The Golden Child Page 28

  ‘So what happened, Lucy?’

  Lucy has been anaesthetised, plastered – luckily it is a clean break and doesn’t require surgery – and is lying propped on a hospital bed, waiting for the specialist. It’s only Beth and Lucy; Dan has taken Charlotte home, but he’s heading back shortly, and will wait with Lucy until she’s released.

  Beth has avoided asking the question until now, isn’t sure that she actually wants it answered. But there’s no way of putting it off any longer: Beth knows, they all know, that there’s no possibility that the wardrobe fell over by itself.

  At first, Lucy is resolute in her denial. ‘I can’t remember.’ She shrugs; her face and voice are devoid of expression.

  ‘Oh, Lucy, come on. That cupboard couldn’t have fallen on you without some sort of . . . assistance. Were you climbing on it for some reason? We’ve told you never to.’ Even as she says it, Beth knows that this solution, however attractive, is highly unlikely.

  ‘I don’t know, Mum. Honestly. The last thing I remember I was just opening it, and the next thing it was on top of me. It was always really wobbly.’

  ‘It’s not the slightest bit wobbly, Lucy. You and Charlotte saw Dad and me trying to move it out. And we couldn’t.’ When they first moved in, Dan and Beth had wanted the large cupboard for their own room, but they hadn’t been able to move it more than a few feet. ‘It would take – deliberate force – to make it pitch forward like that. It couldn’t happen just by opening it.’

  Beth moves closer, leans down so her face is level with Lucy’s. ‘Lucy, if your sister did this somehow, you need to tell me. We need to know.’ She has to whisper, the words are almost impossible to think, let alone say. ‘If there’s something wrong with her, we have to do something. Charlotte needs our help.’

  Her daughter’s reply is sharper than the serpent’s tooth, the poison deadlier.

  It’s after midnight when Dan gets home. Beth is sitting in the kitchen, her laptop out, trying to distract herself. She cooked the sausages, but Charlotte refused to come out of her bedroom to eat. Dan walks straight into the kitchen, heads to the fridge. He opens a bottle of beer and takes a swig. He doesn’t look at Beth, doesn’t say a word.

  Eventually Beth speaks. ‘I think you’re overreacting. I know it’s bloody awful. And I know we have to do something. But I don’t understand why you’ve taken Lucy to your mother’s. She should be here. With her mother, not her grandmother. And you shouldn’t have told Margie it was Charlotte’s fault. It’s just playing into your mother’s hands.’

  He looks at her now, incredulous. ‘Playing into my mother’s hands? What the fuck? None of this has anything to do with my mother. What are you talking about? I just thought it was the best thing to do, the safest thing. For Lucy.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that it’s more than that. Your mother has had it in for Charlotte since we got here. She’s . . . you know, I think Margie’s pleased about what’s happened – it’s giving her the excuse she needs.’ She knows, even as she says the words that she’s being irrational, avoiding what’s really at stake, attacking the wrong target.

  ‘The excuse she needs for what? What exactly is it that my mother wants?’ He sounds less angry now, more concerned. ‘Oh, Bethie. My mother is not the villain here.’

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t see it. All this. It means she’s won. She’ll have been right about everything. About the school. About Charlotte. About me. It’s just going to confirm everything she already thinks.’ It’s a relief to actually say it aloud at last, to have all the vague stirrings of the past months finally coalesce into a firm idea, even if it’s not the one she should be focusing on.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Beth. You’ve lost the plot.’

  ‘Mum’s right, Dad. Nanny doesn’t like me. Actually, I think she probably hates me.’

  Charlotte is leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, her arms crossed, her face pale, her eyes red from weeping. But she’s composed, speaks calmly.

  ‘Oh, Charlotte. Darling.’ Beth feels her heart contract. ‘Of course Nanny loves you. Everybody loves you. That isn’t the issue.’

