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

as the door bell rings. ‘You didn’t say anything about a host.’

‘But there’s always a host, darling. You know that.’

Less than a minute later, I find out who the host is. Rock. Dear Lord, give me strength. This is the first time I’ve seen him since I left my knickers in his apartment. Shit. I don’t need to be reminded of that night, or that he actually laundered them for me.

‘Thanks a lot,’ I whisper to Gloria while Rock chats to the crew.

‘Come on, so you shagged the guy. He’s hot property. A coup for the show.’

Rock walks over, takes my hand and kisses it.

Remember your acting mantra, I mutter to myself. Professional at all times. At all times.

‘We were so worried about you,’ Rock tells me. ‘But you made it back. Looking gorgeous as always.’

‘Yes, we were all worried,’ agrees Gloria, the smarmy snake. She draws my attention to a tiny woman sporting super-short blonde hair and wearing a Japanese-inspired wraparound print dress. ‘Lucy, this is Sandy, the producer.’

Sandy and I smile at each other and shake hands.

‘Our Lucy’s a trouper,’ Gloria continues. ‘She even visited the hospital in Denpasar in the days after the bombing, offering words of support and encouragement to the victims.’

‘Gloria!’

‘But she doesn’t like talking about it, brings back dreadful memories.’ Gloria sighs dramatically and shudders.

For fuck’s sake, do I really have to be a part of this charade?

A builder I don’t recognise walks by, sending up a cloud of dust. Rock sneezes.

‘I’m allergic to dust,’ he says, eyes watering. ‘How long are we here for?’ he snaps at Sandy, raising his voice above the roar of the chainsaw.

Sandy looks up from her clipboard. (What is with these people and their clipboards?) ‘Show needs to be in the can two weeks, three, tops.’

‘But I can’t be in this environment every day,’ he bleats. ‘I need a mask. And my shoes! These shoes were like fifteen hundred dollars.’

I glance down at his brown leather boots. They’re nice enough, but fifteen hundred dollars’ worth? And they have a heel.

‘I bought them in Milan, Italy,’ he says when he notices me looking. He turns back to Sandy. ‘So, anyway, I’m thinking I can do my pieces from the studio.’

Sandy laughs. ‘I don’t think so. There’s a schedule, and that schedule states all camera work is to be shot on-site.’

‘I didn’t read that.’

‘Trust me, it’s there.’

‘This should be interesting,’ I say to Gloria, and take a deep breath, quietly suffocating on dust particles.

‘Regardless of the schedule, I don’t think my nasal cavities can survive this onslaught every day. Not to mention my throat,’ wheezes Rock. ‘No offence, Lucy, but my voice is my gift and I need to take good care of it.’

Did I really have sex with this man? An image of our night together pops into my mind. Rock’s the first man I’ve been with other than Max for twelve years. Good choice, Lucy. I hope he doesn’t blab to anyone, but then again, why would he? It’s not like we did anything out of the ordinary. He didn’t make me dress up; I didn’t demand that he smother me in whipped cream. Besides, I’m ten years older than him. It’s not really much of a boast to have seduced a wine-guzzling, middle-aged soon-to-be divorcee.

Gloria gives me the eye. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Lucy-Lou, he is handsome. Though . . . is he that colour all over?’

The cameras begin to roll.

Sandy gives her young assistant, Zoe (who’s obviously giving a nod to nineties Goth, with her blue-black shoulder-length hair, pale white skin and black eyeliner ringing her eyes), a list of fittings that need to be chased. Then she drills Patch about his contractors and their commitment to the job. I smile to myself. She sounds just like me. And I’m so glad it’s not me. It wears you down, all that shouting, pleading and cajoling with suppliers and builders.

‘What’s the story with the kitchen sink, and the new staircase?’ Sandy asks Patch, pointing to the ladder.

I feel like chipping in with the background info that the supplier doesn’t care whether my butler sink, imported from France, arrives or not. He’s got my money and so can stall delivery till next year if he wants to. Last week it was the fault of the terrorists in Bali; this week it’s riots in Paris; next week it will be someone else’s fault. But I don’t want to be on camera so I keep my mouth shut.

‘Are wood and nails really that hard to come by at this time of year?’ Sandy goes on, glaring at Patch.

‘The floors have arrived,’ Patch responds, changing the topic.

I go outside to the driveway, where a huge truck is unloading parquetry squares. I want to jump for joy at the sight of my gorgeous floors but Sandy appears and starts directing the camera action.

‘Get Rock over here. We need him in this scene,’ she tells Digger.

‘Yeah, the light’s good,’ Digger says, peering through his lens and adjusting the frame as Rock walks into the picture. ‘Step back,’ he directs Rock. ‘The light’s too harsh - you look a hundred. Quick, come on, the sun’s going to disappear in a tick.’

Rock moves into position as the last of the floorboards are taken off the truck.

‘Bugger that, the sun’s gone.’ Digger shakes his head.

‘Too much shadow. Can it!’

An hour later, I’m watching the walnut parquetry floors, which my mother calls ‘busy’, being laid. They are stunning. Simply divine. I’m in love and am floating on air. I count nine contractors, three cameramen, and Sandy. There’s so much activity, I’m in awe.

‘Ms Springer,’ says Patch.

I’m so startled I jump back and hit my head on the wall.

‘Are you okay?’ he says, taking my arm.

I rub my head. ‘Patch, you’re freaking me out. Don’t ever call me Ms Springer again.’

‘Of course, Miss.’

‘Or Miss.’

Patch sees the camera and glances at his clipboard. He clears his throat and says, ‘Lucy, we’ll need the wall lights you’ve chosen