Lisa Heidke (21 page)

‘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

F
irst 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 friends 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.

‘You talk to her. She’s your friend,’ Sandy’s saying.

Rock’s not listening. ‘Can we get rid of this sawdust and the paint fumes?’ he asks. ‘They’re really affecting my nasal cavity and voice, even though I change masks every couple of hours. If I lose my voice, I have nothing. So . . . if I’m not required this morning . . .’

‘Listen! You’re supposed to be doing a piece to camera with Lucy, but she won’t wear a bikini, won’t wear a freakin’ mini, she probably won’t even talk for fuck’s sake. And she’s not the only problem. The electrician and the carpenter both promised they’d be here yesterday and both of them were no-shows. It’s a fucking disaster. But everyone just shrugs their shoulders and tells me it’s not their problem.’

Welcome to my world, love, I think.

Am feeling rather smug until Gloria rings me after I’ve dropped off the kids at school.

‘Why don’t you just move in here and be done with it,’ I tell her.

‘Ha, ha. Sandy tells me you’re being difficult.’

‘I’m not fucking being fucking difficult.’

‘No, doesn’t sound like it. Clearly, it’s all in her imagination.’

‘I’m not wearing a fucking bikini!’

‘Could you scream a little louder? I don’t think the good folks in New Zealand heard you. What’s the big problem here? Okay, so don’t wear the bikini, just do a tiny piece to camera with Rock about your marriage break-up, the romantic reunion in Bali, the bombs, your love-rat husband dumping you . . . again . . . yada, yada.’

‘I don’t want to tell the world that my husband left me for our nineteen-year-old babysitter. It’s pathetic and such a cliché.’ I absentmindedly go to touch my missing wedding ring.

‘Whyever not? This sort of thing happens all the time.

You’ll get the audience’s sympathy. Then you can say how you’ve transformed yourself, made a go of your life, overcome obstacles . . .’

‘Gloria!’

‘What? It could happen.’

‘That’s why you got them to use my house on the show, isn’t it? Because of Bali, the bombs, then the break-up, my disastrous renovation . . .’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well, I’m not doing it. You’ll have to cancel.’

‘You’ve signed a contract, Lucy-Lou. Now, if you just up your meds . . .’

‘Shut. Up.’

‘You think I’m being funny, don’t you?’

It’s five in the evening. Bella and Sam spent the afternoon with Max and he’s dropping them at Mum and Dad’s for the night. My parents haven’t said much about Max. Dad, in particular, seems to have his head firmly entrenched in the sand, as if this is a little vacation we’re taking away from each other and not a permanent separation. He’s wrong.

I haven’t gone into explicit detail with Mum about what happened with Max and Alana in Bali, but I’ve given her enough information so she can draw a pretty clear picture.

No doubt she’s in the process of pecking at Max for more information as I sit here on a rickety cane lounge in the garden, drinking wine from an ancient Thomas the Tank Engine plastic mug and contemplating my lonely and miserable life.

The way I see it, I have several options:

1. Renege on the TV contract. Obviously, I’ll have to pay some sort of penalty, which will push me further into financial oblivion.

2. Make up with Max. Allow him back into my house and life. Live from here on in an unhappy compromise, albeit with a swanky kitchen and financial freedom.

3. Kill myself.

4. Kill Max.

5. Finish the renovation ASAP, slap the house up for sale and downsize.

6. Compromise with Gloria on the TV contract; get the renovation finished ASAP, then sell the house - all the while retaining most of my self-respect.

Am thinking option six looks like a winner when Rock appears. I hardly recognise him without his mask and gloves. I glance at his shoes and smile. They’re still covered in socks. Of course they are; he’s standing in my muddy backyard.

‘Rock, take a seat. What’s up? Shouldn’t you be out at some fabulous bar?’

‘I came back for my notes. And I’m over bars. Besides, the press hound me everywhere I go.’

‘But you are the press, aren’t you, strictly speaking?’

‘I’m more than the press, I hope. I write my own lines. And hey, I’ve got a book coming out.’

