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

We almost make it through. That is, until the metal detector goes berserk over Bella’s hand luggage. Bells ring and several customs officials hot-foot it over to the machine. People behind us, in front of us and all others within a five-kilometre radius turn to gawk.

‘Step to the side,’ orders a surly fellow with a buzz cut and numerous tattoos.

When he unzips the bag, several stainless-steel knives, forks and spoons tumble out. What the fuck? I think and look at Bella. She stares blankly at me.

‘I can explain,’ I tell the official, even though I’m not sure I really can. ‘You see, my daughter Bella - this is Bella,’ I pull her over to join me, ‘is afraid of foreign cutlery so she packed her own - without my knowledge. She can’t stand using restaurant cutlery in Australia, let alone overseas.’ I smile.

Am I trying to flirt with the tattooed security man? I have no idea, but whatever I’m doing it’s not working. The cutlery is confiscated and I’m warned never to smuggle weapons onto a plane again.

Bella cries as the utensils are binned. ‘How am I going to eat?’ she says.

‘You’ll have to use your fingers,’ Sam offers unhelpfully.

I whack him over the head with my new gossip magazine.

‘We’ll figure something out.’ But inside I’m still shaking.

Settled in the departure lounge, I read my magazine. The cover story is about Summer and her ambitious plan to adopt babies from every Third World country. ‘If I could adopt a baby from every country, I would,’ she bleats. Angelina sure started a trend there. ‘I’d like to have ten. Seriously. From all over the globe.’ And she looks serious enough, what with her long blonde mane seductively falling over her face. What happened to the shaved-head look from a couple of weeks ago? Perhaps it didn’t fit the ‘nurturing Earth Mother’ persona; then again, the lingerie she’s almost wearing in the photo hardly promotes that image. Surely, no adoption agency in their right mind would give her a real, live baby to look after? Maybe for a photo shoot, but forever?

Further into the magazine there’s a tiny piece about Gracie Gardener. Apparently, she’s being sued by her ex-husband after enticing him over for dinner, spiking his drink and supergluing his penis and testicles to his abdomen when he was out cold.

Flying over Alice Springs three hours later, my nervous twitching cranks up several degrees. I read a statistic in the in-flight magazine that says one in five flyers use alcohol or prescription drugs to help overcome anxiety. I guess I’m one of those because I’m guzzling a gin and tonic. Although my anxiety’s more about arriving than being up in the air.

Before I left Sydney, Gloria asked me, ‘What makes you think Max will agree to see you?’ Her words play on my mind, even though at the time I told her not to be silly.

‘He has to see me,’ I said. ‘Or he has to see his children, at least.’

Now, I’m not so sure.

What the hell am I doing dragging my kids to a foreign country so I can confront my philandering husband? A year ago, even three months ago, I could never have imagined this was how our first family holiday to Bali would come about. But as I gaze at the endless speckled brown earth below, I realise that I don’t have a choice. I need to go to Bali. Not only to face Max, but so I can work out what the hell to do next. I need to move on with my life.

Sam alternates between playing his Nintendo DS, reading Harry Potter and watching three movies at once. Bella’s still trying to figure out how she’ll cope with foreign germs.

‘What about bird flu, Mum?’ she asks. ‘How will I know it’s that and not some ordinary flu?’

‘You’re not going to get sick. Full stop.’

‘Bali belly?’

‘No.’

Her mind ticks frantically as she lists all the disastrous things that could befall her. Dirty cutlery’s just the tip of the iceberg.

When we’re given our meals, we also get plastic cutlery in vacuum-sealed plastic bags. After much cajoling, the flight attendant gives me another five lots. It’s a good start. Bella’s on a mission to collect at least fifteen sets.

* * *

We arrive at Denpasar at two-thirty in the afternoon. Everyone, including me, ignores the flight crew’s instructions and immediately stands up and opens the overhead lockers. I look around at three hundred hot, weary travellers all frantic to find a pool, a beach, a beer, or all three. Everyone rushes forward as the doors open.

‘Stay close to me,’ I say to Bella and Sam as I get pushed ahead of them.

A searing wall of humidity hits us the moment we step off the plane. The air’s also heavy with cigarette and petrol fumes, making breathing difficult. As we surge into the terminal, the passengers from our plane catch up to passengers being processed from an earlier flight. The huge mass shuffles forward in a haphazard queue to hand over seventy-five American dollars for temporary visas.

Three-quarters of an hour later, we’re waiting at the baggage carousel for our luggage. Security guards watch us, leaning against the concrete walls and smoking pungent cigarettes. An assortment of shrink-wrapped bags ride the carousel waiting to be claimed. Having taken no such precautions with our bags, I suddenly feel insecure. Twenty years is a long time to spend in jail, even if it is the tropics.

I breathe deeply and try to stay calm as dozens of bags circle, none of them ours.

Several long minutes later, I spot our suitcases under a battered pram and an enormous blue esky decorated with red lobster paintings. Why would anyone import lobsters to Indonesia?

As we make our way towards customs, we’re stopped by several Indonesian men in military uniforms. My stomach lurches as one of them leads us to a desk and unzips our bags. He examines my brown tankini and other personal