‘It was late, I was tired. I remember really that what I felt was irritated. I mean, I’m at home, my kids are there, my husband’s there. This is my house. No one is supposed to know where I live. I’m not famous or anything.’
Except, she thought, now you’re on national TV.
‘And I felt annoyed. Like, it could have been a joke, and they could not have been there, but I was a bit like… I’m going to tell them off.’
‘Did you wake up your husband?’
‘No. He sleeps soundly. He’d had a big day.’
But she had shaken him awake: ‘Mark, Mark… I think someone’s at the front door.’ He’d said: ‘Shhhhh, Lee, go back to sleep, it’s late. Put your fucking phone down.’
‘So, another message popped up. It said, “I’m not going away until you talk to me.” And I was just like, frustrated. So I got up.’
‘And you opened the door?’
‘Just a little bit. I looked around it. We don’t have one of those chains, but it was like I had one of those chains, you know. I looked around it and I said, “What do you want?”’
Remember, she told herself, the police told you not to provide many details.
‘And there was this face. This wo… person I didn’t recognise. And she kind of smiled at me and said she wanted to talk, and then suddenly I—’ Leisel felt sweat forming on her forehead. A few minutes ago, she’d been freezing. Was it the lights? She glanced up. They were really, really strong lights.
‘Leisel, I’m sorry, I know this must be hard for you.’ Diane put her hand on Leisel’s. ‘Can you tell us what happened after that?’
‘Well, sort of.’ A bang. ‘I was tired. I thought, Oh, she wants to talk. And then, I guess she… they just shoved the door, really hard, because I was knocked over and then they were on me.’
That smell—her attacker had smelt like vanilla, like baking.
‘And I put my arm up over my face and I guess she…’ Leisel’s left hand went to her right arm, touching the sling. ‘I guess they had a knife and—’
‘Leisel. This is truly an awful story. I know all our viewers will be thinking the same thing. How terrifying, and with your family in the house, too. But how did you get away from her? What happened?’
Mark. Mark had happened.
‘It must have been only a few seconds. We were tussling on the floor, and I didn’t realise at first that I was hurt, but I could see the… metal. And the first door from the front door, down the hall, that’s where my kids sleep, and all I can remember thinking was, She mustn’t get there.’
She mustn’t get there.
‘But was she saying anything to make you think that your children were in danger?’
Leisel stared at Darryl. ‘She had a knife and she was trying to kill me, so I had no reason NOT to think my children were in danger.’
‘Of course. Sorry about that. So, how did you get her to stop?’
‘Well, my husband came out of our room.’
Mark. Naked. In the doorway. Leisel could see him somehow, in her peripheral vision.
‘And he yelled. And she looked up, and I pushed her, hard. And she scrambled up and just ran away.’
‘And did you run after her?’
‘I couldn’t really run anywhere, Diane.’ Leisel gestured to her bandaged arm. ‘And it was all very confusing. And my husband came to see if I was okay.’ Mark had been crying. ‘And I asked him to check on the kids. He called an ambulance, and then our next-door neighbour was there, and then… I don’t remember much else.’
‘Leisel, we are all so proud of you for reliving that awful experience for us,’ said Darryl. ‘We know how hard it was for you. Is it—do you think—a cautionary tale about the dangers of living your life online?’
Leisel glanced up, past Darryl, towards where she knew her old friend Claire was sitting in the control room. Her stomach was churning again, but now it wasn’t nerves. It was anger. ‘No, Darryl, I don’t think that’s what it is. I don’t think it’s a cautionary tale. I don’t think it was my fault.’
He frowned as if he didn’t understand. ‘Of course not, Leisel. So, why are you sharing your story here today? What message would you like people watching this to take away with them?’
‘Lots of people are mentally ill, Darryl. The vast majority of those people aren’t dangerous. And some mentally ill people could use a bit more help from society than they’re already getting.’
‘And would you say that the internet is a dangerous place for those people, Leisel? Are there some, perhaps, who shouldn’t be online?’
