Lisa Heidke (24 page)

Day 59

S
andy calls an early morning meeting to discuss the ‘Max issue’ - i.e. the tell-all interview with
New Idea
. andy

‘I’m worried that we’re going to look like fools doing a show about Lucy when she’s so obviously unhinged.’

‘Excuse me, I’m right here,’ I say. ‘And I’m not unhinged. Don’t you think that Max is the one who’s coming across as slightly insane?’

‘Not really. Anyway, that’s not the point,’ Sandy replies.

‘That little old lady really stuck it up you.’

‘I don’t know why. All I was doing was trying to retrieve bags from a clothing bin - my own bags. Besides, she was crazy. She kept calling me Sophia.’

‘Again, not the point.’

‘Come on, Sandy, any publicity’s good publicity, hey?’ Gloria says.

‘Not if it involves our supposed
star
being portrayed all over town as a crazed alcoholic spendthrift who beats up little old ladies.’

‘I guess Sandy’s talking damage control,’ Gloria says quietly. ‘You can remain dignified, Lucy, but you need to explain your side of the story. Tell the public that your husband is a dirty stinking rotten philanderer who’s always been jealous of your success. In fact, I’ll do the interview.

You can just sign your name to it.’

‘You can’t do that,’ I tell her.

‘Watch me.’

‘No, Lucy’s right,’ says Sandy. ‘We need more than that.

We need face-to-face airtime, like an interview with
A Current Affair
.’

I shake my head. This isn’t going well.

‘You can’t hide otherwise everyone will believe Max’s story. You know how gullible the public are,’ Gloria starts.

‘Exactly! We have to come up with a solution or we’re pulling the plug on this program,’ Sandy chips in.

So the three of us sit on the new stairs, drinking coffee and putting our heads together to work out a plan that will see Max humiliated and run out of town. At least, that’s my intention. No doubt Gloria would like to see Max dead, while Sandy just wants a successful, high-rating new television program on her résumé.

‘There’s really only one option,’ says Gloria. ‘You have to do an interview with
Today Tonight
.’

‘No,’ says Sandy. ‘It has to be
A Current Affair
.’

‘Fine,’ Gloria agrees.

‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘What do I tell them?’

‘The truth. That Max left you. That you never had a breakdown, and you threw him out of the house because he ran off with your babysitter. The welfare of your children comes first.’

‘Which is exactly why I haven’t done an interview in the first place.’

‘Too bad. You have to,’ Sandy says.

‘The public will be on your side, Luce,’ Gloria assures me.

‘They’d better be,’ says Sandy.

‘I’m onto it.’ Gloria picks up her mobile and punches in some numbers.

Max turns up while I’m raking leaves in the garden. ‘There you are,’ he says. ‘I brought you some more roses.’

I glance at him briefly and continue raking.

‘I’m sorry about the article, Luce. I only did it to get your attention. I didn’t think that Tina bitch would print everything I said. I was only venting, I didn’t mean it. I just want you back in my life. I want us to be together again.’

‘Fuck off, Max.’

‘What? I’ve brought you flowers!’

‘Just get out. Take your flowers with you.’

‘Luce, can’t you see I’m begging for forgiveness here?’

‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it.’

‘Please. I’ve felt so neglected these past couple of years, what with your career taking off again. I was always last on your list of priorities. There were the kids, then your career and then me - in that order. When the renovation started, I slipped further down the ladder. I’ve been so lonely. I’m lonely now.’

Max is fucking lonely. He’s gone a couple of nights without sex and he’s horny.

‘Go back to Alana,’ I tell him. ‘She’s desperate for you. So’s her mother. I don’t want you.’

‘I just wanted you to notice me again. I’m a man, Luce, I have needs.’

Please! Is there a violin in the house? The old ‘I only had an affair so you’d notice me’ line is so pathetic. I’m not bitter anymore, but I still think Lorena Bobbitt was onto something.

‘I have noticed you, Max. In fact, I’ve heard you loud and clear. You have needs. I get that. And I think Alana is just the woman to fulfil them. End of story.’

‘So that’s it, is it? You’re going to discard me like that?’ Max snaps his fingers.

‘It’s been a long time coming.’

Rock, Patch, Sandy and Gloria appear in the garden. They see me and start walking over.

‘You wait,’ Max starts, his tone furious.

‘Keep your voice down,’ I whisper. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’

But Max ignores me. ‘Hey, you,’ he says, pointing to Rock. ‘Did you sleep with my wife?’

‘I’m not your wife anymore,’ I hiss. To my horror, I see Digger behind Sandy, his camera taking in everything.

‘How did you find out?’ Rock asks Max.

Thanks, Rock. Thanks a lot.