  ‘She doesn’t. But I don’t care about that. There’s something else. Something even worse. It’s Lucy. She’s doing all this: her broken arm, the website. She must be. I’ve been trying to work it out, but I don’t understand why she’s doing it. Why she keeps trying to get me into trouble. It’s like she hates me. It’s like she’s gone crazy. ’

  ‘Oh, Charlotte. Your sister hasn’t done anything. Lucy loves you. I don’t know why you can’t just tell the truth, Charlotte. It’s . . . I don’t know if you’re sick or what the hell is going on. But this lying – it has to stop.’ Dan is shaking, his voice is shrill.

  ‘I am telling the truth. I’ve been telling you the truth from the beginning. I said I was mean to Sophie a few times, at school and on stupid ASKfm, but that’s it. I did take those photos, I told you that. But that was just a game we were both playing, and I didn’t put them on that website. I don’t know how they got there. Somebody got them off my iPad. And I didn’t, I promise, I didn’t break Lucy’s arm. I wasn’t even in her room when it happened. I was in my bedroom. I swear.’

  ‘How could she make a wardrobe fall on top of her? It’s impossible.’

  ‘We worked out how to push it over ages ago. Don’t you remember? We found that old book about pulleys and levers and moved all our bedroom furniture. It’s simple.’

  ‘But why would she want to hurt herself? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘There’s no reason.’ Charlotte’s voice quakes. ‘I told you – she just hates me. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Oh, honey, stop it. Just stop. Nobody hates you. We all love you. Lucy loves you and we love you. You’re our child – we’ll always love you.’ Beth tries to put her arms around her daughter but she pushes her away.

  ‘I don’t want you to love me.’ Charlotte is crying now, great heaving sobs. ‘What good is that? I want you to believe me.’ She looks straight at her mother, her eyes tragic, her mouth trembling; takes a deep breath. ‘And if you can’t believe me, what sort of parents are you?’

  What sort of parents are they? Once, when she thought she understood who her children were, Beth had known the answer to that. Now, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

  DizzyLizzy.com

  If You’ve Got an Itch

  I remember when we first announced that we were heading back to Australia, an expat friend of mine laughed at my excitement and told me that it wouldn’t last. ‘You’ve been away too long; you’re used to the expat life. You’ll be sick of being home in no time at all,’ she said. ‘I give you six months, a year max, and you’ll be itching to move again.’

  I laughed. I didn’t believe her. We were back to stay. It was time to settle down, to give our girls the chance to grow up close to family, to experience Aussie life, to stretch a little under that vast southern sky . . .

  But it looks like my friend was right. It hasn’t even been a year and we’re on the move again. It’s not that we don’t love it here – we do! It’s lived up to our expectations in every way: being close to family, experiencing all the sights and sounds of our birth country, giving our girls some of those same opportunities and experiences that we had.

  But. Somehow it’s not enough. It looks like we’re hooked, you see. Hooked on change, hooked on adventure, hooked on experiencing new places, new people.

  Chicago, here we come.

  COMMENTS CLOSED

  WWW.GOLDENCHILD.COM

  THE GOLDEN CHILD’S TEN LESSONS FOR SUCCESS

  LESSON TEN: END GAME

  Just say you have two children, equally beloved. One comes in screaming with a broken arm, saying that her sister’s to blame – that she pushed a wardrobe onto her, that she could even have been killed.

  These children don’t usually fight, and neither of them has ever done anything really bad to the other – not publicly anyway. But one of them has been in quite a lot
of trouble lately. Maybe she’s in a whole heap of shit. The other one – she’s never been in any sort of trouble. Not ever. She isn’t as clever or talented or pretty or as popular as the other sister, or so they assume, but right now, as far as behaviour goes, she’s the good guy. When this child tells her parents that the other sister broke her arm deliberately, they’re going to believe her.

  And the more the other child protests, the worse she makes it. Her parents have already lost respect for her. And now – why, they’re actually scared of her. Funny, right? They might still love her, who knows? But they sure as hell don’t trust her. Hey, maybe they don’t even want her around anymore. There are special places for kids like her, after all.

  But that other one. She’s destined for greatness. They’ve made their choice: she’s the one.

