Lisa Heidke (8 page)

Day 21

I
have a very bad night’s sleep punctuated by haunting memories of all the things Max did that show me now how inattentive he was.

1. His eyes would glaze over when I spoke to him. He rarely wanted to talk about anything but the kids.

2. On the very rare occasions we made love recently, he didn’t want to kiss me - because he had a cold; I had a sniffle; he thought he was getting a cold sore . . .

3. He’d even stopped kissing me goodbye in the morning and hello in the evening.

Clearly Max had checked out of our marriage long before he actually walked out. Why hadn’t I noticed? You’d think I’d have learnt my lesson after his affair with Poppy; that Max running off with Alana wouldn’t come as a huge surprise. But it does. I truly thought Max loved me, but no, he had sweet, young and pretty Alana picked out, all ready to replace me.

After Poppy, Max begged my forgiveness, saying the affair was a one-off, reckless lapse (lasting nineteen months) and would never happen again. I believed him, more fool me. Perhaps because we sought counselling.

Max hated going; said it made him feel inadequate. (Honey, try coping with the knowledge that your spouse is cheating on you. Talk about self-esteem issues!) But I insisted. And we worked through our problems - or so I stupidly believed. We renewed our commitment to stick with each other through good times and bad. Not just because of the children, but because we loved each other and wanted to see out our days together. I should have realised he didn’t mean a word of it when he refused to budge on the vasectomy issue. One in four married men gets the snip, but not Max. Clearly because he wanted to save his sperm for Alana.

I torment myself with images of Max and Alana playing happy families in a perfectly renovated country cottage with a white picket fence and adorable, impeccably behaved twins. (Don’t ask me why they have twins. They just do!)

Then I think about how all those times I was cooking dinner for Max, he was busy fucking Alana. All those late nights at work, or when his mobile was switched off or ‘out of range’, he was fucking Alana. While I was at home being the good wife, listening to our children read or recite their six times table, he was fucking Alana. I feel sick. Furious. I want to kill that no-good babysitter-fucker!

I finish what I started two days ago - that is, throwing every piece of clothing Max owns into plastic bags. When I’m finished, there are thirteen garbage bags. I toss them all into the boot of the car and drive to the nearest charity bin. I heave in the first bag, then the second. And suddenly feel guilty. Max will be furious . . .

I pull down on the handle to open the bin. The only way to retrieve them is to . . . climb in? I jump up on the side of the bin and cling to the handle of the chute, my feet centimetres off the ground.

‘Are you quite finished?’ Something, a walking stick, I think, is poking me in the back.

‘Pardon?’ I say, turning around to an elderly woman who must be pushing a hundred.

‘Are you finished?’ she asks.

‘Sort of,’ I say, falling down beside her. ‘Just trying to figure out how to get a couple of bags out,’ I explain sheepishly.

‘Well, you can’t. That’s stealing.’

‘I’m not stealing. I’m trying to get the bags back because they’re mine. I threw them out by mistake.’

A flash of recognition crosses her face. ‘I know who you are - Sophia! You’ve always been stuck-up. You, with your high and mighty ways. Well, girlie, you can’t give to charity and then change your mind. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Indian giver,’ she says, stepping in front of me, opening the chute and sending three Woolworths’ bags to their destiny.

‘Excuse
me
,’ I say, after chewing my bottom lip for several moments, ‘but Sophia’s a character I played a long time ago. My name is Lucy. And we don’t use the term “Indian giver” these days.’

‘Who says? Besides,’ she pokes me again with her walking stick, ‘you, Sophia,
are
an Indian giver, as in a person who gives something and then demands it back.’

The clothes are gone. It’s too late to recover them. I return the other bags the boot of the car, leave the old woman and drive home. The only place I can think of to store Max’s clothes is on top of the bedroom cupboard. I run out of room and hurl several bags on top of Sam’s cupboard as well. If I throw out Max’s clothes, it will well and truly mean the end of our marriage, and even after what he’s done I can’t quite bear the thought. Yet. But our marriage
is
over. It has to be. I’m worth more than this. So are Bella and Sam.

After two hours of crying, I call Gloria. ‘She called me an Indian giver! Me!’

‘Get over it. It’s like calling you a Puerto Rican blonde or white trash. Sure it’s offensive, but people say it. Besides, she called you Sophia; she’s obviously a nutter.’

‘Yeah, she really didn’t like me or Sophia. I guess I was a bit of a diva in that show.’

‘Was?’

‘Yes,
was
. Now, about Max and Alana -’

‘Enough. How do you feel about
Celebrity Makeovers
?’

‘Will you concentrate on what I’m telling you for one minute? Who else knew about Max and Alana? Obviously the three hundred and fifty parents at school, but who else?’

Gloria explodes. ‘Fuck Max! Why you trusted him in the first place is beyond me. I mean, the guy dyes his hair, has oxygen facials and gets his eyelashes tinted. Please!’

‘He’s never had his eyelashes tinted.’

