by Lisa Heidke
My mortification is complete when Gracie Gardener sees me mid-poop-scoop on her way past to do a promo for Seasons. I’d thought it was bad when I rushed on stage with one breast hanging out of my dress for the last performance of Romeo and Juliet at NIDA, but now I know public shaming doesn’t have to occur on stage or even in front of an audience.
Retrieving the last remaining crumbs of my pride off the floor, before they get scooped up along with dog excrement, I rush to Sam’s school concert. I have canine slobber and dog hairs all over me. But I’m running late and there’s no time to dash home and freshen up.
To make sure Sam sees me, I take the only available seat - in the front row near the stage. Unfortunately, it’s reserved for the principal, who’s not happy when she sees me plonk myself down. The minion who comes over to remove me from the seat nearly gags as she gets close to me and I realise I really should have gone home to shower and change.
After making a humiliating exit from the seat, I stand at the side of the hall for the duration of the concert, self-conscious because the see-through blouse I’m wearing isn’t the most appropriate outfit for the occasion. One of the mothers, who looks like she sleeps with massive curlers in her hair and wears flesh-coloured granny undies, gives me an unimpressed glance. I glare back at her then turn my attention to my son, who, might I say, makes an outstanding singing mountain goat. It brings tears to my eyes. Max should be here for this.
After the concert, Sam’s teacher, Mrs Taylor, tells me Sam said I’d cut off my arm. I show her my hand and the wound and she smiles sympathetically. ‘How did it happen?’
‘Separating frozen bread.’
‘That’s what microwaves are for,’ she says.
Once the kids are in bed, I switch on the computer with the intention of googling Dom. But before I can, I notice several emails in my inbox waiting to be opened. I scan the list looking for something from Max. Nothing. But my heart skips a beat when I realise there’s one from Dom. Sent two days ago. Bloody Gloria, I’ll kill her.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
[email protected] Hey Lucy, how are you? Long time, no Hey Lucy, how are you? Long time, no contact … Gloria somehow got hold of me and gave me your details. Won’t bombard you now with a recap of the last dozen years, but I wanted to let you know I’m thinking of you. Dom.
I don’t bother replying. There’s just too much going on in my life to drag Dom into the mix.
Day 18
It is a truth universally acknowledged that rain causes builders, handymen, plasterers - in fact, tradespeople of all descriptions - to disappear without a trace. This morning, as all of three drops of water fell from the sky, Patch and his team downed tools and scurried away before the sun could reappear. They didn’t know I was watching them, but I was. I have nothing better to do with my time at the moment.
By mid-morning, the rain is torrential and I’m staring out the window at the huge mudslide engulfing our side yard, aka the new family room. The mud room. Any second now, the neighbours will beetle over to tell me their home has been engulfed by our sludge avalanche.
Rain is pouring in through the blue tarp and flooding the laundry/kitchen/family room. Upstairs, the roof is also leaking copiously. Everywhere I turn, there’s foul, dirty water. It’s also bloody freezing.
It was all so exciting when Max and I bought the place six years ago. It wasn’t perfect but I loved it anyway. The gardens alone were worth the money for me. Max kept wanting to renovate, to build ‘the perfect family home’, but I always managed to put him off. ‘It takes a strong marriage to survive a renovation,’ I’d joke, only to have Max reply, ‘We’re perfect candidates. I can’t think of anyone who’s got a stronger marriage than you and me.’
Max is good at charm when it suits him, but in this case he was right. Our early days together were so much fun, filled with unexpected romantic trips - to the Hunter Valley for hot-air ballooning at sunrise; to Melbourne for an overnight sojourn in the Windsor Hotel; picnics in the Botanic Gardens … Max and I seemed blessed with happiness. Even as recently as Valentine’s Day this year, Max gave me red roses and Bollinger champagne. (Thanks very much. It was delicious. Pity you weren’t here to share it with me.)
Since Valentine’s Day, it has to be said, there’s been a definite shift. Max’s late nights and early morning starts began before the demolition, but afterwards they really kicked into top gear. When I asked him if everything was okay, he snapped, ‘What is this? An inquisition? You really need to get a life, Lucy, so you don’t keep hammering on about mine.’
