Good Little Liars Page 17

  ‘I’ll have a lime and soda,’ said Marlee.

  ‘Right. Just when I finally get a social life you have to give up drinking,’ said Emma, with a sudden grin.

  The barman appeared in front of Emma. ‘Umm, I’m not sure what we want. Maybe two lime and sodas please?’ She turned back to Marlee.

  ‘I’ll have one to keep you company.’

  The barman handed Emma the drinks and she passed one to Marlee. ‘Let’s go over there and see if we can find a table where it’s not so noisy.’ She pointed to the back of the pub where there were some scattered armchairs, fully occupied as far as Marlee could see.

  ‘Hello!’

  Clementine appeared at Marlee’s shoulder. She was dressed in tight black pants and a rather fabulous red leather jacket over a black t-shirt. Her huge brown eyes were twinkling and she gave Emma a kiss on the cheek and then stood on tiptoe and gave Marlee one too.

  Marlee looked up as a tall man emerged from the crowd at Clementine’s side. She felt a disorienting flash of recognition. Jonathan Brownley turned towards her and his eyes widened briefly.

  ‘Marleen. Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Marlee, although she wasn’t sure if the word had been voiced, or if it had remained in her head.

  ‘Hello, Jonathan. I didn’t know you were coming,’ said Emma.

  ‘Sorry to drag your boss along, Emma. I promise I won’t let him spoil our fun. But it’s just so not okay for a hot single guy to be at home checking emails on a Saturday night.’ Clementine had a provocative gleam in her eye.

  Marlee wondered what she was trying to achieve. She watched Jonathan lean down through the noise and say something to Emma. She smiled uncertainly. Then he turned and caught Marlee’s eye again.

  The wavy blond hair, the chiselled features, the muscular body in jeans and an open-neck shirt – twenty-five years seemed only to have enhanced his looks. Her breath felt shallow, ragged. She watched as Clementine tugged at his arm and gestured towards the bar, whispering something in his ear as he bent down once again. He tensed his face, as if he didn’t understand what she was saying then shook his head. No. The nausea returned like an old arch-rival then. Marlee turned and pushed her way through the crowd towards the toilet, letting the sweat and energy and noise of the crowd and the music swallow her whole.

  Emma watched Marlee disappear into the crowd. The way she’d just taken off, without warning, must mean she needed to be sick. Pregnancy could be so awful. She turned back to Clementine and Jonathan.

  ‘She hasn’t been feeling well.’

  Jonathan nodded then leaned down so he could be heard. ‘How’s Rosie getting along?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’ She looked towards Clementine, avoiding eye contact with Jonathan in case he could mind-read and guess at her traitorous thoughts about him and Tessa.

  ‘What’s he like as a boss, Emma?’ asked Clementine, winking at Jonathan.

  ‘Oh, good. Good.’ Emma felt herself going red and she looked towards the rear of the pub, wondering when Marlee was coming back. When she turned her head back, Jonathan was looking at her intently. She felt her heart skipping. He was standing so close and was tall and intimidating in his jeans and a shirt that hugged all of his toned and muscled bits. Emma averted her eyes. It really wasn’t a positive thing, to be so handsome and body perfect. It made people jumpy.

  She caught Clementine’s gaze then. She had a half smile on her lips, and Emma realised that the sick feeling in her stomach wasn’t to do with Jon Brownley standing too close. It was Clementine, bringing him here, compounding her guilt and uncertainty over the whole Tessa thing on purpose. She wasn’t used to being alone with Jonathan. She barely ever had cause to be in the same room as him at school, unless it was a whole staff meeting, and then she’d keep her head down and avoid drawing attention to herself.

  Emma jumped as Jonathan leaned towards her and touched her arm.

  ‘Do you know the band Clementine’s brought us here for?’

  ‘No, no. Clementine just suggested we come along.’

  Jonathan nodded. ‘I feel a bit out of place, to be honest. Give me a glass of red wine and a good murder mystery on the TV and I’m a pig in mud.’

  Emma frowned.

