Authors: Lucy Springer Gets Even (mobi)
Lisa Heidke (3 page)
M
um has finally departed. In the last twenty-four hours she’s shopped for even more groceries, picked up umpteen newspapers from the driveway, and done five loads of washing, which are now dried, folded, ironed and in their rightful drawers and wardrobes. She has also cleaned the pool, changed several blown light bulbs and cooked a microwave lasagne and microwave chocolate cake for tonight’s dinner. Who knew you could do all that in a microwave?
‘Is Dad at a conference?’ Bella asks after Mum leaves.
A conference! I hadn’t thought of that.
‘Yes,’ I say, clutching at straws, ‘and it’s going for a couple of weeks . . . at least.’
That seems to satisfy her - or at least shut her up - for the moment.
As Bella and Sam rummage through their pencil cases and squabble over rubbers, textas and pencil sharpeners in readiness for school tomorrow, I feel like crying. It’s been almost a week since Max put down his fork and calmly said he’d had enough. Enough of
what
? And what sane person could walk out on his kids without even saying goodbye? We’ve heard diddly-squat from him.
I’m struck by a terrible thought. Maybe something
has
happened to him.
I call the police and speak to a Constable Peacock, retelling the whole sorry story of Max’s disappearance. Constable Peacock, who sounds all of twelve, isn’t keen about my suggestion of filing a missing person’s report.
‘Given your husband informed his work that he was taking two months’ leave, I seriously doubt he
is
a missing person,’ he says.
‘Well, he’s missing from his family,’ I insist.
He tells me it’s not a crime for a grown man to leave home.
‘It bloody well should be!’ I start, then stop and think.
‘What about Max’s car?’ I ask. ‘Can I report his car missing?’
‘Sure,’ he replies patiently. ‘You can do that.’
So I do.
Later that night, as Sam, Bella and I huddle over Mum’s lasagne in front of the telly, I tell them about Gloria’s ludicrous pitch about the celebrity archery tournament.
‘Why don’t you go on
Celebrity Overhaul
instead, Mum?’ asks Sam.
‘Or
The Biggest Loser
?’ says Bella.
‘Because I’m not fat,’ I reply to their giggles.
But after they go to bed, I check myself out in the full-length bedroom mirror. Okay, so I’m no Angelina Jolie. But it’s not like I weigh fifteen stone and have cottage cheese thighs either. As I examine my crow’s-feet I wonder if Max might have left me for a younger woman. Max and I certainly have been drifting apart. When we first met, we shared a lumpy double futon and slept huddled together to avoid the uncomfortable bumps and bulges. After Sam was born, we bought a King - some nights it wasn’t nearly big enough.
A
fter yet another day of maddening, circular thoughts, I venture outdoors to pick up the children from school. I almost get lost on the way, what with roadworks, detours and crazy people doing U-turns. Following the lead of those before me, I attempt an outrageously illegal three-point turn near some nasty trenches and get rear-ended by an enormous silver Land Cruiser.
‘What the fuck,’ I say, climbing out of my mangled car.
‘Whoops,’ says the more painfully thin of two emaciated teenage girls.
‘Sorry about that,’ says the taller, almost-brunette one.
‘Look at this,’ I shriek, pointing at my crumpled bumper, dented boot and broken rear lights.
‘Aren’t you someone famous?’ the almost-brunette asks, staring at me, trying to figure it out.
‘I know! You’re in that broccoli commercial: “Make mine broccoli, please, Mum,”’ says the stick, who looks like she lives on broccoli and not much else.
‘Yes, yes,’ I say, enjoying the recognition but not willing to be generous. ‘Have you got insurance?’
‘Sure, like, Dad’s insurance will cover it.’
I roll my eyes. Of course it will.
We exchange information and I get back in my car and limp off to the sound of: ‘Holy moley, Mum’s made broccoli.
Hot and steaming, now we’re beaming.’
Little shits.
