by Lisa Heidke
‘So?’ I said, eventually turning to him. Liam, his untidy hair so blond I had to look closely to identify the few grey hairs around his hairline. His once mesmerising brown eyes not so mesmerising anymore. Oh, he was handsome and fit. Years of surfing had seen to that. But he didn’t look at me in the same way he used to. I’d go so far as to say that most of the time he stared straight through me and when he did notice me, it was with a resigned sigh, like I was solely responsible for confining him to this suburban wasteland.
Liam nodded stiffly. ‘Fine. I’ll get my things together now.’
‘The sooner we tell the girls—’
At that moment, Evie and Olivia strolled out onto the deck.
‘Tell the girls what?’ said Evie. ‘You’re going back to Uncle Brad’s, aren’t you, Dad? You two are breaking up and you’re getting a divorce.’
‘Hey, not so fast,’ said Liam.
‘We’re not babies,’ said Olivia.
I sighed. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘How?’ said Liv, as sharp as ever. ‘Either you are or you aren’t.’
‘Dad is going back to Uncle Brad’s for a while, that’s all.’
‘Friday!’ said Liam sharply.
I turned to him. ‘What?’
‘But…’ He looked at the three of us.
‘I don’t want you to go, Daddy,’ said Evie, throwing her arms around him.
It was breaking my heart to see Evie so upset.
‘Well?’ said Olivia, staring at Liam, impatient and bursting with attitude.
‘I guess I should pack,’ said Liam.
‘I guess you should,’ I replied.
•
I had to hold it together as much for my sake as for the girls when Liam walked out the door, head bowed, dragging a black, medium-sized suitcase, thick pink ribbon thoughtfully tied in a fancy bow around the handle (Evie’s touch), behind him.
‘Why did you make him leave again?’ screamed Evie as she watched his car disappear around the bend.
‘Honey, I didn’t.’
‘Did so,’ she yelled.
I was lost for words. We’d managed to get through the past three months without too many bumps, mainly because I’d hoped the situation was temporary, but now? I wasn’t so sure. I’d had a couple of friends besides Rosie who’d divorced, and had read enough stories to know that separations usually ended acrimoniously. (Especially when one partner was infatuated with a third party.)
That night, the farmer sent three more texts, all along the lines of I need to see you. When can we meet? Briefly, I thought about my limbs entwined around his, before deleting the messages one by one without replying.
I climbed into bed, weary and exhausted, my mind working overtime to process recent events. It felt odd lying in the marital bed knowing that Liam had been staying here while I’d been away. I tossed and turned, fighting back tears. Why was life so bloody difficult?
The girls walked into the kitchen the next morning just as I’d finished making their school lunches. It was Monday and I was back in the swing of things, the weekly routine.
I contemplated giving them the day off school but decided against it. We needed to get on with our reality, however unpleasant it was. I was officially separated. Again.
I gulped my vitamin B12 concoction. Yuck. I’d never get used to the taste, no matter how many times I swallowed it. Sometimes I found it hard to believe the wisdom I was spouting.
I turned to Evie. ‘Are you going to be okay at school today?’
‘I have to be. Don’t want to hang around here with you.’ With that, she stomped off towards her bedroom.
I glanced at Olivia, who had been standing quietly by the open fridge door. ‘How are you, sweetheart? I’m so sorry about this.’
Liv shrugged and slammed the door closed. ‘It’s life. No big deal. ILY.’
‘I love you, too.’
I almost admired her bravado.
When our girls were born (Olivia, 9 September 1999—amazing birth date—and Evie, 25 June 2001), Liam and I were living in a tiny brick semi in Rozelle, back then Balmain’s poor second cousin. Though we renovated, no amount of tiling, styling and money could miraculously transform our humble abode into a comfortable home for two boisterous toddlers.
So we moved to the Northern Beaches. The promise of a more relaxed lifestyle and the suggestion that the girls would have more freedom, space and air made the decision a no-brainer. And I’d hoped Liam would feel more at ease given it would be like a homecoming for him, returning to the beaches where he’d surfed almost every day growing up.
