Nine Perfect Strangers by Liane Moriarty
Frances somehow already knew that everything was going to feel different in the morning.
They would all feel the tug of their old lives. She’d been on group package holidays and cruises before. She knew the process. The further away they got from Tranquillum House, the more they would think, ‘Wait, what was that all about? I have nothing in common with those people!’ It would all begin to feel like a dream. ‘Did I really do a Hawaiian dance by the pool?’ ‘Did I really attempt to do a charade of the Kama Sutra just so my team would win?’ ‘Did I really take illegal drugs and get locked up with strangers?’
At last there was just Frances and Tony, alone at the long table, drinking a final glass of wine.
Tony held up the bottle. ‘Refill?’
Frances looked at her glass, considered. ‘No, thank you.’
He went to refill his own glass, changed his mind and put the bottle back down.
‘I must be transformed,’ said Frances. ‘Normally I’d say yes.’
‘Me too,’ said Tony.
He got that decisive, focused, I’m going in look men got on their faces when they’d decided it was time to kiss you.
Frances thought of that first kiss at Natalie’s sixteenth birthday party, how incredible and glorious it was, and how that was the boy who ended up telling her that he preferred smaller breasts. She thought of Gillian telling her to stop acting like the heroine of one of her own novels. Tony lived in Melbourne and was no doubt very settled in his life there. She thought of how often she’d moved for a man, how she’d been prepared to pack up her life and move to America for a man who didn’t even exist.
She thought of Masha asking, ‘Do you want to be a different person when you leave here?’
She said to Tony, ‘Normally, I’d say yes.’
chapter seventy-five
One week later
‘So, I’m not pregnant,’ said Jessica. ‘Never was pregnant. It was all in my head.’
Ben looked up from the couch. He picked up the remote and turned off Top Gear.
‘Okay,’ he said.
She came and sat down next to him and put her hand on his knee and for a moment they sat in silence and didn’t say a word, but somehow they both knew what it meant.
If she’d been pregnant, they would have stayed together. There was enough love left to stay together for a baby.
But she wasn’t pregnant, and there wasn’t enough love left to try again, or for anything else, except an inevitable, amicable divorce.
Two weeks later
The house smelled of gingerbread and caramel and butter. Carmel had cooked all her daughters’ favourite foods for their homecoming.
She heard the sound of the car pulling into the driveway and went to the door.
The car doors flew open and out tumbled her four little girls. They knocked her to her knees with their embraces. She buried her nose in their hair, the crooks of their arms. They burrowed into her and instantly began to fight over her like she was a favourite stuffed toy.
Lizzie got elbowed in the eye by one of her sisters and wailed. Lulu screamed at Allie, ‘Let me have a turn hugging Mummy! You’re taking all of her!’ Sadie grabbed at Carmel’s hair and tugged, bringing tears of pain to her eyes.
‘Let your mother stand up!’ snapped Joel. He never did well on long-haul flights. ‘For Christ’s sake.’
Carmel managed to stagger to her feet.
Lulu said fiercely, ‘I am never ever leaving you again, Mummy.’
Joel snapped, ‘Lulu! Don’t be so ungrateful. You just had the holiday of a lifetime.’
‘No need to get cross with her,’ said Sonia. ‘We’re all tired.’
Watching her ex-husband’s new girlfriend criticise him reminded Carmel of the euphoria she’d experienced after drinking that drug-laced smoothie.
‘Go inside, girls,’ said Carmel. ‘There are treats.’
The girls ran.
‘You look great,’ said Sonia, who looked grey-faced and jet-lagged.
‘Thanks,’ said Carmel. ‘I’ve had a really nice break.’
‘Have you lost weight?’ asked Sonia.
‘I don’t know,’ said Carmel. She honestly didn’t know. It no longer seemed important.
‘Well, I don’t know what it is, but you just look transformed, you really do,’ said Sonia warmly. ‘Your skin looks great, your hair . . . everything.’
Carmel thought, Damn it, I’m going to become your friend, aren’t I?
She realised that Joel wouldn’t even notice any difference in her. You never changed your appearance for men, you changed it for other women, because they were the ones carefully tracking each other’s weight and skin tone along with their own; they were the ones trapped with you on the ridiculous appearance obsession merry-go-round that they couldn’t or wouldn’t get off. Even if she’d been a perfectly toned and manicured gym junkie, Joel would still have left her. His ‘lack of attraction’ had nothing to do with her. He didn’t leave her for something better, but for something new.
Joel said, ‘We got seated right near the toilets on the flight home. Bang, bang, bang, went the door all night. I never slept at all.’
‘Unacceptable,’ said Carmel.
‘I know,’ said Joel. ‘I tried to get us upgraded on points, but no luck.’
Carmel registered the upward lift of Sonia’s eyes. Yes, definitely friends.
‘So, I’ve been thinking it might be good if you could help with some of the chauffeuring around to after-school activities this year,’ said Carmel to Joel. ‘I wore myself out trying to do everything on my own last year and I want to keep up this new exercise routine I’ve got going.’
‘Of course,’ said Sonia. ‘We’re co-parents!’
