by Lisa Heidke
‘Clearly, Rock has issues,’ says Gloria. ‘But you can work with him, snigger, snigger.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? I’m mortified. I had no idea he was so fastidious. He’s an old woman and I hate being unkind to old women.’
Outside I hear someone calling me. ‘Are you in there, Lucy?’ It sounds like Max, which is impossible because he’s still in Bali with his teenage love.
‘Gloria, you’re not going to believe me but I think I heard Max’s voice. I have to go.’
I click the phone off and unlock the door. It is Max. Allowing for the fact that I am in shock:
a) because he’s in Australia, and
b) because he’s standing in front of me in my half-finished house.
My mind goes blank for several moments before I collect myself and say, ‘Max, what the hell are you doing here?’
‘What? No “Welcome home, Max, it’s great to see you”?’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I repeat.
‘I’m back,’ he says casually, puffing out his chest like he owns the place - which, theoretically, he does. Well, half of it.
‘I’m not blind. I can see that. Why are you here?’
‘Because I have responsibilities, a family that needs me.’
‘But you told me in Bali that it was over between us and you were moving on with your life - with Alana.’
‘Lucy,’ he says calmly, motioning to the camera that’s appeared in the hallway, ‘let’s just say I’ve changed my mind. I’m home to stay. How are the kids? Missing me?’
‘Of course they’re missing you, but that’s not the point. Our marriage is over. You said as much yourself.’
He glares at me and then at the red rabbit-fur poncho I’m wearing. He twitches. I can tell he’s dying to make a comment about it. He hates it. I knew he would. The thing is, while I did buy the poncho out of spite, it’s actually starting to grow on me. I quite like it despite the fact that, generally speaking, ponchos only look good on girls younger than six years of age.
He loses the glare and smiles at me. ‘Come on, honey. I’m sorry, really. I don’t know what I was thinking. Alana’s so young. You’re the mother of my children. There’s no comparison. I don’t want Bella and Sam to grow up without me. I’m sure you don’t want that either. That’s why I’ve come home.’ He touches my arm. ‘And, of course, I love you.’
I pull away. ‘Enough, Max.’
‘I know I’ve been a lousy husband these past few weeks -’
‘What? You haven’t been here. You’ve been away - fucking the babysitter.’
‘Come on, I’m trying. Let’s start again. A brand-new life. We deserve a second chance.’
‘I gave you a second chance years ago. Clearly, it was a mistake.’
‘Lucy, it’s time we stopped playing games. I’m moving back in. This is my house.’
‘No, Max, you’re not.’ I stand my ground. The camera lights continue to shine.
‘What’s with the cameras?’ he asks, trying to change the subject.
Stay calm, I think. Let’s not have a scene in front of filming cameras.
‘Gloria’s got this insane idea to feature the house on a new renovation show.’
He peers into the new bathroom with its rolled marble tiles. ‘I wouldn’t have done it that way,’ he says. Before I can respond, he walks over to the ladder. ‘Where’s the bloody staircase? And what’s happening with the kitchen? This isn’t what we agreed on.’
Although the kitchen’s a mess, it’s taking shape. The floor’s been laid, the cupboards have been built - minus the knobs - and are ready to be installed. The replacement oven has arrived. The fridge has been delivered. They’re both sitting in the middle of the room waiting to be moved into position. The benchtops, splashback and kickboards are still to turn up, but all in all it’s really starting to come together. I’d be very excited if Max wasn’t here.
‘Why did you choose the Ilve oven over the Titan I wanted?’ he says. ‘We had a deal.’
Out of the corner of my eye I see Digger filming, capturing every word we utter.
‘Max, this isn’t your house anymore. It hasn’t been yours since you took your surfboard and walked out weeks ago.’
He’s checking out the rest of the renovation, not listening to me. Two painters working overtime have completed the undercoat of the entire extension. The rooms look huge and bright. It’s getting very close to completion.
‘I’m not fond of this dirty grey colour you’ve chosen for the walls.’
‘You weren’t here to make the decisions, Max. I like the colour.’
