Authors: Lucy Springer Gets Even (mobi)
And I believe myself, really. Despite wanting to see Max hit in the head by a freak frozen leg of ham flying through the air.
‘This is your fault, Lucy,’ Trish says, dragging me back to the moment. ‘You’ll be the ruin of us all.’
Has Trish just tried to curse me, I wonder as I end the call. Religious people don’t do that, do they?
Climbing the ladder upstairs, I find Sam asleep on his bed and Bella sitting on a chair behind her desk.
‘You okay?’ I ask her.
‘When will all this be finished? When will we have a kitchen again?’
‘I know it’s hard.’
‘Hard? It’s impossible.’
To cheer ourselves up, we order takeaway noodles, surround ourselves with our Balinese purchases and pretend we’re still over there. Then we pop on one of the pirated movies we bought:
Pirates of the Caribbean 3
. Midway through, Johnny Depp starts speaking Mandarin. Quite unsettling, but the general story-line is still obvious and the kids, though exhausted, are rather amused.
W
e sleep in. I’m having a slow morning unpacking bags and sorting through dirty clothes and souvenirs when Gloria phones. I bawl her out about the media calls.
‘They’re obviously running very low on celebrities holidaying in Bali if they’re chasing me for comments,’ I growl. ‘Tell me, were there any other well-known Australians on the island at the time?’
‘Not a one,’ Gloria laughs. ‘Well, there was a minor fashion designer, but no, you’re the most interesting person they’ve got. Darl, I’ve spent a lot of time schmoozing, lining you up with the likes of Melissa Doyle and Ellen Fanning. They’re all nipping at my heels wanting a piece of your action.’
‘Well, they can bite you for all I care because I’m saying nothing.’
‘We’ll see about that, young lady. After all, tomorrow is another day.’
‘Please don’t get all Scarlett O’Hara on me, I’m not in the mood. Anyway, what exactly do you mean?’
‘You’ll see, sweetie. All will be revealed. Patience, patience.’
When the doorbell rings, I have a feeling it might be Gloria or, worse still, Trish, so I’m relieved to find Nadia on my doorstep, her arms full with freshly baked bread, quiche, salad and wine. My mood improves dramatically.
I fill her in on Bali, the bombs, Max, my foolhardy belief that we were close to reconciling, the betrayal. It takes the whole bottle of wine, the entire quiche, most of the salad and half a loaf of bread.
‘Luce, I know it’s damned hard, and I hate to go on about it, but have you called my lawyer?’
I shake my head.
‘Any lawyer?’
‘No.’
‘A financial planner to get some perspective on your financial estate? Did you change your bank details so Max can’t abscond with your money?’
I stare at her blankly.
‘If it’s really over,’ she says, draining the last of her wine, ‘you need to think about these things. Remember, we’re talking war here.’
That night in bed, I glance over at Max’s side - his pillows, his bedside cabinet, his alarm clock. Inside his cabinet drawers are Father’s Day and birthday cards, all handmade by the children and amassed over the years. I harden my heart. If I’m to make a fresh start, I need to clear out
all
of his things.
L
ast night I slept peacefully, and when I wake up this morning there isn’t that dreaded twenty seconds where I think everything’s fine, only to realise it isn’t because Max has left me. Today, I wake up feeling that everything really
is
okay, and that sentiment is still with me one minute, five minutes, even ten minutes later.
Regardless of the renovation and whatever mess Gloria is trying to get me involved in, I don’t have an ominous sense of dread, or a feeling I can’t cope without Max. Because, miracle of miracles, I can cope.
I hear noises coming from downstairs. Building noises and it’s only seven o’clock. Clearly Patch is trying to make a good impression. About time!
Before going downstairs to talk to him, I shower and call the kids. No response. So I go into their rooms and drag them from their beds.
‘Come on, Bella, don’t you want to show your friends your plaits?’ I say as I point her in the direction of her school uniform. (Freshly ironed by me, I might add.)
