by Lisa Heidke
‘Is she really going through with that?’
‘Of course not, but she and a photographer friend of hers flew over to the orphanage, tossed around a few sweets, mentioned adopting a “swag of children from war-torn and weather-ravaged countries” à la Angelina, and wham-bam-thankyou-mam, life’s sweet.’
‘How you can live with yourself …’
‘Publicity, that’s what it’s all about. What about your husband running off with the babysitter and you finding true love with the one-eyed builder? You know he’s keen on you. People love a romance, especially a celebrity romance, and if there’s a disability thrown in - well! Just think of the possibilities, Lucy-Lou.’
‘I’m not sleeping with Patch and there is no romance.’
‘As if that matters. You’ve got to write about something. Gay father? Hermaphrodite brother? A self-help book? You went through a numerology phase, didn’t you?’
‘I’m finished, aren’t I? You can’t get me any decent auditions, that’s what you’re saying. It’s over.’
‘I wouldn’t say that exactly, but you saw the Logies, love-bug. The starlets are all eighteen-year-old tanorexics.’
‘I know. I wanted to grab their pert breasts and tell them how far they’ll fall. Gravity gets us all in the end.’
‘Fantasies aside, we need something to remind people what a bombshell you could be - though losing weight, getting a decent haircut and having your toenails clipped and painted would really help me out here.’
Gloria’s bright idea is to start by taking me to another bar halfway across town. I check my watch. It’s only just past nine o’clock. Even I think that’s too early to go home, especially to an empty house.
‘Come on,’ Gloria insists. ‘It’s just opened, and it’s hip and hopping.’
Twenty-five minutes later, she leads me past a burly bouncer, through a narrow door (perhaps to keep out the obese) and up some stairs to a dimly lit room. It’s packed. Thump-thump music is pumping. The crowd is young, groovy and attractive, all throwing back their glorious manes, laughing deep, throaty laughs and drinking attractive citrus cocktails. It’s mere minutes before I see Rock in his designer suit and obvious fake tan. He looks a little like a tandoori chicken. Several groupies cling to him. He buys me a drink and I play hard to get for … oh, all of twenty-two seconds.
Gloria dances past me with not one but three handsome men in tow. ‘Take life with a grain of salt, a wedge of lime and a shot of tequila,’ she says, and swigs from a glass.
Why the hell not, I think, as Rock and I boogie on the dance floor to ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ (it’s retro night, apparently). I must say, I’m impressed with his young bod and the way he moves. Rock might even make it onto Celebrity So You Think You Can Dance.
An hour later, a combination of his suggestive dance moves, alcohol and eighties tunes leads me to eagerly agree when Rock suggests we go back to his place.
Going home with a handsome minor celebrity to avenge herself on her cheating husband isn’t the worst thing a woman can do. See, Max, I can get laid as easily as you can. And it’s great for my ego. Rock’s kissing me on his worn-out futon and telling me how much he wants me. He’s a good kisser - maybe not as good as Dom, but good enough. Where did that bloody thought about Dom come from? I’m not thinking about Dom! It’s Rock lying above me, Rock putting his tongue in my ear - oh!
‘Oh baby,’ Rock’s cooing, his mouth now at my naked breasts. I stop thinking altogether and give in to the momentary pleasure.
Day 32
Though last night was fun and did much to restore my sense of being a sexy, desirable woman, I’m thankful to wake in my own bed. I didn’t want to wake up in Rock’s. I haven’t slept in someone else’s bed (except Gloria’s) since Max and I started dating, and staying out all night would have made me feel bad about being a married woman who’d effectively picked up a stray man in a bar. (Hot and young - and the stamina! Oh, baby! Eat your heart out, Max. But a stray, nonetheless.) And that’s not how I live my life. (Yet.)
Of course, Gloria has to call. ‘So, Mrs Robinson, did you seduce the boy?’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘You don’t have the MASBs, do you?’
‘The what?’
‘The Morning After Shagging Blues. C’mon, Lucy, tell me, was he a good fuck?’
