Authors: Lucy Springer Gets Even (mobi)
L
et’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, you were devastated -’
‘I am devastated.’
‘Of course you are. Then we’ll build a little thatched cabana thingy by the pool, strategically place a few buddhas, a fabulous daybed, some silk -’
‘Plant several hibiscuses and frangipani trees,’ interrupts Sandy.
‘Exactly! It’ll be your tribute and it’ll be fabulous. And we’ll run a toll-free number at the bottom of the screen which the good viewers of Australia can ring to donate money to help the bomb victims. Good?’ I nod, and Gloria turns to Sandy and Rock. ‘Deal?’
‘No mention of the husband and we keep the children’s involvement to a minimum,’ Sandy says. ‘Okay, but Lucy, if you run off and give a tell-all interview to a women’s magazine in the meantime, the deal’s off.’
‘As if,’ I say, shaking my head.
Rock’s got his eye on me, but when I look at him he quickly focuses on Joel, who’s kicking the central heating into action.
‘We’ll talk about your career up to now, things you’ve been doing, plans for the future,’ Sandy says.
‘Not sure I can remember all of this,’ Rock says, dragging himself into the conversation. ‘I’ll need cue cards.’
* * *
After the pep talk from Gloria, I realise I have to change my attitude if I’m going to look at least halfway sane on commercial television. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. This is my opportunity to prove to viewers I’m not a has-been. My chance to shine.
Given that I still have a hint of a tan and am not looking overly tubby, I head to David Jones to revamp my wardrobe. This time, I use my own credit cards. Life’s good. Max? Max who?
Rock calls me as I’m trying to squeeze into a Leona Edmiston sleeveless black jersey dress. At a certain age, women no longer have upper arms, we have wing spans. We are no longer women in sleeveless dresses; we are flying squirrels in drag. To cut a long story short, I look hideous.
‘When are you coming back?’ Rock asks. There’s a touch of anxiety in his voice.
‘After I pick the children up from school. Oh, and Bella has band practice.’
‘Can I see you tonight then?’
‘Tonight’s tricky. Bella and Sam will be at home.’
‘But I need to see you.’ Rock sounds as clingy as Sam. He breathes into the phone a few moments more before disconnecting.
I really don’t need that little complication in my life, but in another week the renovation will be over and Rock will move on to another woman. I hope.
I reject the jersey dress because it hugs me in all the wrong places and I go for the soft shopping option: black boots and a black bag.
I also buy the kids new bed linen, a beaded purple lamp Bella’s had her eye on for weeks and a new Venus flytrap for Sam. The last one starved to death. They’re thrilled. Sam spends hours after school catching flies and feeding them to his new best friend. I should buy him a dog.
Even Bella is smiling. ‘Mum, you cleaned my room. You actually vacuumed and changed the sheets.’ She peers under the bed. ‘And under here as well!’
‘Don’t look so surprised.’ Anyone would think I never did that sort of thing.
The kids and I celebrate the end of another week by ordering in their favourite pizza. We take three chairs and a small table into our new dining/family room. I light several candles and imagine how it will all look when it’s finished.
‘So, how are Nanna and Poppa?’ I ask them, admiring the new staircase.
‘Nanna says that Dad’s not coming back to live with us,’ Sam replies, tomato and cheese hanging from the corner of his mouth. ‘But when we saw Dad yesterday he said he was coming home on the weekend.’
Time to tell the truth.
‘No, Sam, Daddy’s not going to live with us anymore. He’ll visit, but we won’t all live together. I know it’s very sad for everyone, but we both still love you and Bella very much.’
‘He’ll never live with us again?’ Bella asks.
‘No. Mummy and Daddy have to live apart, so from now on you’ll each have a bedroom at Mummy’s house and one at Daddy’s house.’ (Assuming Max finds himself a house/apartment/caravan.)
‘But what about all my clothes?’ Bella asks, panicking.
‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t thought that far,’ I say. ‘But we’ll work something out. You’ll still see Dad lots, probably even more than you saw him when he was living here.’
‘Does that mean I get to have
two
Venus flytraps?’ asks Sam.
During dinner, Mum phones. ‘Max tells me you’re having an affair with the presenter from
Gateways
. What’s his name? Rod . . . Rick . . .’
‘It’s Rock, and I’m not having an affair with him.’
‘Well, Max says that you’re having an affair to punish him and he doesn’t deserve it.’
‘He’s barking mad. I hope you hung up on him.’
‘Of course, darling. The man’s insane.’
I don’t believe for one minute that Max is insane. But it doesn’t surprise me that he’s reaching out to Mum and Dad in his own deluded way. Especially now that he knows I’m serious about separating. Max doesn’t like to lose.
T
his morning we’re filming. My concession to glamour? Black six-centimetre-high slingbacks and a killer black skirt that sits just above the knee. Oh, and a tight black V-neck showing just a hint of cleavage.
Rock’s pieces to camera are woeful, and not only because he speaks with a ridiculous smirk. Since nine o’clock this morning we’ve been shooting a spontaneous (read, heavily scripted and staged) scene where I walk down my new Oregon stairs. It’s now after eleven and most people, including myself, are snappy.
Rock is supposed to ask me what I think of the stairs. In response I’m required to cup my hands to my face and tell him that I never imagined stairs could make me so giddy with excitement. ‘I love them, Rock, I truly do.’ (And yes, I do rather like them. But love them? That’s going slightly overboard. But I’m not going to quibble because, well, the network’s paying for this. Yippee!)
By the sixth take Rock’s still having trouble putting one foot on the bottom stair and turning his face to the camera.
