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

When Nadia and I arrive at The Pickled Herring the others are already seated and drinking wine. Thankfully, Trish isn’t there. I haven’t seen her since before I went to Bali, and after our last conversation, where she accused me of destroying her daughter’s life, again, I don’t want to. Still, I ask Nadia how Trish is doing.

‘Withering under the stress. She’s down to about forty-three kilos and the blue veins on her neck are sticking out.’

I accept a glass of wine from Emma and sit quietly for the first ten minutes, just listening to the conversation.

There’s the usual school gossip: the bulk of last Tuesday’s tuckshop money going missing; a certain silver-headed P&C committee member letting the power go to his head and wanting to take over the school; Harry Mackenzie’s dad driving a new silver Jaguar - thanks to drug money, so rumour has it. There’s also whisper of a hush-hush campaign to rid the school of the principal. Good luck, I think. She’s been there twenty years and the new centenary school hall is named after her. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing trying to vote her out, given that she thinks I’m peculiar. I just think it’d be easier bringing Elvis back to life.

‘What about Soon Yi and his purple hair?’ Dee says, shaking her head. ‘And there’s that new Steiner kiddie in Ben’s class . . .’

‘There’s definitely a radical element creeping in,’ says Lizzie, lightly touching Dee on the arm. ‘Soon we’ll have gays teaching our children!’

Heaven forbid.

‘And don’t you think there should be a rule about suitable clothing attire when picking up the kids?’ Dee says. ‘Those bottom-gate mothers can dress in rags, but tracksuits should definitely not be worn at the top gate. It’s the main entrance - the showpiece of the school.’

Wendy looks decidedly uncomfortable.

Imagine if they knew I sometimes drove my kids to school wearing pyjamas. At least I did before the threat of tradesmen at my doorstep, first thing in the morning.

It isn’t long before the conversation turns to the real point of this little gathering . . . ME. Dissecting my troubled life. I think longingly of old times and discussions of rostered sex lives.

‘Lucy, you poor thing, I’d want to kill him,’ Lizzie says. ‘Imagine . . .’ she lets the word hang in the air ‘. . . the humiliation, the mortification, the shame you must be feeling.’

Smiling weakly, I say, ‘I’m thinking of hiring a hit man to take Max out - you know, professionally, so there’s no slip-up and no evidence.’

Nadia laughs and slaps my arm, but the others just stare at me, mouths gaping. These women. Don’t they get it? I have to make jokes about my life or I’ll cry, and once the tears start there’ll be no stopping them.

‘Joking,’ I say. ‘Though, really, how much worse can things get?’

Seconds later, the waiter trips and tips a full chicken caesar salad into my lap. I scrape egg and anchovy off my pants while the waiter flaps about ineffectually.

‘Maybe it’s God’s way of telling you something,’ says Lizzie.

‘Like what? This restaurant has the clumsiest waiter in the world?’

Jesus, it’s incredibly disappointing if a salad in my lap is God’s way of telling me something in my life is amiss. I feel wretched and small. Tears trickle down my cheeks.

‘We’re all here for you, you know,’ Wendy says, patting me on the back.

‘But maybe you shouldn’t have assaulted the old lady,’ Lizzie adds.

That’s it. I’m out of here. I stand and shake the last bits of lettuce to the floor.

‘I promise I won’t say a word if anyone rings me for a comment,’ Lizzie goes on.

I nod, thinking, why on earth would they do that? Then I realise that’s exactly what magazine writers do.

‘Have they been calling other people?’ I ask. I so do not want to hear the answer to this question.

‘Well, I think they called Trish,’ Lizzie says tentatively, ‘when she was having a bad day. They might have weaselled something out of her.’

‘What exactly?’ Nadia says. ‘Trish had no right to speak to them.’

Lizzie looks worried. ‘I’m only telling you what Trish told me. She talked to them about Lucy, Max and Alana.’

‘What did she say?’ I ask, slumping back onto my seat.

‘I think she might have said there was a time when you appeared more intent on resurrecting your acting career than taking care of your family.’

‘Which, we all know,’ says Dee without a trace of irony, ‘is why women were put on earth in the first place - to have children and take care of our husbands.’

I have no idea whether Dee’s joking or just a complete idiot. Maybe she’s a Mormon lesbian. It doesn’t matter. I have to leave quickly before I stab everyone in my immediate vicinity with a dinner knife and then go to jail for the rest of my life. Alternatively, I could run outside and throw myself under a bus. But that might prove messy, and what if I wasn’t killed outright but had to be hooked up to life support and live in a vegetative state for the next twenty years? Imagine the burden on Bella and Sam, and Mum. Even Gloria.

‘Maybe lunch wasn’t such a good idea,’ Emma says quietly.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say, picking up my bag off the floor. I open my wallet, throw forty dollars on the table and walk out.

Nadia catches up with me on the pavement, where I’m standing arm outstretched hailing a cab.

‘Can I drive you?’ she asks.

‘Thanks, but I’d rather you stayed. Ring me later and tell me how badly I fared.’

She gives me a hug and goes back inside.

I’m angry and pissed off. My chest is tight, so tight it’s threatening to explode at any moment. I’m not the one who had the affair with the teenage babysitter. So why am I the one who’s being forced to stand trial? Because everyone blames me for not satisfying my man - I couldn’t keep