‘Shut. Up.’
‘Ah, so he was. You did well. I could tell from the way he was gyrating on the dance floor.’
‘He’s so young -’
‘Who cares? Anyway, it’s only natural you’d be feeling a bit -’
‘A bit what? Ashamed? Embarrassed?’ I launch, ready to defend myself.
‘I was going to say, emotional.’
Patch tells me we’re over-budget.
‘How can you be over-budget? You haven’t done anything.’
‘I’m working through the list, like you asked me,’ he says, waving several sheets of paper in the air. ‘There’s the trouble with the cabinet-maker, the extra excavation we needed to do in the garden, replacement of the sewer pipes -’
‘How much over-budget?’ I’m trying to remain professional, despite my overwhelming urge to throttle him.
‘About fifty per cent, give or take.’
‘Give or take what?’
‘It all depends on the next stage, Lucy. Appliances, fittings …’
I want to take his little head and ram it through the glass door. Instead, I say, ‘I need a breakdown of the costs, including what you’ve already spent and future projections, including extras.’ I’m getting fired up now. ‘And, Patch, I think the contractors are harassing my cat. He turned up the other day in a tizz because bits of concrete were stuck to his tail. I had to cut the fur out.’
Patch puts him arm around me. ‘Have you thought about taking anger-management classes? They’re really very helpful. A client of mine -’
‘For your information, I don’t need anger-management classes,’ I say, removing his arm. ‘What I need are builders who turn up when they say they are going to. What I need is my house back. I’m living with constant dust - on the floor, the furniture, in my hair, my clothes, the breakfast cereal …’
‘I like the new forceful Lucy, it suits you.’
I want to go on but Patch’s good eye glazes over with something suspiciously resembling desire. I make a hasty retreat.
Nadia phones and invites the children and me over for dinner.
‘How’s it going?’ she asks, looking totally gorgeous in a white cotton empire-line dress, her magnificent bosom on display.
‘Fine, great,’ I say.
‘Haven’t seen you at school this week.’
‘No, the children don’t like me stopping by unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
Especially after what Sam told his class, the incident with the bus driver, and then Sam’s concert where I wore a see-through shirt, smelt of dog and accidentally sat in the principal’s chair.
‘Don’t take it to heart,’ she says. ‘No one blames you for Max running off with Alana.’
‘Really? I can only imagine what people must be saying about me.’
Nadia looks away for a moment and shrugs. ‘Every family has its ups and downs - you can’t get by in this life without messing up. Shit happens, and it happens to everyone. People who say their lives are perfect are lying … or drinking heavily. Speaking of which, here.’ She hands me a glass of wine.
‘Maybe some people are better at hiding it,’ I say, hopefully.
‘That’s the spirit. Just remember, everyone’s fucked up about something. Now, have you rung my lawyer?’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t. It’s too soon.’
‘There’s plenty of time. On the bright side, being single you get to have the whole bed to yourself, don’t have to share the remote control or shave your legs - and you’ve got those cute builders crawling all over your house. Who was the one I saw the other day - had a patch over one eye?’
‘That would be
Patch.’
Nadia smirks as if to say, of course, how silly of me. ‘He’s cute.’
‘You think?’
‘Honey, up here anyone who can walk and talk and doesn’t have a hunchback is considered fair game. He’s on the money. I couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. Man, oh man.’
‘Don’t you get lonely?’ I ask, trying not to think about Patch’s cuteness or his bulging biceps.
‘Sure, sometimes. But I have the kids, my trusty vibrator …’ Nadia laughs. ‘Seriously, you know Jack’s mum, Andrea? She hosts lingerie parties, husband’s a doctor? I bought a couple from her. She has a handcuff fetish. I’ll introduce you. And occasionally I go out on dates.’
I shake my head, thinking back to last night.
‘I know you can’t imagine it now, Lucy, but the time will come.’
‘No, I -’
‘I’ve been out on some doozies. Once, I even had dinner with a toothless man. Of course, I didn’t realise he was toothless until we kissed.’
