Authors: Lucy Springer Gets Even (mobi)
Lisa Heidke (6 page)
F
irst thing in the morning, I’m trying to separate frozen bread slices when the sharp, serrated knife slips. I wrap a tea towel around my bloody hand.
‘A likely story,’ says Mum who calls - checking up on me, no doubt. ‘Why didn’t you use the microwave?’
‘It’s difficult to reach, not to mention temperamental. Besides, no time.’
‘Takes ten seconds.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say, and abandon the conversation. My hand’s throbbing. I hope I haven’t cut a tendon.
As I’m driving to school, blood drips down my hand onto my lap and Sam shrieks that I’m going to die. Bella tells him that if I was trying to kill myself, I stuffed up big time. She’s obviously been talking to Mum.
‘Bella, that’s it. No more Foxtel for you,’ I say, swerving slightly too close to the edge of the road.
‘I’m only joking,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘We’re learning all about diseases at school. You know, like how we cut up sheep brains the other day?’
‘What’s that got to do my hand?’
‘Well, unless you take a truckload of antibiotics, the germs will get in, your cut will get maggots and your hand will fall off.’
It’s a relief to drop them off and head for the doctor’s.
An hour later, I’m stitched up and ready to leave when my doctor, a no-nonsense Polish woman by the name of Lina, clears her throat and says, ‘About your hand, Lucy . . .’ She then fires off a series of questions about my state of mind. Seems Bella and Mum aren’t alone in their suspicions about my mental health.
Driving home, I can’t help but think that none of this would have happened if I hadn’t hired Spud. If the renovation hadn’t turned into a disaster, Max wouldn’t have got fed up and gone to Bali on a surfing holiday - without me.
If only he’d turn on his phone we could sort out this mess. He has to come back eventually. I just wish he’d hurry up about it. We have two children, for God’s sake. No matter what he’s going through right now, he can’t leave them hanging indefinitely. Things might be awkward for a while but I’m sure we’ll get back on track again. We always have before.
Patch shows me the new toilet for the ensuite bathroom. For something so extortionately expensive it looks very much like your run-of-the-mill, everyday toilet. I feel dizzy when he hands me a list of questions that need answers in the next couple of days, re flooring, kitchen benchtops, taps and sink.
‘What about the oven and dishwasher?’ I ask.
‘Later. What happened to your hand?’ he asks, nodding towards my bandage.
‘A very sharp knife.’
‘Accident?’
I shrug my shoulders.
‘Hurt?’
‘Yep, but a little pain never killed anyone,’ I say with a grin, glancing significantly at the Global knife block sitting on top of the washing machine. Turning my attention back to him, I continue, ‘You were saying about the new oven?’
‘Yeah, I’m on to it,’ he says, twitching a little.
I walk away, confident I’ve left the impression I could turn on him at any moment because I’m so unhinged.
‘Let’s play Monopoly tonight, Mum,’ Bella says after dinner.
And we do. We eat popcorn, we smile and we are happy.
Sam, channelling Donald Trump, buys a gazillion hotels on the green squares (Regent, Oxford and Bond streets) and the yellow ones (Piccadilly, Leicester Square and Coventry Street), while I’m facing bankruptcy. Bella, in jail, cheers Sam on and doesn’t express any desire for freedom, despite holding a Get Out of Jail Free card. We’re in the middle of what is traditionally (in our house) a very competitive board game. Yet the kids are sticking to the rules and being nice to each other. The last time we played Monopoly, I had to bend the rules significantly to get Bella released from jail. It was either that or deal with the catastrophic consequences - tantrums, name-calling, tears. But this time, Bella’s cheering Sam as he strives for world domination. I never thought I’d see the day. I’m not convinced these are my children.
I
’m admiring Patch’s spectacularly chiselled arms from a distance when he notices me and walks over. Launching into what sounds like a rehearsed speech, he tells me they’re encountering problems with the renovation: apart from rising damp and a leaking roof, they need to do additional excavation before the cement slab can be laid. I tune out. The bloody slab was supposed to be poured months ago. Why couldn’t Patch have foreseen all this and mentioned it while Max was still here?
‘Can you fix it?’ I ask him.
‘Of course, but it’ll cost.’
I flinch. I’m a little nervous that the money’s going to run out - quite possibly sooner rather than later.
Patch has a smile on his face and looks annoyingly happy.
Handsome, almost.
‘Why are you so happy?’ I ask him.
‘I just am. Generally speaking, men are happier than women. We can’t get pregnant, and for us chocolate is just food.’
