Lucy Springer Gets Even

by Lisa Heidke

  ‘You talk to her. She’s your friend,’ Sandy’s saying.

  Rock’s not listening. ‘Can we get rid of this sawdust and the paint fumes?’ he asks. ‘They’re really affecting my nasal cavity and voice, even though I change masks every couple of hours. If I lose my voice, I have nothing. So … if I’m not required this morning …’

  ‘Listen! You’re supposed to be doing a piece to camera with Lucy, but she won’t wear a bikini, won’t wear a freakin’ mini, she probably won’t even talk for fuck’s sake. And she’s not the only problem. The electrician and the carpenter both promised they’d be here yesterday and both of them were no-shows. It’s a fucking disaster. But everyone just shrugs their shoulders and tells me it’s not their problem.’

  Welcome to my world, love, I think.

  Am feeling rather smug until Gloria rings me after I’ve dropped off the kids at school.

  ‘Why don’t you just move in here and be done with it,’ I tell her.

  ‘Ha, ha. Sandy tells me you’re being difficult.’

  ‘I’m not fucking being fucking difficult.’

  ‘No, doesn’t sound like it. Clearly, it’s all in her imagination.’

  ‘I’m not wearing a fucking bikini!’

  ‘Could you scream a little louder? I don’t think the good folks in New Zealand heard you. What’s the big problem here? Okay, so don’t wear the bikini, just do a tiny piece to camera with Rock about your marriage break-up, the romantic reunion in Bali, the bombs, your love-rat husband dumping you … again … yada, yada.’

  ‘I don’t want to tell the world that my husband left me for our nineteen-year-old babysitter. It’s pathetic and such a cliché.’ I absentmindedly go to touch my missing wedding ring.

  ‘Whyever not? This sort of thing happens all the time.

  You’ll get the audience’s sympathy. Then you can say how you’ve transformed yourself, made a go of your life, overcome obstacles …’

  ‘Gloria!’

  ‘What? It could happen.’

  ‘That’s why you got them to use my house on the show, isn’t it? Because of Bali, the bombs, then the break-up, my disastrous renovation …’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, I’m not doing it. You’ll have to cancel.’

  ‘You’ve signed a contract, Lucy-Lou. Now, if you just up your meds …’

  ‘Shut. Up.’

  ‘You think I’m being funny, don’t you?’

  It’s five in the evening. Bella and Sam spent the afternoon with Max and he’s dropping them at Mum and Dad’s for the night. My parents haven’t said much about Max. Dad, in particular, seems to have his head firmly entrenched in the sand, as if this is a little vacation we’re taking away from each other and not a permanent separation. He’s wrong.

  I haven’t gone into explicit detail with Mum about what happened with Max and Alana in Bali, but I’ve given her enough information so she can draw a pretty clear picture.

  No doubt she’s in the process of pecking at Max for more information as I sit here on a rickety cane lounge in the garden, drinking wine from an ancient Thomas the Tank Engine plastic mug and contemplating my lonely and miserable life.

  The way I see it, I have several options:

  1. Renege on the TV contract. Obviously, I’ll have to pay some sort of penalty, which will push me further into financial oblivion.

  2. Make up with Max. Allow him back into my house and life. Live from here on in an unhappy compromise, albeit with a swanky kitchen and financial freedom.

  3. Kill myself.

  4. Kill Max.

  5. Finish the renovation ASAP, slap the house up for sale and downsize.

  6. Compromise with Gloria on the TV contract; get the renovation finished ASAP, then sell the house - all the while retaining most of my self-respect.

  Am thinking option six looks like a winner when Rock appears. I hardly recognise him without his mask and gloves. I glance at his shoes and smile. They’re still covered in socks. Of course they are; he’s standing in my muddy backyard.

  ‘Rock, take a seat. What’s up? Shouldn’t you be out at some fabulous bar?’

  ‘I came back for my notes. And I’m over bars. Besides, the press hound me everywhere I go.’

  ‘But you are the press, aren’t you, strictly speaking?’

  ‘I’m more than the press, I hope. I write my own lines. And hey, I’ve got a book coming out.’