‘That’s a silly idea, Darryl.’ Leisel looked directly at his earpiece and then up to the control room again. ‘You can’t block people from the internet just because they’re mentally ill.’
‘No, of course not, but maybe we should all be a little more careful. Don’t you think so, Diane? Anyway, that’s about all we have time for today. I want to thank you again—’
Leisel took a deep breath and lifted her good hand. ‘There is one more thing I’d like to say, Diane, Darryl, if I can. We should all remember that we can use technology to help bring us together, or we can use it to push us further apart. And we all need to know that, actually, when we see someone’s life online and it looks perfect, and they look so perfect, and we’re all saying, “Why isn’t my life like that?” Well, their life isn’t like that either.’
‘Are you saying that mummy bloggers are fakes, Leisel?’
‘Well, no, Diane. Some of us are just here to say, “Hey, it’s alright, I’m not perfect either.” But if you’re looking at something, day in and day out—whether it’s me or whether it’s The Stylish Mumma, or whatever—if something is making you feel bad, or unsafe, or envious… Just stop. Just look away. It’s your choice.’
Darryl chuckled. ‘Then you’d be out of a job, though—right, Leisel?’
‘This is not my job, Darryl. I have a job. But thanks, sure, I don’t want to make money at the expense of other people hurting. So, fine.’
‘Leisel Adams, everyone.’ Diane gave a little clap. ‘Thank you so much for sharing, and I think we can all say, “Get well soon.”’
Leisel nodded. She felt breathless. Her arm throbbed.
‘Next,’ said Darryl, ‘we meet the man who says you’ve been cutting vegetables wrong your whole life. And he has just the gadget to fix it…’
One of the clipboard women was up and at Leisel’s side, guiding her off set. Darryl and Diane were back looking at their phones.
‘Can I see Claire before I go?’ Leisel asked, as she collected her bag and headed for the little door in the wall of the huge studio, back towards the real world. ‘I know it’s the middle of the show…’
The assistant nodded. As Leisel waited for the message to go up to Claire, she overheard one of the clipboard women hissing to another: ‘She could have done 60 Minutes. WHY would you come on After Breakfast!? With Darryl?’
Claire was waving to Leisel from the door in the wall. ‘Shhh, darling, come here. That was AMAZING! Socials are going crazy. Your phone will be blowing up.’
Leisel’s phone was on silent, but she’d been feeling it vibrate for the past ten minutes.
‘Claire,’ she said, ‘a “cautionary tale”? Really? Is that what I am?’
‘Oh come on, darl.’ Claire pushed the fringe of her short, bleached hair out of her eyes. ‘You know how all this works. Darryl’s a bit of a dick, but it was all good. You did so well.’
‘I hope I just got you a bonus, Claire,’ Leisel said, her good hand trembling. Why was she so upset? ‘Because really, that was bullshit.’
She walked away from her old friend, who called after her, ‘I’ll give you a buzz, yeah? When you’ve calmed down. We’ll have dinner.’
Leisel walked through reception, out to the car park. She leant against the Subaru, still shaking. Mark had been right—it had been too soon to do this. What had she been thinking?
She climbed into her car. The coffee cu
ps, the familiar smell of rotting apple cores, the baby seat, the booster: it was like a little cocoon of home. That place she didn’t feel so safe anymore. Yes, they had the attacker, Kristen Worther, in custody, but she was still very much at large for Leisel—who had, like any good internet stalker, been doing her research on The Contented Mum.
Kristen was twenty-eight. She lived two bus rides away from Leisel, and she didn’t have a car. She had two young kids who lived with their father.
And she had just lost a baby.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ELLE
‘White is a good chemo colour, don’t you think?’ Elle called out of her closet to Cate.
‘Sure. But you need a bright heel.’
Elle was pulling clothes from her dressing-room and laying them on the king-sized bed. She had some important posts to shoot today and the outfits needed to be perfect.
In the three weeks since Adrian’s cancer announcement, traffic to the blog had been insane. The Facebook page had doubled its followers, while Instagram and Snapchat weren’t far behind. Her people were devouring every post about her and Adrian’s ‘struggle’, every inspirational quote, every cancer-fighting recipe, every thoughtful selfie of Elle trying to ‘cheer up’ the kids. The house was full of flowers—including extravagant arrangements from the Blog-ahhs, Abbott’s and PulpPump.