So I did - taking up tennis with Gloria, buying a whizzbang sewing machine (still in its box, but I had good intentions), and putting more effort into reviving my acting career. And somehow the crack of distance between us widened into a chasm …
*
The rain has saturated the linen cupboard and destroyed our wedding album. I should have taken it upstairs when I moved the others. Now, Max’s and my faces are distorted beyond repair. An omen if ever there was one.
I’m mopping up the laundry/living room when Patch pokes his head in.
‘We can’t work here today,’ he tells me.
‘So I gathered,’ I say, squeezing dirty water into a bucket.
‘Yeah, it’s um, like raining. Bummer.’
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve broken down in front of Patch, and I refuse to do it again today. Still, my voice catches when I say, ‘Welcome to my world. There are leaks everywhere.’
‘Come on, Lucy, it’s not too bad. The long-term forecast is for sunshine. Still, I guess those weather guys are wrong ninety per cent of the time.’
‘You had me at “The long-term forecast is for sunshine”.
Why did you have to keep talking?’
To my relief, Patch and two of his offsiders work in the torrential downpour for the next two hours, fixing new tarpaulins to the roof.
Day 19
The rain is so heavy that everything has become damp and mildewy. Black mould is attempting a hostile takeover of the entire house and Bella is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Before school, the kids pester me about Max (where is he?) and raincoats (they don’t have any). Why is it that as soon as it rains you can never find an umbrella or a raincoat?
On the drive to school, Sam says, ‘Seriously, Mum, when’s Dad coming home?’
‘Any day now,’ I lie.
I know I should prepare them, warn them their father might have decided to start a new life without us. But now’s not the time. Not when it’s 8.40 am, we’re at the kiss-and-drop zone and the principal’s eyeballing me to make sure I don’t overstay my allotted two minutes. The children, each wearing a daggy old parka, jump out of the car and run for cover in the school grounds.
Stopping at the local coffee shop, I see Trish and wave to her. She ignores me. She’s one moody piece of work lately - or maybe I’ve just become horribly paranoid. Trish leads the weekly prayer meeting at the local church and she’s always inviting me along to pray for our souls, our school and other worthy community causes. But I can never quite make it. For a start, I blaspheme too much to go to church. And part of me (a big part; huge, actually) doesn’t want to be swept along by some perverse cult. Okay, okay, so she belongs to a mainstream religion, but still, sometimes the words ‘religious freak’ pop into my head when I see her. Anyway, last time I declined her invitation she got quite shirty. But that was a couple of months ago. And Christians aren’t supposed to hold grudges, are they?
Armed with my large takeaway soy cappuccino, I sit in my bedroom and re-read Max’s postcard for the umpteenth time. What am I hoping for? An extra couple of sentences I missed the first time? Something like: Having a tiny mid-life crisis but I love you so much and promise to be a happier, more attentive and loving husband when I get back, which will be very, very soon. I love you more than life itself, Lucy, so please don’t worry. Max xx Ins
tead, I get zip.
It’s one thing for him to walk out on me, but to leave Bella and Sam as well? It’s incomprehensible. What would make him do such a thing? It makes me so angry I could cut his clothes up into tiny pieces and scatter them in the pool.
Now, there’s an idea. But what would be the point? I’d just have to fish them out again once my anger subsided because no other bastard would do it for me.
One of the mothers from school threw her husband’s laptop into their pool when he left her. That little incident kept the mothers from 5L gossiping for a good three weeks. But Max seems to have taken his laptop with him.
A tidal wave of sadness engulfs me. Have I really been such a terrible wife and mother? Then I get angry again and want to hit him, hard; maybe throw him in the sludgy pool. Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold?
I’m shoving piles of Max’s clothes into garbage bags when the phone rings. It’s Gloria.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to try out for Celebrity Circus, Luce? The wheel of death is really connecting with the twenty-to thirty-nine-year-olds out there.’