‘And?’
‘His denture dislodged and I ended up with a molar entwined with my tongue. True story.’
I arrive home two hours later to the sound of the telephone ringing. Bloody Gloria!
‘Yes, Gloria.’
‘Yes, yourself.’
It’s not Gloria. My stomach lurches. I feel twenty years old again.
‘Dom,’ I squeak. ‘How are you?’
‘Not bad. You’re a difficult one to track down. After I called and you didn’t phone me back -’
‘I can explain.’
‘I’m sure you can. I sent you a couple of emails, three, but you didn’t answer any.’
‘But -’
‘I was starting to think that either you were dead, you hated me, or you thought I was stalking you like one of your lovesick fans.’
‘I don’t have any lovesick fans.’
‘I’ve always been a fan.’
‘Hmm,’ I murmur, lost for words. ‘So …’
‘Why am I calling? Thought it was about time I tried again. I know things haven’t been easy for you lately … You weren’t going to call me, were you, Luce?’
I hesitate. ‘Of course I was.’
‘Liar, liar.’
‘Okay … maybe not right away.’
‘Aha! So how you holding up?’
‘Fine …’
‘Except you’re living in a dump. Am I right?’ He sounds exactly like the straightforward Dom of old. I almost forget to be nervous.
‘I wouldn’t exactly call it a dump,’ I say, looking around the dump I’m standing in. For the next forty minutes I tell him everything about the renovation, and Max and Alana. On and on. The more we talk, the more I realise how much I’ve missed him.
‘Luce, it sounds to me like you really need to sort things out with Max. After all, he’s Bella and Sam’s father, and I guess if he can’t be grown-up about it, you have to be.’
‘But -’
‘For the sake of the kids, yourself - c’mon, you deserve more than a lousy postcard. Besides, there’s too much history, too much at stake, for you to throw it all away without at least talking things through, isn’t there?’
When Dom says this, it brings back memories of the history he and I have shared.
‘But he’s in Bali,’ I manage.
‘So?’
I don’t speak because I don’t have an answer.
Finally, Dom says, ‘Promise you’ll call me any time. I mean it. And don’t go stabbing yourself or others and, for God’s sake, do not under any circumstances let Gloria talk you into any more auditions for toilet adverts - with animals or humans.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
He doesn’t suggest we meet up and I’m disappointed. It would have been nice if he’d asked me for coffee, or lunch. Instead, he asks me if I could be any kind of inanimate object for a day, what would I choose.
Day 33
The good news? I think I’m starting to get through to Patch. He’s on my doorstep at 7 am looking alert and holding a piece of paper with a list of completion dates.
‘A month away from finishing, Lucy,’ he says. ‘Five weeks tops.’
I really want to believe him because it sounds so doable when he says it.
‘I don’t foresee any problem with the council inspection this morning, even though we’re not quite finished doing the electrics, and if there is, we can always slip the guy a few bob.’
‘You’re joking, of course.’
‘Of course.’
But I wouldn’t put it past him to bribe people, officials in particular. All I can think is that it’s coming out of my pocket. Next thing I know, I’ll be arrested for aiding and abetting dodgy building practices.
‘So what’s next?’ I ask.
‘The plasterers are in today, and after the electrician finishes, give or take a day, we move on to tiling, laying the floors, installing the kitchen and painting. Voila!
’
‘Has the kitchen actually been built?’
Patch hesitates. ‘It’s on its way, well on its way.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Soon, very soon.’
‘Five weeks tops?’ I say.
‘Absolutely. Definitely no more than six. We’re pulling down the old stairs tomorrow, so for the next week there’ll be ramp access upstairs until the Oregon timber for the new set arrives. Yeah, it’s all taking shape.’ Patch smiles and looks down at his notes. ‘There’s just one more thing. You know that toilet you ordered?’