Bella and Sam are already on the bus by the time I arrive at school and I have to tap on one of the windows several times to get their attention. Bella gives me a look of horror, shooing at me with her hands. There was a time when Bella wouldn’t take one step onto a bus without me. Now she’s reluctant even to look at me.
The rather rotund driver climbs down from his seat and bellows, ‘Lady, step back. We’re moving out.’
‘But I want my children,’ I say.
Bella continues gesticulating with her hands and several other kids make silly faces through the glass.
‘Seems they don’t want you, lady. And don’t tell me this is a custody thing. I just drive the bus. I’m not getting involved in any domestic stuff.’
‘I just want to take my children off the bus,’ I say in the most authoritative tone I can muster. By now, twenty or more kids and a handful of parents and dog-walkers have ventured over to see what the fuss is about.
He blocks my path as I attempt to get past him. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I say, bumping into him slightly.
It’s crazy how these misunderstandings can escalate so quickly. He says I can’t get on the bus; I politely point out that he’s overweight; he calls me rude (Me? Rude?) and mumbles about reporting me to the principal; I tell him he’s inarticulate . . . Anyway, the upshot is I’m forbidden from approaching said bus driver ever again, regardless of circumstances.
Still, at least I get the kids! Now we can spend quality time together discussing the day’s activities on the drive home.
‘That was
so
embarrassing,’ Bella says.
‘What happened to the car?’ Sam asks.
‘Minor accident,’ I reply.
No one speaks for the rest of the trip.
I don’t think the bus incident is a big deal, but clearly the kids do. To make amends, I take them to the local sushi bar for dinner. Sushi’s their favourite. Mind you, once when I dared offer them raw fish at home, there was anarchy.
‘Mum, we can’t possibly eat that!’ Bella had said, almost gagging. ‘That’s why God created Sushi Trains.’
Despite allowing them a Coke each, and a packet of Tim Tams to share, Bella and Sam hardly speak a word to me until I tackle them in their beds and force them to kiss me goodnight.
T
he kids hate me. The bus driver hates me. Max hates me. Why else would he leave us like this without a word?
First I feel outraged. Then I feel guilty: that I might have pushed him away, that our perfect little family has been wrenched apart, that my children are separated from their father. Then I move on to feeling like a failure: as a wife, a mother . . . and, clearly, as a renovator extraordinaire. I’m living in loser land.
I venture downstairs. There’s no sign of Patch and his unhappy band of brothers.
We have no kitchen and no builders building the fucking kitchen. Surely Max could have stuck it out until the renovations were finished. They were his obsession, after all. I can’t manage without him. I really can’t.
In my more sane moments, I fantasise about my new kitchen with its brand-new gleaming stainless-steel appliances, marble benchtops, huge butler sink, chrome fittings. Ah! It will be perfect. The kitchen I’ve always dreamed of.
Yes, once the mess is cleared and our ‘to-die-for kitchen’ is fully operational, Max will be back. I can’t manage without him. I really can’t. He just needs a break from the hole in the ground we’re living around.
After the kids head off to school, Bella complaining about the shame of facing the bus driver, I drag myself to tennis. I don’t know why I bother. I hate it. I only go because Gloria insists, and turns up each week to pick me up.
I’m partnered with Bec, the competitive know-it-all. We lose four sets out of four. Actually, that’s not technically true. Although the fourth set should be a loss to us, Bec causes such a fuss when the ball ricochets off her head during the final point that the other team agree to play the point again. Bec calls ‘Out’ when the ball is very clearly in and we win. Cheers.
‘I fucking hate tennis,’ I moan to Gloria during the drive home. ‘I especially hate the fucking skorts we’re forced to wear.’
‘No one’s forcing you.’
There’s a long silence, then I apologise. ‘Glors, I think Max has left me,’ I add.
Gloria looks at me and makes a noise of some sort.
‘Did you just say “woo-woo” under your breath?’ I snap.
‘Might have.’