  The Golden Child.

  COMMENTS

  @RANDOMREADER says:

  You are one sick sistah, Goldie. Glad you aint mine.

  @CHARLOTTEMAH says:

  Hey, Lucy. Cool blog. Wow – the things that come up when you google ‘oleander poisoning’! So why’d you stop at lesson ten? I’ll bet you’ve got more of that really awesome advice to give out to your non-existent readers. Maybe you’re too busy having fun in Chicago – now you’re an only child ’n’ all . . .

  So, yeah – I’ve met some pretty interesting folks here at my ‘special’ school. It’s not that bad, in fact it probably isn’t all that different to a regular boarding school. Though I guess it’d be different if we were all bad kids from bad homes – not that they’re allowed to call us bad. Lol. They prefer to call us ‘troubled’. Still, all things considered, I’d really rather be in the windy city with my beloved family.

  Oh, and here’s some news that might interest you. My old buddy Sophie P sent me a message a couple of weeks ago. Apparently, she’s been thinking about that whole birthday vomit disaster. She thinks that maybe you had something to do with it, and now she’s all worried that maybe I didn’t set her up after all . . . It got me wondering too. Salt water! Who knew?

  Anyway, I’ve taken a heap of screenshots, so don’t bother pulling this shit down, or changing it. I’m sending them to Mum and Dad right now. They’re gonna be thrilled.

  Lmao. See y’all real soon XXX

  DizzyLizzy.com

  They Carry Your Heart

  What would it take to stop loving them? You know, don’t you, that you never will. You know that mother love doesn’t depend on them being easy to rear, doesn’t depend on them always being good or kind or sweet or easy. If you can love a newborn, those relentlessly crying, always hungry, devourers of sleep, destroyers of all things orderly – you know there’s no choice.

  The moment they’re born, that’s it. You’ve given them your heart and there’s no way you can ever get it back.

  Even if you want to.

  COMMENTS CLOSED

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  THANKS ARE OWED TO MANY PEOPLE.

  To my agent, Alexis Hurley, for her faith that The Golden Child would eventually get there – and for getting it there. To William Callahan and Liz Parker at Inkwell Management, whose critiques of the not-quite-there-yet book were incredibly helpful.

  To Mary Rennie, publisher and editor extraordinaire, whose gentle insistence that I could do it better has meant that I’ve done it better. I think Mary has read this book almost as many times as I have – and she still likes it! I’m struggling to find the right words to express the extent of my gratitude, Mary – but will get a better paragraph to you asap.

  To my brilliant editor Amanda O’Connell, to whom I solemnly swear that I will never again write a first draft that alternates between past and present tense.

  To the remarkable team at HarperCollins Australia – Shona Martyn, James Kellow, Alice Wood, Jaki Arthur, Anna Valdinger, Sarah Barrett, Graeme Jones and Hazel Lam – for their enthusiasm and all-round excellence. It’s been such a pleasure to work with you all.

  To my early readers – Marie Battisti, Jaye Ford, Susan Francis, Shari Kocher, Sophie Masson, Sharon Noble and Abi Shepherd – who assured me that the book was worth reading, and rewriting. To my sister Rebecca James, who has read and reread, and can always be relied upon to provide a sharp eye – and an endlessly patient ear. And to my smug literary friend Linda Martin, whose editorial advice was, as ever, priceless.

  To Richard Hardy, whose lucid explanation of civil law helped untangle some knotty plot ideas. To Detective Acting Inspector Julian Thornton from the NSW Police Fraud and Cybercrime Squad who provided helpful specialist advice on legal issues surrounding cybercrime. And to former Senior Constable Darren Shepherd who once again provided information on police procedure, as well as some good advice on bad sentences.

  To my specialists in contemporary adolescence, Maddi Battisti and Nell Shepherd, who told me when I was being lame, and provided a few choice phrases. Sometimes inadvertently.

  To the amazing Creative Word Shop writers, for making me think hard about the how of writing again – and to Ed Wright, who helped make that happen.