Sam’s groggy but coherent. We make it to school on time - just.
I have to blink a couple of times when I walk into what will be my new kitchen. Patch has a spiffy haircut, is wearing new navy overalls and is holding a clipboard. I hadn’t expected our embarrassing misunderstanding to have such a dramatic effect.
‘Ms Springer,’ he says, genuine concern in his voice. ‘Welcome home. We were all very worried about you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘What’s happened? Where have you taken Patch?’
He grins, then checks himself. ‘I have an up-to-date progress report to go through with you when you’re ready.’
Patch - Mr Super Efficient?
A couple of men wearing Levi’s and faded polo shirts stand nearby making notes on their own clipboards. I smile at them benignly. Who are they and why are they in my house?
One of them hands me a thick wad of papers. ‘Ms Springer, isn’t it?’
‘Lucy.’
‘Sure, Lucy. Could you read through this contract and sign your name on every page where I’ve marked an “X”. See, here.’ He points to said X on the front page.
‘What is this?’ I ask. I’m completely confused.
‘The contract.’
‘Contract?’
‘Yeah. We need to start filming as soon as possible, so we need the papers signed, like, yesterday.’
I take the documents from him, murmur ‘Thanks’, and climb the ladder to my room. Am about to hire a contract killer to find and dispose of Gloria when the witch herself appears at the top of the ladder.
‘Gloria!’ I say, waving the sheets in the air like a lunatic.
‘Oh, I see you have the contract.’
‘It appears so. Exactly what’s it a contract for? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘No big deal. It’s like we talked about - you know, the new reality TV show,
Celebrity Renovation Rescue
.’
‘Is this why you phoned me every other day in Bali? You weren’t checking on my welfare, were you? You were just making sure I was tucked away out of sight so you could organise this deal behind my back.’
‘But, darling,’ Gloria trills, ‘how many workmen are here?’
‘Well . . .’ I think for a moment. ‘Eight to ten, give or take.’
‘Have you ever had that many builders on-site? Don’t answer that because I know you haven’t. I’m doing you a favour. You want the house finished. The
Celebrity Renovation Rescue
team want a guinea pig. And you’ll get your face back on TV. It’s a win-win situation.’
‘But I don’t want my face on TV . . . not for this.’
‘Let’s talk about it rationally. Obviously we can’t go ahead without your permission, but, Lucy, all the guys have signed up.’
‘Even Joel?’
‘Even Creepy Joel.’
‘So you don’t think he’s a crim anymore, as you so politely referred to him?’
‘If he’s prepared to be seen on national TV, I assume he’s not on the run.’
‘National?’
‘Yes, my lovely,
national
,’ Gloria purrs.
‘Well, it explains the changes in Patch,’ I muse.
‘He’s into it in a big way. You won’t see him disappearing for an afternoon surf, not while there’s a camera crew here.’
I feel myself wavering. ‘I really don’t know . . .’
‘Well, you’ve only got till five o’clock. We have to sign today so we can get the pilot in the can.’
‘Why would they choose my wreck of a house for the pilot?’
‘I’ve pulled a few strings, darling - you know what I’m like.’
‘That’s what worries me.’
‘Think about it. You’ll see I’m right. I have to dash but I’ll be back. You’re looking great, by the way - your skin has a healthy glow and I’m glad to see that the creeping obesity that was threatening to take over your bod has halted.’
‘Enough with the flattery. I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to get a big head to match my big arse. I’ll think about it. Do I have to be on camera?’
‘Let’s not get bogged down in specifics, dear. We’ll talk this afternoon. You just rest up and have a great day.’
In a flash, she’s gone. She’s definitely up to no good. But at least she’s stopped talking about Bali.
* * *
I’m going through the mail, mostly bills, when Dom rings. I fill him in on the Max saga.
‘I’ve been over this so many times,’ I tell him. ‘I’m boring myself, and no doubt you as well.’
