by Lisa Heidke
His first test? The five-year contract.
The second? ‘Friday, let’s not have “till death do us part” included in our vows.’
She’d baulked at the five-year deal. ‘No way,’ she’d said playfully. ‘I’m a keeper.’ She really should have dumped him. But she’d agreed to not having the death do us part clause.
Friday had humoured him, gone along with it. Then when kids came into the conversation, they’d laughingly remembered the plan and agreed to extend it. He adored his girls, loved Olivia and Evie to bits. If he permanently left Newport, he’d miss them. Miss their happy pixie faces at night, miss catching up on the excitement of their day-to-day activities. Yeah, these past few months he’d been cut about not sharing the minutiae of his kids’ lives. The week back at Newport had made him realise how much he’d been missing out on.
Having said that, dynamics in the household had changed. The girls weren’t as available anymore. And sometimes they could be damn hard work. Demanding. Impatient. They had their own busy lives, their own social networks. They were out all the time, and when they were at home, they had their noses stuck in their computers or phones—Facebook, Instagram, or snap-chatting and texting friends.
Regardless, Liam liked being around them even when they grumbled about there being no food at Brad’s and having to share a pull-out bed in the lounge. It made him feel… well… it made him feel like he was their dad. Important and grand. You’d think having teenagers would have made him feel old, but it didn’t. When Liam was with Evie and Olivia, he felt young… young at heart, anyway.
He thought about his baby boy. Had he been born, he’d be two and a half by now, a toddler, kicking a footy, playing in the park and learning to swim. Liam hadn’t realised how much he’d wanted a son until the chance had been ripped from him. His head felt heavy. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Four hours later, awake and showered, Liam grabbed his wallet and iPad and walked to the nearest cafe.
Sipping a double-shot latte, Liam turned on his iPad and googled the comedy course he’d been reading about weeks earlier. He scrolled through the blurb again: ‘a workshop designed to inspire, motivate and challenge… Create funny new material; learn how to turn your funny stories into stand-up comedy material; and learn advanced comedy-writing techniques.’ Perfect. Liam would be writing his own jokes, creating routines, mastering performance techniques and ‘getting past your stage fear’.
He remembered the humiliating night at the Harold Park Hotel. Liam had practised until he’d had his five-minute routine just right. But he hadn’t counted on hecklers. So many hecklers.
He’d frozen. The bright stage lights were hot and blinding. Sweating, he struggled desperately to remember his lines.
And then the jeering stopped. Silence. It was so quiet, Liam could hear people raising their glasses and drinking. He got so distracted, he forgot his routine. Couldn’t speak. The slow clapping started up and then the booing.
Afterwards, he kept going over the night. If I hadn’t said that, then they wouldn’t have responded that way and the routine wouldn’t have sucked. What routine? He’d barely made it past a minute.
He’d been so young and naive. But he needed to give himself another chance at comedy. Over the years, he’d watched how novices put their material together and proceeded to either fail or triumph. Delivery was key. You could have the most hilarious words memorised or written on palm cards, but the delivery was what mattered. Liam would be happy just not getting booed off stage. In many ways it was similar to the shtick Buff and Birdie performed every day. Most times it worked but when their jokes and skits bombed, they really bombed. On the up side, they then had each other and the rest of the team to commiserate with or blame. Stand-up was you alone facing the crowd. No one could take the fall for you when you sucked. It was your gig.
Liam took out his credit card and filled in the online form. Time to put his money where his mouth was.
8
On Thursday morning I had an appointment with Maria, a potential new client that my fledgling business needed. How did I bag Maria? Well, aside from me breaking out as a certified sex addict at the health spa, something else happened that had nothing to do with Blake. I found myself a couple of new clients, proper paying clients who I could see in my own time. One of those was Maria.
I’d talked about starting my own sideline naturopathy business for a while, but it hadn’t taken off as yet. The business was little more than a hobby. Several times in the past two years I’d tried to kick-start it, but recently, I had little enthusiasm and was doubting my professional ability to go it alone. Apart from the two days a week at the clinic, all I’d done to promote myself was auction my services at school trivia nights in the hope of building up clientele. I’d get bids of fifty dollars in return for two hours’ consulting time. No wonder Liam was so down on it.