  To Jeffrey Braithwaite, Kristiana Ludlow and the rest of the CHRIS team at the Australian Institute of Health Innovation, for keeping me sane.

  To the friends and family who’ve shared their stories of parenting over the past two and a half and a bit decades – I couldn’t have done it without you (and by ‘it’ I mean both raised children and written this book). You’ve been inspiring in every sense of the word.

  To my extended and ever-extending family: as ever, your love and support are what keep me going. To Darren, Sam, Abi, Nell and Will – as ever, you’re the why.

  And lastly, to my father, Tony, whose devil’s advocate dissing of Jane Austen when I was a teenager set the whole thing in motion. I’m just sorry you missed this one, Dad.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WENDY JAMES is the mother of two sets of siblings born eight years apart, in the digital and pre-digital ages. She is the author of seven novels, including the bestselling The Mistake. Her debut novel, Out of the Silence, won the 2006 Ned Kelly Award for first crime novel, and was shortlisted for the Nita May Dobbie award for women’s writing. She works as an editor at the Australian Institute of Health Innovation.

  PRAISE FOR WENDY JAMES

  ‘Australia’s Queen of the Domestic Thriller . . .’

  Angela Savage, Books and Writing, ABC Radio

  ‘. . . a master of suburban suspense’ Cameron Woodhead, The Age

  The Golden Child

  ‘. . . an engaging and intimate read that will appeal to fans of Liane Moriarty and Jodi Picoult, with nods to Lionel Shriver and Christos Tsiolkas’ The Slap . . . 4 Stars’ Australian Bookseller & Publisher

  ‘Brilliant. Such a clever plot, and such real characters, and so very, very well written’ Danielle Hawkins, author

  ‘What a fantastic read . . . another triumph’ Angela Savage, author

  ‘This book is utterly brilliant. I just don’t even know where to start with a review – it was compelling, it was tragic, it was clever, it was frightening, it was heartbreaking, it was shocking and it gave me shivers and it made me question myself as a parent’

  Nicola Moriarty, author, Goodreads

  The Lost Girls

  ‘A wonderful, unputdownable story by a great Australian author’

  Liane Moriarty, Australian Women’s Weekly

  ‘. . . the novel is nothing less than compelling . . . The Lost Girls grabs hold of you and doesn’t let go – the sort of book you find yourself still reading long after you intended to put it down. In short, everything you want a novel of this kind to be’ Weekend Australian

  ‘Wendy James has again demonstrated her flair for suspenseful diversion, buttressed by her not inconsiderable literary talent’

  Australian Book Review

  ‘James’ character development is flawless, building up a picture of each of the characters subtly, as they duck and weave around one another . . . this book is a rich, dense nov
el, that goes so much deeper than whodunit . . . this is as much literary fiction as it is a crime novel, driven, above all, by character growth, deep themes, and exquisite writing’ Magdalena Ball, Compulsive Reader

  The Mistake

  ‘The Mistake is a moving book that relentlessly hits the mark’

  Sue Turnbull, Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘James . . . won the Ned Kelly award for first crime fiction six years ago – and she tells not just a tense and involving story, but also raises important questions about the role of the media, as the missing baby story becomes a runaway train. The Mistake, credible and accomplished, also asks what happens when family members begin to doubt each other, to wonder how well they know each other’

  The Australian

  ‘. . . compelling, well-paced and suspenseful to the end’ Courier Mail

  ‘James is masterful at seamlessly ratcheting up the tension . . . Unputdownable’ Good Reading magazine

  ‘With strong characterisation and a whack of psychological suspense, it is the kind of novel that will have you second-guessing your own reactions and skilfully exposes the troubling expectations we resort to in the absence of hard evidence’ The Age

  ‘James’s pacing of her plot is masterly. From less than halfway through the novel the reader has to fight an overwhelming urge to flick to the end, to take a quick test of their intuition and to assuage the escalating suspense. Resist the temptation: the end has its poignant surprises and James knows exactly where and how to reveal them’