‘My mouth feels disgusting,’ muttered Joel. ‘I think it’s the dehydration.’
‘Send me their schedules,’ said Sonia. ‘We’ll get it all worked out. Or, if you want, we could have a coffee together, talk it through?’ She looked nervous, as if she’d overstepped.
‘That sounds good,’ said Carmel.
‘I set my own hours, so I can be really flexible,’ said Sonia. The enthusiasm bubbled up in her voice. ‘I’d love to help out with their ballet, any time. I always dreamed of having a little girl and doing her hair for ballet and, well, as you know, I can’t have children of my own, so I’m never –’
‘You can’t have children?’ interrupted Carmel.
‘I’m sorry, I thought you knew that,’ said Sonia, with a sideways glance at Joel, who was busy running his finger around the inside of his mouth.
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Carmel. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, it’s fine, I’ve fully accepted it,’ said Sonia, with a second glance at Joel that told Carmel it was not fine for Sonia, but it was just great for Joel. ‘But that’s why I’d love to help with ballet. Unless you want to keep that for yourself, of course.’
‘You’re very welcome to take them to ballet,’ said Carmel, who was not a ballet mum and could never manage those sleek ballet buns to the satisfaction of her daughters or their teacher, Miss Amber.
‘Really?’ Sonia clasped her hands as if she’d been given the most precious gift, and the joyous gratitude in her eyes made Carmel want to cry with gratitude too. The girls weren’t going to have to be confused by the arrival of a half-sibling and Carmel was going to get out of all things ballet. Miss Amber would love Sonia. Sonia would volunteer to help out doing hair and make-up at the concerts. Carmel was permanently off the hook.
Later today Carmel would tell Lulu to never ever correct anyone who said how much she looked like her mummy when she was out with Sonia.
‘I’ll research the best calendar-sharing apps.’ Sonia took out her phone from her handbag and tapped herself a note.
Carmel experienced another burst of euphoria.
She’d be there for poor Sonia when, in ten years or so, Joel decided he was due for his next upgrade.
‘Can we talk about ballet another time?’ said Joel. ‘Because right now, I really need to get home for a shower.’ He made a movement towards his car.
‘We need to say goodbye to the girls!’ said Sonia.
‘Of course,’ sighed Joel. It seemed like it had been a long holiday.
‘Was it paleo?’ Sonia whispered to Carmel, as they headed inside the house. ‘Five: two? Eighteen: six?’
‘Health resort,’ said Carmel. ‘Very trippy place. It changed my life.’
Three weeks later
‘You’re panting,’ said Jo to Frances.
‘I’ve been doing push-ups,’ said Frances, facedown on her living room floor, the phone to her ear. ‘Push-ups work every muscle in your body.’
‘You have not been doing push-ups,’ scoffed Jo. ‘Oh my God, I haven’t interrupted you in flagrante delicto?’
Only Frances’s former editor could both pronounce and spell ‘in flagrante delicto’.
‘I guess I should be flattered that you think I’m more likely to be having sex at eleven in the morning than doing push-ups.’ Frances sat up into a cross-legged position.
She’d lost three kilos at Tranquillum House and put them straight back on once she was home, but she was trying to incorporate a little more exercise, a little less chocolate, a little more mindful breathing and a little less wine into her lifestyle. She was feeling pretty good. The whites of her eyes were most definitely whiter, according to her friend Ellen, who had been shocked to hear about Frances’s experiences.
‘When I said their approach was unconventional, I meant the personalised meals!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t mean LSD!’ She thought about it, and then said wistfully, ‘I would have loved to try LSD.’
‘How’s retirement?’ Frances asked Jo.
‘I’m going back to work,’ said Jo. ‘Work is easier. Everyone thinks I have nothing to do all day. My siblings think I should take full responsibility for our elderly parents. My children think I should take care of their children. I love my grandchildren, but day care was invented for a reason.’
‘I knew you were too young to retire,’ said Frances as she tried to touch her nose to her knee. Stretching was so important.
‘I’m starting my own imprint,’ said Jo.
‘Are you?’ said Frances. She sat up straight. A tiny burst of hope. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Naturally I’ve read the new novel, and naturally I love it,’ said Jo. ‘Before I think about making an offer, I just wondered how you’d feel about incorporating a little bloodshed? Potentially even a murder. Just the one.’
‘Murder!’ said Frances. ‘I don’t know if I’ve got it in me.’
‘Oh, Frances,’ said Jo. ‘You’ve got plenty of murderous impulses lurking away in that romantic old heart of yours.’
‘Have I?’ said Frances. She narrowed her eyes. Maybe she did.
Four weeks later
Lars didn’t know he was going to say it until he said it.
Since he’d been back home the dirty-faced little dark-haired boy with Ray's hazel eyes kept materialising just as he drifted off to sleep, and suddenly, irritatingly, he’d be wide awake with the exact same thought in his head, like a brand-new revelation every time: the kid didn’t want to show him something terrible from his past. He wanted to show him something wonderful in his future.
What a load of nonsense, he kept telling himself. I’m not a different person. That was just drugs. I’ve taken drugs before. That was a hallucination, not a goddamn epiphany.