Then I met Maria… It was the red lipstick that struck me when I first noticed her at seven o’clock one morning. A blood-red lipstick that I’d spotted from across the courtyard. The odd thing was that it looked completely normal on her. How could her red-stained lips look so natural? I’d felt slightly intimidated when I met her ten minutes later.
Looks-wise, Maria was a Maggie Tabberer clone. Add to that the deep wrinkled tan and head-to-toe crisp white linen, and she was the Gold Coast personified. Eight-inch-high gold sandals, oodles of gold jewellery… In fact, she was almost the exact opposite of me, with my minimalist approach to accessories and jewellery. In addition to her lips, which, the more I examined them, the more fixated on them I became, she was immaculately made up with perfectly coiffed hair… We were at a health retreat. I’d brought a neutral lip gloss and concealer… more’s the pity (clearly, I wasn’t planning on being swept off my feet).
After talking a few times, it became obvious she’d taken a shine to me—I guess because I was feeling sexy and confident and had a glassy, glazed, crazed-eye look that could have been mistaken for shining and bright. Either way, my happy vibes were going gangbusters because one night at dinner when Maria discovered I was a naturopath, she announced that I simply had to ‘do her over!’ Then several other female inmates seated at our table murmured their agreement. I ended up handing out several cards and making tentative appointments for the following weeks.
Still, I didn’t realise she knew Blake until a couple of conversations later when she was talking about ‘the ridiculous extension my husband insisted be built for house guests’, and how she needed extra vitamins to ‘keep up with the ever-increasing hordes of tradies traipsing randomly through my home’.
She’d patted my arm. ‘Ronald doesn’t like having strangers in the main house, says it makes him feel uncomfortable.’ Then she’d shot a look at Blake. ‘Doesn’t he, darling?’
The farmer’s eyes had flicked to her. ‘Yes, Maria.’
‘You two know each other?’ I’d asked nonchalantly.
‘The Eastern Suburbs is a small pond,’ said Blake. ‘My wife and Maria are mates.’
Really? I wanted to quiz Maria. Get her to talk. I doubted it would be much of a challenge.
‘Friday,’ Maria had continued, ‘it took forever to get the application through. You know what Woollahra Council is like.’
I didn’t but sighed sympathetically.
‘And then the actual construction! Ah! I’m so over it.’ She’d taken a breath. ‘So right now I need to pep up my personality. Give it some va-va-va-voom.’
I’d nodded, hoping she didn’t think I dabbled in illicit drugs because a surprising number of people initially did think that when I told them my profession. Inevitably, they ended up disappointed.
‘We can have one of those parties, darling,’ she’d continued. ‘You know, a botox party, except there’ll be potions instead. I’ll invite my friends. There’ll be champagne, of course.’
I watched as she drank herbal tea from a white porcelain cup. No lipstick came off. Not a smear, not a smudge… her lips were still v
ibrantly red. Maria was one of a kind.
It was a no-brainer. Having Maria as a client would help me break into the Eastern Suburbs clique, but the last thing I wanted to do this morning was discuss mood enhancers. Maybe that’s why my business hadn’t flourished. I didn’t have the commitment of the follow-through. It was easier working for someone else.
But I was just feeling flat. I’d studied, read about and seen for myself the results these remedies could have. People who’d been depressed for years and finding their spunk again after a three-month course of supplements? It happened. But there was no magic bullet. You had to work at it. I had to work at it. Constantly.
I checked my phone. Another text from the farmer. Need to see you. Can’t get you out of my mind, you sexy miss. Everything okay on the home front?
I wanted to text that I missed him, too. I missed his smell, his smile, his sex. I missed everything about Blake. But he was a married man. I didn’t want to be responsible for someone’s breakup. And I didn’t want to have an affair with a married man. Why couldn’t the farmer be separated like me? Because in my mind, I was truly separated now. I was. I just had to come to terms with it and accept it.
