Authors: Lucy Springer Gets Even (mobi)
H
oliday doubt kicks in further when everyone I tell is clearly unimpressed. ‘That’s
so
irresponsible,’ sniffs a mother in the morning kiss-and-drop zone. ‘Taking Bella and Sam to a country with a dangerous travel warning.’
Not as irresponsible as inflicting a ruffled white shirt, thigh-high silver leather miniskirt, textured stockings and lace-up black high-heeled boots on us all first thing in the morning! Love, the go-go dancers from 1966 called. They want their costumes back.
I don’t go to tennis because a bikini wax is in order. But even the beautician harps on at me. ‘There are plenty of other islands - why on earth would you go to Bali, especially with all the political unrest?’ she says as she rips hairs from my vulva.
I don’t want to get into the whole ‘to snoop on my cheating husband’ explanation because I’m not sure whether spying is the thing to go around blabbing to strangers, but nor do I want to tell her it’s none of her business, because she holds the power to hurt and scar me for life. So I just smile politely as she plucks at my pubic hair, while mentally tossing up how this torture compares to giving birth and having pap smears.
The bottom line is: I need to confront Max. For Bella and Sam’s sake, as much as for my own. He and Alana need to face up to their responsibilities. Of course, once they’re both actually back here that’ll create a whole new set of problems, but I’ll deal with them later.
Dom rings in the afternoon demanding to know if I’ve thought about what kind of inanimate object I’d prefer to be.
‘You’ve had long enough to think about it.’
‘I guess maybe a table, a timber table, because it’s where everyone gathers for meals,’ I blather nervously. ‘You can’t lose a table, or forget that it’s sitting in the middle of a room.’
‘Interesting answer. So, what’s new?’
‘I’m going to Bali.’
‘Really?’
‘The kids and I need a holiday.’
‘Really?’
‘Okay, the truth is, after you and I spoke, I got to thinking that I can’t ignore Max and our marriage anymore. I need to sort everything out. You’ve inspired me to do the right thing.’
‘
I’ve
inspired you?’
‘Yes, with your “Lucy, you need to take control of your life” speech. Anyway, I agree with you. I do need to get my life back in order.’
‘Wow. Okay, so after you confront Max, sort out visitation rights and come home, you and the kids can jump in the car and head down here for a real holiday. You’ll need it. Maybe you could even venture down before you go to Bali . . .’
‘I’m leaving in three days, so, no, I don’t think so. Besides, I look like a two-dollar hooker.’
‘Tell me more!’
‘New hair . . . I might have overstepped the boundaries of good taste.’
‘Still, I’m sure you’re worth ten bucks, at least.’
We banter a bit more, and just as I’m about to hang up, Dom says, ‘Given that you’d choose to be a timber table, do you have one?’
‘Just an old chipboard monstrosity. I’m waiting until after the renovation’s finished to buy a good one. Now, my turn,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘If you had to be trapped in a TV show for a month, which show would you choose?’
‘Current?’
‘Either/or.’
‘No contest.
Superman.
’
‘Jimmy Olsen?’
‘Ha, ha. Clark Kent, thank you very much,’ he says with a laugh.
‘Not Superman?’
‘Superman is what I can
do
, but Clark is who I
am
- quoted from
Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman
.’
‘Way too much time on your hands,’ I tell him.
T
he stove arrives. When I unwrap the packaging I see that it’s got an electric cooktop and an electric oven. The order form clenched in my hand clearly states ‘gas cooktop, electric oven’. How hard is that to get right?
I’m furious and, while it’s not Patch’s fault, he gets the blame. Because he’s running six jobs at once and while he may be cute, albeit with a gammy eye, he should be devoted to my job.
‘You need to concentrate on this job,’ I snap at him.
‘I know, love, but so many people want me.’
I snort. But it’s my first giggle of the day and my mood softens.
‘Well, they’ll have to wait until I’ve finished with you,’ I tell him. ‘Seriously, when can we get this thing moving along?’
I am pinning my hopes on the dream that once the renovation is complete our lives will miraculously return to normal - though without Max - but at least having a kitchen and family room will make the kids and I feel more settled. This renovation’s been going on forever and it’s wearing very thin.
‘Don’t know why I’m so concerned about my renovation when it’s obvious I’m going to be run out of town by the mother Mafioso,’ I tell Gloria later at her office.
