Lisa Heidke (20 page)

Day 52

I
keep out of the camera’s way as much as possible. I don’t want to be caught doing something perverse. Luckily, I’m no longer smuggling Grange into my bedroom at all times of the day and night.

But wherever I go in the house, Rock seems to find me. He kind of sneaks up and wham, he’s in my face, like a cold sore that just won’t disappear. And as much as he tries to be positive about this new show and tells me he doesn’t mind at all that he got pulled off
Gateways
for it, methinks he doth protest too much.

‘Really, I was getting bored flying to Europe every three weeks,’ he says. ‘Sure, it was first-class all the way, exotic locations and fabulous food. But that’s not really who I am. I like getting down and dirty.’

I can see so clearly that Rock absolutely hates getting down and dirty, as he so eloquently puts it.

‘I’m having fun. I love renovating,’ he lies, and flicks dust from his navy pinstripe jacket.

An hour ago he threw a hissy fit because he got white paint on his navy Ermenegildo Zegna shoes. The whole neighbourhood within a ten-kilometre radius heard his ballistic rant. Now he’s wearing socks over the top of his shoes so he won’t damage them further. And what about the surgical face mask, à la Michael Jackson, and the gloves? He can’t fool me. But perhaps others aren’t as observant.

‘We’re ready for you now, Rock,’ Sandy calls out to him.

‘Good luck,’ I say, and watch him walk over to where Sandy has stuck thick black masking tape in an X on the cement floor just outside where sandstone pavers are about to be laid.

‘Are you going to take those socks off?’ she says. ‘And the mask and gloves?’

‘Give me half a chance.’ He bends over and starts removing his socks. As he stands back up he glances over his left shoulder. ‘Do those flecks of dust look like dandruff to you?’ he asks Sandy.

‘What? I can’t see anything.’

‘Are you blind? The white flecks. They’re multiplying on my arm as we speak.’

Zoe, who’s doubling as the hair and make-up person, attempts to brush him down.

‘You need to tone down his tan, as well,’ Sandy tells Zoe.

‘I don’t need you touching my face!’ Rock yells as Zoe approaches him with a damp face cloth. ‘What I need is a proper studio where there’s no dust. I haven’t even had my double decaf soy latte this morning. I really don’t know how you expect me to work in these Third World conditions.’

‘We’ll try to keep the dust down to a minimum, mon,’ says Joel as he walks past carrying three huge sandstone pavers. Jeez, that guy’s strong.

‘Thanks,’ Rock says. ‘That’s all I’m asking. We’re all professionals here.’

‘Rock is so not suited to hosting this show,’ I tell Gloria. I’m on my mobile in the new bathroom - I’ve locked myself in for some peace and quiet. ‘And I’m not just saying that because I slept with him. He totally hates this gig.’

‘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.

‘Is 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.