Yes, I do. It cost three thousand dollars. Buying a toilet to pay back my cheating husband was perhaps not such a good idea in hindsight. The money situation is escalating out of control. The bills come in, I write the cheques, and while no one’s rung to say their cheque’s bounced, logic tells me that the money has to run out eventually. Especially if Max never comes back. For now, at least, his salary is being paid directly into our bank account, and we had money set aside for the renovation, but the costs … Who knew something as trivial as waterproofing could be so expensive?
‘It seems to have disappeared,’ Patch goes on. ‘The boys have looked everywhere but there’s no sign of the Magic Flush 4000. Don’t worry, though. Insurance should cover it. Most of it, anyway.’
Despite the disappearance of my overpriced loo and the sick feeling I have regarding spiralling renovation costs, I feel strangely comforted now that Patch has given me a completion schedule. I know he won’t stick to it, but having a piece of paper at least gives me hope.
Patch shows me a Villeroy & Boch bathroom brochure. ‘This one’s a back-to-wall model with a soft-close seat,’ he says, pointing at a black-and-white photo of an ordinary-looking toilet. ‘And it has a built-in auto-flush so you don’t even have to push a button when you’re finished doing your business.’
‘Great … I think.’
‘Yeah, it’s so much better than the Magic Flush 4000. It even has an in-built air-freshener. Best of all, it’s a third of the price.’
‘Go for it,’ I say, and fling my red rabbit-furred pom-pom poncho over my shoulders. Why didn’t he show me that one in the first place?
Flowers arrive at the front door with a gift-wrapped little package. My heart jumps. Could they be from Max? Dom, even?
No, they’re from Rock. He must have asked Gloria for my address. I open the package. My knickers. I wondered what had happened to them. I was kind of hoping they’d disappear, never to be seen or spoken of again. Alas … At least they’ve been washed.
I do my rounds of the building work and my top lip curls automatically as I watch the plasterers. Don’t get me wrong, it’s progress. The more noise, filth and general disorder, the closer we move towards the logical conclusion of a new kitchen, living area and bathroom. And I really want these things. I do. It’s just that these guys are too loud, too filthy and far too messy for my liking. Today, I can’t even get my big toe inside the laundry/kitchen/family room.
After lunch, the pla
sterers leave empty Coke cans, half-eaten pies and a mound of cigarette butts. But I don’t say anything. The last thing I want is for them to walk off the job, the way the tiler did three days ago when I made a tiny comment about the tiles not being the right colour.
Afterwards, Patch told me it would take him forever to find another tiler.
‘But there must be dozens of them,’ I said.
‘Yeah, but tilers talk and word is you’re one difficult customer.’
‘I wouldn’t be difficult if my job had been finished on time. In fact, by my reckoning, you guys should have been out of here three and a half months ago.’
‘You can’t rush perfection.’
‘My point exactly. If it was perfect, I wouldn’t be complaining.’
Given that I can’t stand the sight of anyone in my house, I follow Gloria’s advice and get me to a beautician for a general overhaul; the birth of a brand-new me. A new life … my life without Max. It’s time to move on. Because today I’m thinking I can get by without Max. What’s the point of wishing someone would come home when they clearly don’t want to?
I spend the afternoon gaining a new perspective on my life as the beautician sloughs dead skin from my heels and paints my toenails fire-engine red. I also have a manicure, eyebrow wax, eyelash tint and an exotically named youth elixir oxygen therapy facial, which involves a combination of oxygen treatment and a cocktail of vitamins and minerals slathered over my face to restore, tighten and rejuvenate my skin. Excellent.
I decide it’ll be fine if Max never comes home - as long as the finances are under control, which they will be once I transform myself and am offered a television contract.
Lucy Springer is getting her life in order! I’m damned if I’m ever going to do an audition for a dog poo ad again. If Gracie Gardener, slut and my nemesis, can act then so can I. She has a coke habit, for God’s sake. I’m no longer even opposed to adopting an Asian orphan. I could do that. I’m sure Sam wouldn’t mind sharing his room. I’ll have a new life post-Max. So he left me for the babysitter? So he’s in Bali? Big deal.