‘A bit insipid - needs spicing up, don’t you think?’
‘I think you should go now,’ I tell him.
‘What? I’m not going anywhere. For God’s sake, Lucy, get rid of these bloody cameras.’ He shoos Digger away.
‘If this is another one of your attempts to cash in on your celebrity, I’m not having it. Not in my house in front of my kids.’
Patch comes in and Max marches straight over to him.
The camera follows him. I withdraw into a nearby ‘dirty grey’ wall.
‘It’s not good enough,’ Max tells Patch, with the authority of someone who owns the house and is in control. Patch looks bemused. Better book that ticket to the moon, I feel like telling him. Except I don’t want Max back either.
‘I want to see progress reports and cost projections immediately,’ Max goes on. ‘And hey!’ He points to Digger. ‘Turn that camera off or I’ll turn it off for you. Why is it that television stations persist in putting C-grade celebrities on TV shows? It doesn’t make them any more interesting to viewers.’
Digger turns off his camera and walks away, presumably to find Sandy and complain about the madman in the house who’s disrupting filming.
‘Well?’ Max turns his glare back to Patch.
To his credit and my relief, Patch doesn’t treat Max any differently from the way he used to treat me. He nods and says, ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ before starting a discussion with Joel about sandstone paving.
‘Max, what are you doing?’ I murmur.
‘Taking control of this blasted renovation because it’s clear you haven’t.’
‘But you gave up that right when you walked out.’
‘I don’t want to talk about that. It’s over now. I’m back.’
I notice a different cameraman has arrived, and he’s turning his lens in our direction.
‘Lucy, don’t you hear what I’m saying? I’m coming home. For the sake of our family, I’m giving up my personal freedom and happiness for you and the kids. I’m in charge now.’
Perhaps this isn’t a renovation program they’re filming, I think. Maybe it’s really an Aussie Punk’d or a reworking of Candid Camera. Surely this can’t be real life? Max can’t be serious about coming back. Or about the hypocritical rubbish spouting from his mouth.
His voice softens. ‘I’m sorry. I went crazy for a while - mid-life crisis and all that. But I want to come home. What am I saying? I am home. For good this time. We can make it work.’
I glance at my left hand - it has an even light-brown tan. There’s absolutely no evidence I’ve worn a wedding ring for eleven years. Which makes me smile. I’m no longer branded; no longer Max’s wife.
‘I’m sorry, Max, I really am,’ I tell him.
‘What do you mean? Why are you smiling? You’re still angry, is that it?’
Granted, I have lots of things to be angry about. The humiliation of finding out about Max and Alana, Poppy before that; his silly hair dye; his silly shoes … He just doesn’t get it.
‘The question is, why am I not more angry, Max?’
‘Is it that time of the month? Have you got PMS?’
Yes, I want to scream. Pass My Shotgun. Plainly Max Sucks. Pardon My Smirk.
‘I think I’m ready to move on from you, Max,’ I say graciously, refusing to bite at his previous comment.
‘I
s this about the dead people?’
That’s Max. Insensitive and an idiot.
‘No, it’s not about the “dead people” as you so delicately put it; it’s about our lives, the kids. It’s about me moving on from you. You weren’t happy being married to me -’
‘Yes, I was. I mean, I am happy being married -’
‘Max, please don’t. I need you to leave now. Go back to Alana … Where is Alana, by the way?’
‘I don’t want to talk about Alana. She’s at home with her mother. They’re both crying, hysterical. I think Alana might be a little fragile. She’s upset about this whole Bali bomb business.’
‘Just go, Max.’ Because I have Pissy Max Syndrome and I don’t want to hurt you. But I will if I have to.
Max goes to speak but stops himself. He seems to realise that I mean what I’m saying. Also, that I will gladly continue this discussion on camera. In fact, the cameras are giving me courage to speak my mind. The way I’m feeling at the moment, I’ll happily tell the world, or at least Channel Seven viewers, exactly what I think of Max and his ‘fragile’ teenage girlfriend. I’m not worried about my own dignity anymore. I gave that up weeks ago.