  ‘Not a murder mystery type yourself?’ He smiled at Emma as if he was actually interested in the answer. She felt off balance.

  ‘I am actually. The English ones anyway. Inspector Lynley and Vera.’

  He smiled. ‘Me too.’

  Marlee suddenly appeared at her side out of nowhere. She leaned in to Emma and whispered, ‘Sorry, I’ve gotta go. Not feeling too good.’

  ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘No, no you stay here. I’ll get a cab.’ Marlee gave them a quick, distracted wave and turned towards the door. Emma watched her tumbling russet red curls disappearing as she edged her way expertly through the crowd. She felt as if her lifeboat had just untethered itself and floated out to sea. Drips of sweat under her bra line began trickling down her stomach. She leaned down and took a careful sip of her drink, focussing on her straw. Jonathan began to speak again and just as he leaned down, a roar went up from the crowd and a crashing drum solo exploded from the stage in front of them. The electric guitar began, loud and long, and Emma had never been so happy in all her life to hear such a terrible noise.

  Nineteen

  Emma

  Why was it assumed that Emma’s job left time enough to cover everyone else’s role when they were sick? She really didn’t want to be anywhere near the headmaster at the moment, yet here she was, sitting outside his office door. She could barely look at him without feeling guilty. Saturday night had been excruciating. He was so friendly. So nice. How could she report him to police now? But how could she live with her conscience any more if she didn’t? Voicing her suspicions had given them a form, so now they were ever-present, like an irksome neighbour who you tried to avoid, but who was always right there at the edge of your thoughts when you went out to check your mailbox.

  She looked at the mail tray in front of her. Each document had been neatly marked in pencil at the top right-hand corner, noting where Tina, the headmaster’s usual secretary, wanted it to be filed or sent to. She looked longingly at the bin and wondered if Tina would be back tomorrow.

  She picked up the first document and flicked through it, looking up to ensure that Dr Brownley’s office door was still closed. It was a completed application form from a prospective student. Vienna Loveday. Goodness. Where did people come up with these names? Perhaps Vienna’s mother had lived in Austria. Or maybe the girl had been conceived there. Poor child. Imagine if that was it – living, breathing evidence that your parents had sex in an exotic place once, and for some reason assumed you’d like to be reminded of it for the rest of your life.

  Emma rifled through the paperwork she’d already collected for the enrolments office and put Vienna’s application in behind one for Arabella Longford-Spratt, and went back to the pile.

  The next document was a letter to Dr Brownley informing him he’d been shortlisted for another national leadership in teaching award and that the winner would be judged next month. Emma read through it, wondering who had nominated him. Everyone seemed to worship at the altar of Jonathan Brownley. Apparently, he’d turned the school around since taking on the head’s role five years earlier, when it had been floundering in the academic league tables. Now the waiting list was long again. You had to put your daughter’s name down before she started primary school if you wanted a spot at the high school. Phillip had once told her that Dr Brownley had to be more like a CEO of a multi-million-dollar company than an educator. He’d been trying to explain to Emma why the headmaster wouldn’t be interested in introducing meditation into the curriculum. In Phillip’s view, the fact that it was unlikely to have an impact on the bottom line of his business was a critical factor. Emma had been annoyed at his dismissal of her idea, but she’d also found herself thinking about the school in a different light. Five hundr
ed and twenty students at nearly $30,000 a year – almost double that if they were boarders. It was a lot of money. Parents these days expected a return on their investment, according to Phillip.

  She filed the letter and turned back to the desk and began flicking through the rest of the pile.

  Emma jumped as Dr Brownley’s door opened. He walked towards the filing cabinet where she was standing.

  ‘Emma, thanks for filling in today.’

  ‘Oh, sure.’

  ‘I have Moira Ryan popping in to discuss something shortly. Would you mind letting her know that I need to reschedule unless she wants to wait for half an hour? She’s not answering her extension and she’s not great at checking her emails so she probably won’t have got my message.’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’

  He held eye contact and Emma’s heart began beating madly.

  ‘I just need to duck down to the drama studio to introduce the senior girls’ soiree for some guests,’ he said.

