About the author
Liane Moriarty was born in Sydney in 1966, the eldest of six children. Since she was little, she has secretly dreamed of becoming a writer, but she thinks she will work as a teacher. He received a master's degree in creative writing from one of Australia's leading universities, after which he began working in the field of marketing and advertising. After several years in the prestigious position, the marketing manager decided to start his own business and founded a small advertising agency. Despite her enthusiasm, the venture is not successful and Lian is forced to earn a living in another way. He started working as a freelance copywriter - writing texts for TV commercials, websites and various food products. Coming from a large family, Leanne dreams of a husband and children, but her first marriage turns out to be unsuccessful and ends in divorce. She decides to pursue her other childhood dream and takes up writing seriously. She is given an additional incentive by the already published books of her younger sisters Nicola and Jacqueline Moriarty. Her first four novels enjoyed success in her native Australia, but her big break came with My Husband's Secret in 2013. The novel topped the Australian, English and US bestseller lists and remains a Top 10 bestseller a full year after its release. My Husband's Secret reached 1 on the New York Times and Amazon bestseller lists. The novel has been translated into 35 languages and has sold over 1 million copies to date. Its incredible success attracted the attention of the major film studio CBS, which bought the rights to film it.
Today, forty-eight-year-old Leanne lives in Sydney with her second husband and their two young children, Anna and George. In her spare time from writing, she enjoys reading, eating Turkish Delight, skiing and scuba diving.
About My Husband's Secret
Cecilia Fitzpatrick has achieved everything she dreamed of. She is a loving wife and devoted mother of three daughters who also finds time for a part-time job. Her life seems as orderly and flawless as her cozy home. One day, while looking for a souvenir in the attic, Cecilia comes across a letter from her husband - John-Paul. On the dust-greyed envelope are the words: To my wife, Cecilia Fitzpatrick. To be opened only after my death! Burning with curiosity to know the contents of the mysterious letter, she opens it. And learns a deeply held secret that turns her life upside down.
Tess O'Leary is devastated by the revelation that her husband Will and her cousin Felicity are in love with each other. Although hurt by the betrayal of those closest to her, the young woman decides to swallow her pride. And to fight for his marriage and the future of his son – Liam. Tess makes an impulsive decision and goes to her mother in Sydney. To let the lovers enjoy their love and let the sweet thrill turn into banal lust. She hopes that Will will realize his mistake and return to his family. A chance encounter with her ex-boyfriend Connor awakens old feelings and unsuspected desires.
The fates of Cecilia and Tess are unexpectedly intertwined. The two realize that some secrets are better left buried. Forever.
My Husband's Secret is definitely one of the best books of the year!
sp. Entertainment Weekly
Liane Moriarty's novel is in the Top 10 best books of the year.
My Husband's Secret is an amazing novel that you must read at all costs! It will shake you up and make you rethink and evaluate your own life.
Brilliant! "My Husband's Secret" is so good you won't resist keeping it to yourself.
in USA Today
A real sensation! My Husband's Secret is an unpredictable, multi-layered novel that will make you think as you read it in one sitting!
Emily Giffin, bestselling author of Something Blue and Something Borrowed
I'm interested in people's overwhelming desire to share their biggest life-changing secrets
(Interview with Liane Moriarty)
Tell us more about the novel "My Husband's Secret", which became a real sensation. Where did you get the inspiration to write it
Two years ago I stumbled upon an article about actual confessions made literally on the deathbed. From there I learned that shortly before he died, Christian Spurling admitted to forging the popular photograph of the Loch Ness Monster. As well as a famous composer suffering from cancer who, after years of vehement denial, finally admitted in writing that he had plagiarized one of his most famous songs. And about a man who, after suffering a stroke, confesses that he killed his neighbor thirty years ago. However, he did not die, but recovered, and after his discharge from the hospital, he was taken directly to prison. These stories got me thinking. What intrigued me most was the overwhelming desire to share your biggest secret. Then I came up with the idea of a character - John-Paul, who feels the need to share his secret and writes a letter to his wife to be opened only after his death. But she opens it before that, and its contents turn their lives upside down in unexpected ways. The novel follows the stories of three radically different women who find themselves inextricably linked by John-Paul's secret.