‘If I leave,’ he says calmly, ‘I’m not paying for any more of the renovation, the household expenses, nothing. You’ll be on your own, Lucy. Do you want that? And I’m taking my car. Where are the rest of my clothes, by the way?’
I throw the car keys at him. Wait until he realises there are no more clothes, and sees the ding on his car’s rear passenger door that materialised on Saturday at the Woolies car park. He’ll be the one with PMS. Psychotic Max Sobbing.
After several minutes of huffing and puffing and declaring ‘You’ll pay for this, Lucy’, and ‘You’re not fit to be a mother’, and, my personal favourite, ‘You don’t have MY permission to film in MY house’, Max drives away and I allow myself to exhale.
The twins come over.
‘You’re -’
‘Not to -’
‘Worry -’
‘Love -’
My head darts from one to the other.
‘Your hus -’
‘- band’s a right -’
‘Bastard!’ they finish together.
‘You can say that again,’ I reply. Then walk away before they do.
As I stand in my almost-completed kitchen, cold harsh reality slowly dawns. There’s no way I can keep up with the renovation payments if Max pulls out - and I have no doubt he will. My only hope is that this pilot goes ahead and I get paid three hundred thousand dollars. The sooner, the better. Because what are the alternatives? I put the house on the market after completion, or take out a second mortgage to pay for it? But what bank in their right mind is going to give me a second mortgage when I don’t have a job? I’ve got to get a job. And ring Nadia’s lawyer, and her financial advisor.
‘You okay?’ Patch asks me.
‘Fine,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t worry about Max. He’s all talk.’
Patch doesn’t look convinced.
‘I managed to source a new gas fireplace for you, even better than the one you ordered,’ he says. ‘This one heats up to eighty-five square metres and includes a ceramic mat that diffuses the flame pattern to create an unparalleled flame picture.’ He’s reading from a brochure. ‘And it comes with a remote control. Same dimensions, which means we won’t have to do extra prep work. Costs an extra thousand dollars though.’
‘I really don’t think I should -’ I begin.
‘It was our fault. We’ll pay the difference,’ he cuts in.
‘It’ll be here in a couple of days.’
I’m stunned by the offer, then notice the camera pointing our way.
I’m reading over the contract and contemplating my financial ruin when Trish rings.
‘Max and Alana have split!’ she screams down the phone.
‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
‘My Lani’s devastated. Crushed. Doesn’t know what she’s done wrong to be treated this way.’
‘I could give her a list,’ I start, then shut my mouth.
‘How can you say that? Lani’s very depressed. When she was with Max she felt cared for, protected. Now what is she going to do?’
‘Alana can have Max,’ I say. ‘I don’t want him.’
‘What are you talking about? Max told my Lani you’d begged him to come home, said you were going to kill yourself. It’s your fault he’s left my beautiful Alana. She’s fragile, you know, a delicate flower.’
‘I’m sure Alana can look after herself,’ I say.
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you. I bet you wish -’
I cut her off. ‘The truth is, Max and Alana can drive off into the sunset and live happily ever after for all I care. Max and I are over.’
*
‘So what’s happening with Lothario?’ Gloria asks when she comes over at the end of the day, laden with antipasto delicacies from my favourite deli.
‘He wants to come back. God knows why. He says he loves me, but he doesn’t mean it.’
‘Serious?’
‘Yeah. He said the bombings in Bali were an epiphany for him, that he’s come to his senses, that his family means everything.’ I close my eyes and inhale.
‘Did you ask him why the hell he was with a teenager in the first place?’
‘Mid-life crisis, apparently. But, Gloria, I can’t afford to take him back. He’ll only rip out my heart again and I can’t cope with any more emotional stuff. He might mean what he’s saying now for a day, a week, maybe even a year, but eventually he’ll go back to his womanising ways. He can’t help himself. He’s like a dog permanently on heat.’
‘Yeah, asking Max to stop chasing women is like asking Paris Hilton to leave her house without a camera crew in tow.’