  She tried to breathe normally.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Are you alright, Emma?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Emma’s hand trembled and she dropped the letter she’d been holding. They both dipped down to get it at the same time and she grabbed at it awkwardly.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.

  She looked away and started fiddling with the papers on her desk, but felt his eyes on her.

  ‘Right, well I’ll be back soon.’

  Emma let her breath out as the door closed. She really needed Tina to get better by tomorrow. It felt awful being near him. Traitorous. Everyone around here would hate her if she reported him. And she didn’t have any hard evidence anyway. Not really. It’s my gut instinct, Officer. My friend Tessa said she’d bought this new lacy underwear and she was going to show it to him. Yes, that very afternoon! How silly that it slipped my mind.

  Tessa had been in love. She and Jonathan had seemed to share a secret musical language when they played together for the class. She was sure it wasn’t just her hippocampus making false memories.

  She stared at the filing pile blankly and wondered if she was going mad. Phillip had always told her she was too flighty. Maybe this was the sort of thing he meant.

  A creaking ‘click’ made Emma jump again. A hunched figure, small and swathed in floral, with a wispy grey bun piled on top of her head, hobbled through the office door. Moira Ryan must have been nearly ninety by now, but if anyone had dared to ask her age, she would have fixed a charming smile on her wizened little face and changed the subject. She’d been a school institution for sixty-three years. Teacher. Librarian. House Mistress. Archive Manager. She’d done it all. If anyone needed to know something about the history of Denham House, Moira was their library.

  ‘Hello, Moira,’ said Emma.

  ‘Hello, dear, I’m here to see Dr Brownley about a project I’m doing in the archives.’

  ‘Oh Moira, I’m sorry but he’s had to pop out but he said if you’d like to wait, you’re welcome. He’ll be about half an hour though.’

  ‘What about I get us a cup of tea then, dear,’ said Moira, heading towards the tiny recessed kitchen area adjacent to the headmaster’s office. Emma stifled a smile as Moira began tidying the bench and then reached underneath to pull out a well-worn silver teapot. Moira’s constant tea-sipping was part of her legend.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Emma, moving her half-full tea cup and packet of Tim Tams behind the filing tray. She picked up the rest of the filing pile and let the rising bellow of the kettle settle her nerves.

  ‘How have you been, Moira?’

  ‘Can’t complain, dear. I have had a lovely time sorting through some old documents this week. From some of the classes during the 1920s. I’m putting together a retrospective for the school’s 120th birthday.’

  ‘Gosh, there must be some amazing stories and photographs,’ said Emma.

  ‘I’ll get to your class soon, dear. The school uniform you girls wore was one of my favourites. I was so sad when they changed it in 1995.’

  ‘Oh, you’re making me feel ancient, Moira.’

  ‘Piffle, Emma. It feels like yesterday. You’re still young and beautiful.’

  Emma felt herself redden. Then a thought struck her.

  ‘Moira, do you remember much about when Tessa Terrano died?’

  Moira fussed around at the tea bench a while longer, and Emma wondered if she had heard her. After a minute she walked towards Emma carrying two perfectly balanced mugs. Hunched over, her face fell squarely between the mugs, so that she was peering through them as if the teacups were a steering wheel and she was carefully driving them home. She lowered one onto Emma’s desk.

  ‘Well, what a question. Of course I do, Emma. I remember how very upset you were, having your lovely friend taken away so cruelly. But accidents happen. Life goes on.’

  Emma felt a sadness in the words, but also a hint of evasion in the way Moira turned without looking at her. Moira was no fool. The old-lady act hid a shrewd operator for whom Denham House was husband, children and home.

  ‘Did the police ever suspect that it wasn’t just a fall?’

  Moira took her cup of tea and shuffled across the room like an ageing hobbit. She took her time, settling into one of the chairs then looked up at Emma with twinkling eyes.

  ‘There was talk, my dear, but it was only talk. She just fell. It was a shame the builder’s fences weren’t more secure. People conjured up stories because they couldn’t work out why she would go inside the building zone. But it was just curiosity. Tessa was a curious sort of girl.’