Patch and I look at each other and giggle.
‘You try doing it then,’ Rock says, and he rips the small microphone from his polo collar and stomps outside to the dirt pit.
‘Go and talk to him,’ I tell Patch. ‘I’ll fix him a scotch.’ We’re so close to finishing, I don’t want any hiccups.
But before I can get his drink, the camera catches my eye and suddenly I’m feeling confident and perky. I point outside to where Rock’s huffing at Patch and say in my best David Attenborough voice, ‘These are the creatures we call television presenters. When you catch them in the wild, without their autocues or managers, it’s best to leave them well alone. When startled or mocked, they can turn ugly, very ugly. Managers are like lion tamers - their job is to smooth the television presenter’s ruffled feathers, to stroke his ego and keep the general public - that is, you and I, the riffraff - away.’
‘Keep going,’ says Digger.
‘Follow me,’ I say, motioning to the camera. ‘Here we go into the presenter’s inner sanctum. See how he’s forced to live while on location? In this filthy laundry-cum-kitchen-cum-TV room - very primitive. Note the dust, the grubby dishes on the floor, the rotten apple core lying by the fridge -’
Rock interrupts. ‘Very funny, Lucy. Can we get on with it? I do have other commitments today.’
‘Of course,’ I say, and follow him back to the new staircase, pretending to claw at his back and silently growling like a lion.
‘I know what you’re doing and it’s not funny,’ he snaps.
Patch winks at me and then rolls his eyes towards Rock. Chuckling, I think this reality television gig might be fun after all.
Good news: the kitchen is mostly finished. It’s amazing how much can be accomplished when there’s a camera crew hanging around. The cupboards have been fixed to the walls - they still don’t have knobs so I can’t actually use them, but knobs are only a day away I’m told - and the sink, the one from France, is due in a couple of days. Joel has put the oven in place and, I must say, the Ilve Majestic lives up to its name. It really is a stunning piece of equipment. Not connected to power yet, but I can imagine a not-too-distant future where I’ll be Queen of the Kitchen and baking chocolate fudge cakes. When I learn how to use the oven . . . and how to bake.
The only niggle is the hassle with the bi-fold doors that lead outside to the terrace. They weren’t measured properly - the fault of the people who laid the sandstone pavers, apparently - so when the guys come to install them, they discover the doors are too long and have to take them back to the factory. I always get slightly anxious when fixtures need to be taken off-site to be corrected, or ‘refined’ as Patch likes to call it.
‘They’ll be back in a couple of days, Luce, three at the most,’ he says, dismissing my concern. ‘Good news, though. The kitchen benchtops are arriving early next week.’
Ah, the benches!
My first choice, when I had a loving husband and this was to be our family home for the next fifteen years: Carrara marble, white.
Second choice, when I still had a loving husband and this was to be our family home for five years: Caesar stone, a lovely sand colour.
Third choice, the one where I’m a single mother, don’t have a loving husband but still have access to his bank account: granite, black.
And fourth choice? The one where I have no husband and no money? Laminex. Who cares about the colour.
Thanks to
Celebrity Renovation Rescue
, I ended up with black granite, third choice. But hey! Better than chipboard. And it’ll never wear out - unlike my marriage.
I
t’s Sunday and I’m feeling somewhat housebound. The kids and I haven’t done anything fun since Bali so when I suggest a day at the zoo, they jump at the chance. Being on neutral ground, it’s a good opportunity for me to check, without being too obvious, how they’re coping. I’ve noticed Bella, in particular, has become increasingly twitchy about her room and belongings. She keeps asking how things will work if she’s spending a few nights at her dad’s and a few nights with me every week. Her anxiety’s understandable as I can’t tell her where Max will be living. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t even thought about organising permanent accommodation.
‘But I want to stay at our house,’ she says, as we’re riding the cable car up from the harbour, over the elephant enclosure. ‘Why can’t Sam and I stay at home and
you
leave when it’s Dad’s turn to visit?’
‘Because it’s my home, Bella.’
‘It’s my home, too, and I don’t want to leave,’ she says, tears forming in her eyes.
She has a good point. This is going to be so much harder than those American sitcoms like
Two and a Half Men
make it appear.
‘Does it mean we get to have two of everything?’ Sam asks, eyes wide. ‘Two Playstations, two iPods, two -’
‘Your dad and I haven’t worked out all the details,’ I say, feeling a tad tired. ‘But we’ll look at all that.’
‘What about Oscar?’ Bella asks half an hour later, as we’re walking past the giraffes and eating soft-serve vanilla ice-creams. ‘Will he come with us when we’re at Dad’s?’
‘Where will Dad be anyway? Are we going to have another mum, like Zac does?’ Sam asks. ‘Zac’s real mum lives in Brisbane, but he has another one here.’
‘I really don’t have all the answers yet,’ I say truthfully, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the decision I’ve made.
Despite ongoing talk of housing arrangements, it’s a great day. Sam gets to hold a boa constrictor and Bella pats a koala. Still, their questions hit hard. It’s bloody tough. But at least Max hasn’t shown up at the house again. In fact, the last conversation we had - yesterday, regarding him seeing the kids next week - went rather well. I think the message is finally sinking in. He knows I don’t want to see him, but that he can pick the kids up from school and see them whenever he likes, just so long as he calls first.
The main thing is getting the renovation finished so all of us can move forward with our lives - that’s the rational Lucy talking. And, gee, I like it when my balanced side emerges from time to time. It gets me thinking that maybe I can ease off the antidepressants because all is moving along nicely in my little world.
Nadia’s right though. I really need to talk to her fabulous lawyer.