Lisa Heidke (12 page)

Day 34

‘H
ave you gone barking mad?’ Gloria screeches when I tell her about Bali. ‘It’s that hair, the chemicals, the bleach - it’s rotted your brain.’

‘But we’ll miss school,’ says Sam.

‘What about the germs?’ asks Bella.

‘I thought you both wanted to see Dad,’ I say, admiring my new hair in the rear-vision mirror and making To Do lists in my head as I drive them to their respective sports. We’ll need swimmers of course, sunscreen, passports . . .

‘Bali?’ my mother snaps when I finally find the courage to ring her.

‘Yes, Bali - and don’t try to talk me out of it. I’m taking Bella and Sam too. It’ll be fun.’

‘You’re not going to do anything silly, are you?’ Mum continues. ‘I mean, anything sillier than flying to some godforsaken Third World country with my grandchildren, what with bird flu, drug-smuggling -’

‘Don’t forget terrorists,’ I say, inflaming her further.

‘Exactly. And for what? To chase after your lecherous husband and his silly girlfriend. And just what, please tell me, are you going to do, Lucy, when you find them?
If
you find them, assuming they’re still in Bali.’

While I do have a plan, of sorts, I’m not telling Mum. My information release to her is on a strictly need-to-know basis. I’ve told her we’re off to Bali - that’s as much as she can cope with for now. I have to keep some thoughts private. Plus, I don’t need her ripping my plan to shreds and telling me I’m going to fail. I hear enough of that kind of talk from Gloria.

‘I’ll figure something out,’ I say. ‘In five days’ time I’ll be zipping through duty-free, buying a new pair of hip black sunglasses and several international magazines, and zooming off on that big white bird into the sky.’

Several storage boxes later, I find the kids’ passports. They were done when we almost took a family vacation to Fiji with Max’s secretary/mistress, Poppy. The fucker.

Despite those unhappy memories, I’m feeling rather optimistic about life when I pick up Bella from netball and Sam from soccer. Am singing ‘Walking on Sunshine’, and feeling light on my feet for the first time in weeks. Actually, I feel kind of floaty, like I’m walking on air. I think for a moment and the penny drops. Maybe it’s the antidepressants kicking in. Whatever it is, I’m thankful to be having a good day. To make sure the mood lasts, I take special care not to engage any of the parents in conversation, confining myself to the obligatory nod.

‘Are we still going to Bali?’ Bella asks in the car.

I nod.

‘You’ll get arrested for sure,’ says Sam.

I swing my head around. ‘What? Why would you say that?’

‘That’s what Toby’s mum said. I heard her talking to Oliver’s mum.’

‘When’s your hair going to be normal again?’ Bella asks.

Day 35

‘H
ow can you go away and leave all this?’ Gloria asks on Sunday evening as we huddle in the makeshift family room/kitchen/laundry and I feed her takeaway roast chicken. At least I made the salad myself because we still have a fridge that’s accessible. Just. The room, though, is rather smelly and grubby, and washing dishes in the laundry trough is wearing mighty thin. Gloria looks particularly unimpressed.

‘Aren’t you terrified the builders will disappear while you’re away?’

‘There’s been progress,’ I tell her, poking my head into the new extension and glancing at the junk strewn around the floor. ‘The brickwork’s completed, the gyprock replacing the buckled walls has been started.’ I breathe deeply. ‘The place is really starting to take shape, don’t you think? The stairs have gone. We now have a ramp to access the top floor.’

‘You call that progress?’

I take Gloria on a tour of the new part of the house. ‘See, the electrics and wiring for the kitchen and family room have been started.’

‘Several times, by the looks of all the holes in the walls,’ she sniffs.

‘Sure the electricians have made mistakes with power-point positions but it’s nothing a bit of money and time can’t fix,’ I say, knowing I’m fast running out of both.

‘What happened there?’ Gloria points to some dodgy floor tiles at the entrance to the laundry.

‘They were laid so excess water flows towards the doorway rather than the drain, so they have to be re-laid.’

‘I see.’

‘One day, in the near future,’ I say excitedly, ‘we’ll have a brand-new kitchen and a family room where we won’t have to huddle alongside the washing machine to watch TV.’

‘You keep telling me that, Luce, but I still don’t see any tradesmen. You’ve got to get tough, even if Patch is a potential love interest. Show him who’s boss. Tell him and his lackeys to get on with it.

‘Your hair’s starting to grow on me, by the way. I was a bit frightened at first, but I think it’ll be okay - combine it with a high-protein, no-carb diet and you’ll be back in the big game in no time.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence -’

‘Baby steps, darl. Now, what exactly do you need to do before you head off on this ridiculous search-and-destroy mission?’