‘I thought it was a joke when Tina put that stupid red square in the magazine,’ Max says. ‘I know you snogged the guy, but I didn’t think . . . Then again, there has to be a reason you don’t want me back. Now I know. You’re fucking the hired help.’

Everyone stares at Max, then at Rock and lastly at me. I glance at Patch. I can’t read him at all. Briefly, we make eye contact, then he turns and walks back towards the house.

‘Rock is not the hired help,’ I tell Max.

Rock speaks at the same time. ‘I’m paid to host this gig but there’s no way I’m like a maid or anything.’

‘Max, what I do with my life and who I do it with is none of your business,’ I go on. My tone serves as a warning, I hope.

Sandy rubs her hands together and whispers to Digger, ‘This is going to make excellent television.’

I’m just about to tell Digger to stop filming when a gust of wind creates a dust storm and all of us get covered in a blanket of fine powder.

‘Can I have some water here?’ Rock yelps. ‘I’m covered in dirt. I’m choking!’

‘Just go,’ I tell Max and throw the rake towards him. Unfortunately, the camera captures every word and every action.

‘I’ll be back,’ Max says as he limps off as though injured.

‘You can bet on it.’

‘Lucy, it’s not good,’ Gloria says, after Max has driven off, tyres screeching.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘No, really.
Today Tonight
has nabbed Trish and Alana. They’re taping now - they’ll be on the show tonight.’

When the kids get home from school, Sam tells me he has two invitations to parties and Bella has three.

‘Also,’ says Sam, waving a certificate in the air and dancing around, ‘I got an award at assembly.’ He hands it to me and I read it:
To Sam, an achievement award for your interest in carnivorous plants
. ‘Sam, I’m so proud,’ I tell him.

‘And, I gave a talk in front of the whole class and Mrs Taylor said it was excellent.’

‘Great.’ A definite improvement on the divorce talk. ‘Maybe when you’re older, you might want to work with plants, even train to become a botanist,’ I say, concentrating on the positives in life.

‘Nah. I want to be an assassin.’

‘An assassin? What exactly does an assassin do?’

‘Kills people for money
and
gets to travel all over the world to really cool places like Egypt.’

How does he know all this stuff? ‘How would you kill people, Sam?’

‘Shoot them . . . maybe torture them a bit first.’

‘Wouldn’t you feel bad killing people?’

‘Nah, they’re baddies, otherwise there wouldn’t be a contract out on them in the first place.’

That’s logical. Maybe I could put a contract out on Max.

As the minutes tick slowly towards six-thirty pm, the kids play on their Nintendo DS’s upstairs while Gloria and I drink gin and tonics, very strong ones, and make grotesque faces at each other in a futile attempt to cheer ourselves up.

‘It mightn’t be so bad,’ I say. ‘It just depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On how many Prozacs Trish’s taken and how much vodka she’s drunk.’

‘That’s your trump card. You can tell them she’s an addict.’

‘Yeah, accusing the Christian of being a drug addict and an alcoholic? I’ll be run out of town.’

Fifteen minutes later, tumblers refilled, we turn up the volume on the TV and watch.

‘And finally, the story you have all been waiting for,’ says the presenter. ‘Welcome to the studio, Trish, Alana.’

Trish doesn’t have much style, she always gets her clothes wrong. Thankfully, tonight is no exception. She’s wearing head-to-toe suede - a burnt-orange jacket and matching pants - and her hair’s slicked back in a severe bun.

‘No wonder she’s on the verge of tears,’ quips Gloria.

Alana sits beside her mother, gripping her hand tightly. She’s wearing a flowing white lace dress and has a white Alice band framing her pretty face and hair. She looks young. And virginal.

‘Fuck!’ I scream at the monitor.

‘In your own words, Trish, take your time.’ The presenter speaks softly, almost whispering. I gulp my drink.

Trish squeezes Alana’s hand and says, ‘We . . . we welcomed Lucy Springer and her family into our home and hearts, out of pure, innocent kindness. My Alana babysat regularly for them. My son, Josh, and Lucy’s son are - were - friends.’ Trish wipes her eyes and the presenter raises a concerned eyebrow. ‘Several months ago, Alana and Max started seeing each other,’ Trish goes on.

‘Maxie said that Lucy didn’t care about the family anymore,’ Alana blurts. ‘She was preoccupied with chasing stardom -’

‘Not true!’ I yell at the screen.

‘- and always so busy with vegetable commercials and auditions,’ continues Alana.

‘She didn’t know what was going on in her own home,’ Trish chips in helpfully. ‘I was forever offering Sam homemade carrot cake and freshly squeezed juices . . . I don’t think he was getting many nutritious meals at home.’

‘Fuck! What the hell’s she saying?’ I scream at the TV. ‘That only she shops at the organic health-food store, has a close-knit family and enjoys baking gluten-free almond biscuits daily in a kitchen that’s stocked with eco-friendly whale-saving cleaning products! What? And I don’t? Fuck!’

