Lisa Heidke
Authors: Lucy Springer Gets Even (mobi)
Lisa Heidke studied journalism at Queensland University, fled Brisbane and settled in Sydney where she worked in book and magazine publishing. After many years living in Sydney’s inner west, Lisa woke up one morning to find herself married with three children and living on the North Shore. In 2005, Lisa’s
This Wife’s Life
was shortlisted for the Varuna/ HarperCollins Manuscript Development Awards and then in 2006,
Lucy Springer’s Story
was shortlisted.
LuCy
SpriNger
gets eveN
A smart, fuNNy NOvel about
triuMphiNg Over adverSity
LISA HEIDKE
ARENA
ALLEN&UNWIN
First published in 2009
Copyright © Lisa Heidke 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The
Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Arena Books, an imprint of
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web:
www.allenandunwin.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Heidke, Lisa.
Lucy Springer gets even / Lisa Heidke.
ISBN: 978 1 74175 583 1 (pbk.)
A823.4
Set in 12/15.2 pt Granjon by Bookhouse, Sydney
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Grant, Josh, Noah and Mia
Contents
L
ast night my husband, Max, looked at me over his half-eaten Pad Thai and, in calm, measured tones, said, ‘I’ve had enough.’
I took him to mean he’d eaten enough dinner. He’s been on a health kick recently, prompted by watching
The Biggest Loser
.
I was preoccupied thinking about our two children, who’d left on a school camp that afternoon, and so didn’t pay much attention as he pushed his plate away, stood up and disappeared out the kitchen door. A few minutes later there was a clatter as he pulled his surfboard from its wall bracket. It’s been a long time since Max has hit the waves. And besides, it was dark. I went to the window just in time to see him reversing his car down the driveway at considerable speed, his bright red board strapped to the roof-racks. Stopping briefly to check for oncoming cars, he screeched onto the road and accelerated off into the night.
It’s now three o’clock the following afternoon. He’s not back and I have a sneaking suspicion (well, not that sneaking really) that he’s not surfing because:
1. It’s a cold August afternoon.
2. Nineteen hours is a long time to stay out waiting for sets.
3. Max has been pissed off for some time now.
The cause? We’re three months behind schedule in our renovation process, and said renovations are taking considerable time - and money.
Max, I hasten to add, is the one who insisted on renovations in the first place. He’s also the one who decreed that we stay in the house during the demolition - now complete - and construction - very much
incomplete
. Instead of the brand-spanking-new kitchen, family room and bathroom we envisaged, the downstairs of the house is a shell, and we spend most of our time huddled in a laundry/storeroom that’s currently doubling as a kitchen and family room. Four people confined to a tiny room in the middle of winter, with a piss-weak bar heater, no hot water and no kitchen is no picnic, thank you very much. The builders haven’t even poured the concrete slab for the new floor yet, there’s an inconsistent flush in one of our two working toilets, and the latest hiccup - a leaking roof.
Bella and Sam, serial school-camp refuseniks in the past, fairly jumped at the opportunity to go to Bathurst and spend their nights in sleeping bags in sub-zero temperatures because the payoff was hot showers, flushing toilets and, conceivably, the absence of bickering parents.
My advice? Be very careful when choosing tradesmen. Do not, I repeat, do not under any circumstances hire someone who drops a flyer in your letterbox and answers to a name like Spud. I did, and . . . well, let’s just say we need to replace the sewer line and no longer have a watertight roof.
No wonder Max has bolted. It’s okay. I’m not hysterical. He just needs time to unwind, to get his head around the mind-boggling cost of Carrara marble benchtops, under-floor heating and the whole ongoing fiasco. He’ll be back.
T
here’s no sign of Max. Along with a suitcase and his favourite clothes, his essential grooming items - his magic Fudge hair cream, nail clippers and Clinique Men’s Moisturising Cream SPF 25 - have also disappeared.
I call his mobile. It’s switched off.
I phone all the larger hospitals. Nothing.