‘No, you’re not, but it doesn’t sound like the relaxing holiday you were after.’
‘Well, I got to spend some great time with the kids, and I guess Max and I are sorted. Hey, whenever we talk, it’s always about
me
- my problems, my disastrous marriage.
Let’s talk about you. What have you been up to the last dozen years?’
‘This and that.’
‘Come on, give,’ I press.
‘Okay, I was married but it didn’t work out. Totally my fault. She needed more attention than I could ever pay her. Maybe I’m not that good at intimacy. I like my own company.’
‘You always have.’
‘Yeah. I think she was hoping I’d outgrow it.’
‘And you haven’t?’
‘You haven’t seen where I live - I’ve got a good fifty hectares to myself, apart from the odd wallaby and a few horses. Speaking of which, why don’t you bring the kids down next weekend?’
‘Thanks, but I really couldn’t. Gloria’s up to something and I can’t let her out of my sight. She’s been wheeling and dealing - you know what she’s like.’
After hanging up, I kick myself for letting my fantasy feelings for Dom get the better of me. He’s concerned for me as a friend. Nothing more. He’s a loner, always has been. Why did I let
that
particular character trait slip my mind?
On the dot of four, Gloria is back with a bottle of Moët and an expectant expression.
‘Well?’ she says.
‘Okay, it’s actually been a good day. Eight builders have been here all day and they worked hard, like normal people. They took a couple of fifteen-minute breaks, but other than that they toiled solidly for seven hours. And Patch says that the tiler’s coming tomorrow to finish tiling the bathroom and verandah.’
‘Impressive, huh?’
‘I guess, but I’m still not sure.’
‘Darl, this is real life. Face it. you’re a single parent raising two expensive, needy, greedy children.’
‘Steady.’
‘Children who are going to sap all the life and money out of you. Think of the next two weeks as a gentle guiding hand to get you started with your new life.’
‘Two weeks? That’s all it’s going to take?’
‘Two weeks tops, maybe three, positively no more than four.’
‘Gloria!’
‘Kidding, kidding. Two weeks, trust me.’
‘Trusting you is like trusting Tom Cruise not to talk about Scientology - it’s not going to happen. I don’t want to appear on camera and I definitely don’t want my kids on TV either.’
Gloria pours me a large glass of champagne. ‘To your new and improved life,’ she says. ‘To success.’
She watches while I take a sip.
‘Why do I think you’re hiding something?’ I say.
‘Really, Luce, you’re so suspicious. Here, let me top this up for you.’ She takes my still full glass and fills it to the brim with bubbles.
‘Trish called,’ I tell her. ‘She blames me for everything.’
‘I’d hardly blame you for the bomb.’
‘Everything other than that. She said I’d be “the ruin of us all”.’
‘Cool. So you’re the Antichrist now? Really, Luce, why didn’t you hang up on her? I think Nadia’s definitely got it right about this Trish character. She’s a nutcase. But on to brighter topics, like, say the renovation show. The thing is . . .’
Here it comes. I knew it.
‘. . . if the renovation program is focused on your home, you need to be seen on camera, don’t you think? It’s a true reality show. They’re keeping all of your tradesmen - at least, those who’ve been on the job from the beginning -’
‘What? No celebrity handymen or gardeners? Jamie Durie’s not going to pop in?’
‘Nup, it’s warts-and-all stuff, totally new concept. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Patch is charming, there are twins on the team and Joel is Jamaican. But you need to show yourself too, Luce.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Sweetheart, if you don’t cooperate, they’ll pull the plug on the whole show.’
‘Good.’
‘For whom exactly? If the network pulls the plug, not only will you never work on a commercial station again, but your renovation - which has been bobbing along quite nicely in your absence, thanks to me - will get stuck again. You’ll have to settle for second-rate appliances, cork tiles, laminate. And you’ll become Vinnies’ favourite customer. You said as much yourself.’