Gloria pats my arm.

‘And poor Max was so lonely,’ Alana says. ‘Lucy was always off doing something, never looking after him, always making unreasonable demands about the renovation and the children, wanting him to be more involved. I mean, he helps out with Sam’s sport, his soccer on Saturdays -’

‘Yeah,’ I laugh. ‘When he’s not in Bali fucking you.’

‘Shush, I can’t hear,’ Gloria says, waving a hand at me.

‘Max is a very busy man,’ Alana continues. ‘He works in the city, you know. We fell in love quickly. For me, it was love at second sight. Max called me his soul mate. We were going to be together forever. But then Bali happened -’ At this point Alana and her mother both burst into tears.

‘I know it’s painful for you,’ says the presenter. ‘Do you need a drink of water?’

Gloria snorts. ‘Ha! Vodka more like it.’

‘I’m okay,’ Alana says. ‘After seeing the destruction on that beautiful island -’ she gulps, ‘- Max made the heartbreaking decision to do the honourable thing and come home to his wife for the sake of the kids.’

I can almost see Alana’s halo shining.

‘He didn’t want to, mind you,’ says Trish, ‘because he loves my Alana, dearly loves her, but Max is a man of honour.’

‘This is crap!’ I screech. ‘It’s all garbage.’

‘These people are whack jobs,’ says Gloria. ‘Nuts.’

When I can hardly bear any more, Alana finishes with: ‘I really hope Max and I get back together after his children have grown up. In the meantime, I’m going back to university to study social work to help those less fortunate than me because I’m really good at that.’

I switch the TV off. ‘Well, that was enlightening.’

‘We’ll need to go into serious damage control after that little performance. Because it looks like Trish
is
going to be the ruin of us all.’ Gloria’s rattled . . . and she never gets rattled.

‘Don’t answer it,’ she barks when the phone starts ringing.

I have absolutely no intention of answering it.

After Gloria’s left and the kids have gone to bed, I check the answering machine. Most are hang-ups but there’s one from Mum (of course), sobbing. ‘My heart, Lucy, my heart. I can’t take anymore.’

Even though it keeps ringing all through the night.

Eventually, I unplug it.

Day 60

T
his morning, the last of the kitchen is installed, the power’s connected to the oven, and the black granite benchtops are secured. They complement the walnut parquetry perfectly. While I would have preferred Carrara marble, let’s not quibble. My new kitchen is stunning and I’m thrilled. I say so to Rock when he interviews me on camera.

‘It’s a dream come true,’ I gush, focusing on the task at hand, refusing to mope over last night’s interview.

‘Tonight the kids and I will be having a lamb roast, that’s for sure.’

‘Why is that?’ Rock asks blandly.

‘Because tonight I will cook on my new stovetop, bake in my new oven. I also have a new stainless-steel fridge. Look.’

Rock barely glances at the appliances.

‘Do you know how long I’ve been without a kitchen?’

I go on. ‘Ten weeks; that’s seventy days and nights. But it’s all over now. I’m the happiest woman in the world.’

Beside us, the twins are sweeping the new parquetry floor. I can’t see any rising dust but Rock starts to shake.

‘Sorry -’

‘About -’

‘That -’

‘Mate -’ the twins say as they sweep past Rock, myself, Digger and Patch.

‘Don’t you just love them?’ I say, and smile at them.

‘You’re both hilarious.’

‘Too -’

‘Right.’

‘Bummer about
Today Tonight
,’ says Patch. ‘Can’t believe people buy into that shit. Doesn’t anyone think the little tart had it coming?’

I give him the thumbs up. ‘I like your take on the situation.’

‘She’s nineteen,’ he goes on. ‘You can’t tell me she didn’t know what she was getting into with the old bugger.’

‘Too right,’ says Twin One.

‘Yeah,’ says Twin Two.

‘Still, I’d do her,’ says Joel as he walks by.

A burly overweight guy with a shabby beard interrupts. ‘You Lucy Springer?’

I nod.

‘Got a delivery for you.’

‘Just pop it over there,’ I say, pointing to the kitchen bench. It’s about bloody time the knobs for the cupboards turned up. I ordered them several weeks ago. Finally, my nagging and name-calling has paid off.

The delivery guy looks at me strangely. Obviously he watches bad TV and reads the weekly trash magazines.

‘It’s a bit large to go there, love.’

‘Why? What is it?’

‘Dining table, eight chairs.’

‘But I haven’t ordered -’

‘Says here it’s from a Dominic Delahunty. You know ’im?’

I nod again, bewildered. ‘I guess here then, in front of the kitchen.’

‘I’ll round up the boys,’ he says.

Several minutes later, a beautiful recycled hardwood timber dining table and eight hand-carved hardwood chairs are sitting in the room in front of my kitchen, which will henceforth be known as the dining room. How posh!

