Authors: Lucy Springer Gets Even (mobi)
A
fter a particularly bad night’s sleep, I take myself off to Lina, my doctor, and blubber that Max has left me, my builders never turn up when they say they will and I want to run away to a
happy
place where no one will ever find me.
She nods sympathetically and offers me antidepressants.
‘No, thank you,’ I tell her in my most indignant tone.
‘How’s your hand?’ she asks, poking it and examining where the stitches have dissolved.
‘Much better.’
‘No more accidents with knives?’
‘No, of course not.’
After a physical check-up and a bit more chat, Lina asks again if I’d like antidepressants. ‘Just until you’re feeling better.’
This time I say yes.
When the kids get home, Bella has a serious freak-out about the dust, and I can’t blame her. It’s horrific. I wonder if the builders sprinkle it everywhere to see how far they can push us before we all have a breakdown.
I’m relieved to put the kids to bed so I can have some time alone. I’m feeling so depressed, I wonder if I really am on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I’ve been trying so hard to stay strong and in control for the children, to avoid falling into a heap every other day. There seems to be a sort of unwritten rule between the three of us that we don’t mention Max. He’s become the big fat elephant in the room who nobody talks about.
I know it’s not good parenting to hide the truth from them, but the truth is, I’m having a really hard time dealing with the fact that my husband’s left me for a nineteen-year-old, for Christ’s sake. Even harder is watching Bella and Sam being so grown-up about this horrible ordeal. They clearly miss him. He is their father, after all.
Nadia suggested I should talk to her lawyer, check out my options. But I’m not ready for that yet. It sounds so final.
I
think I’ve been too patient with the builders, Patch in particular. He always has an excuse for why there hasn’t been more progress. ‘I’m sorry to complain,’ I tend to begin most conversations, when in fact I’m seething with fury. The builders have a job to do and they’re being paid well for it. They’ve completely blown out their initial time estimate and I’m over it.
I start writing a whinge list.
1. No feature tiles used under capping in bathroom, which I specifically purchased two months ago. It set the tiler back two weeks because he had to take away the capping, breaking several dozen pre-existing tiles in the process.
2. We still only have one toilet because we surrendered the second one to the builders after I walked in on Joel sitting on the loo upstairs. I still can’t erase the image from my mind. (Since then, Gloria’s taken to calling him Creepy Joel, convinced he’s on the run from Jamaica. The way that woman’s mind works!) Anyway, after that, I relented and agreed that Patch should install a portaloo for the tradesmen. It is still to appear.
3. Builders working with shirts off, nude from the waist up. It’s illegal and contravenes the industrial relations code. Sure, I don’t mind the younger, muscular ones but the over-forties with their flabby guts? I don’t think so. Whenever I mention this to Patch he laughs and asks if I want to see his chest.
4. New fire alarms, purchased weeks ago, are yet to be installed.
I’m staring up at a leaking skylight, ready to write that down too, when Patch walks by.
‘What’s that about?’ I ask him, pointing upwards.
‘The roofer didn’t get to finish the flashing.’
‘I can see that. Water’s still leaking everywhere.’
‘His mother died,’ Patch says, without a flicker of a smile.
I laugh. ‘At least have the decency to tell me the truth.’
‘It’s true, I swear. I didn’t believe it myself until I read the old bird’s death notice in the paper. I’ll get you a copy if you like.’
‘I’m sorry about the roofer’s mother, but could you get someone else to finish the job?’
‘I can, but it’ll cost. Good tradesmen are impossible to find.’
‘Tell me about it. Could you possibly get it fixed before it rains again, please?’
‘Aye, aye, Captain.’
I follow Patch outside. ‘And why can’t the tiler complete the tiling around the outside of the verandah? It’s only half-finished. What about the rest of it?’
‘Ran out of tiles.’
‘What are they?’ I ask, pointing to several soggy cardboard boxes of tessellated tiles stacked in a mud patch near the side fence.
His beady brown eye glares at me.
‘And while we’re talking tiles,’ I go on, unflinchingly, ‘can you tell me why the tiles that lead from the laundry to the storeroom are a different colour than I specified?’
I make him walk back inside with me by pushing him firmly in the back. He thinks it’s amusing.
‘See, they’re plain white, not black and white as we agreed,’ I say. ‘They’ll need to be pulled up and done again with the correct ones.’
