by Lisa Heidke
‘I should give up this acting crap. You saw those people at the Actors’ Studio the other night, Glors. I’m not in their league. I’m past it. A has-been. No one’s hiring women like me.’
‘Of course they are. You just need sexing up.’
‘I’m not twenty-one anymore. I should bow out gracefully and disappear somewhere with the kids.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, then goes quiet before saying, ‘Did you google Dominic?’
I shake my head, not that she can see me. ‘No.’
‘Thought as much. I’ve been in touch with him -’
‘I know. I’ve received three emails from him. I knew it was due to your handiwork.’
‘What did he say? Are you catching up? Tell me everything.’
‘He said he was thinking of me, told me to call him.’
‘And?’
‘I didn’t reply. My life’s complicated enough.’
Day 22
I wake up at three in the morning crying, and continue until six-thirty, when I have to get out of bed and be brave for the children.
Mum calls in with some red gerberas and asks how I’m doing.
‘Terrible,’ I reply, putting the pretty flowers in a grubby, dusty vase.
‘You’re going to have to tell the children about Alana eventually.’
‘Hopefully he’ll die in some really bizarre accident and I won’t have to,’ I say.
Mum looks doubtful. ‘What about the builders?’
‘What about them? They won’t be here for days because of the rain.’
‘Lucy, you’ve got to get this place finished.’
‘Why me? Why do I have to do it?’
‘Because you’re the only one here, love.’
*
It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. There’s no rain, the sun is shining and there’s not a builder in sight. According to my calculations, as long as there’s not a downpour again today, Patch should (here’s hoping) be back on-site tomorrow. So I head out for some retail therapy.
Driving to Bondi Westfield, I make the mistake of going through the cross-city tunnel and get stuck in the most God-awful traffic. By the time I reach the shopping centre car park, I’m stressed beyond belief.
I walk briskly from shop to shop, only stopping to pull out Max’s American Express card and buy fabulous frivolities - a pink Spencer & Rutherford bag that’s gorgeous but completely impractical; a pair of pink-and-maroon suede Alannah Hill eight-centimetre-high slingbacks. And seriously, when am I ever going to have occasion to wear a red rabbit-fur poncho? I also buy a complete new tennis ensemble. I can’t hit a ball but I might as well look good trying.
I even eye a new Cartier watch, hesitating for a moment before giving it back to the salesgirl. Maybe next time. Not so with the DKNY green suede coat and black Prada pants.
I’m trying on an exquisite Collette Dinnigan sequined top that goes nowhere near fitting me, when a blonde skeletal sales assistant taps me on the shoulder and says, ‘Maybe you wouldn’t be so depressed if you weren’t wearing such ugly boots.’
Excuse me! Am I wearing a neon sign that says I’m depressed? Are my antidepressants sticking out of my bag, on show for the world to see? I don’t even take antidepressants. I’m not depressed. I turn around to see the giraffe from the party at the Actors’ Studio. She doesn’t bother with the dressing room, just strips off in front of one of the shop mirrors and stands there checking out her physique in a black satin bra and boy briefs. I glare at her, but she’s too self-absorbed to notice other people exist. Now, I’m depressed.
Sipping a skinny soy latte in a café, I calculate that I’ve spent over $5800, and feel guilty, guilty, guilty and furious, furious, furious.
Exhausted, I arrive home to find a message from Max.
‘Lucy, it’s me. I’ve had a call from American Express.
Been on a shopping spree, have we? How are Bella and Sam? We’ll talk soon.’
I play the message no less than fifteen times before realising that Max’s phone is working. He’s just not taking my calls.
‘I’m drinking all your Grange, you C-U-Next-Time prickhead!’ I scream when the voicemail clicks in yet again. ‘And I’m giving all of your clothes to charity. That’s right. All of them.’
This time, I drive to a different charity bin - I don’t want to risk running into the mad old biddy from last week. I take malicious pleasure in casting all of Max’s clothes into the bin, bag by bag. Driving home, I feel triumphant. Well, a little sad too, but mostly triumphant.