  ‘Really? I’m impressed. What’s it about?’

  ‘Me.’

  I almost laugh. ‘This calls for a celebration. Come on inside.’

  Rock follows me into the laundry/kitchen/family room, alert for dust and debris. I retrieve a bottle of Croser from the fridge and a couple of glasses. I may be on the brink of financial oblivion but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a sparkling wine now and then.

  ‘This okay?’ I ask, showing him the bottle.

  Rock nods and I pop the cork. I hand him a full glass and lean against the washing machine.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say, clinking my glass with his. ‘Congratulations. Tell me all about it.’

  ‘Well, it’s about my ups and downs, life’s triumphs until now.’

  He’s all of twenty-five years old. What on earth could he possibly have to say to fill an entire book?

  ‘So you’ve written an autobiography?’ I say, not quite believing him.

  ‘Well, not exactly. I started writing, but then the publishers suggested a ghost writer. Besides, I’m too busy. It’s all happening.’

  ‘Won’t having a book out there intrude even more on your personal life?’

  Rock looks at me blankly.

  ‘Given that you want to get away from your fans?’ I go on.

  ‘Who said I wanted to get away?’

  ‘I thought you said you couldn’t go anywhere without people harassing you?’

  ‘I don’t think people harass me. It’s just that they want to talk to me and touch me all the time. Except you.’

  I blush crimson. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Where are your children tonight?’ he says, grabbing the Croser bottle and topping up my glass.

  ‘Er … at my mother’s,’ I say, suddenly realising that asking Rock to stay for a drink when the kids aren’t at home is tantamount to inviting him into a full-time relationship.

  He takes the glass from my hand and moves in to kiss me. ‘I want you,’ he gasps.

  And while my head is saying ‘No, no, no’, my body, and breasts in particular … whoops … are screaming, ‘YES’. I want to be held, touched, adored. I want to make love and have a man’s strong hands explore my body.

  Then sense clicks in. I’m being ridiculous - it’s a disaster waiting to happen. I only want Rock because he wants me. And I don’t really want Rock. I truly don’t.

  I’m in the process of pulling away from him when I hear footsteps.

  ‘Bloody hell, so this is what it’s about,’ sneers Max, storming up to us, his face contorted in rage. He slaps a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses down in the laundry sink. ‘No wonder the kids are at your mother’s. I come home begging for forgiveness, hoping we can have an adult conversation about our future - because I have responsibilities and am prepared to make a huge sacrifice for the family, no matter whether it’s what makes me happy. And here you are, snogging this dork.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, stepping out into the new kitchen.

  ‘I could ask him the same question,’ Max says, full of contempt.

  ‘No, you can’t. He’s a guest. You’re an intruder.’

  ‘Intruder? This is my house.’

  ‘I’ll be going then,’ stammers Rock.

  ‘About bloody time, genius,’ Max snarls.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ I command Rock. ‘This isn’t about you.’

  ‘Too bloody right it’s not about him, which is why he should leave,’ Max says. ‘Go and fuck somebody your own age. This tart’s old enough to be your mother.’

  I hate
Max. Really hate him.

  ‘She’s not that old,’ says Rock, his temper rising now.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ says Rock. ‘Your honour is at stake.’

  ‘Honour?’ Max spits. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? She’s my wife. If anyone’s going to defend her ridiculous honour, it’ll be me.’

  And then Rock goes for Max, swinging punches at him. Most miss but the intent is there. Max grabs Rock by his suit collar. They crash into the wall and knock over a photo frame Bella put there last night. It’s a picture of Max, the kids and myself, all smiling in one of those school fundraiser shots. The frame falls to the ground and the glass shatters.

  ‘That’s enough!’ I shout, and stand between them.

  I can only assume it’s mortification that forces Max to rethink his position. He asks if I want him to stay.

  ‘Please leave,’ I answer.

  He can’t quite believe it, but thankfully he storms out the back door. Rock and I are left standing in the debris of the picture frame.

  ‘Another glass of champagne?’ Rock says, finally.