‘You’d know. Anyway, I’ve had my own epiphany. It’s over. I won’t have him back under any circumstances.’
‘What about cancer?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘If he was dying of cancer?’
‘Gloria!’
‘I’m just asking. What about Rock? He’s a bit of fun and good for the ego, right?’
‘Enough with the twenty questions.’
‘Dom, then?’
‘Dom’s a friend, nothing more. God, he broke my heart all those years ago, I don’t want a repeat performance. Especially not after everything I’ve been through with Max. I don’t have the stamina.’
The Balinese tragedy is never far from my mind. Every night, like tonight, while I’m tossing and turning in bed, I keep asking myself, ‘Is this really how I want to live my life?’ - knowing that at any moment my life could suddenly end as a result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Even though I’m not religious, seeing the devastation in Bali was like God tapping me on the shoulder and saying, ‘Luce, if you don’t make something of yourself down there, there’s plenty of room for you up here.’
And that ‘something’ that I do has to be for Bella, Sam and me. Not for anyone else.
Day 53
First thing in the morning, Sandy knocks on my bedroom door. I shove my head further under the doona in a feeble attempt to ignore her. But the knocking persists and, finally, I stagger out of bed and open the door.
‘Could you glide down the ladder in a bikini?’ she asks. ‘You know, like you’re about to go for a swim.’
‘It’s seven in the morning and six degrees outside,’ I say, feeling mangy and wiping the sleep from my eyes.
‘The viewers don’t know that,’ says Sandy, who, might I add, is wearing super-skinny black Tsubi zip jeans, a heavy-knit crimson jumper and black woollen scarf.
‘It’s the middle of winter. Besides, I haven’t worn a bikini for ten years.’
Looking me up and down, she exhales stridently and says, ‘All right, I have another shot of you in mind. Really short mini, high heels and singlet, braless, carrying a tray of cocktails in your hand, like you’re about to welcome fr
iends over for cocktail hour.’
‘It’s seven in the morning,’ I say again. Christ, she’s thick - although a dirty martini wouldn’t go astray about now.
‘The audience doesn’t care what time it is. They want to see Lucy Springer the celebrity living her glamorous life.’
‘But I’m not living a glamorous life. It’s dull and boring and I have washing and grocery shopping to do.’
Sandy glares at me. ‘This isn’t working. We need to get Gloria on the phone.’
‘What’s Gloria going to do?’
‘Talk some sense into you.’ Sandy goes to walk away, then turns back. ‘Look, I didn’t want you, I wanted Tania Zaetta, but she’s in India playing Miss Bollywood. My second choice was Melissa Tkautz, but she doesn’t own a house at the moment.’
Did I just hear right? Melissa Tkautz. Sure she had a hit with ‘Read My Lips’ years ago, but then she was the face for an ad campaign for erectile dysfunction. This is the calibre of actress I’m competing with? A woman who promotes products for men with sexual problems?
‘So I ended up with you - and I need to try as many different angles as I can to get the audience to see you in a less mummy-like light,’ says Sandy. ‘I know you survived the bombing -’
‘I was nowhere near the explosions.’
She ignores me. ‘But we can only push that angle for so long. A week tops, then you gotta show some flesh or have an affair or something.’
I’m annoyed, exasperated, pissed off. I can’t believe I let Gloria talk me into this.
And there’s still mess everywhere, I notice, when I walk into my laundry/kitchen/family room. Mind you, it is cleaner now. I have Rock, the neat freak, to thank for that. He won’t touch anything or walk anywhere until Joel has gone ahead of him and cleaned up. And I thought Bella had issues. My daughter’s got nothing on Rock. I’m surprised Joel panders to him but he seems amused by the whole procedure.
From where I’m standing at the laundry sink, I can see Joel outside, still sporting his safety glasses, his dreadlocks piled high on his head like some overgrown shrubbery. He’s talking to Patch, who’s wearing another pair of brand-new beige overalls. Inside, I can hear Sandy and Rock arguing.