Resisting texting him, I put down my phone, reminded that he knew Maria. I needed to be careful about what I said around her.
An hour later after I’d dropped both girls at school, I double-checked Maria’s address and headed over. We had a ten-thirty appointment, but given the unpredictability of Sydney traffic, I allowed extra time. Leaving home just after nine, I arrived at Maria’s just after ten, then sat in my car for half an hour pretending to read the morning paper. What I was actually doing, when I wasn’t staring into space or thinking about the farmer, was checking out the neighbourhood… all mansions by the looks of things, with established, well-maintained and vibrant green gardens. Maria’s home was no exception.
The huge wrought-iron and gold automatic gates had the initials M and R woven into them, and when I walked up Maria’s driveway, I passed a huge elaborate fountain with bubbling water spurting forth from Cupid’s well-endowed penis. Nice!
I wasn’t surprised when Maria answered her door. She looked much the same as she had at the spa—still with the white linen, a pantsuit this time, perfect hair in what could definitely be described as a not-so-subtle beehive. Blood-red lips matched her manicured fingernails and pedicured toes. Again with oodles of gold jewellery and gold sandals. She looked a little ridiculous, but when I clocked the interior of her home, it made sense. Home? It was more like a castle. The entrance opened into a shining white-and-gold interior, where pristine white marble floors were just the beginning.
Everywhere I turned, there was gold, gold and more gold and I hadn’t even stepped through the entrance foyer, or as Maria quickly pointed out, ‘The receiving lounge, darling.’
Maria was chattering madly but I wasn’t listening. My thoughts were scattered. One moment back at the health spa, the next at Newport. I felt anxious, maybe because of the Blake and Maria connection? I wasn’t sure. But when I felt my legs wobble, I knew I had to regain control. I wasn’t being professional.
I asked to use the bathroom.
‘Powder room, darling. Just down the hall on your right.’
As I shuffled down a short passage, I passed a portrait of Maria with Bill Clinton. Really? Inside the bathroom, I almost died. Gold-leaf motif taps?
A good five minutes later, having composed myself sufficiently, I walked back into the hall and Maria proceeded to give me the grand tour.
I followed as she led me past eight bedrooms, nine bathrooms, sitting rooms with zebra print rugs, and a massive over-the-top ballroom. There continued to be gold everywhere. Donald Trump’s Towers had nothing on Maria’s home. Pretentious? Ostentatious? Please! These words did not do the place justice. Kardashian meets Imelda Marcos… gold balustrades, gold lamp stands… gold, gold, gold. Between me and myself, it was hideous. The home—mausoleum—reeked of money but little class. Then again, I leant towards shabby chic. I was way out of my comfort zone.
As we walked, I was amused by all the life-sized photos hanging on the walls in gilt-edged frames… Maria with, speak of the devil, Donald Trump. Maria with Madonna, Kylie Minogue. Maria’s husband (Ronald, short, balding, rotund; Danny DeVito’s clone) with Hugh Jackman. It was impossible to tell if these were real people or Madame Tussauds’ wax dummies.
‘Children?’ I asked.
‘No dear, we weren’t blessed.’
‘Pets?’
‘Heavens no.’
‘So just you and your husband live here?’
‘Along with Maria, of course.’
I raised my eyebrows. I hadn’t seen anyone else so far.
‘Maria, well M2 as we call her, is our housekeeper and she’s no doubt sleeping in one of the guest rooms upstairs.’ Maria snorted. ‘Then there’s Elvis, the gardener, and Louis, our handyman.’ She theatrically waved her arms in the air. ‘They’re floating around somewhere. You’ll meet them soon enough. Oh, Friday! I have a good feeling about you. We’re going to be firm friends.’
We stopped at the entrance to the dining area, which was Versace gone mad—a huge wooden table and twelve gold-and-black Versace chairs, golden ceiling. I’d never seen anything like it.
‘I love colour. Don’t you?’ Maria purred.
I could feel my eyebrows rising. ‘Sure.’
‘I love feeling the summer sun beating down on me when I walk into a room.’