  ‘I’ve never really believed that. The trench was obvious – you could see it from outside the fenced area. I… I’ve always wondered if she was pushed. I’ve been thinking about it lately with our reunion coming up. I just think there was more to it.’

  ‘Dragging up old pain will get you nowhere, Emma. That’s in the past and that’s where it should stay. Nobody around here coped well with that incident,’ Moira’s eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to the headmaster’s office door, ‘and nobody needs it dragged up again now.’

  Emma caught a faint wind of a warning in her voice.

  Moira picked up a copy of last month’s Denham House Gazette and began flicking through the thick, glossy pages, closing the conversation like an iron gate.

  Emma sighed. She put the letter into the filing cabinet in the appropriate folder, then shut the drawer too loudly and sank back into her seat.

  She picked at her fingernail and wondered why Moira felt so sure about it being an accident, and why any sane person would continue down this path of madness when they had plenty of other issues to keep them busy. Like what was she going to have for dinner for example?

  Now it was just the two of them it was hard to motivate herself to cook. She could defrost some Bolognese sauce again. That would keep Rosie happy. Although all those carbs… she really should try to lose some weight before her school reunion. Not that she would go. She had nothing to wear and it would be too humiliating anyway after the email fiasco. Marlee’s efforts to take her dress shopping for the reunion had been half-hearted due to her feeling so sick. They’d given up after the lobster dress. But she couldn’t wear her blue floral dress – she’d worn it to every posh event she’d had for the last five years and she just didn’t feel good in it any more. But that was the thing about stretchy dresses, there was no excuse to get rid of them because they always fitted you. Phillip never seemed to notice what she wore, so she’d never worried about her weight fluctuation too much before. But even if it did still fit her, she didn’t want to be the only lumpy, unglamorous one among the women who would be coming back to Hobart for the reunion. No doubt they’d all be wearing the latest fashions.

  Moira looked up from the Gazette. ‘How are you and Rosie getting along in that dear little cottage, Emma?’

  Emma took a sip of tea while she thought about how to rep
ly. ‘It’s okay. The heaters are ancient so I’ve been relying on the fireplace but I think they’re going to renovate it in the Christmas holidays so hopefully they’ll put in a heating unit that actually works.’

  ‘Well it hasn’t had much done to it over the years. When Dr Brownley lived there as a young lad, he probably had the very same complaints. A good spruce up is overdue I’d say.’

  Emma’s froze, her teacup half way to her mouth. ‘What did you say, Moira?’

  ‘What do you mean, dear?’

  ‘Dr Brownley, having the cottage…’

  ‘Yes, he lived there for quite a time. I think he shared it with Mr Carruthers at some stage – the young photography and art teacher. Don’t you remember? He didn’t last long though. Didn’t take to the traditions.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Emma wasn’t about to get into the conversation about some of the school’s eccentric traditions. She needed to think. She felt her mind swirling with the possibilities of Moira’s revelation.

  ‘Moira, when would he have lived in the cottage?’

  Moira gave her a curious look and pursed her lips.

  ‘I’m just interested in finding out the history of the cottage… since it’s our new home,’ urged Emma.

  ‘Well, I guess he lived there when he first got here. It’s not the top pick of the cottages, as you know. It’s so small and a bit of a hike to the main buildings. So I think it was his very first few years at the school. They’ve always gotten the best teachers from around the place to come to the school by offering free accommodation as part of the package. But they tended to put the young teachers down that way, in either the Hellebore or the Tulip cottage.’

  Emma felt a sick, cold comprehension dawning as the final piece of the faded, old jigsaw puzzle slotted neatly into place. A naked photograph of Tessa taken in the week she died, found in the same cottage that Jon Brownley had lived in at that exact time.

  It wasn’t coincidence, it was serious new evidence. Tessa’s death would surely be re-opened if Emma took it to the police. Would they prosecute her for not coming forward earlier? Oh God, she couldn’t go to jail. Marlee might know what to do. But she had to leave Marlee out of it. Marlee didn’t need the extra stress right now.