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

would have happened. If you’d kept your husband on a short leash instead of trying to pursue a career. I mean, you must be pushing thirty-six - and old people are so ugly on TV, aren’t they? Not that I’m saying you are. But instead of chasing those dreams, maybe you should have been at home reading up on how to satisfy your man.’

‘Trish,’ I start. But it’s useless trying to reason with her when the vodka’s kicked in.

‘Why do Alana and I have to pay for your mistakes?’ she wails and hangs up.

Vodka or not, Trish is right. It is my fault. I couldn’t keep my husband happy, so he found some nineteen-year-old babysitter who would.

When Nadia calls a while later, I’m desolate.

‘Trish is out of her mind with worry. There’s no reasoning with her. I’ve tried,’ Nadia says.

‘But she’s right. Maybe if I’d gone to church, done more counselling, been more available -’

‘Stop!’ she says. ‘Max is the arsehole, not you!’

Still, it gets me thinking. Maybe I am a diva. I should have seen the signs - recognised that our marriage was in serious trouble before Max sought solace in Alana’s slender arms and teenage thighs. Now Alana’s become the one he confides in . . . they’re a team, a twosome. Max relies on her to tell him that there’s goddamn froth on his upper lip or something gross hanging out of his nose. I wonder if Alana kicks him just like I used to, when he snores?

Maybe I should forget about Bali and take the kids to Disneyland instead.

Day 37

Holiday doubt kicks in further when everyone I tell is clearly unimpressed. ‘That’s so irresponsible,’ sniffs a mother in the morning kiss-and-drop zone. ‘Taking Bella and Sam to a country with a dangerous travel warning.’

Not as irresponsible as inflicting a ruffled white shirt, thigh-high silver leather miniskirt, textured stockings and lace-up black high-heeled boots on us all first thing in the morning! Love, the go-go dancers from 1966 called. They want their costumes back.

I don’t go to tennis because a bikini wax is in order. But even the beautician harps on at me. ‘There are plenty of other islands - why on earth would you go to Bali, especially with all the political unrest?’ she says as she rips hairs from my vulva.

I don’t want to get into the whole ‘to snoop on my cheating husband’ explanation because I’m not sure whether spying is the thing to go around blabbing to strangers, but nor do I want to tell her it’s none of her business, because she holds the power to hurt and scar me for life. So I just smile politely as she plucks at my pubic hair, while mentally tossing up how this torture compares to giving birth and having pap smears.

The bottom line is: I need to confront Max. For Bella and Sam’s sake, as much as for my own. He and Alana need to face up to their responsibilities. Of course, once they’re both actually back here that’ll create a whole new set of problems, but I’ll deal with them later.

Dom rings in the afternoon demanding to know if I’ve thought about what kind of inanimate object I’d prefer to be.

‘You’ve had long enough to think about it.’

‘I guess maybe a table, a timber table, because it’s where everyone gathers for meals,’ I blather nervously. ‘You can’t lose a table, or forget that it’s sitting in the middle of a room.’

‘Interesting answer. So, what’s new?’

‘I’m going to Bali.’

‘Really?’

‘The kids and I need a holiday.’

‘Really?’

‘Okay, the truth is, after you and I spoke, I got to thinking that I can’t ignore Max and our marriage anymore. I need to sort everything out. You’ve inspired me to do the right thing.’

‘I’ve inspired you?’

‘Yes, with your “Lucy, you need to take control of your life” speech. Anyway, I agree with you. I do need to get my life back in order.’

‘Wow. Okay, so after you confront Max, sort out visitation rights and come home, you and the kids can jump in the car and head down here for a real holiday. You’ll need it. Maybe you could even venture down before you go to Bali . . .’

‘I’m leaving in three days, so, no, I don’t think so. Besides, I look like a two-dollar hooker.’

‘Tell me more!’

‘New hair . . . I might have overstepped the boundaries of good taste.’

‘Still, I’m sure you’re worth ten bucks, at least.’

We banter a bit more, and just as I’m about to hang up, Dom says, ‘Given that you’d choose to be a timber table, do you have one?’

‘Just an old chipboard monstrosity. I’m waiting until after the renovation’s finished to buy a good one. Now, my turn,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘If you had to be trapped in a TV show for a month, which show would you choose?’

‘Current?’

‘Either/or.’

‘No contest. Superman.

’

‘Jimmy Olsen?’

‘Ha, ha. Clark Kent, thank you very much,’ he says with a laugh.

‘Not Superman?’

‘Superman is what I can do, but Clark is who I am - quoted from Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman.’

‘Way too much time on your hands,’ I tell him.

Day 38

The stove arrives. When I unwrap the packaging I see that it’s got an electric cooktop and an electric oven. The order form clenched in my hand clearly states ‘gas cooktop, electric oven’. How hard is that to get right?

I’m furious and, while it’s not Patch’s fault, he gets the blame. Because he’s running six jobs at once and while he may be cute, albeit with a gammy eye, he should be devoted to my job.

‘You need to concentrate on this job,’ I snap at him.

‘I know, love, but so many people want me.’

I snort. But it’s my first giggle of the day and my mood softens.

‘Well, they’ll have to wait until I’ve finished with you,’ I tell him. ‘Seriously, when can we get this thing moving along?’

I am pinning my hopes on the dream that once the renovation