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘I am, and darl, I’m deeply distressed. You would know that if only my forehead was not pumped full of poison.’
‘Gloria, I’m serious.’
‘So am I. Let’s face it, it’s fabulous news, Luce, and about bloody time. We can finally go back to being good friends again.’ She turns to grin at me and her thick mane swings from side to side.
Gloria and Max have never clicked. It harks back to my last four months on
The Young Residents
, which I played out in a coma thanks to a pay dispute between the network and Max, who, at the time, had taken it upon himself to act as my manager. Gloria maintains that Max ruined my career. Max says Gloria and cellulite did. Gloria hates Max. And vice versa. If you ask me, it’s because they’re so alike.
‘He’s too opinionated,’ Gloria always complains.
‘She’s so opinionated,’ Max says without fail every time he sees her.
They were never going to agree on anything, least of all the management of my career.
‘We
are
good friends, Gloria,’ I say, sniffing back tears.
‘You know what I mean. Hey, you don’t think Max has . . .’
‘Has what?’
‘Have any of his habits changed, like last time?’
‘You mean has he upped and joined a gym, bought new clothes and had a decent haircut? No, but he has been on a health kick.’
‘Aren’t we all! For goodness sake, Lucy,’ says Gloria, softening, ‘he’s probably just off on some boy’s own adventure. He’ll tire of it soon enough. In the meantime, we can actually socialise - together. Without him. In fact,’ her eyes widen with excitement, ‘come to a party with me on Saturday night. You’ll have fun and it’ll help take your mind off Max.’
Gloria could be right. I grab the mobile and call Alana, the babysitter. I get her voicemail. Drat. She probably won’t be available anyway. That’s what I get for employing a nineteen-year-old babysitter with a better social life than mine. Then again, she’s gorgeous, lives around the corner, loves Sam and Bella, and is the older sister of one of Sam’s mates. Win-win. I leave her a message.
Gloria’s disappointed I can’t confirm and starts to wonder aloud about alternative babysitters.
‘I am
not
asking my mother to look after them,’ I say, my outstretched arm and splayed fingers almost touching Gloria’s face. ‘She’s spending way too much time at our house as it is.’
‘I don’t care how you do it, but we’re getting you out of the house on Saturday night,’ Gloria says, stopping her car to let me out. ‘And tell me you’ll think about
Celebrity Archery
?’
I get inside to find a message blinking on the answering machine. It’s Constable Peacock. They’ve found Max’s car, which is great. Not so great is the fact they found it in the long-term car park at the international airport.
I catch a cab to the airport car park, charging the fare to our joint American Express card - all of the bills for which go directly to Max’s office. Had he been thinking, he would have removed the Amex card from my purse before he bolted out the door with his oversized Malibu surfboard.
Max’s black Mercedes is parked exactly where Constable Peacock told me it would be - section D, row M. I’m going to enjoy this. Max hasn’t let me drive his car since I accidentally sideswiped a parked truck just after I found out about his affair with Poppy. Max said I did it on purpose to annoy him. Maybe; I can’t honestly say.
I fix up the exorbitant fee - all four hundred dollars of it - with the Amex card and hoon home.
Unfortunately, when the kids see Max’s car parked in the driveway when they arrive home from school, they rush in eagerly calling out for him.
‘So when is Daddy coming home?’ Sam asks when I explain about the car.
I tell him that Daddy has to stay on for an extra couple of weeks after the conference ends. ‘Your dad’s the best in the business so his bosses want him to train the new guys overseas. It’s a big honour.’
I don’t know why I’m being so kind to Max. I feel like telling them he’s stuck in a coalmine somewhere, unlikely to resurface any time soon.
I give the kids toasted ham and cheese sandwiches for dinner.
‘But this is
lunch
,’ says Sam, looking at it in disgust.
‘It’s dinner,’ I tell him.
‘Lunch,’ Bella says.
‘It’s six-thirty at night. This is
dinner
.’