‘And would that be such a bad thing?’ she says.
‘It’s just that -’
‘Just what?’
‘Soon we’ll have a beautiful house; Max will be back -’
Gloria shoots me ‘the look’.
‘- or not, the kids are happy -’
‘They’re kids, they’ll be happy anywhere - well, maybe not Bella but she’ll adapt . . . eventually. As for Max, whether you go to Bali or not, what makes you think he’s going to see you and automatically say, “Yes dear I’ve made a huge mistake, biggest mistake of my life. I’m coming home.” Anyway, why do you want that cocksucker back?’
‘He’s not a cocksucker -’
‘Okay, pussysucker -’
‘Gloria!’ I peer over her shoulder as she scribbles notes on head sheets. ‘What are you doing, anyway?’
‘Updating client profiles. Take Naomi here,’ Gloria shows me a photo of a leggy, horsy brunette I recognise as having been a couple of years ahead of me at NIDA, ‘used to be late twenties, now, I’ll write thirty-ish.’
‘She’s older than me.’
‘Thirty-ish means thirty-nine, you know that. She’s adventurous -’
‘Will sleep with anyone.’
‘With a contagious smile -’
‘Does lots of drugs,’ I laugh.
‘And is a free spirit,’ says Gloria.
‘Exactly, she’s a junkie.’
‘Lucy, these are my clients you’re talking about.’
I stab a finger at a photo of a woman with fluffy brown hair and huge boobs. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Isobel, very outgoing -’
‘Loud and embarrassing.’
‘That’s it,’ says Gloria, snapping her folder shut. ‘I’m closing my books until after you leave.’
‘What did you write about me?’
‘Needs a complete makeover. Voluptuous.’
‘So I
am
fat?’
Trish comes around, sheepish and weepy. I want to toss her out for being so cruel to me on the phone, but I know she’s devastated about Alana. Her only daughter’s run off with a married, middle-aged man, which, I dare say, isn’t the future she dreamed of when Alana was in nappies and gurgling happily. If Bella did that . . . well, I hate to think how I’d react. It certainly wouldn’t be pretty.
‘I’m sorry for what I said,’ Trish tells me.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry for this whole mess.’
She barely stays five minutes. Just long enough to give me a letter addressed to Alana. ‘Please call as soon as you see her, just to let me know she’s okay,’ she asks. We hug awkwardly, before she leaves, still crying.
* * *
‘Only take essentials,’ I tell Bella and Sam as we pack our bags that night, ready for tomorrow. ‘We’ll buy everything else we need over there.’
‘Are we really going to see Dad at last?’ Sam asks.
‘Yes, darling, we are.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Bella says. ‘Will he be at the airport to meet us?’
Given that Max doesn’t know we’re coming, it’s highly unlikely. It crosses my mind that he might even have left the island by the time we arrive.
I’
m standing at the sink in the laundry, up to my elbows in filthy lukewarm water, washing dinner plates and asking myself why Alana would want to hang out with a really bad surfer who’s more than twice her age, when Patch waltzes in.
‘You’re looking bright and breezy,’ he says. ‘I need to talk to you.’
He positions himself behind me at the sink and immediately I feel uncomfortable.
‘Ever since I saw you at the top of the ramp the other day, naked and giving me
that
look, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind,’ he says.
‘
That
look,’ I say, stepping away from him, ‘was one of mortification. And I certainly
wasn’t
naked! I had no idea you and the other guy were in the house.’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ he says with a grin.
‘I didn’t!’
‘You’re lonely, I get that. You need a man and -’
‘And nothing.’
I am beyond stunned. Admittedly, I’ve sometimes constructed daydreams about Patch and his impressive biceps, but that’s where I want to leave it - on fantasy island!
‘But I was thinking maybe you and I could get together,’ Patch says, a look of growing concern on his face.
‘I’m flattered,’ I say, ‘but not interested. I have a husband.’
The worried look disappears and he laughs. ‘If you have a husband, I’m flying to the moon next Saturday night.’
He gives me a ‘Later, babe’ look (quite impressive for a man with one eye) and saunters off.
‘He thinks I’m playing hard to get,’ I wail to Gloria later over the phone.
‘Are you?’ she says.
‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous. Do you think I’m crazy?’