‘Good luck telling the tiler that,’ Patch says, and meanders off.
T
he pool’s completely green and I don’t know how to drain it. Even the mozzies are boycotting it. Any moment, I’m expecting a large flock of migrating geese to land, under the delusion they’ve found Nirvana.
‘I’m feth up,’ I tell Gloria when she turns up with curries for dinner. ‘I’m thick of thith houth . . . and efthing.’
‘Have you heard anything?’
‘Of courth not,’ I whisper. ‘He and Alana have dithappeared.’
‘He’s got to resurface eventually.’
‘What’s on your teeth, Mum?’ Bella asks, appearing at the smell of food. ‘You look like Bucky Beaver.’
‘That’th enough, Ithabella,’ I say.
‘She’s right, you know,’ says Gloria, peering at my mouth through her oversized J.Lo reading glasses. ‘And you sound terrible.’
‘They’re thtick-on whitening thtripth.’ Realising the futility of them, I pull the strips off.
‘Thank God. I guess you’re trying,’ Gloria says, ‘but you look seriously ill, girl. I keep telling you, we need to repackage and relaunch you. We need a bright new Lucy Springer - of course, you’ll still be you, darl, only better.
Let me make you a star again. Maybe even get you a hosting gig on one of those lifestyle shows -’
‘I wish you’d stop asking me to auditon for ridiculous celebrity dating and dancing shows,’ I tell her. ‘Do you really think Max has gone . . . forever?’
‘Why are you so opposed to taking dance lessons? Reality dance shows are huge. Huge! Especially in Israel. The sooner you learn the quickstep, the cha cha, and the paso doble . . . No, I don’t think Max has gone forever, unfortunately. He’ll be back.’
P
atch bounds up to me at seven-thirty-five in the morning to inform me that the concrete slab is being poured today.
‘About time,’ I snap. ‘There’s still a hell of a lot to do.’
He stares at me.
I unfold the notes I’m holding in my right hand and clear my throat before reading aloud my list. ‘Like, start the kitchen, install light fixtures, install and finish new hardwood floor, scrape old paint off ceiling boards, paint ceiling . . .’ I sneak a look at his stunned face.
‘Just give me the list,’ he sighs.
He glances through it, all seven pages, and says, ‘All in hand, Lucy. All under control. I promise the team are devoting themselves to your house until the job’s finished.’
Victory. That’s all I wanted to hear.
‘Are you sure you want parquetry, Lucy? Polished concrete floors are very popular these days.’
I go inside and dig out an enormous packet of Darrell Lea chocolate bullets I’ve hidden from myself at the back of the laundry cupboard and devour them. And, for the first time in weeks, I feel somewhat happy.
The concrete takes, oh, seven hours to pour, give or take an hour or two. There are cement droppings all over the yard, but I’m not going to complain. At least we have a solid foundation and that means floorboards can’t be too far away. (Polished concrete? As if!)
When Bella and Sam arrive home, Bella casually mentions that it was Sam’s news day.
‘That’s nice,’ I say as I’m serving afternoon tea - lamingtons from the family-owned bakery around the corner. ‘What did you talk about, Sam?’
Sam kicks Bella but doesn’t speak.
‘Sam’s news was that Dad’s left us and you’re getting a divorce,’ says Bella, spitting coconut as she speaks. ‘Everyone was talking about it in the playground at lunchtime.’
‘Is that true?’ I ask Sam.
‘Yeah, but Mrs Taylor wouldn’t let anyone ask questions at the end.’
I guess I should be very grateful to Mrs Taylor.
I tell the children that of course their father and I aren’t divorcing, but that he
is
having some time out from his life. I also mention to Sam that what happens at home should perhaps be kept at home, rather than announced to the entire school community. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we made it into the school newsletter this week.
* * *
Late in the afternoon a courier arrives with tap shoes. Black. My size. A present from Gloria. I throw them into the laundry/kitchen/family room. It’s getting crowded in there.
L
ast night I dreamt about dancing, or rather, attempting to dance and stumbling as disfigured clowns surrounded me, laughing. Then I dreamt I was on a tennis court wearing tap shoes and Bec was screaming at me to ‘Chase the ball, club foot!’ Just the way to start a Tuesday.