They look at me then reluctantly eat the sandwiches. I guess they decide toasted bread is preferable to no food at all.
* * *
After Bella and Sam go to sleep, I take to my bed. As much as I’d like to consume copious amounts of booze, the thought of feeling even more wretched tomorrow than I do now helps me to resist - just. Wretched, sad, angry, miserable . . .
Where is Max and what is he up to? Is he alone? A couple of years after Max and I married, he said, ‘So I’m never going to be with another woman - naked - ever again?’ The occasion? His thirtieth birthday after maybe a dozen beers. I couldn’t escape the feeling that perhaps he was hoping I’d suggest a threesome. Why am I remembering that now? Because I can’t stop tormenting myself with the idea that Max has left me and is happily ensconced in someone else’s arms. I want to scream, throw things, punch him. But I don’t have a clue where he is.
I
have to bribe Patch and his cronies back to work with a case of French wine from Max’s precious cellar. I also have to promise to answer any house-related questions promptly and desist from abusing anyone using power tools.
‘Well, I don’t like the builders sneaking up on me,’ I say, trying to save face. ‘They seem to be all over the place and they all look alike. I can’t tell them apart, and I’m sick of them urinating on my hydrangeas.’
‘None of my men have ever urinated in your garden,’ says Patch.
I beg to differ.
Then Patch and I squabble over toilet arrangements.
On the subject of toilets, I’ve ordered the Magic Flush 4000. That’s right, the three-thousand-dollar loo that caused a purple vein to throb on Max’s forehead.
Gloria arrives on my doorstep at eleven o’clock bearing Moët and lilies. Acres of lilies.
‘Bit of a mess,’ she says with a sniff as she surveys the disaster area from the millimetre of grass we’re sharing near the barbecue. ‘I’ve been thinking, lovely, now that Max has gone we can really focus on some serious television auditions.’
‘What if he never comes back?’ I say tearily.
‘Good God! The whole idea is that he doesn’t. What do you want a man wasting your time and energy for?’
Patch throws her a dirty look.
‘I’m serious, Gloria. He’s walked out. Who knows for how long? What am I going to tell Bella and Sam?’
‘The truth. Stop whining, girl. As long as you’ve got cash . . . you have still got money, haven’t you?’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Good. I don’t see what the problem is then. You’re better off without him. So are Bella and Sam.’
‘It’s just that . . . I love him. And I can’t live without him.’
‘Nonsense. You sound like a snivelling soapie character. Get a grip. It’s time we updated your website. All the photos we have of you are too staid, too wholesome. The only sexy ones are from when you played Sophia in
The Young Residents
, including several of your television wedding to Dr Andres . . .’
Our wedding was the biggest thing since Lady Di and Charles, being paraded around the country in our wedding finery at mock receptions in every city.
‘The point is,’ continues Gloria, ‘we need to jazz up your image, update your wardrobe -’
‘I like the clothes I wear. So do a lot of other people.’
‘Right. And would those style icons include Camilla Parker Bowles? Seriously, Lucy, you need to show some cleavage. You’ve got boobs -’
‘I’m a B cup.’
‘B, D - what’s the difference? It’s nothing a black Wonderbra and good lighting can’t fix. Come on, you need to get those puppies out there. When you waltz into an audition, no offence, but it’s a shock to casting directors.
After all, they’re expecting sexy Sophia and they get -’
‘They get Lucy Springer, mother, queen of broccoli,’ I say.
‘Exactly, my dear.’
Later that night while brushing my teeth, I glance at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Teeth? Straight, at least. Skin? Okay, given I haven’t been obsessing about it the last week, though somewhat sallow. Could do with a resurfacing peel (or three). Eyes? Clear-ish, but with dark circles under them. Eyelashes? Invisible, but long. Nothing a tint and an eyelash perm can’t fix.
Gloria’s right. A makeover is just what I need. The bones are there - just - and so are the breasts, I guess. But the whole package could do with a hell of a lot of TLC.