Emma calls and asks Bella, Sam and me over to dinner. I like Emma but we’re not close. Still, she’s invited us over when we still have no kitchen and no husband/father, so I take a bottle of wine from the cellar and we walk the four minutes to her house. The meal is delicious, though I’m so tired and overwrought that I make terrible company.
‘Barry and I have been through tough times,’ Emma confides to me in the kitchen as she whips the cream for dessert. ‘But we’ve worked through it, you know? You and Max can too.’
I nod. Sure, let’s not think about the fact he’s off having the time of his middle-aged life with a teenager.
‘Get this,’ Emma says, shaking a wooden spoon in front of me. ‘Barry told me that my aggressive personality was rendering him impotent, said he needed to feel powerful, in control.’
I look at her for a minute, trying to imagine Barry saying those words. He’s at least six foot three and weighs a hundred kilos.
‘I know, I know. But men are such babies,’ she says. ‘We’ve come to a compromise - he’s stopped questioning me about the house and my cooking and, in return, I’ve stopped trying to micromanage his career, which he’s absolutely hopeless at, by the way. But life’s a compromise, isn’t it?’
She licks the spoon, shrugs her shoulders and pours me another glass of wine.
‘You have to do what you have to do,’ I say, recalling Nadia’s comment about the Subservient Wives Club.
‘Exactly.’
Because I know this line of conversation will lead to further discomfort - my own - I take the coward’s way out and get hideously drunk. Okay, not so drunk that I blather on about Max and how he and his stupid red surfboard have left me, but drunk enough to start singing ‘Billy Don’t Be a Hero’ and other choice hits of the seventies and eighties.
Eventually, Bella demands to be taken home.
Day 23
Last night was so embarrassing. I’ll have to send Emma and Barry a thankyou card and apologise for my behaviour. Perhaps they’ll think I drink two bottles of wine every Monday night. Which I don’t.
I jump from strategy to strategy, thought to thought. What happens when Max eventually comes home? If he comes home?
My first idea is to make him pay for what he’s done. If Max thinks that the worst I can do is give all of his clothes to charity, he’s got a huge reality check coming. Not that I’d sever his penis with a kitchen knife à la Lorena Bobbitt, or even replace his shampoo with Nair hair remover (great idea though, Lucy!), but I will drag him through the courts. By the time I’m finished with Max, he and Alana will be eating fish fingers and mashed potatoes for the rest of their lives.
But then I think, do I really want to go through a messy divorce? What about Bella and Sam? What if, when I see Max, he’s truly sorry for what he’s done?
Then I start to feel sorry for myself. What have I done to deserve this? Did I make him feel emasculated, ineffectual, weak, powerless and feeble? Did I stop him taking his rightful place as the almighty and powerful protector of his family? I consider that theory for a few moments before dismissing it as the bullshit it is.
But maybe we can work everything out - assuming he ditches the trollop. It’s a given that Bella and Sam would be happier having their dad living at home. And let’s face it: divorce would be difficult for all of us. No, Max and I should definitely tough it out, at least while Bella and Sam are at school. If he still feels the same way in te
n years, then he can leave.
We’ll still be young(ish) and can live out our selfish fantasies then. I say ‘our’ but I actually mean ‘his’.
Shit! To hell with Max! What I need to do is take these renovations by the proverbial and get them finished! Except that Patch and his boys haven’t turned up. It’s a sunny winter’s day with not a rain cloud in sight, so I wonder what their excuse will be this time.
I ring Patch’s mobile and go straight through to his voicemail. ‘Just wondering what your movements are today, Patch,’ I say brightly into the phone, thinking, bloody well get over here and finish building my house, NOW.
I want my home back. I want a working kitchen. I want to cook food on a stovetop and have my fridge in the room where it’s supposed to be.
*
‘I tell you, Tuesdays come around just a little too quickly for my liking,’ I say to Gloria as we head to tennis. But at least I have a snazzy new outfit to prance around in.
At the coffee urn, I say hi to Reggie, a quiet young woman I vaguely know. She normally partners her mother, who isn’t here today.
