Lisa Heidke (4 page)

Day 11

‘
G
reat news!’ squeals Gloria down the phone the next morning. ‘I got you an audition - a commercial, but it’s national.’

‘Hit me.’

‘International brand, well known, consumer friendly -’

‘You’re stalling.’

‘Well, it’s for incontinence -’

‘No way,’ I shriek at her. ‘No fucking way. How old do you think I am?’

‘Joking, Luce, joking. It’s a revolutionary new device for dogs. The manufacturer is looking for a public face. You know, to front the whole campaign, print, media . . .’

‘National coverage?’

‘Of course. They’ll also want you to appear on all the morning infotainment programs.’

‘I guess if Paula Duncan can spruik kitchen cleaners and insurance policies on the morning shows, I can spruik revolutionary dog devices,’ I say.

‘And they’re paying big bucks,’ says Gloria.

‘Sold!’

‘There’s one tiny thing I should mention. It’s called porta-puppy-potty . . . ah . . . and you may have dogs slobbering over you when you demonstrate the device. Whichmeansscoopingdogshit.’

‘What? Shit.’

‘Exactly. But it’s national and it’ll be fun.’

Joel starts up a chainsaw and drowns out the rest of our conversation. He’s got his safety glasses glued to his face, as usual, but is working without the guard on the chainsaw ‘so the boys can get a better view, mon’. I wonder if home insurance covers workmen who are obsessed with lecturing others about safety in the workplace but don’t bother following the rules themselves?

I stomp up to my bedroom, take to my bed and drink three-quarters of a bottle of 1991 Hill of Grace. I’ll start on the TLC thing tomorrow.

Some time later I glance at the bedside clock. It’s three-thirty. Any minute now the kids will be arriving home. I go to get up but must drift back to sleep because the next thing I know it’s five o’clock and Mum’s in my bedroom. Bella, the brat, must have called her. Again.

‘I can’t believe you’re lying around the house all day and not taking your responsibilities as a mother seriously,’ Mum huffs.

‘Go and disinfect some walls,’ I yell.

She suggests I need to talk to someone - ‘a professional’.

‘Been there, done that,’ I shout back.

Day 12

D
riving Bella and Sam to school this morning - lack of clean clothes causes them to miss the bus - I politely request that Bella stop phoning her grandmother every two seconds of the day.

‘It’s really quite annoying.’

‘Mum, you’re so weird. Nanna and I agree it’s best if I call her every day just now.’

They agree it’s for the best! Since when did my daughter suddenly age thirty years?

‘Bella, Nanna is
not
your mother. I am. I decide what’s best for this family,’ I say, glancing in the rear-vision mirror just as Bella does her famous skyward eye-roll.

‘Don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady,’ I snap.

We drive in silence the rest of the way to school.

‘I’ll walk you both in this morning,’ I say, to more eye-rolling.

Bella and Sam walk as slowly as possible behind me, then grudgingly say goodbye at the school gates before disappearing into a sea of grey shirts and green hats. I’m left at the entrance listening to a conversation about the Year Three concert, which is apparently being held next Wednesday.

‘I’d forgotten all about the concert,’ I admit to Nadia when she comes up to say hello. Nadia’s son, Lachlan, is in the same soccer team as Sam, which reminds me that Max is the assistant coach. Bloody Max. How am I going to explain his absence at tomorrow’s game?

‘Yeah,’ Nadia says. ‘It’s hard keeping on top of everything.’

I’ve always liked Nadia. She’s strong and funny, not to mention a stunning advertisement for the single life - expensive golden hair, youthful sun-kissed complexion, wide happy smile.

‘By the way, Max is away on business,’ I say casually, ‘so he won’t be at the game tomorrow, or for the next couple of weeks probably.’

‘Oh, Lucy, please don’t worry; you’ve got enough on your plate as it is.’ Nadia’s tone suggests I’m terminally ill, or worse. What have my children been saying?

An extended group of mothers gathers and we chat a while, though I feel at sea during their talk about such pressing issues as the lack of homework given by Mrs Johnson. Eventually, everyone disperses and I begin the long trek to my car, thinking how you have to be at the school gates every morning and afternoon to avoid feeling left out of the loop. Then again, how could I have forgotten about Sam’s concert? God knows, he’s been practising to trot like a mountain goat for months.

‘Lucy?’ Nadia waves to me from her car. ‘Do you want me to pick up Sam before the game tomorrow?’

‘Thanks, but with his dad away, I should make the effort,’ I say.

Wandering out to the letterbox, I discover a postcard to Sam and Bella from Max. My heart skips a beat and my first thought is: Thank God he’s okay.

Dear Sam and Isabella, the surf ’s great in Bali. Wish you could be here with me. Will be in touch soon. Love, Dad xxx

I can’t believe it. Bali! What the fuck’s he doing in Bali?

