What Alice Forgot - Liane Moriarty [20]
“Oh.” Why was this woman being so mean? She obviously knew her. What could Alice have done to make her dislike her so much?
“So, can it wait or not, Alice?” She wasn’t imagining it; this was real live hatred she was hearing. The pain in Alice’s head got worse. She wanted to say, “Hey, lady, I’m in hospital. I came here in an ambulance!”
“I wish you wouldn’t let people stomp all over you,” Elisabeth was always telling her. Sometimes, long after Alice had forgotten the incident, Elisabeth would say, “I was up all last night thinking about what that woman in the chemist’s said to you. I can’t believe you just took it—you’ve got no backbone!” Alice would drop to the floor, all jelly-like, to demonstrate her lack of backbone, and Elisabeth would say, “Oh for God’s sake.”
The problem was, Alice needed more warning when it came to being assertive. These sorts of situations were so unexpected. She needed hours to really think things through. Were they really being nasty, or was she just being sensitive? What if they’d just found out they had a terminal disease that morning and were entitled to be in a bad mood? She was about to mumble something pleading and pathetic to Nick’s PA when, against her will, her body began an unfamiliar sequence of actions. Her back straightened. Her chin lifted. Her stomach muscles clenched. She spoke and didn’t recognize her own voice. It was taut and tart and decidedly snooty. “No, it can’t wait,” she said. “It is urgent. There has been an accident. Please ask Nick to call me as soon as possible.”
Alice couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d found herself doing a triple backflip.
The woman answered, “Fine, Alice, I’ll see what I can do.” Her contempt was still palpable.
“I’d appreciate it.”
Alice hung up and said, with the phone still to her ear, “Cow. Bitch. Slut.” She spat the words out of the side of her mouth, like poisonous pellets.
She swallowed. Now that was even more surprising; she sounded like a tattooed girl who quite liked the occasional catfight.
The mobile rang in her hand, making her jump.
It must be Nick, she thought, awash with relief. Once again, her fingers knew what to do. She pressed the button with the green phone symbol and said, “Nick?”
A child’s voice she’d never heard before said crossly, “Mum?”
Chapter 5
Frannie’s Letter to Phil
Dearest Phil,
I’m a little riled up today.
You’ll remember I mentioned I’d taken on the role of running the Social Committee. Well, for the last few months I’ve been arranging a Family Talent Night. It’s next Wednesday. Children, grandchildren, and so forth will be performing a variety of acts. Should be a fun night! In all honesty it will probably be excruciating, but it will be a diversion from our arthritis if nothing else.
(I was thinking today about the musical we organized together. Oklahoma! 1972? 1973? You kissed me backstage and that sly little Frank Neary caught us. The news spread like wildfire: “Mr. Peyton and Miss Jeffrey are a couple. The school principal and the maths coordinator! Ooh, scandal! It just made everything even more delicious, didn’t it?)
Anyway, today we had a new resident turn up at the Social Committee meeting. I can’t recall his name. (See? Shocking memory!) I’ll call him Mr. Mustache because that’s his most defining feature: a comically large white mustache. It gives him the look of a retired usedcar salesman. Or perhaps a seedy Santa Claus.
Anyway, Mr. Mustache was full of suggestions.
We’re serving tea, coffee, sandwiches, pikelets, and scones on the family Talent Night. Standard fare for a function at a retirement village. Mr. Mustache piped up and suggested we set up a cocktail bar. Said he once spent a year bartending on some Caribbean island and that he could make a cocktail “guaranteed to blow my socks off.” I’m not joking, Phil. This is the