‘Chatting with the prostitute?’ Gloria says after Reggie walks out to the court.
‘You’re going straight to hell, you know.’
‘What? Reggie and her mother manage a brothel in Darlinghurst. Maybe they don’t actually perform intimacies, but you know what they say: the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.’
‘You’re an idiot.’
‘I’m just saying, you never really know what’s going on in people’s lives until you get a private investigator involved.’
We head outside, and I trip over my feet and scuff my new racquet. Gloria is still in agent mode, trying to talk me into auditioning for a home renovation show, in two days’ time.
‘I don’t want to host a renovation program,’ I say, ‘it’s an overcrowded market.’
‘Settle. Think back to when they used Noni’s house as a guinea pig for Better Homes and Gardens.’
It turns out Gloria’s scammed a renovation audition for me only because she agreed I’d do Celebrity Blind Date, which is taping tomorrow.
‘Gloria, I can’t do that. I’m busy. It’s too soon. I’ve got nothing to wear.’
‘Please, do it as a favour to me. Catriona Rowntree bowed out. Turns out she’s married, pregnant, otherwise detained.’
‘But I’m married!’
‘By the time the show goes to air, you won’t be. Besides, there’s a free meal involved and, more importantly, it’s a great opportunity to meet a couple of decent blokes.
Enjoy.’
Gloria decides to hang around when she drops me at home. ‘Where are these elusive twins you’ve been yodelling about?’ she asks, looking around at the empty construction site. ‘Builders’ holiday again?’ We’re still chatting when Sam and Bella walk in the door after school.
‘Sambo, come here,’ Gloria says. ‘I heard you were an excellent goat in the school play the other day.’
Sam nods his head. ‘We got ice-creams at the end.’
‘And you’re getting so big … how old are you again?’
‘You should know,’ I say. ‘You’re his godmother.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she says. ‘But you know, details … cuddle, cuddle, kiss kiss, off you go. Here’s ten dollars, enjoy.’
‘Thanks Aunty Gloria.’
Sam runs outside.
‘Gloria, I really don’t like you throwing money at the children,’ I tell her.
‘But it’s all I have.’
Late in the day I notice a pallet of bricks has been moved from the front of the house to the side. Hooray.
I check my answering machine and find a message from Dom. Damned Gloria!
‘Hey Lucy, Dom here. Just checking in. Have you received my emails? Maybe your internet’s down? I know it’s been a while. Have been thinking about you. We should catch up.’
I feel shaky and sick. I play the message again … still sounds like the Dom I knew all those years ago. Insane thoughts and questions pound my head. Is he married? Does he have kids? What’s he ringing for? Does he love me? Is he still drop-dead gorgeous? Do I really want to revisit all of that angst from years ago?
I take a deep breath, press delete and go to bed.
Day 24
After I drop the children at school I drive to Trish’s house. Part of me really hopes she isn’t home … given how angry she was with me Saturday night. But I have to make amends, apologise. Her car’s in the driveway and she’s standing at the open front door before I’ve even walked past her overflowing letterbox.
‘I’m so sorry, Trish,’ I say, walking towards her, not sure whether she’ll hit me or not.
‘I know,’ she says, hugging me and leading me inside. ‘So am I.’
She’s teary and cuddly.
‘Believe me, I had no idea. It never occurred to me that Max and Alana were … well. I just don’t know when they would have had time alone together, but that’s all moot now, I guess,’ I say, fidgeting with my hands.
We stand in awkward silence, then Trish says, ‘I knew Alana had a new boyfriend but I never in the world thought it would be a married man. It’s not right … and now …’
I’m unable to say anything.
‘Vodka?’ she asks, changing the subject. So that explains her subdued mood.
‘It’s ten o’clock in the morning.’
‘So?’
‘Okay,’ I say, reluctantly, then watch as Trish pours two healthy glasses of vodka and tonic.
We sip our drinks and stare out the window. It’s cold and overcast. Bleak.
Forty minutes at Trish’s house feel like four days. The long silences are interspersed with tears and more apologies.