With the abundance of gold shining around her, how could she feel anything less?
‘I know it’s Vegas-glitz,’ Maria continued. ‘But good or bad, I want people to notice me and my home.’
It was a given people would notice Maria and her home, unless they were blind. I couldn’t help but like her. She was so honest in a totally delusional way. If ever there was a Real Housewives of Sydney, she’d make an ideal candidate.
‘My philosophy has been to build a room around a perfect piece. Here, it’s the dining suite. In the main lounge, it’s my golden harp.’
‘Do you play?’
‘No, but I have people who do. What are your thoughts, Friday?’
I had no idea. I wasn’t sure what to say or where to look, so I took the obvious route. ‘Beautiful. Your home sings.’
‘Sings? I like that.’
She led me into the back garden where I fully expected to see a moat and draw bridge or something equally flamboyant. But it was her enormous guest house and pool pavilion, so big at first I assumed it was the neighbour’s property. The pool pavilion alone would engulf my house.
Tour over, we sat in the sunshine and moments later on a vast sandstone deck overlooking the pool, where M2 was busily serving a delicious prawn salad with sourdough and mineral water with lime wedges.
‘So have you filled out the forms I emailed you?’ I asked.
Maria reached over to the side of the table to retrieve her reading glasses and a wad of paper. ‘There certainly were a lot of them, weren’t there?’
She handed them to me and I glanced through them. ‘Anxiety and sleep issues seem to be your main worries?’
She groaned. ‘If Ronald didn’t snore, I wouldn’t have problems sleeping.’
‘I can work on that. We’ll get you sorted, Maria. But maybe it’d be easier if you found a naturopath in your area. I wouldn’t be offended.’
‘Heavens no,’ she replied. ‘I’m not telling a complete stranger my woes.’
‘Okay, well let’s get started.’
Maria opened her mouth as if to speak but instead picked up her champagne flute of water and drank. She placed it back on the table. ‘I thought we had.’
I smiled. Even though my life was chaotic, I was good at my job. All I needed was to focus. ‘Just a few more questions, this time about your mood and stress.’
Maria’s mouth twitched. ‘Don’t let Ronald catch us talking about my moods. He’ll never leave.’
‘We’ll talk in code if he makes an
appearance. Answer never, sometimes, often or always. Ready?’
Maria threw me two thumbs up.
‘Do your muscles feel weak at times?’
Maria thought for a moment. ‘Yes, after exercise and when Ronald’s been exercising me.’
‘So that’s a sometimes?’
‘No. Often, darling.’
‘Does your heartbeat feel irregular, where you’re conscious of it beating? Like palpitations?’
Maria smiled. ‘As above.’
‘Okay. Often.’ This was hard work. ‘Are you forgetful or do you have a poor memory?’
Maria stared at me for a moment. ‘What was the question?’ Then she laughed. ‘Just kidding.’
I had twenty more questions. I was in for a marathon session.
Sixty minutes later, I was saying goodbye. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Soon, I hope,’ said Maria, seemingly thrilled at the prospect of taking several supplements and mixtures a day.
Driving back over the bridge, I felt excited. I couldn’t wait to tell Liam about Maria and especially about the portraits and the golden ceiling. He’d think it was hilarious. If he was ever to write a five-minute stand-up routine, this would be it, no doubt. So much material. And then it hit me. We weren’t together any longer. What the hell were we both thinking? Ripping apart our family like this. Why? We’d had so many good times, so many shared experiences, the majority of them happy, at least until the last few years. Since…
Suddenly, my hands felt clammy and I struggled for breath. For the rest of the drive home I tried to focus on the road and cars in front of me and empty my mind of everything else. Except that the farmer wouldn’t vacate.
Realistically, I couldn’t see him again. His texts had been tantalising but, so far, I had resisted responding, even though that wasn’t fair to him. I wanted to tell him that what we’d shared at Utopia had been madness. Wild and passionate, but madness. I wanted to slap myself. What I’d felt up there, that out-of-control lust, was a totally new sensation. New and scary. I couldn’t control how I was feeling or what I was doing when I was with him.