‘Well, I’ve ordered more tiles . . . the oven . . . I’ve given Patch a timeline of when things need to be completed by, and he’s agreed. The timber floors need to be laid, kitchen installed, then the painting. I guess there’s a fair bit to do.’ I look around. ‘Except I’m not sure about timber floorboards anymore. Maybe vinyl or cork tiles will be okay.’

I can’t afford timber. It’s as simple as that. It’s just taken me a while to realise I have to lower my expectations.

Gloria rolls her eyes. ‘Cork tiles? You’re joking, right?’

‘I’m going to run out of money soon. I need to economise. And there’s no way I can have marble benchtops in the kitchen. I’ll have to settle for laminex.’

‘Stainless-steel splashbacks, at least?’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

To distract Gloria from making any more disparaging comments, I tell her about my secret Bali plan.

‘I’ll stake out the surfing beaches, and just happen to be standing nearby as Max walks out of the surf. I’ll be looking glamorous in my batik sarong and windswept hair, and as he saunters past I’ll nonchalantly say, “Max, hi . . . I didn’t realise you were still in Bali.” What d’you think?’

I needn’t have asked because Gloria is doubled over laughing.

‘One,’ she says, holding her index finger in the air, ‘please don’t wear a sarong, batik or otherwise. You’ll look positively frumpy. And two,’ she’s actually snorting now, ‘two, there is no such thing as windswept hair when you’re smack bang on the equator. It’ll be so hot and humid, your hair will be constantly stuck to your face and you’ll be begging strangers to shave it off.’

‘I might get it braided,’ I start, but am cut off by more annoying laughter.

‘Don’t. Please, stop. You’re killing me. You and braids?

I’d like to see that! Yeah, go for it.’

‘I might.’

‘Dear Lord above, just say no, Lucy. If the only reason you’re dragging your kids to Bali is to spy on your adulterous husband, forget it.’

‘The kids will have fun.’

‘Not if you’re going to force them to spy on their father. Do the adult thing. Find out where he’s staying, sneak into his room when he’s out with his lady love and put scorpions in his bed. For goodness sake, be grown-up about it.’

‘I already know where he’s staying.’

‘See, there you go. Now you just have to buy the scorpions and smuggle them into Bali. Could be a tad difficult. Where is he staying?’

‘Sheraton, Nusa Dua.’

‘Typical. Tell me you’re not staying there as well?’

‘What? No, of course not. That is, I’ve booked a room -’

‘No, Lucy, you can’t.’

‘And why not?’

‘Because it’s stalking. Besides, think of Sam and Bella.’

Bloody Gloria. Sometimes I hate her. It’s all systems go when it suits her and her harebrained scorpions scheme. But when I come up with a plan - an excellent foolproof plan, I might add - she laughs and tells me I’m a stalker. So much for my good mood and walking on air.

‘I have to see him, Gloria. He has to face me.’

‘Why? He’ll only hurt you all over again. It’s pointless.’

‘No, it’s not. As Dom said the other night, I have to face Max to sort out our marriage. Max needs to see the kids . . . to see what he’s thrown away by running off with Alana.’

‘Dom, hey?’

‘Yes, Dom. I’m allowed to talk to him you know. You’re the one who begged me to get in touch, if you recall. Anyway, it’s no big deal.’

‘I wouldn’t say
begged
.’

Day 36

A
fter dropping Bella and Sam at school, I stop to buy bread and milk at the shops nearby and see several mothers, including Trish, at the café there. No doubt they’re dissecting her woes so they don’t have to examine their own unfulfilling lives, infidelities and inadequacies. I know they’ve been taking her cooked dinners most nights, even though I’m sure Trish isn’t incapable of boiling spaghetti just because her tramp of a daughter has fled the country with my husband.

Am I bitter? Maybe. The thing is, seeing them gossiping and sympathising with Trish about Alana running off with Max makes me feel . . . well, it makes me feel paranoid. Because I know they’re all wondering, ‘Why didn’t Lucy stop them?’ The answer is, because I didn’t know they were running around behind my back. I was ignorant. Blind. Stupid.

Trish spots me standing with my groceries and waves me over to join the group. Practically every mother I know is here, except Nadia. I feel like an intruder who’s accidentally stumbled into a party I wasn’t invited to. Then I realise: I
have
stumbled into a party I wasn’t invited to.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ I say.

No one speaks for a moment, then Emma says, ‘Please join us. Have a scone.’

Have a scone? Who eats scones at nine o’clock in the morning? Come to think of it, who eats scones full stop?