I walk around the house inspecting the new concrete slab and checking on the general progress. There are at least six builders here. Most are short and stubby with vile builder’s cracks shouting ‘Hello’ to the world, but I don’t mind. There’s also a portaloo at the side of the garage. Extraordinarily unattractive, but at least my complaints are being taken seriously.
‘Any clones about?’ Gloria asks when she arrives to take me to tennis.
‘Out there, look.’ I say, pointing to Tom and Ted who are manoeuvring a long plank of wood through a narrow pathway. ‘I can’t see a single genetic difference between them. You know they complete each other’s sentences?’
‘Really?’ says Gloria, unimpressed.
‘Do you not find it odd? Freakish even?’
‘Lucy, I keep telling you, you need to get out more.’ She walks outside and stands in front of them. ‘I’m Gloria.’
They both look up at the same time. ‘Ted.’
‘Tom.’
‘Twins, hey?’ Gloria says.
‘Singleton, hey?’ T answers. ‘You’re not going to ask who’s older are you? Or which of us is the evil twin?’
‘Of course not.’ Gloria snorts as we walk to her car. ‘I thought you said they were nice. Singleton indeed!’
Returning home three hours later, I find the house deserted except for a lone spotty, gangly apprentice, Ben. He’s all of sixteen years old. Why couldn’t Alana have run off with him?
I say ‘Hi’ and walk outside to call Patch on his mobile.
It’s switched off. I march straight back inside.
‘Ben, do you know where Patch is?’
Ben shrugs his shoulders and flicks the ash from his cigarette right about where my new kitchen bench should be. Any advance on a shrug of the shoulders, I wonder?
I wait. He finishes his cigarette and says, ‘My bet is, he’s at Station Street.’
‘Station Street?’
‘Yeah, the old lady was getting stroppy that the job wasn’t finished, so he high-tailed it over there.’
Armed with that information, I can do one of three things:
1. Wait for Patch to call me, if and when he deems fit.
2. Slump in a chair fuming, and get angrier by the second, but ultimately achieve nothing.
3. Get in my car, drive over to Station Street and kill him.
Being the new confident me, I choose option three.
Patch is arguing with a very dirty plumber when I arrive at a Federation home in Station Street ten minutes later.
‘I thought you said your focus from now on would be my house,’ I say, trying to control my rising temper.
‘It is. It’s just that -’
‘No, there’s no “it’s just that”, Patch. We have an agreement. I’ve been trying to call you on your mobile.’ I wave my phone in front of him.
‘Lucy, I’ll be there when I can.’
‘We’ve got a lot to discuss,’ I say.
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the new working timetable you promised me. When is my timber floor going to be laid for starters? The place looks like a pit.’
‘Delay on the wharves, what with all the terrorist activity.’
‘What bloody terrorists? Don’t blame factional fighting in some Third World country for your incompetence.’
‘Hurricane in South America?’
I glare at him.
‘All right, all right. I’m waiting for the gyprockers to finish, but they can’t finish until the electricians finish wiring, and the electricians can’t finish wiring until the council inspector okays it all. And he happens to be having a rostered day off today and won’t be back on the job until tomorrow.’
‘And this inspector is coming to my house tomorrow?’
‘More likely a couple of days . . . What I’m saying is, my boys are ready to go, but external forces are holding us up. I must say, though, I like the new assertive Lucy Springer. There’s a fire in your eyes - it’s kind of . . . sexy.’
I shake my head. ‘Nice try. But the new assertive Lucy isn’t going to stand for any more gibberish or flattery as a means to get around her.’
‘Gibberish? Why, I’d never be so bold,’ he says, grinning.
‘Come on, Patch. Isn’t there anything you guys could be doing?’
He shrugs his shoulders. ‘We’re waiting on knobs,’ he manages.
‘Story of my life,’ I tell him.
T
onight, Mum insists on taking Bella and Sam so that I can ‘get my head together’. No doubt she’s force-feeding them baked lamb and roasted vegetables, but that’s not such a bad thing. Unfortunately, I let it slip to Gloria that the kids are spending the night at Mum’s so she’s adamant we go out and drown my sorrows on overpriced bubbly.