‘Has so. I’ve seen him at Buff ’n’ Polish.’

‘He’s only ever had one facial,’ I say.

‘What about his hair then?’

‘So? He doesn’t like being grey.’

‘Exactly. Doesn’t want to grow up. Why are you defending him anyway? He’s screwing your babysitter, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Because it doesn’t seem real. The whole night was surreal.’

When Mum brings the children home in the afternoon, she demands to know what’s going on. ‘Max has never been away for work this long before, and I have to say, Lucy, you’ve been acting peculiar ever since he left.’

I give her the abridged version, ending with, ‘So that’s when I found out about him and Alana.’

‘Alana?’ Mum says, gasping for air. ‘Little Alana?’

‘She’s nineteen, old enough -’

‘What? To be running away with a man more than twice her age? Her mother must be horrified.’

She hands me a cup of tea. There’s dust in it. ‘Do you think he’ll come back?’ she asks.

‘I really don’t know. We haven’t spoken.’

‘More to the point, do you want him back?’

‘I did at first but now . . . the stuff with Alana . . . I don’t see how we can work everything out. How could I ever trust him again? Besides, he doesn’t want me or the children, he wants her.’

‘What do Bella and Sam know?’

‘Not much.’

‘Don’t you think it’s time you sat down and told them?’

‘Told them what exactly? Sorry, darlings, Daddy’s humping the babysitter - you know, sweet, adorable Alana who you play SingStar with and love so much? They’re going to live together and Alana’s going to be your second mummy.’

I bury my head in my hands and cry.

‘How would you like to live by the ocean?’ I ask Bella and Sam after Mum leaves. ‘Or maybe the country?’

Bella looks at me in disbelief. ‘Is this because Dad’s left?’

‘No, why would you say that? Dad hasn’t left, he’s just . . .’

Bella looks at me sadly and starts to cry. ‘When’s he coming home then? Some of the kids at school are saying he’s left us and we’re going to have to live on the street like poor people.’

‘We’re not going to be living anywhere but here.’

‘You said the beach,’ says Sam.

‘Except the beach, or the country,’ I say without conviction.

‘Where’s Bali?’ Sam asks.

‘Indonesia,’ Bella answers. ‘Very hot, dirty water, doubtful hygiene.’

Sam is holding the postcard his father sent. I must have left it on the bedside table last night when I was reading it again, for the hundredth time.

‘Is that where Dad is?’ Bella asks.

I nod. ‘Yes.’

‘Can’t we go and see him?’ Sam says. ‘We could surprise him.’

I almost laugh and whip the card out of Sam’s hand.

‘He’d certainly be surprised.’

Sam starts crying. ‘I want to go to Bali and find Daddy.’

‘Daddy’s having a break,’ I say to comfort him. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure how long he’s going to be away.’

Bella looks at Sam and then at me. ‘Then maybe we should go to Bali and bring him home,’ she says.

Later, when the kids have gone to bed, I phone Gloria for the third time in a day.

‘Why didn’t you just tell them about him and Alana?’ she says.

‘Yeah, right, and break their little hearts? I’m not that cruel.’

‘But Max obviously is.’

‘Anyway, I’m seriously thinking about moving away from the city -’

‘To where, exactly?’

‘The coast.’

‘Get a grip, girl. The coast is where all washed-up actors disappear to.’

‘The country, then.’

‘The country’s worse. Come on, Luce. Is this because of the dog poo commercial?’

‘I didn’t get it, did I?’

‘Sorry, hon.’

‘Hell, Gloria. I’m a loser. I can’t even nab a gig scooping dog shit. I remember when my life was one big carousel of limos, premieres, charity balls and six-star hotels.’

I was sought after once upon a time. I was loved. Max loved me, for starters. I had fans, stalkers even. Once this man sent me a photograph of myself walking out of my front door. That’s stalking in my book. Men wanted to sleep with me. Women wanted to be me, red hair and all.

‘I’m leaving,’ I say, ‘starting a new life.’

‘There’ll be other commercials,’ Gloria tells me.

‘I don’t
want
other commercials.’

‘Luce, stay in the city. You love the city. What am I saying? You’re not living anywhere near civilisation as it is, all the way out there in the ’burbs. But at least you’ve got more chance of success than you’ll have living in some hick town three hundred kilometres away.’

‘I should give up this acting crap. You saw those people at the Actors’ Studio the other night, Glors. I’m not in their league. I’m past it. A has-been. No one’s hiring women like me.’

‘Of course they are. You just need sexing up.’

‘I’m not twenty-one anymore. I should bow out gracefully and disappear somewhere with the kids.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, then goes quiet before saying, ‘Did you google Dominic?’

I shake my head, not that she can see me. ‘No.’

‘Thought as much. I’ve been in touch with him -’

‘I know. I’ve received three emails from him. I knew it was due to your handiwork.’

‘What did he say? Are you catching up? Tell me everything.’

‘He said he was thinking of me, told me to call him.’

‘And?’