Filled with tension, suspense, unexpected twists, but also plenty of funny moments, My Husband's Secret is a breath of fresh air for fans of contemporary novels. News has already hit the media that CBS has bought the rights to film it. Which actors would you choose for the main roles if you had the chance
Without an ounce of hesitation I would give the lead role of Cecilia Fitzpatrick to Laura Linney. She is an outstanding actress who would add extra depth to Cecilia's portrayal, plus they both have dimples!
For the role of Cecilia's well-respected and good-looking husband John-Paul, I'm torn between George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Chris Knott. All three would be great choices, so I'll leave that decision up to the producers. As for the supporting roles: Matt Damon is good for the attractive PE teacher Connor Whitby, John Cusack for Will, and as Tess I imagine the lovely Rachel McAdams.
You are a bestselling author, devoted wife and loving mother of two. How do you see yourself in ten years
I don't even want to think about it - I'm approaching sixty! Just kidding, I hope I'm alive and well to take care of my kids and work on my tenth novel. The fact that I make a living writing novels is a dream come true for me. I only hope that I will not stop developing and improving and that my works will reach the maximum number of readers.
How would you describe yourself in just three words
Messy, neurotic, but purposeful.
How would your loved ones describe you in one word
Great question! My mother describes me as charming, my father as exclusive, my husband as domineering, and my sister as funny. My best friends call me neurotic, which is the truth!
Your first name is quite unusual for Australia where it comes from
I think it's German - my mom read it in a book and fell in love with it.
How is your day going
Fortunately, I have a wonderful babysitter who helps me a lot with childcare. Thanks to her, three days a week I have 4 free hours, during which I lock myself in my office and start writing. I'm happy if I manage to write 500 words a day; proud if they are 1000; and if I reach 2000, I'm over the moon with happiness!
What five things would you like to achieve in the next twenty years
To organize my wardrobe, learn to cook, write a book from only one point of view, accept constructive criticism and start traveling again! I haven't traveled since the kids were born and I can't wait to embark on my next adventure!
What part of the past ten years wouldn't you like to forget? And what - to forget at all costs
There are so many wonderful memories from the past ten years that I would never want to forget! During this time, I met my husband, saw the first smiles of my children, as well as the happiness written on their faces when they tasted chocolate for the first time! However, I don't want to forget the bad moments of my life, because thanks to them I appreciate the good ones, and they also shaped me as a person!
To err is human; to forgive - divine.
Poor Pandora. Zeus sends her off to marry Epimetheus-a not-so-smart man she doesn't even know-along with some mysterious jar. Nobody says a word to Pandora about the jar. No one tells her not to open it. And she opens it, of course. What else to do? How could he know that all those evils that would poison mankind forever would erupt from there, and that only hope would remain in the jar? Why didn't they put a warning sign?
And then everyone starts: Ah, Pandora, where's your will, girl? They told you not to open the box, you impatient one, now look what you have done with your typical boundless female curiosity. Given that it was a jar and not a box, this first; and second, how many times does she have to tell you: no one warned her not to open it!
The Berlin Wall was to blame for everything.
If it hadn't been for the Berlin Wall, Cecilia would never have found the letter, and she wouldn't be sitting here at the kitchen table now mustering the strength to open it.
The envelope was gray from the thin layer of dust that had accumulated. The words on the front were written in faded blue ink in the handwriting he knew better than his own. Turn it over. It was sealed with a yellowed piece of tape. When was it written? It looked old, like it had been written years ago, but he had no way of knowing for sure.
He wasn't going to open it. It was absolutely clear that he shouldn't have opened it. She was the most determined person she knew, and she had already decided not to open the letter, so there was nothing more for him to think about.
Although, quite honestly, what would happen if you opened it? Any woman would open it in an instant. She went through all of her friends and their possible responses if she called them to ask their opinion.
Miriam Oppenheimer: “Yes! Open it".
Erica Edgecliff: “Are you kidding me? Open it this second".
Laura Marks: "Yes, you have to open it and then read it out loud to me."
Sarah Sachs: there was no point in asking Sarah because she was incapable of making up her mind. If Cecilia asked her if she wanted tea or coffee, she would sit for a full minute with a furrowed brow, lost in agonizing thought over the pros and cons of each drink, before finally saying, “Coffee! No, wait, tea!” And a decision like that would have given her a brain hemorrhage.