‘Dominic, they’re truly gorgeous,’ I tell him on the phone later. ‘But I can’t accept them. They must have cost you a fortune. They’re beautiful, original, unique.’

‘I’m glad you like them.’

‘Like them? I love them. They’re exquisite.’

‘Well, you said you didn’t have a dining suite. I saw that piece of wood and thought it’d be perfect. It reminded me of you.’

‘Really? Which part? Recycled? Aged? Hardwood?’

‘I was thinking more about its natural character and charm. So, you like?’

‘I love.’

‘Then it’s my gift to you.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Thank you would be a good start.’

‘Of course, Dom. Thank you. It’s the most beautiful piece of furniture -’

‘Then it deserves to belong to you.’

‘Don’t . . . I insist on paying for it. At least for the divine chairs, something.’

‘I vill not accept zee payment.’

‘Are you doing a really bad German accent?’

‘I guess . . . just trying to lighten the mood. Terrible?’

‘Dreadful.’

‘Just for that, I insist you do pay.’

‘Good, I’ll write you a cheque.’

‘I don’t want your money. I want you and your children to hop in your car - you still have a car, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course, a little beaten up but it works.’

‘Okay then. Get in your car and drive down to the country for a couple of days as my guests, this weekend.’

‘This weekend! I couldn’t possibly -’

‘You need some time out from all the shitty people crawling out of the woodwork giving shitty interviews and saying shitty untruths about you.’

‘So you saw the interview?’

‘Afraid so. In fact, I’d like your permission to join the parade, go on TV and tell even more outrageous tales about you - like how you used to hide spliffs under your bed, and prance around nude doing unspeakable tricks with ping-pong balls and bananas at all hours of the day and night. Come on, Luce. Throw a few clothes in a bag and come down.’

‘I’ll have to think about it.’

‘Seriously? What’s to think about? And bring that old duck with you.’

‘Gloria?’

‘That’s the one.’

As I’m making fried rice for dinner (I’ve given up on the idea of a roast), I become increasingly panicked. What’s it going to be like meeting up with a man I haven’t seen for thirteen years? Sure, I’ve spoken to him and he sounds like the same old Dom, but thirteen years can change a person. Look at me. Two kids, a failed marriage, a lame career, not to mention a few extra kilos and laugh lines.

When I knew Dom, we were both young and vibrant, had the world at our feet, and Sheryl Crow’s ‘All I Wanna Do’ was the number one song. We spent many a night propped up against a bar, singing along and dreaming that one day we’d go to Santa Monica Boulevard. Since then, Sheryl’s won several Grammy Awards, dated Owen Wilson, got her hair cut, acted in movies, been engaged to Lance Armstrong, beat breast cancer, adopted a child, Wyatt, and is currently one of Revlon’s famous faces. She’s also grown her hair again.

What I’m saying is, a lot’s happened since the last time I saw Dom. Times have changed. I should be moving forward with my life, not trying to recapture the past.

Will I even recognise him when I see him? And what on earth will we have to talk about? We’ve missed out on so many significant events in each other’s lives. How can we possibly build a bridge across such a huge gap?

When I dump all this on Gloria after dinner, she simply says, ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, hey? He’s invited you down for the weekend, not to spend the rest of your lives together. It’s only one night.’

‘That’s what scares me.’

‘You’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t tag along.’

‘Yes, you bloody well should. I’m not going by myself.’

‘You have Bella and Sam to keep you company.’

‘I need you there as well. Anyway, you’re his friend, the one who’s been talking to him. I wonder . . .’ I stop.

‘What? How long he’s been divorced? Whether he has children?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Then why didn’t you bloody well ask him?’

‘Because he didn’t offer and I didn’t want to pry.’

‘You’re an idiot. I liked you better as a redhead.’

‘Yeah, I’m over this stripy hair business as well.’

‘Hey, I’ve got some news that’ll cheer you up,’ Gloria says, changing the subject. ‘You know how Gracie Gardener’s being sued by Edwin for supergluing his dick to his belly?’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, now Gracie’s being investigated for tax fraud. Apparently she’s been charged with fifteen offences against the Commonwealth for continuing to claim disability support pension payments while working as an actor between 2005 and 2007.’

‘She’s not disabled.’

‘She fell off a horse while filming a remake of
The Man from Snowy River
in 2004 and got an actor’s disability pension that was only payable while she wasn’t working.’

‘So now Edwin’s blown the whistle?’

‘Sure has.’

I get to thinking my life’s not so bad. I’m not under threat of being sent to jail. I’ve never been caught not wearing underwear in public; I’ve never even been slightly tempted to get a tattoo after a couple of drinks - and my house is almost completed. I guess I have a lot in my life to be happy about.