‘I promise if I hear any more from Max, I’ll let you know,’ I tell her. Trish promises to do the same if she hears from Alana.
I feel utterly hopeless as I leave. I know Max and Alana will come back - they can’t live in Bali for the rest of their lives - but when they do, I have a horrible feeling everything’s going to get even harder to deal with than it is now.
A car picks me up and takes me to Pacific Blue restaurant, overlooking the water at Manly, where Celebrity Blind Date is being filmed. Sitting in the midday traffic, I read the publicity blurb. It seems Celebrity Blind Date is like A Perfect Match only without Cameron Daddo and with the celebrity wow factor. The notes are enlightening. Dress appropriately, looking cold is so NOT attractive, sweating is ugly, heavy make-up is a turn-off and loud jewellery will compete with the microphone so don’t. Finally, contestants are advised to check for dandruff flakes before taking your seat. Charming.
Gloria has also told me to ‘Listen effectively, make eye contact, avoid heavy topics (okay, so I won’t mention my adulterous husband running off with the babysitter), be positive and smile.’ I know I’m going to hate this.
As I suspect, Celebrity Blind Date is a disaster. Awkward silences are tempered by me running off at the mouth, even with Gloria’s mantra pounding my brain: ‘Talk less, listen more’. I talk too much with date one, don’t talk at all to date two.
Date three is ‘Virgo by star sign, auto-electrician by trade,’ he tells me.
‘Dream job?’ I ask him.
‘To do absolutely nothing. People tell me I look like David Hasselhoff.’
Sadly, people are right. He does look like David Hasselhoff and not in a good way. He even wears the kind of super-tight dark denim jeans The Hoff wore in Knight Rider to show off his manhood … eek!
‘Your loves?’ I ask date number four, glancing at my cue sheet.
‘Nothing better than talking about a hot car … to a hot babe,’ he answers, making me want to vomit. ‘And I looove girls in short skirts and low-cut tops,’ he goes on, giving me the once-over.
I’m wearing a classic polka-dot dress, white on black, pulled together with a red leather belt at the waist, and knee-high black leather boots. I think I look good. I’m feeling comfortable
and, as the style tips recommend, am dressed in colours that suit me, wearing a style that complements my body shape, and am not showing too much skin. Tick, tick and tick.
‘So, you going to a fancy dress party after this?’ he asks, totally unimpressed.
‘Only date five knew who I was,’ I tell Gloria later on the phone. Not that I care, mind you. ‘Date six, a short, greasy-haired round man, moaned that he’d been gypped and wanted “a real celebrity”.’
‘You’ll have better luck on Modern Life tomorrow,’ Gloria assures me. ‘I’ve got you the gig. You’ll love it.’
‘I can’t wait.’
Day 25
‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ I confront Patch when he finally shows up. ‘I’m living in gyprock hell.’
‘Nice to see you too, Lucy.’
‘There are at least eight guys here but I can’t figure out what work’s being done, except that my hydrangea is dead from urea poisoning. You need to buy me a new plant.’
‘I think you’ll find that the hydrangea died from rootrot caused by too much water,’ he counters. ‘Also, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the high rainfall has caused the soil in the backyard to become so saturated that the inner walls of the newly constructed family room have buckled and need to be redone. To stop this happening again, extensive regrading of the backyard is required.’
‘Excellent. And what’s happening with the bathroom? Has the marble turned black, requiring replacement?’ I say sarcastically.
‘We’re waiting on the massage showerheads, tiles, basins … there’s a delay with the frameless glass shower screen -’
‘Okay, okay. And the kitchen?’
There are several men standing in a circle staring at me, clearly thinking I’m insane - and they may be right.
‘About the bi-fold doors we ordered,’ says Patch, changing the subject. ‘French doors were dropped off instead. They were meant for number seven down the road.’
‘So my doors are at number seven?’
‘No. No one seems to know where your doors are.’
It gets worse. Patch tells me that to save money he elected to use a local cabinet-maker, who seems to have absconded with the money he was paid, leaving me with half-finished wall units for the family room. Just what I need: a healthy dose of financial ruin.