Mahalia Ramachandran: “Absolutely not. It would be extremely disrespectful to your husband. You shouldn't open it".
At times, Mahalia was too cocky with those huge brown honorable eyes of hers.
Cecilia put the letter on the kitchen table and went to turn on the kettle.
Damn that Berlin Wall and that Cold War and that long-ago nineteen-forty-god-knows-what year when someone – whoever it was – wondered how to solve the problem with all those ungrateful Germans; the man who suddenly snapped his fingers and said, “I thought, damn it! We're gonna build a giant fucking wall to keep the bastards out!".
E, in all probability he didn't say it with the intonation of an English policeman.
Esther should know whose original idea was for the Berlin Wall. Esther may have known his date of birth as well. He was a man, of course. Only a man could come up with something so ruthless: something so simple and yet so effective in an utterly brutal way.
She filled the jug, turned it on, and wiped the sink clean of the splashes of water with kitchen paper.
One of the mothers at the school, who had three sons around the same age as Cecilia's three daughters, had said just before the Charity Commission meeting the previous week that there was a "tiny dose of sexism" in some remark of Cecilia's. Cecilia didn't remember her line, but the woman was just joking. Yet can't women act sexist for the next two millennia until they even the score?
Maybe she really was sexist?
The water in the jug boiled. She melted a packet of Earl Gray into her glass and stared at the thin black strands that slid through the water like ink. There were worse things than being sexist. For example, being the type of person who sticks their thumb and forefinger together when they use the words "miniature dose".
She looked down at her tea and sighed. A glass of wine would do her just fine right now, but she didn't drink alcohol because of the fasts. Only six days left. There was an expensive bottle of syrah waiting to be opened on Easter Sunday, when thirty-five adults and twenty-three children would be coming for lunch, so she would need it. Although she was, of course, an entertainment veteran. He had guests for Easter, Mother's Day, Father's Day and Christmas. John-Paul had five younger brothers, all married with children. So the melee was beating her. At the heart of everything was planning. The flawless planning.
She took the cup of tea and carried it to the table. Why exactly had she refused the wine because of the fasts? Polly was much more sensible. She had refused the strawberry jam. Cecilia had never seen Polly show more than a cursory interest in the strawberry jam, though now, of course, she regularly caught her standing in front of the open refrigerator, gazing longingly at it. The power of will.
– Esther! she shouted.
Esther was in the next room with her sisters. They were watching the TV show Fastest Weight Loss with a huge packet of vinegar and s alt chips left over from the Australia Day BBQ months ago. Cecilia had no idea why her skinny daughters loved watching overweight people sweat, cry and starve. The TV show in question was clearly not teaching them he althy eating habits. She should have gone and confiscated the bag of chips, but all three had eaten steamed salmon with broccoli for dinner without grumbling, and she didn't have the energy to argue.
A voice boomed from the TV:
– You won't get anything for nothing!
That wasn't such a bad message to her daughters. No one knew that better than Cecilia! But even so, she didn't like the slight disgust that crossed their smooth faces. She studiously avoided negative comments about physical defects in front of her daughters, although this was not the case with her female friends. The other day, for example, Miriam Oppenheimer had said the following, loud enough for her daughters' sensitive ears: “My God! Look at my belly!" - squeezing the flesh between her fingers like it was disgusting. Great Miriam, as if our girls don't already get a million messages every day that they should hate their bodies.
In fact, Miriam's belly was actually starting to look too chubby.
– Esther! she shouted again.
– What's up? - Esther called back in a deceptively calm voice that suspiciously resembled the intonation of Cecilia herself.
– Whose idea was it to build the Berlin Wall?
– Well, it is almost certain that it belongs to Nikita Khrushchev! Esther immediately replied, pronouncing the exotic-sounding name with great pleasure, with some of her own interpretation of a Russian accent. - He was the Prime Minister of Russia, only the position was called "First Secretary". But it could also have been…
Her sisters instantly responded with their usual impeccable courtesy:
– Shut up Esther!
– Esther! I can't hear the TV from you!
– Thank you dear! – Cecilia sipped her tea and imagined herself going back in time and putting that Khrushchev in his place.
No, Mr. Khrushchev, you cannot build a wall. It will not prove that your communism works. All this work will turn out to be a complete failure. No, look, I agree that capitalism isn't the best solution for everything either! Let me just show you my latest credit card bill. But you really need to seriously consider your decision.
