The Husband’s Secret by Liane Moriarty is a Tupperware kind of story: full of housewives, domesticity, kids’ parties and high moral grounds. I didn’t dislike it, but I didn’t exactly love it either. It didn’t interest me enough. Going by the first few pages I was expecting a deep devastating secret buried in contemporary European history (the fall of the Berlin Wall), but there was none of that. It was a small Australian town sort of secret, big enough for the town but paling into insignificance beyond the town’s borders.
My attention was held until the Wife opened the Husband’s letter. From then on I just plodded along with the little niggles of guilt and shame chewing on the edges of the wife’s suburban existence, which went on regardless until the final disaster struck – a kind of poetic justice (were it not for the fact that the ultimate punishment wasn’t fair). So it left me with a sense of bemusement.
Apart from the Wife and her rather under-developed Husband (the title character!), there was an array of rather bland characters, all good and decent deep-down, all suffering minor injuries to their egos through no fault of their own. So I didn’t quite empathize with any of them.
Overall, it was a good read, but not my cup of tea. Best served cold from a Tupperware container.