She pulls up a seat beside her and pats it. Reluctantly, I sit.

‘We’re talking about how hard it is to stay married,’ laughs Camel-toe Wendy. Nervous titters from the women seated around her. Realising her insensitivity, she back-pedals. ‘Sorry, Lucy.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ I say, waving a hand in midair.

‘Well, relationships in general,’ she goes on, digging herself further into a hole. ‘You know, power struggles . . .’

‘Still doing Pilates, Wendy?’ Emma asks, changing the subject. (Camel-toe’s certainly dressed for it, day in, day out.)

‘No.’

‘I thought you loved Pilates?’

‘Well, I liked saying, “I’m going to Pilates” or “I’ve just come back from Pilates”,’ says Wendy. ‘But actually I don’t like the class at all.’

Then could you stop wearing the clothes, I think nastily.

‘I got kicked out of yoga class,’ says Dee. ‘Swore too much. The instructor said yoga couldn’t help me, I needed therapy.’ She laughs. The group laughs with her.

‘I can’t stay,’ I say, standing up. ‘Got a few things to organise before I fly out to Bali.’

Trish chokes on her latte. ‘Bali?’

‘It’s time this mess was sorted out.’

I’m shaking as I climb into my car. The school grapevine will be working overtime on that titbit.

‘They mean well,’ Mum says, when I arrive on her doorstep fifteen minutes later.

‘They bloody well don’t. They’re the sort of women who, if I put on five kilos, would be around in a finger snap with a huge chocolate mud cake and a shoulder to cry on.’

‘They cared when you cut your hand.’

‘Only because they thought it was a botched suicide attempt.’

‘A cry for help -’

‘It was a bloody accident, Mother.’

‘The point is, they cared.’

‘Only because they thought I was having a breakdown because Max had left me.’

‘And would that be far from the truth?’

‘Whatever. They only come around because they smell drama, blood and failure.’

At home, the winking red light of the answering machine greets me. There are three messages from concerned mothers. They all begin innocently enough with variations of: ‘Does Bella have the spelling words for this week?’ before moving quickly to ‘Are you sure you want to go to Bali?’ and ‘I’m here for you’.

There’s a fourth message. It’s from Trish. She’s crying, rambling, saying words that don’t make sense. She sounds so distraught I ring her back.

‘My little girl has been stolen,’ she sobs. ‘I’m coming with you - I’ll drag Alana home. Except she won’t listen to me, even if I do find her. Who’s to say she won’t disappear again?’

‘Trish,’ I say when she finally takes a breath, ‘I’ll see what I can find out when I get there.’

‘She won’t listen to you either. All she cares about is Max.’

The words sting. This is the father of my children we’re talking about.

‘Look, I don’t want to get involved in rumours,’ Trish says, sounding serious and seriously tipsy.

‘What rumours?’

‘You know. People talk. They say you’re a self-centred diva and that Max got sick of it.’

‘People? Which people?’ I demand.

‘Just people. They’re saying that it’s a wonder he lasted so long. Not that I’m blaming you, of course.’

Of course.

There’s silence for a moment while Trish drinks from her glass. I can hear the ice cubes tinkling.

Slurring her words, she starts up again. ‘The church runs communication classes for couples, you know. Maybe if you’d come once in a while, none of this would have happened. If you’d kept your husband on a short leash instead of trying to pursue a career. I mean, you must be pushing thirty-six - and old people are so ugly on TV, aren’t they? Not that I’m saying you are. But instead of chasing those dreams, maybe you should have been at home reading up on how to satisfy your man.’

‘Trish,’ I start. But it’s useless trying to reason with her when the vodka’s kicked in.

‘Why do Alana and I have to pay for your mistakes?’ she wails and hangs up.

Vodka or not, Trish is right. It
is
my fault. I couldn’t keep my husband happy, so he found some nineteen-year-old babysitter who would.

When Nadia calls a while later, I’m desolate.

‘Trish is out of her mind with worry. There’s no reasoning with her. I’ve tried,’ Nadia says.

‘But she’s right. Maybe if I’d gone to church, done more counselling, been more available -’

‘Stop!’ she says. ‘Max is the arsehole, not you!’

Still, it gets me thinking. Maybe I am a diva. I should have seen the signs - recognised that our marriage was in serious trouble before Max sought solace in Alana’s slender arms and teenage thighs. Now Alana’s become the one he confides in . . . they’re a team, a twosome. Max relies on her to tell him that there’s goddamn froth on his upper lip or something gross hanging out of his nose. I wonder if Alana kicks him just like I used to, when he snores?

Maybe I should forget about Bali and take the kids to Disneyland instead.