Yes, relocating to Newport had many benefits. Living by the ocean was one of them. As soon as we saw the ramshackle cottage, I fell in love. It wasn’t perfect but it was perfect for us. The haphazard cottage gardens, both front and back, the wooden interior, four bedrooms, kitchen and vast living area and deck that overlooked the sea. Stunning.
It didn’t have many of the requirements I’d insisted upon when I’d drawn up a ‘must have’ list when we first started house hunting: namely an ensuite and a double garage. There wasn’t much of a play area for the girls, either. And, the home had a pool, which I wasn’t keen on. High maintenance sprang to mind. But the view? And the warmth the home radiated? I was sold.
Liam seemed happy enough, too, though it was higher up on the Northern Beaches than he preferred and that meant hours of daily travel to and from the city. But he was happy to compromise for the lifestyle. In hindsight, perhaps Liam’s commute had proven too much. Before the separation, he’d still surfed, but realistically only on weekends. Despite our supposed idyllic way of life, Liam felt increasingly hemmed in. Certainly over the past eighteen months, he’d presented an excellent impression of a trapped and unhappy man.
And I’ll admit, in recent times, I hadn’t been taking advantage of the beach as much as I’d have liked, either. Although we lived two minutes’ walk from the ocean, we needed to work, pay bills, cook, sleep…
The rest of Monday and Tuesday disappeared under the weight of seeing clients back to back at the clinic. But whenever I’d take a break, Deirdre pounced.
‘You’re looking amazing,’ she said for the third time on Tuesday afternoon. ‘I knew all you needed was some fresh air, decent food and exercise. You’re practically glowing, and after only a week.’
I blushed.
‘See,’ she beamed. ‘I knew you’d eventually get your mojo back.’
‘I’m really sorry about what happened with Belinda. It was unprofessional—’
Deirdre waved her hands in the air. ‘Belinda’s fine. I gave her a complimentary extra-long consultation and plied her with lots of love drugs.’
‘As if she needs them.’
Deirdre shrugged. ‘So how’s everything with Liam? You two sorting yourselves out?’
I gave a non-committal ‘Trying’ and got back to work.
Still, I was distracted. I’d be halfway through my spiel about the uniqueness of each individual and how there was no standard treatment for any condition when I’d snap to and realise I’d been monologuing for five minutes. I wasn’t in the moment, especially during the times I caught myself on autopilot saying, ‘I’ll be working with you to make you as healthy as possible.’
It was a busy and long two days.
I hadn’t heard from Liam. He was giving me the silent treatment and the girls seemed to be avoiding talking to me as well. Every so often my mind would wander back to Blake, to the time we’d spent together at Utopia when the real world didn’t matter and I’d felt ridiculously optimistic and excited. But that was then. This was now. It was vital I stay calm and level-headed, to recognise the interlude for what it had been—an amusing diversion. But that didn’t stop me beating myself up, going over and over our conversations, our love-making, and asking myself when, if ever, I would see him again. His texts had been more than adamant that he wanted to see me again, but so far I had resisted replying. He’d sent a further two, asking if he’d
done something wrong. He hadn’t, but I was confused, nervous and way out of my comfort zone.
On Wednesday evening, I was in the kitchen serving Liv and Evie dinner, lost in my thoughts, daydreaming as I had been most of the time since I’d been home. Tonight was Zumba class and Rosie was due to pick me up any minute. I’d only been a few times. Bloody torture, but Rosie insisted, saying something about a ‘forced opportunity to keep fit’. True. I did need to keep in shape.
‘Mum?’ said Evie, causing me to jump slightly. ‘I asked if I could please have another glass of water?’
She handed me her glass and I refilled it. ‘There you go, sweetheart.’
Evie, with her lithe ballerina’s body, almost doll-like in appearance, long dark hair like mine, which she maniacally straightened every morning before school, only to wear it in a high ponytail. Conscious of the food she ate, the calories, chewing meticulously, monotonously. It nagged at me, so tonight I had made vegetarian summer rolls, her favourite. Yet, I noticed she’d only consumed four small pieces.