I nod, but he isn’t finished.
‘We can wear white T-shirts in the rain, no shirts in the sun. Car mechanics don’t lie to us, the world is our urinal and people never stare at our chest when talking to us.’
‘Thanks, I get it now. Men are so much happier than women.’
‘You betcha,’ Patch says. He’s still going as I walk away.
‘We have freedom of choice when it comes to growing a moustache, we don’t need to wax our bikini line, or our legs, we can live with the same hairstyle all our lives . . .’
‘I’m leaving if I’m partnered with Bec again this week,’ I say to Gloria when we arrive at the tennis courts. ‘I can’t bear her bossiness. “Keep your racquet up, Lucy”, “Use your forearm grip, Lucy”, “Lucy, the aim is to hit the ball
over
the net”. Then there’s my hand. I can’t really throw the ball in the air.’
‘All excuses,’ Gloria says and pulls me across the car park.
I’m not partnered with Bec - hurrah! Instead, I’m partnered with the second-most competitive woman in the group: Tracee, with an ‘e’ not a ‘y’.
‘Thought any more about Dom?’ Gloria says as we stagger back to the car afterwards.
I shake my head. ‘Don’t you remember, my therapist said not to.’
‘Thirteen years ago!’ says Gloria, making an ugly snorting noise.
‘Maybe, but we don’t want me becoming “delicate” again, do we?’
‘It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think, lovely?’
‘Whatever. The past should be left in the past.’
‘This time it might be different. Maybe this time around you two could -’
‘Would you just stop? I’m a married woman! And I don’t want to talk about him.’
‘Okay, but I found his website and got his email address -’
‘Enough already!’
But she’s let the genie out of the bottle and I think even more about Dom that night. I’d promised him I’d be there at the airport to say goodbye, but Gloria did the honours in the end.
Would life have turned out differently for Dom and me if I had gone to the airport that day? I doubt it. The only difference is that instead of crying about him in private, like I did, I’d have sobbed in public. And that’s never a good look.
I
t’s the day of the audition for the porta-puppy-potty. One of the women auditioning looks like Jessica Simpson straight out of the remake of
The Dukes of Hazzard
. I’m talking bikini top and short shorts with preposterously high stiletto heels. What the hell is she thinking? Do dogs need to see your backside and toned, tanned calves to do their business?
I glance down at my sheer pink blouse. Perhaps if I undo a couple of buttons . . .
During the course of the audition, several breeds of dog, including an overly excited Great Dane, slobber on me and I have to scoop up
real
dog shit nine times. (I count.)
Afterwards, an attractive young girl bounces up to me. It seems she recognises me from my days on
The Young Residents
, in particular my death scene.
‘That was so cool,’ she trills. ‘I really thought you were dying. ’Cause I saw my nan die - she was in hospital too - and you died exactly like she did, with a final gasp, snort and then . . . nothing. So cool. The way the family gathered around you crying . . . and then your funeral. God! I cried so much.
‘Did you actually have to lie in that box?’ she burbles on. ‘I mean, of course you did - it was an open casket. We saw everything. Nice death dress, by the way. And your husband! What a bastard.’
You don’t know the half of it, I think as I watch a miniature apricot schnoodle take on a German shepherd.
‘Shagging his girlfriend in the funeral home bathroom, while you’re all made up in your best clothes . . . I felt
so
sorry for you. And then the grave scene where your adulterous husband flung himself across the coffin while the band played “I Will Always Love You”. I was like, you prick!’
‘Yeah, well,’ I manage, when she pauses for breath.
‘So have you done any other television shows since then?’
I want to say, ‘I’ve done diddly-squat. My husband has left me and would probably dance on my grave if I died tomorrow. I’m miserable. I need a life. A brand-new life,’ but instead I just smile awkwardly.
My mortification is complete when Gracie Gardener sees me mid-poop-scoop on her way past to do a promo for
Seasons
. I’d thought it was bad when I rushed on stage with one breast hanging out of my dress for the last performance of
Romeo and Juliet
at NIDA, but now I know public shaming doesn’t have to occur on stage or even in front of an audience.
Retrieving the last remaining crumbs of my pride off the floor, before they get scooped up along with dog excrement, I rush to Sam’s school concert. I have canine slobber and dog hairs all over me. But I’m running late and there’s no time to dash home and freshen up.
To make sure Sam sees me, I take the only available seat - in the front row near the stage. Unfortunately, it’s reserved for the principal, who’s not happy when she sees me plonk myself down. The minion who comes over to remove me from the seat nearly gags as she gets close to me and I realise I really should have gone home to shower and change.