‘What? For not taking Patch up on his offer?’
‘No! Get real. I mean the whole taking the kids to Bali bit. Am I insane?’
‘No . . . not unless you do something crazy and end up in a Balinese jail for the next twenty years. However, assuming you don’t get nabbed for smuggling coke or ice, be a honey and buy me some celebrity perfume duty-free to add to my collection. And I mean Sydney airport duty-free, not some foul-smelling goat urine from a mangy street stall in Kuta. Oh, and I want movie-star fragrance, not designer rubbish like Vera Wang or, God forbid, Leona Edmiston. And, Luce, good luck. I’ll be thinking of you.’
* * *
After showering, I liberally apply fake tan all over my body. I hope I’ve put on enough moisturiser beforehand so the tan doesn’t collect and cause horrid pumpkin-coloured hot spots, à la Rock. I really don’t want to think about him right now. The night with Rock was a oncer! And I am not the sort of woman who goes around town having one-night stands. I can’t be leaving my intimate apparel at strange men’s apartments.
D
-Day.
The first time I wake, it’s 12.12 am, then 12.50, then 1.15 . . . Basically, I don’t sleep. My mind’s too busy ticking off potential disasters. Not the plane crashing or even that I’ll get falsely nabbed for drug smuggling, but really stupid thoughts like: Is the iron turned off? Is my passport up-to-date? Where is my passport? What the bloody hell was Patch thinking? Did he really think I was coming on to him on the ramp? Where are Bella’s and Sam’s passports? Have I packed enough clothes? Will the airline lose my luggage? A distinct possibility, I figure.
All of which brings me to now: ten past four in the morning and agonising over what to wear on the plane. When you spend the best part of two hours worrying about travelling clothes, your brain begins to fry.
I get up and clean the fridge, even though I cleaned it twice last night. The potatoes and mayonnaise I decided were keepers twelve hours ago are now booted out. Same with the open packets of water crackers and cat biscuits.
Oscar’s been sent to the cattery. I wonder if he likes it there. Cramped, alone, cold and dark in a tiny wire cat cage. Mustn’t think like that. He’s tough. I’ll buy him new biscuits when he comes home.
I start tidying the house - what there is of it - but it’s already tidy. Something else I did last night. A complete waste of time because the builders will make a mess of it within minutes of arriving. After the instructions I left with Patch yesterday, I’m cautiously optimistic that (assuming he returns to work after our little incident) we could almost have a brand-new kitchen and bathroom by the time we get back. Almost.
For the next two hours, I fluff around, move cushions, tear sheets off my bed, scrub the spotless bathroom. Put a wash on, then curse myself because it won’t be dry before we leave. I don’t want clothes hanging on an aerator for eight days, especially with the dust.
Finally, the kids wake up and I occupy myself with other activities, like screaming at them. ‘Have you packed your swimmers? Goggles? Toothbrushes?’ I know I’m nagging. I’m nervous. Very nervous.
Dom rings. ‘Good luck, Luce. I hope everything works out . . . and remember to take time out for yourself. Sounds like you could do with a holiday.’
I’m too jumpy to chat, but after I hang up I remember the trip Dom, Gloria and I took to Hayman Island on a break from NIDA years ago - a spur-of-the-moment adventure. It still seems like yesterday - the sun, the surfing, my ill-conceived white bikini that, unbeknownst to me when I bought it, turned transparent when wet. I spent most of my time hiding from view in the water or walking up and down the beach alone, willing it to dry. In hindsight, I guess I could have gone and bought another one in a different colour . . .
More Dom memories flood back. It’s terrifying because they’re all good. Too good. And I know that can’t possibly be true. Perhaps what I’m remembering
isn’t
true. You know how your memory distorts things, makes them seem better or worse than they really were? Were Dom and I really such good friends?
I glance at the photo of Max, Bella, Sam and me on my bedside table. In years to come when I look at that photo, will I remember it as a fantastic family day because I was so happy that Bella learnt to boogie-board, and for the first time Sam ducked his head under a wave without being prompted, and the four of us sat on the beach eating the best fish and chips in the history of fish and chips? Or will I remember how I felt frumpy in my navy sarong and distraught because Max was ogling a young adult (let’s give him the benefit of the doubt) in a revealing red bikini? All those things happened that day and I distinctly remember feeling both elated and distressed. Which feeling will eventually become the dominant memory?
