Truly Madly Guilty by Liane Moriarty Page A

but I’m thinking perhaps you need to bring this month’s visit forward.’
    Erika breathed out a long thin stream of air like she was blowing up a balloon. She looked at Oliver. He’d closed his eyes and let his head tip back against the couch, one hand pressed to his forehead.
    ‘How bad?’ she said to Pam.
    ‘Pretty bad, darling, I’m afraid. Pretty bad.’

chapter fourteen
    ‘How did your, ah, thing at the library go today? Your, um, what-do-ya-call-it, speech?’ asked Sam in a strangled voice, as though the question were being forcibly squeezed from him.
    ‘It went well,’ began Clementine.
    ‘Many people there?’ interrupted Sam. He piano-played his fingertips on the white linen tablecloth and scanned the restaurant feverishly, as if there were someone or something he needed. ‘How many would you say? Twenty? Thirty?’
    ‘Less than twenty,’ said Clementine. ‘One of them was Erika.’
    She waited for a reaction and when none seemed forthcoming she said, ‘I didn’t really understand why she wanted to come.’
    ‘Well, Erika is your biggest fan,’ said Sam with a faint smile.
    That was kind of a joke. It gave her hope for the night that he was making a joke. Sam had been the first man she ever dated who immediately and instinctively grasped the complexities of her friendship with Erika. He’d never reacted with impatience or incomprehension; he’d never said, ‘I don’t get it, if you don’t like her, don’t hang out with her!’ He’d just accepted Erika as part of the Clementine package, as if she were a difficult sister.
    ‘That’s true,’ said Clementine, and she laughed too loudly. ‘Although she left halfway through.’
    Sam said nothing. He looked just to the right of her head, as if there were something interesting going on behind her.
    ‘How was work today?’ she said.
    ‘Fine,’ said Sam coldly. ‘Same as usual.’
    (‘Your marriage is being tested, darling, but the best comes after the worst! Forgiveness and communication is the only way through!’ Clementine’s mother had said all this in a dramatic, passionate whisper to Clementine, as if she were imparting urgent words of wisdom before Clementine set off on some epic journey. They were standing together at the front door waiting for Sam, who had chosen that moment to sit down at the computer and answer an email that was apparently a matter of life and death, while the jarring sound of some terrible pop princess movie blared out from the television. Pam had made a tiny, unnecessary adjustment to the strap of Clementine’s dress. ‘The two of you need to talk ! Talk it out! Say what you feel!’)
    ‘So how’s that “forward-thinking corporate culture” working out for you?’ said Clementine.
    Once she could have said exactly those words and made him laugh, but now she could hear the thread of spite in her voice. Two musicians could play the same notes and sound entirely different. Intonation was everything.
    ‘It’s working out great for me.’ Sam looked at her with something like hatred. Clementine dropped her eyes. Sometimes when she looked at him, she felt like there was a sleeping snake tightly coiled within her chest; a snake that would one day hiss to life and strike with unimaginable, unforgivable consequences.
    She changed the subject.
    ‘I have to admit I don’t really enjoy doing these talks,’ she said. Each time she felt so nervous, but it was an entirely different sort of anxiety from the kind she felt before a performance or even an audition. Her audiences always clapped, but it was subdued applause, and often she sensed an undertone of disapproval.
    She looked out the rain-dotted giant glass window revealing a blurry postcard view of Sydney Harbour complete with the white sails of the Opera House, where she’d performed just two nights previously. ‘I sort of hate it.’
    She glanced back at Sam. An expression of intense aggravation crossed his face. He virtually shuddered with it.