  Day 54

  Let’s just say things are a little awkward, what with Rock staying overnight and neither of us waking up until after the builders arrive. Thank goodness I have the forethought to throw on flannelette pyjama pants (I’m already wearing a blue singlet), because Sandy confronts me as soon as I step out into the hallway.

  ‘Seen Rock?’ she asks, eyebrows arched.

  ‘I … I …’ I stammer.

  ‘His car’s here.’ She stares at me, waiting for a response.

  ‘We had a few drinks … he slept in Sam’s bed,’ I say, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl who’s been caught sneaking boys into her room in the middle of the night.

  Sandy tilts her head, her expression disbelieving.

  ‘See,’ I say, as Rock emerges from Sam’s room, his hair dishevelled. I say a quick ‘Good morning’ to him before rushing to the bathroom.

  I’m still wet from the shower when Gloria strides into my bedroom with a cup of tea for me. Just in time to see me hand Rock a towel so he can freshen up as well.

  ‘Hubba hubba!’ she squeals when he’s out of earshot.

  ‘You should have told me you had company, Luce. I would have made an extra cup.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘We had some drinks, Max came around, it got messy. Max left. Rock and I had more drinks. We ordered pizza. He slept in Sam’s room. End of story.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. We didn’t do anything. I’m not interested in Rock.’

  ‘And Max?’

  ‘Max and I are finished. There’s no going back.’

  ‘Well, my dear, seems to me you’re in a pickle. If you don’t want the renovation team filming you, what are you going to do exactly?’

  I sigh. ‘We’d better have a meeting with Sandy and Rock and get something sorted.’

  ‘That’s my girl. I’ll go downstairs and you guys come down when you’re decent. Don’t take too long.’

  When I climb down the ladder fifteen minutes later, Gloria, Sandy and Rock are lined up like a firing squad waiting for me.

  Good news though - the timber for the stairs has arrived and Patch and his men are putting it together.

  ‘Here she is,’ says Gloria, beaming and pointing a finger at me. ‘I’ve explained to Sandy that you won’t don a bikini or teeter around on nine-inch heels in a mini and that’s fine -’

  ‘But hair and make-up,’ interrupts Sandy.

  ‘Yes, hair and make-up are not negotiable when you’re doing pieces to camera.’

  ‘But surely -’ I start.

  ‘Lucy, you’re fine as you are for the random moments, the spontaneous you the camera catches in passing, but for the scripted reality scenes, let’s leave it to the professionals, hey?’ Gloria says, clearly willing me not to speak.

  ‘They really can work wonders,’ Sandy agrees.

  ‘Sandy and I just want you to be yourself, Lucy. To talk about the house and how you’re transforming it into your dream home. This is the vision you created for your family - the gardens, the pool, the sweeping views across the valley, you know. The viewers love that … but we also need to mention Bali.’

  ‘Gloria, I’m not using the Balinese tragedy to further my own interests.’

  ‘Of course you’re not. We just want you to say that you were there. It was awful, the poor Balinese -’

  ‘It was awful.’

  ‘I know, I know. We’ll have a hotline where people can ring and donate money to the Red Cross or one of those charities that are big in Indonesia.’

  ‘Will the victims actually get the donations?’

  ‘Details,’ Gloria says dismissively.

  ‘I won’t talk about Max or Alana,’ I go on. ‘The public doesn’t need to know what’s happening in my private life. I don’t want the kids exposed either.’

  ‘All right, we’ll play it like this. The show will revolve around you and the renovation - your dreams for the house and how it’s all coming together. No mention of Max or his whereabouts.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘In return, you say how you were holidaying in Bali when the bombs exploded, you were devastated -’

  ‘I am devastated.’

  ‘Of course you are. Then we’ll build a little thatched cabana thingy by the pool, strategically place a few buddhas, a fabulous daybed, some silk -’

  ‘Plant several hibiscuses and frangipani trees,’ interrupts Sandy.

  ‘Exactly! It’ll be your tribute and it’ll be fabulous. And we’ll run a toll-free number at the bottom of the screen which the good viewers of Australia can ring to donate money to help the bomb victims. Good?’ I nod, and Gloria turns to Sandy and Rock. ‘Deal?’