‘Really? I’m impressed. What’s it about?’

‘Me.’

I almost laugh. ‘This calls for a celebration. Come on inside.’

Rock follows me into the laundry/kitchen/family room, alert for dust and debris. I retrieve a bottle of Croser from the fridge and a couple of glasses. I may be on the brink of financial oblivion but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a sparkling wine now and then.

‘This okay?’ I ask, showing him the bottle.

Rock nods and I pop the cork. I hand him a full glass and lean against the washing machine.

‘Cheers,’ I say, clinking my glass with his. ‘Congratulations. Tell me all about it.’

‘Well, it’s about my ups and downs, life’s triumphs until now.’

He’s all of twenty-five years old. What on earth could he possibly have to say to fill an entire book?

‘So you’ve written an autobiography?’ I say, not quite believing him.

‘Well, not exactly. I started writing, but then the publishers suggested a ghost writer. Besides, I’m too busy. It’s all happening.’

‘Won’t having a book out there intrude even more on your personal life?’

Rock looks at me blankly.

‘Given that you want to get away from your fans?’ I go on.

‘Who said I wanted to get away?’

‘I thought you said you couldn’t go anywhere without people harassing you?’

‘I don’t think people harass me. It’s just that they want to talk to me and touch me all the time. Except you.’

I blush crimson. ‘That’s not true.’

‘Where are your children tonight?’ he says, grabbing the Croser bottle and topping up my glass.

‘Er . . . at my mother’s,’ I say, suddenly realising that asking Rock to stay for a drink when the kids aren’t at home is tantamount to inviting him into a full-time relationship.

He takes the glass from my hand and moves in to kiss me. ‘I want you,’ he gasps.

And while my head is saying ‘No, no, no’, my body, and breasts in particular . . . whoops . . . are screaming, ‘YES’. I want to be held, touched, adored. I want to make love and have a man’s strong hands explore my body.

Then sense clicks in. I’m being ridiculous - it’s a disaster waiting to happen. I only want Rock because he wants me. And I don’t really want Rock. I truly don’t.

I’m in the process of pulling away from him when I hear footsteps.

‘Bloody hell, so this is what it’s about,’ sneers Max, storming up to us, his face contorted in rage. He slaps a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses down in the laundry sink. ‘No wonder the kids are at your mother’s. I come home begging for forgiveness, hoping we can have an adult conversation about our future - because I have responsibilities and am prepared to make a huge sacrifice for the family, no matter whether it’s what makes me happy. And here you are, snogging this dork.’

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, stepping out into the new kitchen.

‘I could ask him the same question,’ Max says, full of contempt.

‘No, you can’t. He’s a guest. You’re an intruder.’

‘Intruder? This is my house.’

‘I’ll be going then,’ stammers Rock.

‘About bloody time, genius,’ Max snarls.

‘Stay where you are,’ I command Rock. ‘This isn’t about you.’

‘Too bloody right it’s not about him, which is why he should leave,’ Max says. ‘Go and fuck somebody your own age. This tart’s old enough to be your mother.’

I hate Max. Really hate him.

‘She’s not
that
old,’ says Rock, his temper rising now.

‘It’s okay,’ I say.

‘No, it’s not,’ says Rock. ‘Your honour is at stake.’

‘Honour?’ Max spits. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? She’s my wife. If anyone’s going to defend her ridiculous honour, it’ll be me.’

And then Rock goes for Max, swinging punches at him. Most miss but the intent is there. Max grabs Rock by his suit collar. They crash into the wall and knock over a photo frame Bella put there last night. It’s a picture of Max, the kids and myself, all smiling in one of those school fundraiser shots. The frame falls to the ground and the glass shatters.

‘That’s enough!’ I shout, and stand between them.

I can only assume it’s mortification that forces Max to rethink his position. He asks if I want him to stay.

‘Please leave,’ I answer.

He can’t quite believe it, but thankfully he storms out the back door. Rock and I are left standing in the debris of the picture frame.

‘Another glass of champagne?’ Rock says, finally.