‘Eat the rest of your dinner, please.’
She pushed away her plate. ‘I’m not hungry.’
I glanced at Liv.
‘What?’ Liv held up her empty plate. ‘I loved them.’ She jumped down from her stool, swiping up her iPad. ‘Later.’
I watched as she walked out of the kitchen. ‘Don’t stay on that thing all night. Do some homework.’
‘Yes, Friday,’ she shouted back from down the hallway.
Their world was so different to the one I grew up in. Who would have guessed fifteen years ago that our lives would change so dramatically in the future? Yes, mobile phones and the internet were around, albeit Neanderthal, but who could have predicted Facebook? Instant messaging?
I took the Glad Wrap from the cupboard and covered Evie’s leftovers. ‘I’ll save you the rest for later,’ I said, popping the plate into the fridge.
Evie’s eyes widened. ‘I told you I’m not hungry.’
‘You say that now, but in an hour you’ll be ravenous.’
‘Thank you, Mother.’
I could hear Rosie beeping her horn in my driveway.
‘Gotta go, kiddo.’
Evie glared at me. ‘I thought you hated Zumba.’
‘I don’t hate it. I just find it… difficult at times. Too much dancing and jumping around. You’d love it.’
She groaned. ‘I don’t jump around.’
‘Okay,’ I said, kissing her forehead. ‘Got it. Be good. I won’t be home late.’
Rosie was tapping on her iPhone when I climbed into her car, my expression blank, perhaps looking weary.
‘Cheer up,’ she said brightly. ‘Once we get the hang of Zumba, we can move onto salsa clubs!’
‘You’re joking, right?’
She wasn’t.
Tonight, I was determined to keep up with the moves, but they were so fast and energetic I tripped over my feet, my arms flying in all directions. Tracee, the petite, blonde instructor with abs of steel and a pierced belly button, danced out in front, screaming at us to ‘Shake it, shake it, shake it!’
I watched as the other participants, all women—mostly dressed in lurid fluoro orange and green runners—shimmied their breasts. They all looked sexy and glamorous. Even Rosie was keeping up, her red singlet and black bike shorts moving with her in harmony. She’d barely raised a sweat.
‘Concentrate!’ Rosie snapped as I twirled into her.
I had no idea what I’d been doing the last few minutes.
‘What’s with you tonight?’ she asked when we took another mini-break.
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘You’re miles away, that’s why.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her about the farmer. I was dying to, just so I could unburden myself and drop the incredible weight from my shoulders. And, if I could talk to Rosie about him, I could release the angst and uncertainty that seemed to be gathering speed in my mind.
But I couldn’t. She’d pump me for information and, by the time I realised what was going on, she’d have put in a Facebook friendship request, invited herself over to his Rose Bay pad and become besties with his wife. Why? Because Rosie is a busybody. (She prefers the term ‘curious’.)
Either that or she’d tell me to clean up my own backyard ‘before jumping into a new sandpit’. It all depended on her mood and I didn’t need the aggravation either way.
For the rest of the class, I tried to focus on Tracee’s steps, following her movements, breathing deeply, moving gracefully. It was a challenge, but soon enough the session was over and I realised I hadn’t thought about the farmer for over half an hour. It’s hard to focus on anything much when you’re doing your best to shake your booty in a coordinated rhythm.
‘Drink?’ Rosie asked.
I nodded.
‘Defeats the purpose of sweating for an hour, don’t you think?’ I said as we sipped our semillon fifteen minutes later.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘True, and I’m never going to pick up, coming here after class, all red-faced and sweaty. Maybe we should skip Zumba and head straight here on Wednesday nights, instead?’
I shook my head. ‘Not the point of the evening.’
‘Whatevs. So, how was the hippy holiday? No sugar, salt, sex, that kind of thing? Lots of exercise, yeah?’
I sipped my wine. ‘It was good. Other than the intense caffeine-and alcohol-withdrawal headaches.’
‘And the people?’
‘I didn’t mix much.’