‘Give up, Gloria.’
‘Australian Fear Factor?’
‘There is no way on this earth I’m letting some crazy guy talk me into eating rotten bull’s balls or any other dead animal’s genitalia.’
‘You’re making it hard for yourself, Lucy. You should at least try these things - I, myself, wouldn’t be averse to a bit of ball action of any description right now. Besides, reality TV is not going to disappear, so the sooner you get used to the fact your future involves playing poker, eating witchetty grubs or parading half-nude in a fishbowl, the sooner you’ll get real television work again.’
‘Don’t you think it’s slightly odd that families gather round their television on Sunday nights to watch C-grade celebrities cram as many maggot-infested dead scorpions into their mouths as possible?’
‘Give the audience what they want, that’s my motto,’ says Gloria, then takes a deep breath. ‘Look, you know I’ll keep putting you forward for commercials, Luce, but you have to make an effort.’
‘Speaking of which, have you heard anything about the dog commercial?’
Gloria hesitates. ‘Not yet.’
‘That’s not a good sign, is it?’
‘I’m sure you’ll get it.’
‘You’re such a bad liar.’
‘I’m not. It’s just that a lot of people auditioned. You know how it is. There’s a tinnitus ad coming up. I’ll see what buttons I need to push to get you an audition.’
‘Great! I’ll make sure I keep an ear out for your call. Can’t wait.’
‘Now, now, there are other people in the world -’ she starts, but I hang up on her.
Instead of continuing to pack up Max’s clothes, I check my email messages. There are none from Max, surprise, surprise, but there are two more from Dom. I don’t know how I feel about that, except that I remember I forgot to tell Gloria off for putting him in contact with me.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Hey Lucy, okay, perhaps I was being too subtle with Hey Lucy, okay, perhaps I was being too subtle with my first email. Did you not get the hint that I want you to email me, or, better yet, pick up the phone?Gloria’s filled me in on what’s been going on and it sounds like you could do with the company of an old friend who knew you before The Young Residents and hasn’t seen you espousing the virtues of broccoli.
I think that someone could be me. Come on, girl, call me. Dom xx
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Lucy, remember the end-of-year Christmas bash Lucy, remember the end-of-year Christmas bash where I knocked my head and you took me to hospital? Thought you might like to know I’ve still got a scar on my chin. Every time I shave, I think of you and smile. Well, not every time, but most … Call me. Dom xx
I don’t delete the emails but I don’t reply either.
Late that night, I toss and turn in bed, wondering, remembering and cursing. Dom probably has a wife and children of his own, and it makes me kind of sad that I missed out on all of that. Not that I wanted to be the mother of his children - I was never given the opportunity. Besides, I have my own. I’m just sad that more than a decade has sailed by and I don’t know him anymore.
Day 20
Patch arrives at 7.15 am. He’s wearing scruffy Levi’s, a faded red Chairman Mao T-shirt and brown Blundstones. It’s not his usual workday attire.
‘With all the damage the torrential rain has caused, we’re not going to be able to work here for a couple of days until after the rain stops,’ he says, looking at me expectantly. ‘It’s because your ground is made of clay and clay retains water.’
‘But we’ve got no kitchen,’ I say, bursting into tears.
Patch awkwardly puts his arms around me. He smells fresh. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and makes a hasty exit. It’s 7.18 am.
So now I’m mopping up the floors (again!) while my teeth whiten. Yes, I’m wearing whitening strips on my choppers - feels like chewing gum, looks much worse. Why? Because I’m insecure and have succumbed to the advice of Petrea, aka Ms September, the bronzed woman at the Actors’ Studio the other night who flashed her gleaming white teeth at me at every opportunity. ‘White teeth give you a competitive edge every time, Lucy.’ She looked like George Hamilton with boobs the way she was carrying on.
I have a feeling these strips aren’t exactly what Petrea uses to achieve that enviable look, but I can’t exactly embark on cosmetic dental surgery when I haven’t even trialled my three-thousand-dollar toilet.
