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

hell, so this is what it’s about,’ sneers Max, storming up to us, his face contorted in rage. He slaps a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses down in the laundry sink. ‘No wonder the kids are at your mother’s. I come home begging for forgiveness, hoping we can have an adult conversation about our future - because I have responsibilities and am prepared to make a huge sacrifice for the family, no matter whether it’s what makes me happy. And here you are, snogging this dork.’

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, stepping out into the new kitchen.

‘I could ask him the same question,’ Max says, full of contempt.

‘No, you can’t. He’s a guest. You’re an intruder.’

‘Intruder? This is my house.’

‘I’ll be going then,’ stammers Rock.

‘About bloody time, genius,’ Max snarls.

‘Stay where you are,’ I command Rock. ‘This isn’t about you.’

‘Too bloody right it’s not about him, which is why he should leave,’ Max says. ‘Go and fuck somebody your own age. This tart’s old enough to be your mother.’

I hate Max. Really hate him.

‘She’s not that old,’ says Rock, his temper rising now.

‘It’s okay,’ I say.

‘No, it’s not,’ says Rock. ‘Your honour is at stake.’

‘Honour?’ Max spits. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? She’s my wife. If anyone’s going to defend her ridiculous honour, it’ll be me.’

And then Rock goes for Max, swinging punches at him. Most miss but the intent is there. Max grabs Rock by his suit collar. They crash into the wall and knock over a photo frame Bella put there last night. It’s a picture of Max, the kids and myself, all smiling in one of those school fundraiser shots. The frame falls to the ground and the glass shatters.

‘That’s enough!’ I shout, and stand between them.

I can only assume it’s mortification that forces Max to rethink his position. He asks if I want him to stay.

‘Please leave,’ I answer.

He can’t quite believe it, but thankfully he storms out the back door. Rock and I are left standing in the debris of the picture frame.

‘Another glass of champagne?’ Rock says, finally.

Day 54

Let’s just say things are a little awkward, what with Rock staying overnight and neither of us waking up until after the builders arrive. Thank goodness I have the forethought to throw on flannelette pyjama pants (I’m already wearing a blue singlet), because Sandy confronts me as soon as I step out into the hallway.

‘Seen Rock?’ she asks, eyebrows arched.

‘I . . . I . . .’ I stammer.

‘His car’s here.’ She stares at me, waiting for a response.

‘We had a few drinks . . . he slept in Sam’s bed,’ I say, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl who’s been caught sneaking boys into her room in the middle of the night.

Sandy tilts her head, her expression disbelieving.

‘See,’ I say, as Rock emerges from Sam’s room, his hair dishevelled. I say a quick ‘Good morning’ to him before rushing to the bathroom.

I’m still wet from the shower when Gloria strides into my bedroom with a cup of tea for me. Just in time to see me hand Rock a towel so he can freshen up as well.

‘Hubba hubba!’ she squeals when he’s out of earshot.

‘You should have told me you had company, Luce. I would have made an extra cup.’

I roll my eyes. ‘We had some drinks, Max came around, it got messy. Max left. Rock and I had more drinks. We ordered pizza. He slept in Sam’s room. End of story.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. We didn’t do anything. I’m not interested in Rock.’

‘And Max?’

‘Max and I are finished. There’s no going back.’

‘Well, my dear, seems to me you’re in a pickle. If you don’t want the renovation team filming you, what are you going to do exactly?’

I sigh. ‘We’d better have a meeting with Sandy and Rock and get something sorted.’

‘That’s my girl. I’ll go downstairs and you guys come down when you’re decent. Don’t take too long.’

When I climb down the ladder fifteen minutes later, Gloria, Sandy and Rock are lined up like a firing squad waiting for me.

Good news though - the timber for the stairs has arrived and Patch and his men are putting it together.

‘Here she is,’ says Gloria, beaming and pointing a finger at me. ‘I’ve explained to Sandy that you won’t don a bikini or teeter around on nine-inch heels in a mini and that’s fine -’

‘But hair and make-up,’ interrupts Sandy.

‘Yes, hair and make-up are not negotiable when you’re doing pieces to camera.’

‘But surely -’ I start.

‘Lucy, you’re fine as you are for the random moments, the spontaneous you the camera catches in passing, but for the scripted reality scenes, let’s leave it to the professionals, hey?’ Gloria says, clearly willing me not to speak.

‘They really can work wonders,’ Sandy agrees.

‘Sandy and I just want you to be yourself, Lucy. To talk about the house and how you’re transforming it into your dream home. This is the vision you created for your family - the gardens, the pool, the sweeping views across the valley, you know. The viewers love that . . . but we also need to mention Bali.’

‘Gloria, I’m not using the Balinese tragedy to further my own interests.’

‘Of course you’re not. We just want you to say that you were there. It was awful, the poor Balinese -’

‘It was awful.’

‘I know, I know. We’ll have a hotline where people can ring and donate money to the Red Cross or one of those charities that are big in Indonesia.’

‘Will the victims actually get the donations?’

‘Details,’ Gloria says dismissively.

‘I won’t talk about Max or Alana,’ I go on. ‘The public doesn’t need to know what’s happening in my private life. I don’t want the kids exposed either.’

‘All right, we’ll play it like this. The show will revolve around you and the renovation - your dreams for the house and how it’s all coming together. No mention of Max or his whereabouts.’

‘Good.’

‘In return, you say how you were holidaying in Bali when the bombs exploded,