‘I don’t know how you can go to these places by yourself and just… mingle.’ Rosie said mingle like it was a dirty word.
‘That’s the whole point, to go by yourself so you don’t have to talk to people or mingle. Though I guess you have to be civil. I did sit with people at meal times.’
She wrinkled her nose again. ‘So you did mingle? With strangers?’
‘They weren’t strangers by the end of the week. Though one guy, a big guy, long grey ponytail, wore black, did keep to himself every day, dragging around one of those overnight bags you see people take on planes. We were pretty keen to find out what was inside.’
‘And?’
‘We speculated it might be a bomb. Or porn.’
‘We?’
‘The others at Utopia.’
‘Sounds like a cult,’ said Rosie. ‘Another glass?’
‘Just one, I should be getting home.’
Rosie rolled her eyes and walked up to the bar. She was soon back with two glasses of wine and salt-and-vinegar chips. ‘Rosie, no,’ I said, pushing away the full bowl. ‘It’s bad enough we’re drinking these.’
I’d turned over a new healthy leaf since being at the spa and was determined to continue on that path and not succumb to drinking wine every night as I’d been doing pre-spa. (Salt had crept back into my diet, but I could live with that.)
‘Medicinal. What else? How’s Liam? Moving back home permanently?’
I grimaced. ‘It was a mistake having him back for the week.’
Rosie banged her glass on the table. ‘What did I tell you?’
‘You told me it was a bad idea.’
‘Bad? I told you it would be disastrous.’
‘You were right.’
‘So what’s going on?’
‘He moved back to Brad’s an hour after I got home and I’ve barely heard from him. Besides, I did a lot of thinking at the spa.’ Amongst other things.
‘And?’
‘Look, I know Liam and I haven’t been right for a while. I think it all started to go wrong after the miscarriage when I wanted counselling and he didn’t. He still won’t talk about it.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
I frowned. ‘It should’ve brought us closer together, but it didn’t. Now that his parents have died, he seems to be living a second adolescence partying with his brother. The whole grass is greener guff.’
Rosie clicked her tongue. ‘I get it. Do you think he’s seeing s
omeone else?’
‘I have no idea. I haven’t asked. The girls have speculated, but maybe he simply doesn’t want to be married to me anymore.’ I paused. ‘Although he was reluctant to go back to Brad’s a second time.’
Rosie shrugged. ‘So why did he?’
‘Because I told him to. I don’t want to be a convenience. It’s not like Liam told me he’d made a mistake and that all of a sudden he loved me again.’
‘I’m sure he does love you, though, yeah, that’s how I felt. One moment I was in love with Simon, and the next? It was kaput.’ Rosie had met Simon, her ex, when he’d rung Rosie’s Rogues asking about walking his two golden retrievers—after his first divorce. They fell in love. Got married. Fell out of love and divorced five months later. (His second, her second.) It’s been over a year now. The dogs are still around and she has visitation rights but rarely exercises them. I know she misses those mutts. I guess that’s why she adopted Sharon.
‘But we didn’t have kids together. It was straightforward,’ Rosie continued.
‘Maybe for you, but Simon’s heart was broken.’
‘From what I hear around the traps, he’s doing just fine.’ Rosie drained her glass. ‘Look, you want to know what I think?’
‘You’re going to tell me anyway.’
Rosie smiled. ‘I think Liam’s been milking this I’ve been married for a hundred years business for all it’s worth. Maybe now that he’s had a three-month leave pass he’s tired of the bachelor life. He’s spent time with his brother and found that the grass on the other side is a dirty shade of brown.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘Friday, he loves you and he adores Liv and Evie. I can’t see him staying away for good.’
‘Who knows?’ I didn’t want to say anything more to Rosie, but I was the one who’d changed. I’d seen the grass and it was bright, shiny and very, very green.
Rosie patted me on the back. ‘Come on, sweetie, you’ll be fine. You all will. Now then,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘I’m serious about the divorce-party business.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Yes! While you were in Utopia land, I attended a two-day divorce expo in Melbourne.’