‘Mum,’ Sam says, walking into the room, ‘Fred told everyone at school I have nits because I scratch my head a lot.’
‘Tho thtop sthcratching your head.’
Sam stands in front of me furiously scratching at his scalp. ‘I can’t. What’s on your teeth?’
I cover my mouth with my hand. ‘Thothing.’
I quickly examine his head. Relief. No lice.
‘Whoth Fred anyway?’
‘A new kid. He can drink chocolate milk through a straw up his nose.’
Tonight I’m having dinner with a group of school mums. Though I hesitated before accepting the invitation, not fancying having to tell people Max has left me, I decided to go because I really need to put in some effort with the mums. Morning conversations at the school gate aren’t much chop, Saturday soccer has deteriorated into a sombre occasion, and I really didn’t make a good impression at Sam’s concert.
As I still can’t reach Alana, I reluctantly agree to let Mum have Bella and Sam sleep at her house, which is probably a good thing. When Sam’s not furiously scratching at himself, he’s blaming me because soccer’s been cancelled due to rain.
‘It’s not my fault,’ I tell him. ‘Contrary to popular belief, I’m not God.’
Meanwhile, Bella’s becoming more agitated because her dad’s not here and hasn’t called.
I try distracting them by taking them shopping, but even new Nintendo games don’t keep them quiet for long. So yes, the break at Mum’s will do us all good.
‘Thanks for picking me up,’ I say to Nadia on the way to dinner.
‘Under the circumstances, Luce … I mean, with Max away and everything …’
We sit down at the reserved table for eight at the local Thai restaurant.
Emma is the next to arrive. She bounces up and gives me a big hug and kisses me on the cheek. ‘How you doing?’ she asks, her South African intonation unmistakable. Emma’s complexion is flawless. She’d have to be in her mid-thirties, but you’d never know it. I can’t find one wrinkle on her unblemished face and, believe me, I’ve searched.
‘Not bad,’ I say, now truly alarmed that the kids have been telling stories at school about me.
Within half an hour, seven women are drinking riesling and chatting about rostered sex lives. It’s a bit of a change from the actors’ party the othe
r night, with people doing lines of coke at the bar and popping ecstasy tabs like they were peppermints. I notice there are more fat people here than at that party (or maybe there’s just a higher proportion of weighty people at this particular restaurant). There’s also a lot of conservative navy-blue skirts and sensible flat shoes. Black, of course.
‘I’ve told him it’s two nights off, one night on,’ says Lizzie, a buxom brunette whose clothing choices do little to minimise her enormous cantaloupes.
‘You actually schedule sex?’ Nadia asks.
‘Yep, that way he leaves me alone to read my book in bed two nights out of three. It’s great.’
Nadia’s intrigued. ‘What about when you want to have sex? Can you ask for it?’
‘Please! Enough is enough,’ says Lizzie, her bosom heaving. ‘He’s satisfied, to a point, and I’m willing to go along with it because I get peace and quiet.’
‘I read somewhere you should make yourself available for sex with your husband whether you’re in the mood or not,’ says Emma.
Lizzie snorts. Several women gasp. I wonder whether that was my mistake with Max.
‘You don’t actually believe that, do you, Emma?’ asks Lizzie.
‘I know it sounds -’
‘Archaic?’ Lizzie says helpfully.
‘Maybe, but apparently we should adjust to the way our husbands perform and simply trust them -’ Emma continues.
‘Like our mothers did?’ Nadia says.
‘Men these days feel powerless, emasculated -’
‘Please,’ says Lizzie.
‘She has a point,’ says Dee. ‘It’s a gender-confused world.
Men are wimps; women have become she-men. You know, there’s a huge movement of women who want a return to family values.’
‘I know,’ agrees Lizzie, twirling her wineglass. ‘It’s all about keeping the family together.’
‘Protecting the children,’ adds Emma.
‘Save me,’ Nadia whispers to me, as she reaches across my chest for the nearly empty wine bottle.
‘Is she serious?’ I ask.
‘Absolutely. It’s all part of the Subservient Wives Clubs that are springing up.’