I call the police. They make it clear they think Max has done a runner. Charming. They take down his details. And mine. ‘Just in case.’
I consider phoning his secretary, Sally. But I just don’t have it in me. It’s not that she isn’t nice; it’s just that I can’t face her cheery, mindless small talk at the moment - the weather, the kids, Madonna’s marriage woes, the latest with TomKat’s daughter, Suri. Rumours about Angelina being pregnant. Again.
I pace around the house - the bits I can get to - looking for . . . What am I looking for? A note? Maybe. Something,
anything
, that will help me understand what’s happening, why Max has walked out.
Determined to stay calm, I repeat the he’s-just-stressed-and-getting-his-head-together mantra. The alternative is too horrible to contemplate. But I have to admit to a troubling feeling of déjà vu.
Max had an affair a few years back. It happened at a truly awful time in our marriage, when Sam was a toddler with a serious inability to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time. I admit I became hard to live with. Psychotic was the word Max used at the time. And when I found out about the affair, I seriously considered leaving. But Max was genuinely remorseful: implored me not to go, stressed how much he loved me and how our family meant everything to him. He insisted we could save our marriage if we both worked hard at it. And hey, no one’s perfect, so I forgave him on the proviso we had couples counselling to get our relationship back on track. Despite our Icelandic therapist being difficult to understand - and insisting on our participation in cheery clapping songs at the end of every session - counselling brought home to both of us just how bad our communication had become. I discovered how unappreciated Max felt after slogging all day at work only to come home to a cranky wife. I came to terms with the disgruntlement I hadn’t known I’d felt about giving up my career to look after the kids. We got much better at talking to one another after our counselling. We made a point of going out once a week and making the time to do things together on the weekend. Our sex life improved too. In fact, looking back, we had a good couple of years. Until talk of renovation reared its ugly head.
The truth is, things haven’t been good between us for a few months - as evidenced by Max’s increasingly late nights at the office, his sudden apathy regarding the renovations, and his total lack of desire for me. We used to enjoy spending time together as a couple and as a family. But I can hardly remember the last time the two of us had fun together. Not to mention the last time we had sex.
I’d rather believe Max is just Maxed out and has taken off for an extended surfing holiday than left me for another woman. I couldn’t endure the cycle of betrayal, anger, sorrow and forgiveness again. It’s just too heartbreaking.
Four hours later, I have no choice. I have to ring Sally.
‘Sally, it’s Lucy,’ I say, my heart pounding.
‘Hi Lucy, all packed and ready to fly? I’m
so
jealous.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Max told me about the holiday. I thought you might even have left the country by now.’
‘Just about to,’ I say, pedalling hard. ‘He only told me a couple of days ago and it’s been the most amazing surprise! By the way, Sally, did Max say how long he’d be taking us away for? He’s trying to keep that a surprise too.’
‘He’s told me not to book any more clients until mid-October, so two months more or less, you lucky thing. So, did you hear about the drug scandal at that
huge
movie premiere last night?’
I make small talk until I can escape, then hang up and burst into tears.
Max has left me. He’s really left me.
I can’t believe it. We have two children. We’re halfway through major renovations. We have commitments to each other, our kids, the mortgage. We’re way too busy for Max to just up and leave.
Besides, we love each other. We do. I think back to when we first got together, and how we fucked like rabbits. Max even commissioned a sign-writer to paint a huge ‘I love Lucy’ billboard, then hired a mobile-billboard truck and driver to follow me for the week. That’s love, surely? Yes, we’ve had some ups and downs, but we’ve been doing so well since the counselling. Although that was a few years ago now.
The tears dry up and anger starts to set in. ‘That bastard!’ I yell at the phone. ‘If he thinks I’m going to sit here and sob for him, he’s got another think coming.’
I storm down to the cellar - which, thankfully, has been left untouched by the renovations - choose three bottles of Grange Hermitage - the ones with neck tags that shout DO NOT TOUCH UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES! - and carry them upstairs to our bedroom.