‘Okay, I hear you.’
‘These guys will pick up the tab for your renovation to the tune of three hundred thousand dollars - it’s not to be sneezed at.’
I gape at her. ‘Three hundred -’
‘Thousand, yes. Haven’t you read the contract?’
‘I must have missed that part.’
Gloria smiles. She’s got me. For three hundred thousand dollars I’ll do almost anything.
‘I’ll play the game, but not the kids, okay?’ I tell her.
‘Details, details. Now, hurry up and sign the papers, will you?’
B
y the time Gloria, my annoying little shadow, turns up on my doorstep a little after ten o’clock, the house has been in full renovation mode for three hours.
‘You look exhausted, kid,’ she says.
‘Thank you so much. What are you doing here?’
‘Just checking you’re happy, pumpkin,’ she beams.
Really? That would be a first. But I don’t say it, because I’m trying to think only good thoughts about Gloria (that promise I made to God). Instead, I say, ‘I gave Patch the interior paint colours and he even complimented me on my choice. So, cautiously, you could say I’m happy.’
‘Good, because I want you to be happy, you know that, don’t you? Now, down to business. Three camera crews are setting up today and they’ll be here for the duration.’
She introduces me to the main guy, Digger - not his birth name, I assume. He’s lanky, with a mop of sandy hair skimming his eyelashes. He holds out his right hand. As I shake it, I notice a thick fur of chest hair poking out from his faded navy V-neck jumper.
‘The show’s host should be here any minute,’ Gloria says, checking her watch.
‘A host?’ I say, just 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 for the new bathroom by Friday.’
I tell him that he’ll need to speak with the supplier, something about a wharfies’ strike, and walk away to answer the phone.
It’s a writer from
Woman’s Day
wanting to do a tie-in with the renovation. ‘Something along the lines of “I survived Bali and came home to a brand-new house”. Sounds great, hey?’ she says in an overly cheery tone.
‘You can’t say no to an interview with
Woman’s Day -
readership, two point five million,’ Gloria tells me five minutes later, after the editor has rung her about my refusal to participate.
‘I don’t want to talk about Bali or my failed marriage, Gloria.’
‘But you’ve got to. It’s what the common people are after. Excitement in their otherwise dull lives.’
‘So they want to read about my dull life instead?’
‘By comparison, your life is not dull.’
When the kids get home from school, they’re amazed at all the activity and the cameras. They follow Digger around all afternoon.
Patch comes to find me again. ‘We seem to have a slight hiccup with the gas fire,’ he says.
I stare at the hole in the wall where the fire should have been fitted - two weeks ago, but who’s counting?
‘The one you ordered they don’t make any more . . .’
‘And?’
‘The wait for the new model is three months.’
‘No, no, no. I ordered it and paid
you
for it. This is not my problem,’ I bellow, my good mood disappearing. ‘I want my bloody fireplace - it’s the centrepiece of the living area. Otherwise it’s just a bloody big hole.’
‘I’ll see what I can sort out,’ he says and slips outside.
The kids are playing up near Digger, whacking each other with lengths of timber.
‘Don’t get in the way of anyone,’ I bark at them.
‘We want to stay and look at all the cameras,’ Bella whines.
‘Yeah, it’s fun,’ agrees Sam.
‘Are we really going to be on television?’ Bella asks, the whining tone gone as she flutters her eyelashes towards Digger.
‘Well, not us, but our house and the renovation will be.’
‘Even the mess?’
‘Even the mess, but not for too much longer. The place will be finished soon.’
‘Does this mean you’re not going on
Australian Idol
?’ Sam asks.
‘She’s way too old,’ Bella says.
‘Hey, I said you weren’t allowed to film the kids,’ I say when I notice Digger going in for a close-up on Bella. ‘They’re off limits.’
He gives me a ‘for fuck’s sake’ look and points the camera towards the tiler, who’s making a huge mess in the downstairs bathroom.