But now Ray stood at the pantry putting away groceries, all those protein shakes, and Lars heard the words coming out of his mouth: ‘I’ve been thinking about the baby idea.’
He saw Ray’s hand stop. A can of tinned tomatoes poised midair. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t move or turn around.
‘Maybe we could give it a shot,’ Lars said. ‘Maybe.’ He felt sick. If Ray turned around right now, if he threw his arms around him, if he looked at him with all that love and happiness and need in his eyes, Lars would vomit, he would definitely vomit.
But Ray knew him too well.
He didn’t turn around. He slowly put the can of tomatoes down. ‘Okay,’ he said, as if it were neither here nor there to him.
‘We’ll talk about it later,’ said Lars, with a firm knuckle rap on the granite benchtop, which kind of hurt.
‘Yep,’ said Ray.
A little while later, when Lars came back into the house to retrieve his sunglasses after saying he was going out to the shops, he heard the unmistakable sound of a six-foot man jumping up and down on the spot while shrieking into the phone to someone who was presumably his sister: ‘Oh my God, oh my God, you’re never going to believe what just happened!’
Lars stopped for a moment, his sunglasses in his hand, and smiled, before he headed back outside into the sunshine.
Five weeks later
There was a documentary about the history of Australian Rules football on TV. Frances watched the whole thing. It was actually fascinating.
She called Tony. ‘I just watched a whole hour of television about your sport!’
‘Frances?’ He sounded like he was puffing.
‘I’ve just been doing push-ups,’ he said.
‘I can do ten in a row now,’ said Frances. ‘How many can you do?’
‘A hundred,’ said Tony.
‘Show-off,’ said Frances.
Six weeks later
Napoleon sat in the waiting room of a psychiatrist he’d been referred to by his GP. It had taken him six weeks to get the first available appointment. That’s the mental health crisis problem right there, he thought.
Since returning from Tranquillum House, he’d been surviving: teaching, cooking, talking to his wife and daughter, running his support group. It was amazing to him that everyone treated him as if he were just the same. It reminded him of the blocked-ears feeling after a flight, except all his senses, not just his hearing, felt muted. His voice seemed to echo in his ears. The sky was leached of colour. He did nothing that he wasn’t obliged to do because the effort of existence exhausted him. He slept whenever he could. Getting up each morning was like moving his limbs through thick mud.
‘Everything okay?’ Heather sometimes said to him.
‘All good,’ said Napoleon.
Heather was different after their time at Tranquillum House. Not happier exactly, but calmer. She had joined a tai chi class in the park down the road. She was the only one under the age of seventy. Heather had never been the sort of woman to have girlfriends, but for some reason she fitted right in to this elderly circle.
‘They make me laugh,’ she said. ‘And they don’t demand anything from me.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Zoe. ‘They demand lots of you!’ It was true that Heather seemed to be spending a lot of time driving her elderly new friends to and fro from doctors’ appointments and picking up prescriptions for them.
Zoe had a new part-time job. She seemed busy and distracted with her university course. Napoleon kept a careful eye on her, but she was good, she was fine. One morning, a week or so after they’d got back from the retreat, he stopped by her bathroom door and overheard a beautiful sound he hadn’t heard in three years: his daughter singing off-key in the shower.
‘Mr Marconi?’ said a short blonde woman who reminded him a little of Frances Welty. ‘I’m Allison.’
She ushered him into her office and motioned to a chair on the opposite side of a coffee table with a book about English gardens and a box of aloe vera scented tissues.
Napoleon didn’t wait for the n
He told her about Zach. He told her about the drugs he was given at Tranquillum House and how, ever since then, he’d been struggling with what he believed to be depression. He told her that his GP had offered him antidepressants, and he probably did need antidepressants, but he knew sometimes it was hard to get the dosage right, it wasn’t an exact science, he understood and appreciated this, he had done the research, he knew all the brand names, all the side effects, he’d put together his own spreadsheet if she was interested in taking a look, and he knew that sometimes, during that initial period, patients didn’t get better, they got worse, they suffered suicidal thoughts, and he knew this because he knew people who had lost family members in that way, and he also knew that he overreacted to drugs, he knew this about himself, and maybe his son had the same sensitivity, he didn’t know, and he was sure that those people at that health resort meant well, and maybe this depression had been going to happen anyway, but he felt that he was possibly the one person in that room who should never, ever have been given that smoothie.
And then, limp with exhaustion, he said, ‘Allison, I am terrified that I will . . .’
She didn’t ask him to finish the sentence.
She reached across the coffee table and put her hand on his arm. ‘We’re a team now, Napoleon. You and me, we’re a team, and we’re going to work out a strategy and we are going to beat this, okay?’
She looked at him with all the passion and intensity of his old football coach. ‘We’re going to beat it. We’re going to win.’
Two months later
Frances and Tony were taking a walk, nine hundred kilometres apart, in different states.
They’d got into the habit of keeping each other company as they went for walks around their respective neighbourhoods.
At first they’d walked with their mobile phones pressed to their ears, but then Tony’s daughter, Mimi, had said they should use headphones, and now their ears no longer ached when they finished and they could walk for even longer.