Today, fictional chemo began. Elle and Cate had been prepping posts all week about the turmeric and ginger icy poles Elle had made (laid out against a pleasing red-and-white check tablecloth) for Adrian’s potential imaginary mouth ulcers, the reading material she was taking with them to his first session—My A can’t go without a copy of #malehealth and the latest Dan Brown!—and now, of course, the outfit she would be wearing: a cheery white Carla Zampatti sundress, sky-high red heels and a neutral neck scarf.
Elle had even gone to the extent of making Adrian take the afternoon off so they could stage the outing. ‘You never know,’ she told Cate, ‘when someone is looking.’
The social was all prepped and ready, of course. Adrian’s face was still absent from the blog, but she’d staged a shot of his arm, sleeve rolled up, fist clenched, ready for the needle later in the day. Some cropping and a grainy filter made it work beautifully.
• • •
Elle had coined a hashtag—#cancerwife—that was getting a lot of traction. It had started quite the trend on Twitter and Instagram, as followers posted their own photos and stories on how to survive having a sick spouse—an actual sick spouse, presumably.
It was all going exactly as Elle had hoped. She was bringing a particular Stylish Mumma take on this whole depressing topic.
Six Things I Know For Sure About Being A #Cancerwife
1. Grooming is so, so important. There’s nothing uplifting about me moping about the house in trackie pants with a sour face. Adrian needs me to lift his spirits when he comes through that door. His day at work or at the hospital is so much worse than whatever I’m dealing with. So I’m making a little extra effort to always have a bright lip, to be wearing one of his favourite dresses, to be the wife he loves. I want to give him everything to live for.
2. Home-cooked meals are more important than ever. I’ve really upped the whole family’s intake of cruciferous vegetables, which are proven to have cancer-fighting properties. Cruciferous are those leafy veggies you didn’t like when you were a kid. So it’s roasted cauliflower and steamed broccoli with our fatty, life-giving fish. Lucky for me, my kids have always loved raw cruciferous. What can I say, I am #blessed
3. Fear is my enemy. Yes, I am afraid. But every day is a battle to keep smiling and to force my mind to stay positive. Going to the dark place, where my A doesn’t triumph, that’s not helping anyone. I will not be fearful. And no one in my home is allowed to bring any negativity through that door. If you are not smiling, you are not welcome in this home of hope.
4. It’s my turn to sacrifice. You know I recommend Me Time to be the best wife and mumma you can be, but right now it’s all about A. Do I sometimes have to go without my usual 5am yoga class, so A can rest and not have to worry about getting up with the boys? Of course.
5. My job is to protect my boys. I wrestle with this one. I have never wanted to hide anything from Freddie and Teddy, because I believe that honesty between parent and child is absolutely crucial. But my boys are so little, and despite my dark nights of the soul, their Daddy is going to be fine, right? So now, I am trying to keep life just as normal for them as it can be, right down to their reassuring routine. Mumma’s got this, boys.
6. I am a warrior wife. Yes. I am. And so are you, all of you out there who are dealing with things you never dreamed you’d have to deal with. This is how you find your strength, am I right? I will fight by my man’s side for as long as he needs me to. I will never give up. He will always be First for me. #warriorwife #cancerwife #astylishfight
Cate was the one who watched that the blog didn’t get too ‘cancer-y’. Her content schedule meant that Elle’s beloved regular posts were still appearing like clockwork: the boys and their fashions, the home-tips, the recipes.
The blog’s upbeat tone was crucial for clients, and they couldn’t be happier. PulpPump loved that Elle had included juices with ‘cancer-fighting properties’ in their regular posts—shares were through the roof. And the video series with the boys and Elle for Abbott’s had been shot with extra poignancy: ‘It’s never been more important for me and my boys to share moments that matter. Moments like drinking a delicious banana and pecan smoothie from Abbott’s together.’