‘I didn’t reply. My life’s complicated enough.’

Day 22

I
wake up at three in the morning crying, and continue until six-thirty, when I have to get out of bed and be brave for the children.

Mum calls in with some red gerberas and asks how I’m doing.

‘Terrible,’ I reply, putting the pretty flowers in a grubby, dusty vase.

‘You’re going to have to tell the children about Alana eventually.’

‘Hopefully he’ll die in some really bizarre accident and I won’t have to,’ I say.

Mum looks doubtful. ‘What about the builders?’

‘What about them? They won’t be here for days because of the rain.’

‘Lucy, you’ve got to get this place finished.’

‘Why me? Why do I have to do it?’

‘Because you’re the only one here, love.’

* * *

It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. There’s no rain, the sun is shining and there’s not a builder in sight. According to my calculations, as long as there’s not a downpour again today, Patch should (here’s hoping) be back on-site tomorrow. So I head out for some retail therapy.

Driving to Bondi Westfield, I make the mistake of going through the cross-city tunnel and get stuck in the most God-awful traffic. By the time I reach the shopping centre car park, I’m stressed beyond belief.

I walk briskly from shop to shop, only stopping to pull out Max’s American Express card and buy fabulous frivolities - a pink Spencer & Rutherford bag that’s gorgeous but completely impractical; a pair of pink-and-maroon suede Alannah Hill eight-centimetre-high slingbacks. And seriously, when am I ever going to have occasion to wear a red rabbit-fur poncho? I also buy a complete new tennis ensemble. I can’t hit a ball but I might as well look good trying.

I even eye a new Cartier watch, hesitating for a moment before giving it back to the salesgirl. Maybe next time. Not so with the DKNY green suede coat and black Prada pants.

I’m trying on an exquisite Collette Dinnigan sequined top that goes nowhere near fitting me, when a blonde skeletal sales assistant taps me on the shoulder and says, ‘Maybe you wouldn’t be so depressed if you weren’t wearing such ugly boots.’

Excuse me! Am I wearing a neon sign that says I’m depressed? Are my antidepressants sticking out of my bag, on show for the world to see? I don’t even take antidepressants. I’m not depressed. I turn around to see the giraffe from the party at the Actors’ Studio. She doesn’t bother with the dressing room, just strips off in front of one of the shop mirrors and stands there checking out her physique in a black satin bra and boy briefs. I glare at her, but she’s too self-absorbed to notice other people exist. Now, I’m depressed.

Sipping a skinny soy latte in a café, I calculate that I’ve spent over $5800, and feel guilty, guilty, guilty and furious, furious, furious.

Exhausted, I arrive home to find a message from Max.

‘Lucy, it’s me. I’ve had a call from American Express.

Been on a shopping spree, have we? How are Bella and Sam? We’ll talk soon.’

I play the message no less than fifteen times before realising that Max’s phone is working. He’s just not taking my calls.

‘I’m drinking all your Grange, you C-U-Next-Time prickhead!’ I scream when the voicemail clicks in yet again. ‘And I’m giving all of your clothes to charity. That’s right. All of them.’

This time, I drive to a different charity bin - I don’t want to risk running into the mad old biddy from last week. I take malicious pleasure in casting all of Max’s clothes into the bin, bag by bag. Driving home, I feel triumphant. Well, a little sad too, but mostly triumphant.

Emma calls and asks Bella, Sam and me over to dinner. I like Emma but we’re not close. Still, she’s invited us over when we still have no kitchen and no husband/father, so I take a bottle of wine from the cellar and we walk the four minutes to her house. The meal is delicious, though I’m so tired and overwrought that I make terrible company.

‘Barry and I have been through tough times,’ Emma confides to me in the kitchen as she whips the cream for dessert. ‘But we’ve worked through it, you know? You and Max can too.’

I nod. Sure, let’s not think about the fact he’s off having the time of his middle-aged life with a teenager.

‘Get this,’ Emma says, shaking a wooden spoon in front of me. ‘Barry told me that my aggressive personality was rendering him impotent, said he needed to feel powerful, in control.’

I look at her for a minute, trying to imagine Barry saying those words. He’s at least six foot three and weighs a hundred kilos.

‘I know, I know. But men are such babies,’ she says. ‘We’ve come to a compromise - he’s stopped questioning me about the house and my cooking and, in return, I’ve stopped trying to micromanage his career, which he’s
absolutely
hopeless at, by the way. But life’s a compromise, isn’t it?’

She licks the spoon, shrugs her shoulders and pours me another glass of wine.

‘You have to do what you have to do,’ I say, recalling Nadia’s comment about the Subservient Wives Club.

‘Exactly.’

Because I know this line of conversation will lead to further discomfort - my own - I take the coward’s way out and get hideously drunk. Okay, not so drunk that I blather on about Max and how he and his stupid red surfboard have left me, but drunk enough to start singing ‘Billy Don’t Be a Hero’ and other choice hits of the seventies and eighties.

Eventually, Bella demands to be taken home.