And then, fifty years later, Cecilia wouldn't find that letter that made her feel so…what was the right word?
Distracted? That's right.
She liked feeling focused. He prided himself on his ability to concentrate. Her daily life consisted of thousands of tiny pieces: "I need coriander," "Isabelle, a haircut," "Who will accompany Polly to her ballet on Tuesday while I'm with Esther at speech therapy?"-like one of those giant puzzles that Isabelle had been sorting for hours, and at the same time Cecilia, who had no patience for putting puzzles together, knew with absolute precision where each piece of her life belonged and where she should put the next.
Yeah, maybe Cecilia's life wasn't that unusual or impressive. She was a school mom and a hapless Tupperware consultant, not an actress or a secretary… or a poet living in Vermont. (Cecilia had recently discovered that Liz Brogan, a high school classmate, was now a famous award-winning poet living in Vermont. Liz, who ate Vegemite and cheese sandwiches and regularly lost her bus pass. Cecilia put in huge trying not to be annoyed by that fact. Not that he had any desire to write poetry. Still… If he had to name anyone at the time who was sure to lead an ordinary life, it would be Liz Brogan.) Of course, Cecilia she had never aspired to more than ordinary things. Here I am, the typical mother from the suburbs, she thought sometimes, as if someone accused her of trying to stand out from the crowd.
The other mothers often complained that it was difficult for them to focus on one thing, and they kept saying, "How do you manage everything, Cecilia?", and she didn't know how to answered them. She really didn't understand what exactly they found difficult.
But now, for some unknown reason, everything seemed to her to be threatened by some kind of danger. There was no logic to it.
Maybe it had nothing to do with the letter. Maybe it was hormones. She was "probably perimenopausal," according to Dr. MacArthur. (Oh, no, I'm not! Cecilia had instinctively exclaimed, as if to defend herself against a delicate, jocular insult.)
Perhaps this was one of those cases of vague anxiety that some women felt. The other women. She had always found anxious people very endearing. Dear little worriers like Sarah Sachs. They made her want to pat them on the worry-filled heads.
Maybe if he opened the letter and convinced himself that it was nothing special, he would regain his previous concentration. There was work to be done. To fold two laundry baskets. Make three emergency phone calls. To bake a gluten-free pie for the gluten-allergic members of the school's website project group (that is, Janine Davidson) for their meeting tomorrow.
There were other things besides the letter that could have been the cause of her unusual anxiety.
Sex for example. He was always lurking somewhere in the periphery of her mind.
She frowned and slid her hands to her sides on her waist. Her "oblique abs," according to the Pilates trainer. Oh, enough of it, sex was zero problem. It wasn't even in her mind. She refused to let it into her mind. He didn't matter at all.
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that ever since that morning last year she had been haunted by a vague sense of fragility, a new awareness that a lifetime of cilantro and laundry could suddenly evaporate, that all your a normal everyday life can disappear and suddenly you become a woman on her knees, staring at the sky, and some women come to your aid, and others turn their heads and you feel their words, even if they don't say them: I don't want to I have nothing to do with it.
Cecilia saw it again for the thousandth time: little Spider-Man flying. She was one of the women running, of course. He frantically opened his car door, even though he knew that no matter what he did, it wouldn't change anything. This was neither her school, nor her neighborhood, nor her parish. None of her children had played with the little boy. Never. She had never had coffee with the woman on her knees. She just happened to be stopped at the traffic light on the opposite side of the intersection when it happened. The little boy, about five years old, dressed in a red and blue Spider-Man costume, was waiting on the side of the street, holding his mother's hand. It was Book Week. That was why the boy wore that suit. Cecilia looked at him and thought, Hmm, Spider-Man isn't really a book character. And then, for no apparent reason, the little boy let go of his mother's hand, stepped off the sidewalk into the street, and walked toward the cars. Cecilia screamed. Also, as he later recalled, he instinctively began to hit the horn with his fist.
If Cecilia had passed by a little later, she wouldn't have seen any of this. Just ten minutes later, the boy's death would have been just another traffic jam to her. And now it was a memory that would surely one day make her grandchildren say, "Don't squeeze my hand so hard, Grandma!".
There was no connection between the little Spider-Man and the letter, of course.
He just popped into her mind uninvited.