Outraged, I search around in the letterbox, flipping bills out of the way, and then I find it. A letter for me from Max. Fuming, I decide not to open it. It’s a Dear John letter, I’m sure, and no good can come of reading it.

Back inside our half-house, I run around madly ripping sheets off beds. I can’t remember the last time I washed the bed linen. Isn’t that disgusting? I know I meant to as soon as the kids left for camp, but . . . well . . . shit happened.

At the end of three loads of washing, Max’s letter is still sitting on my dressing table unopened. What if it’s an invitation for the children and me to join him in Bali? For a brief moment, my hopes rise. It might be airline tickets. I feel the envelope. It’s too thin for three tickets to Bali.

I search for other cleaning activities I can do that will help take my mind off Max’s letter. That takes all of eighteen minutes. Despite my reluctance and fear, I can’t hold off any longer. Taking a deep breath, I run my finger along the inside top of the envelope to open it, and pull out a postcard featuring eight scantily clad Balinese dancers.

Be brave, I tell myself, and turn the card over.

Max is succinct. His whole twenty-nine words read as follows:
Dear Lucy, Sorry I left without telling you, but life is what it is. I need space and time to think. We’ll talk soon.Take care. Love always, Max.

He needs space? Well, so do I! Max is swanning around in Bali, surfing, drinking Bintang - and I’m here in Sydney, struggling with faulty plumbing and shoddy electrics in the freezing cold. Tears trickle down my cheeks.

I think about him signing off with
love always
and feel a momentary surge of hope. I remember back to our wedding, to our vows of eternal, everlasting love. We promised each other we’d be together forever. Not to waltz off to Bali when things got tough.

Sorry
, the note begins - but Max isn’t sorry at all. If he was sorry, he would never have left me in the first place. He would have stuck it out and suffered alongside me, the way married couples are
supposed
to. You don’t see me jetting off to some exotic location just because my world has become a kitchen-less, hot-water-less misery!

And to Bali of all places! We were supposed to go there together, as a family, after the renovations were done. It’s one of the things on our To Do list, along with climbing the Eiffel Tower, trekking the ruins of Machu Picchu and filming polar bears at the North Pole.

Why couldn’t he have taken us to Bali with him?

Life is what it is
- what the bloody hell does that mean? Reading the postcard again, I can’t help but wonder if Max is in Bali with someone. Then I get angry. Very angry.

* * *

‘When’s my kitchen going to be ready?’ I say to Patch when I see him trying to avoid me. It’s a reasonable question but my delivery’s a bit off, what with my anger at Max.

‘Lucy, exactly how will your life change once you have this new kitchen?’ he says with that easy smile. ‘You told me you don’t even cook.’

‘I’m going to start cooking once I get my kitchen,’ I retort. ‘And one day I might even have a bathroom to bathe my children in, not to mention somewhere to watch television without a spin cycle in the background.’

‘You’re impossible,’ says Patch, shaking his head and laughing.

I know for a fact I’m not impossible. I’ve seen impossible; I’ve played impossible. I am definitely not impossible.

I stomp off to the bathroom, and scream as I enter to find Joel on the loo, safety glasses firmly strapped to his head. Not a pretty sight. I back out, eyes closed, and make for the safety of my bedroom. I have no idea what Joel is doing upstairs, but I do know I’ll have to thoroughly disinfect the toilet before I can place my bare bottom on its seat again.

I wallow in my bedroom, totally unproductive, until the kids come home. I decide not to show them Max’s card. I want to protect them, keep the truth from them a little bit longer. At least until I speak to Max.

‘Mum, why did God make mothers?’ Sam asks as I haul hot water to the bathroom for the umpteenth time. Obviously, he’s been to scripture class today.

‘Because they know where the clean underwear is,’ I answer.

‘Mostly, they’re supposed to cook and clean and look after us,’ says Bella. ‘
Supposed
to.’

After a family discussion re dinner, we dial in pizza. The kids drink lemonade and I down half a bottle of champagne - Bollinger, with the same DO NOT TOUCH tag as the Grange. It’s been sitting in the cellar waiting for a special occasion. Tonight is about as special as it gets, I think.

I try Max’s mobile again after dinner. Still switched off. How am I supposed to get on with my life, the children, the renovation, when I have no idea when or, even if, Max is coming home? Clearly, he’s having a massive mid-life crisis, and I can understand, to a point. But why doesn’t he call?

I have to do something to distract myself and my gaze falls on a pile of photo albums that were left in the hall when we were moving everything for the renovations. ‘Come on. Help me move these albums,’ I say to the kids.

Bella and Sam remain squashed on an uncomfortable chair watching
Big Brother
.

