of these children tells her to take it down, she’ll listen.”

Madeline pointed her finger at him. “That’s good. That might actually work.”

There were bangs and crashes from down the hallway. Fred and Chloe did not respond well to being stuck indoors on a rainy day.

“Give it back!” screamed Chloe.

“No way!” shouted Fred.

They came running into the room, both of them gripping a sheet of scrap paper.

“Please don’t tell me you’re fighting over that piece of paper,” said Ed.

“He’s not sharing!” screamed Chloe. “
Sharing
is
caring
!”

“You get what you get and you don’t get upset!” screamed Fred.

In normal circumstances that would have made Madeline laugh.

“It’s my paper airplane,” said Fred.

“I drew the passengers!”

“You did not!”

“Well, you can stop all your stressing.” Madeline turned to see Abigail leaning against the doorjamb.

“What?” Madeline said.

Abigail said something that she couldn’t hear over the yelling of Fred and Chloe.

“Bloody hell!” Madeline snatched the piece of paper from Fred’s hand and tore it in half, handing them a piece each.

“Now get out of my sight!” she roared. They ran.

“I’ve taken down the website,” said Abigail with a world-weary sigh.

“You have? Why?” Madeline resisted the urge to throw her arms above her head and run around in circles like Fred did when he kicked a goal.

Abigail handed her a printout of an e-mail. “I got this.”

Ed and Madeline read it together.

To: Abigail Mackenzie

From: Larry Fitzgerald

Subject: Auction Bid

Dear Miss Mackenzie,

My name is Larry Fitzgerald and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You probably don’t hear from many eighty-three-year-old gentlemen living on the other side of the world in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. My darling wife and I visited Australia many years ago, in 1987, before you were born. We had the pleasure of seeing the Sydney Opera House. (I’m an architect, since retired, and it had always been a dream of mine to see the Opera House.) The people of Australia were so kind and warm to us. Sadly, my beautiful wife passed away last year.
I miss her every day. Miss Mackenzie, when I came across your website, I was moved by your obvious passion and your desire to bring attention to the plight of these children. I would not like to purchase your virginity; however I would like to make a bid. This is what I propose: If you close your auction immediately, I will make an immediate donation of $100,000 to Amnesty International. (I will, of course, send you a receipt.) I have spent many years campaigning against the abuse of human rights, and I do so admire what you are trying to achieve, but you are a child yourself, Miss Mackenzie, and I cannot in good conscience stand by and see you take this project to fruition. I look forward to hearing whether my bid is successful.

Yours sincerely,

Larry Fitzgerald

Madeline and Ed looked at each other and over at Abigail.

“I thought one hundred thousand dollars was quite a big donation,” said Abigail. She was standing at the open fridge as she talked, pulling out containers, opening lids and peering into them. “And that Amnesty could probably do something, you know, pretty good with that money.”

“I’m sure they could,” said Ed neutrally.

“I’ve written back to him and told him I’ve taken it down,” said Abigail. “If he doesn’t send back the receipt I’m going to put it straight back up.”

“Oh, naturally,” murmured Ed. “He’s got to follow through.”

Madeline grinned at Ed and then back at Abigail. You could see the relief coursing through her daughter’s young body; her bare feet were doing a little dance as she stood at the refrigerator. Abigail had put herself in a corner, and the wonderful Larry Fitzgerald of South Dakota had given her an out.

“Is this spaghetti Bolognese?” said Abigail, holding up a Tupperware container. “I’m starving.”

“I thought you were vegan now,” said Madeline.

“Not when I’m staying here,” said Abigail, taking the container over to the microwave. “It’s too hard to be vegan here.”

“So tell me,” said Madeline. “What was your password?”

“I can just change it again,” said Abigail.

“I know.”

“You’ll never guess,” said Abigail.

“I know that,” said Madeline. “Your father and I tried everything.”

“No,” said Abigail. “That’s it. That’s my password. ‘You’ll never guess.’”

“Clever,” said Madeline.

“Thanks.” Abigail dimpled at her.

The microwave dinged, and Abigail opened the door and took out the container.

“You know that there are going to have to be, er, consequences for all this,” said Madeline. “When your father and I expressly ask you to do something, you can’t just ignore us.”

“Yup,” said Abigail cheerfully. “Do what you’ve got to do, Mum.”

Ed cleared his throat, but Madeline shook her head at him.

“Can I eat this in the family room while I watch TV?” Abigail lifted the steaming plate.

“Sure,” said Madeline.

Abigail virtually skipped off.

Ed leaned back in his chair with his hands crossed behind his head. “Crisis averted.”

“All thanks to Mr. Larry Fitzgerald.” Madeline picked up the e-mail printout. “How lucky was . . .”

She paused and tapped a finger to her lips. Just how lucky was that?

T
here was a
CLOSED
sign on the door of Blue Blues. Jane pressed her palms to the glass door and felt bereft. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a
CLOSED
sign at Blue Blues before.

She’d just gotten herself completely, ridiculously, extravagantly soaked for nothing.

She dropped her hands from the door and swore. Right. Well. She’d go home and have a shower. If only the hot water at her apartment lasted for more than two minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds was not long enough to get yourself warm; it was just long enough to be cruel.

She turned to go back to the car.

“Jane!”

The door swung open.

Tom was wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt and jeans. He looked extremely dry and warm and delicious. (In her mind Tom was always associated with good coffee and good food, so she had a Pavlovian response just looking at him.)