It feels really good to walk out of the house and close the door, even if it’s only for eight days. For the first time in ages, the kids are excited and bursting with happiness.
As Mum drives us to the airport, Bella squeals, ‘Faster, Nanna, please drive faster. We don’t want to miss it.’ It’s only her second time on a plane.
‘Bella, we don’t leave for another three hours,’ I tell her.
‘What if they’re running ahead of schedule and the plane takes off an hour early or something?’
‘It’s never happened in the history of aviation and somehow I doubt it’ll happen today.’
Bella sighs and stares out the window.
‘I can’t wait,’ I say, playfully squeezing Sam on the arm.
‘We’re going to be staying at a resort with bathrooms
and
restaurants.’
‘We can eat whatever we want and we don’t have to make our beds,’ says Sam.
‘Dust-free for days,’ says Bella, clapping.
‘And Daddy will be there,’ they say together.
As we’re standing in the check-in line for our flight to Denpasar, Mum nudges me and points to passengers whose bags are suffocating in shrink wrap.
‘You should have done that,’ she says.
‘Shrink wrap? Yeah, that’ll stop smugglers messing with my stuff.’
‘I’m not worried about you,’ she whispers. ‘No more than usual anyway. It’s Bella and Sam - they’re innocents in all of this.’
I ignore her. After our nude shrink-wrapless bags have disappeared down the conveyor belt, and I’ve given the check-in assistant the evil eye to let her know I’m wise to her drug-smuggling game, I take the children duty-free shopping. They each buy a one-foot Toblerone, but I don’t mind. They’re on holiday. I’ll worry about their teeth in two weeks’ time.
I buy Gloria the latest Paris Hilton fragrance and giggle. Serves her right.
Finally, it’s time to say goodbye to Mum. She’s blinking back tears and hugging the children tightly. ‘Watch out for jaundice,’ are her final words as the kids and I disappear through the doors towards immigration control and gate 57.
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 items, much to Bella’s horror. Then he opens Bella’s bag.
‘This?’ he says, picking up several small bags of plastic cutlery.
Bella squeaks, ‘Don’t let him take them, Mummy.’ She’s on the verge of tears.
‘For eating,’ I explain, putting my hand to my mouth and making biting actions. ‘For my daughter.’
He smiles and waves us through.
Outside the terminal is a thick sea of people, pacing, sitting, standing and smoking. It’s hot and sticky and I immediately regret the pants I’m wearing. Even though they’re made from light cotton, they cling to me. My hair sticks to my head, and my palms, the backs of my knees and my forehead are all soaking with sweat.
Sam spots a piece of cardboard sporting the word ‘SprinGer’. I grab the kids and push through the milling throng towards the smiling man holding the sign.
‘
Selamat Datang di Bali
, welcome to Bali,’ he says with an enormous grin. ‘My name, Wayan.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Wayan,’ I say. ‘I’m Lucy and these are my children, Bella and Sam.’
The four of us nod and smile at each other.
Wayan’s hand reaches for my head and I take a step back before realising he’s only trying to place a yellow hibiscus flower behind my ear. Very pretty, but I’m nervous and overwhelmed and protective of my personal space. Bella and Sam are given frangipani necklaces to wear.
I keep telling myself everything will be okay and it will be - once we’ve booked into the hotel.
A hot breeze blows through the car as we drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic through the crowded streets of Kuta, narrowly avoiding dogs, small children and tourists. It’s loud and vibrant. The children stare out the window, trying to take in the colour of the market stalls and the DVD shops and the garbled clashing sounds of music, scooters and blaring horns. Many of the buildings we pass are new or half-completed (just like home), but there are also plenty of traditional Balinese-style homes and family temples.
‘Look. Four people on a motorbike and none of them are wearing helmets!’ Sam squeals.
‘You like?’ Wayan says, beaming.
‘Imagine the bacteria in that food,’ Bella says, pointing to a roadside stall where meat is roasting on an open fire over coconut husks.
After a thirty-five-minute journey, Wayan drives into lush gardens dominated by towering coconut palms. Not the Sheraton Nusa Dua, where Max is staying. I do listen to Gloria sometimes. Instead, I’ve book us into a hotel at Legian Beach, several kilometres from my husband and his new lover.