Because I don’t really feel like going, I choose a bar too close to home. It’s not much fun. Even though the place is packed, it’s full of sensible suburban couples wearing sensible shoes, sipping sensible spritzers and being ever so careful not to get drunk and fall flat on their sensible faces. I recognise several parents from school, including Lizzie and Dee who are talking animatedly together at the bar. Still, I’m surprised to see how many people have social lives on a Wednesday night. Or maybe I just need to get out more.
‘Have you considered writing your autobiography?’ Gloria says.
‘And what would I write, exactly?’
‘Your battle with depression, addiction, mental illness -’
‘I haven’t had any of those.’
‘Really?’ She’s unconvinced. ‘What about family dysfunction, your affair with a cross-dresser who turned out to be your uncle, that sort of thing?’ She smiles benevolently and hugs her wine.
‘Gloria!’
‘Just trying to get you back in the headlines. It worked for Mikki Mansell. You remember her - the drug-addled bulimic whose career nosedived after her ill-fated affair with that transgender American fellow, old whatshisname? Anyway, once she announced she was adopting a tsunami orphan from Sri Lanka -’ Gloria snaps her fingers. ‘Bingo! She was hot property again.’
‘Is she really going through with that?’
‘Of course not, but she and a photographer friend of hers flew over to the orphanage, tossed around a few sweets, mentioned adopting a “swag of children from war-torn and weather-ravaged countries” à la Angelina, and wham-bam-thank-you-mam, life’s sweet.’
‘How you can live with yourself . . .’
‘Publicity, that’s what it’s all about. What about your husband running off with the babysitter and you finding true love with the one-eyed builder? You know he’s keen on you. People love a romance, especially a celebrity romance, and if there’s a disability thrown in - well! Just think of the possibilities, Lucy-Lou.’
‘I’m not sleeping with Patch and there
is
no romance.’
‘As if that matters. You’ve got to write about something. Gay father? Hermaphrodite brother? A self-help book? You went through a numerology phase, didn’t you?’
‘I’m finished, aren’t I? You can’t get me any decent auditions, that’s what you’re saying. It’s over.’
‘I wouldn’t say that exactly, but you saw the Logies, love-bug. The starlets are all eighteen-year-old tanorexics.’
‘I know. I wanted to grab their pert breasts and tell them how far they’ll fall. Gravity gets us all in the end.’
‘Fantasies aside, we need something to remind people what a bombshell you could be - though losing weight, getting a decent haircut and having your toenails clipped and painted would really help me out here.’
Gloria’s bright idea is to start by taking me to another bar halfway across town. I check my watch. It’s only just past nine o’clock. Even I think that’s too early to go home, especially to an empty house.
‘Come on,’ Gloria insists. ‘It’s just opened, and it’s hip and hopping.’
Twenty-five minutes later, she leads me past a burly bouncer, through a narrow door (perhaps to keep out the obese) and up some stairs to a dimly lit room. It’s packed. Thump-thump music is pumping. The crowd is young, groovy and attractive, all throwing back their glorious manes, laughing deep, throaty laughs and drinking attractive citrus cocktails. It’s mere minutes before I see Rock in his designer suit and obvious fake tan. He looks a little like a tandoori chicken. Several groupies cling to him. He buys me a drink and I play hard to get for . . . oh, all of twenty-two seconds.
Gloria dances past me with not one but three handsome men in tow. ‘Take life with a grain of salt, a wedge of lime and a shot of tequila,’ she says, and swigs from a glass.
Why the hell not, I think, as Rock and I boogie on the dance floor to ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ (it’s retro night, apparently). I must say, I’m impressed with his young bod and the way he moves. Rock might even make it onto
Celebrity So You Think You Can Dance.
An hour later, a combination of his suggestive dance moves, alcohol and eighties tunes leads me to eagerly agree when Rock suggests we go back to his place.
Going home with a handsome minor celebrity to avenge herself on her cheating husband isn’t the worst thing a woman can do. See, Max, I can get laid as easily as you can. And it’s great for my ego. Rock’s kissing me on his worn-out futon and telling me how much he wants me. He’s a good kisser - maybe not as good as Dom, but good enough. Where did that bloody thought about Dom come from? I’m not thinking about Dom! It’s Rock lying above me, Rock putting his tongue in my ear - oh!
‘Oh baby,’ Rock’s cooing, his mouth now at my naked breasts. I stop thinking altogether and give in to the momentary pleasure.