Lisa Heidke by Lucy (mobi) (book club reads TXT) 📗

. . . 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: LucySpringer@xbox.com

From: DomDelahunty@littlepond.net

DomDelahunty@littlepond.net 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.

Day 18

It 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