After making a humiliating exit from the seat, I stand at the side of the hall for the duration of the concert, self-conscious because the see-through blouse I’m wearing isn’t the most appropriate outfit for the occasion. One of the mothers, who looks like she sleeps with massive curlers in her hair and wears flesh-coloured granny undies, gives me an unimpressed glance. I glare back at her then turn my attention to my son, who, might I say, makes an outstanding singing mountain goat. It brings tears to my eyes. Max should be here for this.
After the concert, Sam’s teacher, Mrs Taylor, tells me Sam said I’d cut off my arm. I show her my hand and the wound and she smiles sympathetically. ‘How did it happen?’
‘Separating frozen bread.’
‘That’s what microwaves are for,’ she says.
Once the kids are in bed, I switch on the computer with the intention of googling Dom. But before I can, I notice several emails in my inbox waiting to be opened. I scan the list looking for something from Max. Nothing. But my heart skips a beat when I realise there’s one from Dom. Sent two days ago. Bloody Gloria, I’ll kill her.
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
[email protected]
Hey Lucy, how are you? Long time, no Hey Lucy, how are you? Long time, no contact
. . .
Gloria somehow got hold of me and gave me your details. Won’t bombard you now with a recap of the last dozen years, but I wanted to let you know I’m thinking of you. Dom.
I don’t bother replying. There’s just too much going on in my life to drag Dom into the mix.
I
t is a truth universally acknowledged that rain causes builders, handymen, plasterers - in fact, tradespeople of all descriptions - to disappear without a trace. This morning, as all of three drops of water fell from the sky, Patch and his team downed tools and scurried away before the sun could reappear. They didn’t know I was watching them, but I was. I have nothing better to do with my time at the moment.
By mid-morning, the rain is torrential and I’m staring out the window at the huge mudslide engulfing our side yard, aka the new family room. The mud room. Any second now, the neighbours will beetle over to tell me their home has been engulfed by our sludge avalanche.
Rain is pouring in through the blue tarp and flooding the laundry/kitchen/family room. Upstairs, the roof is also leaking copiously. Everywhere I turn, there’s foul, dirty water. It’s also bloody freezing.
It was all so exciting when Max and I bought the place six years ago. It wasn’t perfect but I loved it anyway. The gardens alone were worth the money for me. Max kept wanting to renovate, to build ‘the perfect family home’, but I always managed to put him off. ‘It takes a strong marriage to survive a renovation,’ I’d joke, only to have Max reply, ‘We’re perfect candidates. I can’t think of anyone who’s got a stronger marriage than you and me.’
Max is good at charm when it suits him, but in this case he was right. Our early days together were so much fun, filled with unexpected romantic trips - to the Hunter Valley for hot-air ballooning at sunrise; to Melbourne for an overnight sojourn in the Windsor Hotel; picnics in the Botanic Gardens . . . Max and I seemed blessed with happiness. Even as recently as Valentine’s Day this year, Max gave me red roses and Bollinger champagne. (Thanks very much. It was delicious. Pity you weren’t here to share it with me.)
Since Valentine’s Day, it has to be said, there’s been a definite shift. Max’s late nights and early morning starts began before the demolition, but afterwards they really kicked into top gear. When I asked him if everything was okay, he snapped, ‘What is this? An inquisition? You really need to get a life, Lucy, so you don’t keep hammering on about mine.’
So I did - taking up tennis with Gloria, buying a whizzbang sewing machine (still in its box, but I had good intentions), and putting more effort into reviving my acting career. And somehow the crack of distance between us widened into a chasm . . .
* * *
The rain has saturated the linen cupboard and destroyed our wedding album. I should have taken it upstairs when I moved the others. Now, Max’s and my faces are distorted beyond repair. An omen if ever there was one.
I’m mopping up the laundry/living room when Patch pokes his head in.
‘We can’t work here today,’ he tells me.
‘So I gathered,’ I say, squeezing dirty water into a bucket.
‘Yeah, it’s um, like raining. Bummer.’
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve broken down in front of Patch, and I refuse to do it again today. Still, my voice catches when I say, ‘Welcome to my world. There are leaks everywhere.’
‘Come on, Lucy, it’s not too bad. The long-term forecast is for sunshine. Still, I guess those weather guys are wrong ninety per cent of the time.’
‘You had me at “The long-term forecast is for sunshine”.
Why did you have to keep talking?’
To my relief, Patch and two of his offsiders work in the torrential downpour for the next two hours, fixing new tarpaulins to the roof.