  ‘No mention of the husband and we keep the children’s involvement to a minimum,’ Sandy says. ‘Okay, but Lucy, if you run off and give a tell-all interview to a women’s magazine in the meantime, the deal’s off.’

  ‘As if,’ I say, shaking my head.

  Rock’s got his eye on me, but when I look at him he quickly focuses on Joel, who’s kicking the central heating into action.

  ‘We’ll talk about your career up to now, things you’ve been doing, plans for the future,’ Sandy says.

  ‘Not sure I can remember all of this,’ Rock says, dragging himself into the conversation. ‘I’ll need cue cards.’

  *

  After the pep talk from Gloria, I realise I have to change my attitude if I’m going to look at least halfway sane on commercial television. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. This is my opportunity to prove to viewers I’m not a has-been. My chance to shine.

  Given that I still have a hint of a tan and am not looking overly tubby, I head to David Jones to revamp my wardrobe. This time, I use my own credit cards. Life’s good. Max? Max who?

  Rock calls me as I’m trying to squeeze into a Leona Edmiston sleeveless black jersey dress. At a certain age, women no longer have upper arms, we have wing spans. We are no longer women in sleeveless dresses; we are flying squirrels in drag. To cut a long story short, I look hideous.

  ‘When are you coming back?’ Rock asks. There’s a touch of anxiety in his voice.

  ‘After I pick the children up from school. Oh, and Bella has band practice.’

  ‘Can I see you tonight then?’

  ‘Tonight’s tricky. Bella and Sam will be at home.’

  ‘But I need to see you.’ Rock sounds as clingy as Sam. He breathes into the phone a few moments more before disconnecting.

  I really don’t need that little complication in my life, but in another week the renovation will be over and Rock will move on to another woman. I hope.

  I reject the jersey dress because it hugs me in all the wrong places and I go for the soft shopping option: black boots and a black bag.

  I also buy the kids new bed linen, a beaded purple lamp Bella’s had her eye on for weeks and a new Venu
s flytrap for Sam. The last one starved to death. They’re thrilled. Sam spends hours after school catching flies and feeding them to his new best friend. I should buy him a dog.

  Even Bella is smiling. ‘Mum, you cleaned my room. You actually vacuumed and changed the sheets.’ She peers under the bed. ‘And under here as well!’

  ‘Don’t look so surprised.’ Anyone would think I never did that sort of thing.

  The kids and I celebrate the end of another week by ordering in their favourite pizza. We take three chairs and a small table into our new dining/family room. I light several candles and imagine how it will all look when it’s finished.

  ‘So, how are Nanna and Poppa?’ I ask them, admiring the new staircase.

  ‘Nanna says that Dad’s not coming back to live with us,’ Sam replies, tomato and cheese hanging from the corner of his mouth. ‘But when we saw Dad yesterday he said he was coming home on the weekend.’

  Time to tell the truth.

  ‘No, Sam, Daddy’s not going to live with us anymore. He’ll visit, but we won’t all live together. I know it’s very sad for everyone, but we both still love you and Bella very much.’

  ‘He’ll never live with us again?’ Bella asks.

  ‘No. Mummy and Daddy have to live apart, so from now on you’ll each have a bedroom at Mummy’s house and one at Daddy’s house.’ (Assuming Max finds himself a house/apartment/caravan.)

  ‘But what about all my clothes?’ Bella asks, panicking.

  ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t thought that far,’ I say. ‘But we’ll work something out. You’ll still see Dad lots, probably even more than you saw him when he was living here.’

  ‘Does that mean I get to have two Venus flytraps?’ asks Sam.

  During dinner, Mum phones. ‘Max tells me you’re having an affair with the presenter from Gateways. What’s his name? Rod … Rick …’

  ‘It’s Rock, and I’m not having an affair with him.’

  ‘Well, Max says that you’re having an affair to punish him and he doesn’t deserve it.’

  ‘He’s barking mad. I hope you hung up on him.’

  ‘Of course, darling. The man’s insane.’

  I don’t believe for one minute that Max is insane. But it doesn’t surprise me that he’s reaching out to Mum and Dad in his own deluded way. Especially now that he knows I’m serious about separating. Max doesn’t like to lose.