“You’re closed,” said Jane dolefully. “You’re never closed.”

Tom put his dry hand on her wet arm and pulled her inside. “I’m open for you.”

Jane looked down at herself. Her shoes were filled with water. She made squelching noises as she walked. Water rolled down her face like tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t have an umbrella, and I thought if I just ran really fast—”

“Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time. People walk through fire and flood for my coffee,” said Tom. “Come out back and I’ll get you some dry clothes. I decided I might as well close up and watch TV. I haven’t had a customer in hours. Where’s my man Ziggy?”

“Mum and Dad are babysitting so I can go to the school trivia night,” said Jane. “Wild night out.”

“It probably will be,” said Tom. “Pirriwee parents like a drink or two. I’m going, did you know? Madeline has gotten me on your table.”

Jane followed him through the café, leaving wet footprints, and to the door marked
PRIVATE
. She knew that Tom lived at the back of the café, but she’d never been past the private door.

“Ooh,” she said as Tom opened the door for her. “Exciting!”

“Yes,” said Tom. “You’re a lucky, lucky girl.”

She looked around her and saw that his studio apartment was just like an extension of the café—the same polished floorboards and rough white walls, bookshelves filled with secondhand books. The only differences were the surfboard and guitar leaning against the wall, the stack of CDs and stereo.

“I can’t believe it,” said Jane.

“What?” asked Tom.

“You’re into jigsaws,” she breathed, pointing at a half-finished jigsaw on the table. She looked at the box. It was a proper hard-core (as her brother would have said), two-thousand-piece jigsaw featuring a black-and-white photo of wartime Paris.

“We jigsaw,” said Jane. “My family. We’re kind of obsessed.”

“I like to always have one on the go,” said Tom. “I find them sort of meditative.”

“Exactly,” said Jane.

“Tell you what,” said Tom. “I’ll give you some clothes, and you can have some pumpkin soup with me and help me jigsaw.”

He pulled some tracksuit pants and a hooded sweatshirt from a chest of drawers, and she went into his bathroom and put her soaked clothes, right down to her underwear, into his sink. The dry clothes smelled like Tom and Blue Blues.

“I feel like Charlie Chaplin,” she said, with the sleeves hanging below her wrists and pulling up the waist of the tracksuit pants.

“Here,” said Tom, and he neatly folded up the sleeves of the shirt above her wrists. Jane submitted like a child. She felt unaccountably happy. Cherished.

She sat down at the table and Tom brought them over bowls of pumpkin soup swirled with sour cream and buttered sourdough bread.

“I feel like you’re always feeding me,” said Jane.

“You need feeding,” said Tom. “Eat up.”

She took a mouthful of the sweet, spicy soup.

“I know what’s different about you!” said Tom suddenly. “You’ve had all your hair cut off! It looks great.”

Jane laughed. “I was thinking on the way here that a gay man would notice straightaway that I’d had a haircut.” She picked up a piece of the puzzle and found a spot for it. It felt like being at home, eating and doing a puzzle. “Sorry. I know that’s a terrible cliché.”

“Um,” said Tom.

“What?” said Jane. She looked up at him. “That’s where it goes. Look. It’s the corner of the tank. This soup is incredible. Why don’t you have it on the menu?”

“I’m not gay,” said Tom.

“Oh yes you are,” said Jane merrily. She assumed he was making a bad sort of joke.

“No,” said Tom. “No, I’m not.”

“What?”

“I know I do jigsaws and make amazing pumpkin soup, but I’m actually straight.”

“Oh!” said Jane. She could feel her face turning crimson. “I’m sorry. I thought . . . I didn’t think, I knew! How did I know? Someone told me.
Madeline
told me ages ago. But I remember it! She told me this whole story about how you broke up with your boyfriend and you took it really bad and you just spent hours crying and surfing . . .”

Tom grinned. “Tom O’Brien,” he said. “That’s who she was talking about.”

“Tom O’Brien, the smash-repair guy?” Tom O’Brien was big and burly with a black bushy beard. She had never even properly registered the fact that the two Toms had the same name, they were so different.

“It’s perfectly understandable,” said Tom. “It would seem more likely that Tom the barista was gay than Tom the giant smash-repairer. He’s happy now, by the way, in love with someone new.”

“Huh,” said Jane. She considered. “His receipts did smell really nice.”

Tom snorted.

“I hope I didn’t, um, offend you,” said Jane.

She hadn’t fully closed the bathroom door when she’d gotten dressed. She’d left it partly ajar, the way she would have if Tom had been a girl, so that they could keep talking. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. She had talked to him so
freely
. She’d always been so free with him. If she’d known he was straight she would have kept a part of herself safe. She’d let herself feel attracted to him because he was gay, so it didn’t count.

“Of course not,” said Tom.

Their eyes met. His face, so dear and familiar to her now after all these months, felt suddenly strange. He was blushing. They were both blushing. Her stomach dropped as if she were at the top of a roller coaster. Oh,
calamity
.

“I think that piece goes in the corner there,” said Tom.

Jane looked at the jigsaw piece and slotted it into place. She hoped the tremor in her fingers looked like clumsiness.

“You’re right,” she said.

Carol:
I saw Jane having a very, shall we say,
intimate
conversation with one of the fathers at the trivia night. Their faces were this close, and I’m pretty sure he had his hand on her knee. I was a little shocked, to be frank.

Gabrielle:
It wasn’t a school dad. It was just
Tom
! The barista! And he’s gay!