‘Mum,’ asks Sam, ‘why don’t you go on
Big Brother
?’

Bella laughs out loud but at least gets up. ‘Where do you want me to put these after I’ve cleaned them?’ she asks, turning her nose up at the dusty, neglected volumes.

‘Follow me,’ I say, walking upstairs with an armful of memories.

Sam follows Bella’s lead, and sits on my bed looking at a shoebox of old photos, circa 1992. ‘Who are all these people?’ he says. ‘You were so pretty, Mummy. Look at your hair.’

‘Yeah, you look pretty, Mum, and happy,’ says Bella.

They’re looking at party photos from my time at NIDA. I do look happy. And young. But my hair! A spiral perm à la Mariah Carey. I pick up a photo of Gloria and me at a toga party. God, we were fools.

‘These were taken before you were born, when I was at acting school,’ I say. Ah, for those grunge years, when we smoked endless dope, partied hard, wore black clothes, Doc Martens and heavy make-up. I hardly recognise myself - I look so thin. Not gaunt, ugly thin, just clothes-hanger thin with a perfect smile and straight white teeth. I remember religiously cleaning them with bicarbonate of soda every morning and evening. Back then, I was hungry for fame, determined to make it as an actress.

‘Who’s this?’ Bella asks, passing me a photo.

It’s Dom, Gloria and me, all three of us laughing mischievously, arm in arm at the Sandringham Hotel. I’m the redhead between the two dark heads of hair. Dom was so handsome, athletic, and those sparkling blue eyes . . .

This particular photo was taken the first night we moved into a fabulously dilapidated terrace at the seedy south end of Newtown. It wasn’t until after the pub closed, and we were standing outside our new home utterly pissed, that we realised no one had brought a front-door key. Heavy iron bars protected the downstairs windows and doors, so Gloria and I talked Dom into scaling the front verandah and breaking in through the balcony door to my upstairs bedroom. From day one, I lived there with the knowledge that if it’d been that easy for a pissed student to break in, it’d be a snap for a real-life thug. But I loved that place. It always had a faint smell of marijuana, and the fridge was usually empty except for ice, vodka, beer and cheap chardonnay.

‘My friend Dominic,’ I say. ‘Won an art scholarship and left Australia to become a wildly successful sculptor in Europe.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then I met your dad and lost contact with a lot of these people -’

‘Except Gloria?’

‘Yes, except Gloria.’

‘So you don’t know what happened to him?’ Bella continues, picking up another photo of Dominic, this time shirtless (those abs!) in cut-off jeans (what legs!), reclining in a banana lounge in the sun, as was the fashion at the time. ‘He’s kinda cute looking,’ she says.

I don’t particularly want to discuss Dom, especially with my daughter. But yes, he was cute. He was also my best friend, even though I did fall in love with him. I only found the courage to jump him the night before he headed off to Europe on a one-way ticket.

‘Why now?’ he’d asked as I followed him into his bedroom and began disrobing.

‘Because I’ve wanted to since forever.’

‘But . . .’ Dom said, as we lay on his bed.

‘But what?’

‘Luce, I’m leaving the country tomorrow.’

In the end, we did make love. But the fact that it took me three and a half years and a healthy dose of liquor to have one of the most special nights of my life, only for him to leave the next day, was beyond heartbreaking.

‘I don’t have to go,’ Dom had said the next morning.

‘Good idea. Reject the scholarship and stay with me,’ I joked, knowing it was too big an opportunity for him to miss.

‘I’ll write . . .’

After Dom left, I’d cried, showered and then cried some more. I didn’t make it to the airport to say goodbye.

For years, I’d thought back to that night and the following day and wondered: what if? What if Dom had stayed? What if I’d kept in contact with him? What if I’d flown to Europe to meet him?

But after a while I moved on. Although my life was crap on a personal level, I hit the big time professionally. A year after landing a supporting part in
Against Time
, I scored the lead role of Sophia. It was a dream come true. I knew I’d made it because every second person wanted me to be their girlfriend - including Max.

I resisted Max for a long time. But he was persistent and the intensity of his attention was flattering. Gradually, day by day, month by month, I fell in love with him. We got on well and the sex was great. Before long it seemed natural that we’d marry and have children.

When the kids are asleep, I pick up the photo of Dom and examine it again. Daggy nineties clothes aside, he was bloody good-looking and had a truly amazing smile. He was also a great person to hang out with. We used to spend hours talking, drinking, being stupid and having fun. He’d come up with ridiculous questions like ‘Would you rather be intelligent and extremely ugly or beautiful and stupid?’ and ‘If you were the eighth dwarf, what would your name be?’

Just thinking about Dom and his laugh is enough to make me break out into a sweat. Even after all these years.