The Daily Trail were following every cancer-related post with interest—sample headline: STUNNING MUMMY BLOGGER FLAUNTS THE SEXY BODY THAT DISTRACTS HER MAN FROM CANCER—which was one of the reasons that Elle was obsessed with Adrian looking the part and staging the odd photo opportunity. You never knew when they might send a pap.
And the media requests were coming in. One glossy magazine had expressed interest in an at-home feature, and more than one current affairs show wanted an exclusive interview—some were offering cash. But there was a problem: the media wanted Adrian by her side. They wanted to meet ‘the man behind the woman behind the man,’ as one press department had put it to her.
Adrian had flatly refused. ‘It’s where I draw the line, it absolutely is.’ He was peering into the ensuite’s mirror at his ageing, thinning face. She wasn’t sure if the weight loss made him look younger or older. ‘We agreed, Elle. You can talk about me on the blog, but I am not sitting next to you, holding your hand, and telling lies on national TV. It’s just a step too far.’
‘But, babe…’ Elle was at the other side of the his-and-hers bathroom sinks. She leant over to do her arm-squeezing trick on Adrian, but he shook her off, this time to examine his hairline. ‘There’s more interest in this than I thought. The fact that you’re not on the site makes you more interesting to the media. This could take the story to the next level. It could be worth a lot to us. It’s smart.’
‘I don’t want this story to go to the next level, Elle.’ He turned to look at her. ‘This was meant to give you a content play—something new to write about. Something to boost traffic and help us win the Blog-ahh. It’s working. After three months of treatment, I’ll be “better”—’ Adrian wiggled his fingers in air quotes ‘—and we’ll launch the business. It’s a success story. So I am not becoming known as a professional victim on TV. I can’t do that. We’re talking about your brand, but I have one, too.’
At that, Elle let out a little snort.
‘What was that?’ He looked at her again, quickly.
‘Nothing, babe, nothing.’ She left the ensuite and went over to the giant white bed. ‘It’s just…’
‘What?’
‘What’s the use of a job half done, Adrian? We didn’t come here for that, did we?’
He was in the doorway. Elle saw herself through his eyes. She wore a white silk robe. She was lying back on the bed, her arms over her head. This was generally a time wh
en she could get him to agree to anything.
But something wasn’t right. Adrian just looked her over and went back into the ensuite. ‘NO, Elle. Just. No. I have a reputation to protect. Having the nation pity me on TV is not going to help me do that. Besides, I feel like shit.’
Elle snapped back up. ‘Thanks for the support,’ she said. She went into her dressing-room and started shuffling coathangers with noticeable force.
He didn’t follow her.
So now Elle knew she had to go easy on the invisible star of the show. As tempted as she’d been that morning to throw a full-scale tantrum and bring on the tears, she also knew that she needed to be careful with Adrian. She needed his buy-in, and she couldn’t push him too far. Not yet.
Elle knew he was getting a hard time from Abi and the girls—she just didn’t know why he cared. Abi was constantly calling, offering the names of all kinds of shamans and nature-healers who specialised in non-Hodgkin. The girls had asked if they could come and stay more often, and Elle had told Adrian no: it would only to add to the pressure and complicate their lives. At least he’d seen sense with that one.
She and Cate were busy strategising some alternate media plans that didn’t involve Adrian. The one they were pitching to the big guns at Sunday Evening was particularly high-risk. But, as Elle kept telling herself, you’ve got to leave it all out on the field.
• • •
Elle heard Adrian’s car keys go in the bowl by the door. ‘Is that you, babe?’ she called down the stairs as she walked out of her bedroom.
‘Yes.’ He looked up at her and smiled. ‘Nice outfit.’
‘Well, only the best for spirit-lifting chemo day,’ Elle said.
‘Far out. I think you’re beginning to forget this isn’t real.’
Looking at Adrian, you could be forgiven for forgetting. His face was drawn and grey. His Van Noten shirt was hanging open a little at the collar, his suit a little looser at the shoulders than usual.
‘Adrian.’ Elle came down the stairs. ‘It’s alright, you know. You do know, don’t you?’
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