Authors: Lucy Springer Gets Even (mobi)
B
etween our house and the kids’ school, there’s one set of traffic lights. And just before those traffic lights is a newsagency. Outside, plastered on huge one-metre-high newsstands are the latest women’s magazines’ title covers for the week. The new covers come out on a Monday and I always find them highly amusing. Last week’s was: ‘
I did not glue my ex-husband’s genitals to his stomach
’ -
exclusive interview with Gracie Gardener
. That made me laugh and laugh. Because Gloria knows for a fact that Gracie did glue Edwin’s dick to his tummy. Apparently, Marcus took photos as proof.
This morning I slow down at the lights to have a good gawk at this week’s headlines.
It can’t be.
Blaring out from the
New Idea
newsstand is a Max Springer exclusive: ‘
I survived the Bali bombs AND my wife’s betrayal
’. My gut churns with horror. This can’t be happening. It really can’t.
I slam on my brakes and swerve, narrowly missing a shaggy cream spoodle sauntering across the road. In the back seat, the kids scream, ‘Mum, you almost killed him!’
Three minutes later, I offload the kids at the kiss-and-drop zone and zip back to the newsagent’s. I slip on my oversized dark glasses and buy the offensive magazine, leaving a six-dollar tip because I can’t bear to wait for the change. Then I drive as calmly as I can to a nearby cul-de-sac and pull over. I open the magazine and read. There are four pages of Max’s wrath. Who would have thought anyone would be interested enough in Max to fill one page, let alone four?
The gist of the article, written by Tina Stump, is that poor hard-done-by Max ‘loves Lucy very much’, but it’s been ‘incredibly difficult living with a temperamental star all these years’.
Really? Do tell.
‘My affair was a cry for help,’ says Max. ‘A wake-up call to Lucy in the hope she’d settle down and not carry on looking at life through rose-coloured glasses. When I saw Lucy last week, I could tell she wasn’t well. She was wearing what looked like a dead rabbit over her shoulders - and her spending is out of control. She spent three thousand dollars on a toilet! I mean, come on. Three thousand dollars for a new toilet? Clearly, the woman’s crazy. She’s unhinged and possibly on medication. She even threw out my clothes. Though what can you expect when she got through three cases of Grange in four days.’
‘Liar!’ I scream out loud and hit my hand on the car steering wheel, causing the horn to blare and two startled joggers to trip over their feet as they pass. I gave several of those cases of wine to Patch.
I don’t want to read on but I force myself. It’s like a train wreck; I can’t help but stop and view the carnage even though it sickens me.
There’s an aside where the old fossil who attacked me with her walking stick at the charity bin comes to Max’s defence. ‘So that was the crazy woman hanging from the local clothing disposal,’ she says. ‘She was trying to steal from poor people.’ Bloody hell. I read further. It turns out the old woman is a Christian and - hold the phone - belongs to the same church as Trish. What are the chances!
There’s another box where the teenagers who ran into my car with their Land Cruiser talk about the bingle. ‘I can’t be sure,’ says Tiffany, ‘but I think she might have been drinking.’
Meanwhile, in the main article, Max’s vitriol continues. ‘Lucy booked a holiday at an expensive resort in Bali on a whim with no notion of how she’d pay for it. She’s living in a fantasy world. She spends her days auditioning for reality television programs and failing. It’s so sad. She needs help.’
The article ends with Max saying that he’s confident ‘my family can get back on track now that Lucy has had a real-life wake-up call. Our children are still young and vulnerable and we need to make sure we do all we can to set them on the right path to adulthood. It’s up to me to get Lucy the help she needs so that our children aren’t affected by her erratic moods.’
Thank you so much, my darling husband - soon to be ex-husband. At least there’s no mention of Rock. I suppose I should be thankful for very small mercies.
In his bleeding-heart story, Max doesn’t apologise to me or our children for the affair or for the distress he’s caused us - and Alana and her family. Instead, he big-notes himself by saying, ‘Of course, I’ll pick up the tab for the renovation.’
I scan the pages again.
Is Lucy out of control?
the magazine screams.
From car crashes to crashing into elderly ladies - it appears this fading starlet is determined to live life on the edge.
There are several photos of me looking tired and unkempt.
Photo one: me putting out the garbage.
Photo two: me walking at six in the morning. (Yes, I walk . . . sometimes.) I look about eighty-five.
Photo three: an ancient picture of me smoking, with what appear to be tomato sauce stains down the front of my shirt. Charming. I bet they really had to search the archives for that beauty.
In all of them I look like an old, fat, dishevelled red setter dog. There’s none of me with my new hair colour.
Of course, there’s also a picture of Max - looking every bit the responsible doting father. He’s playing on the beach at Jimbaran with Bella and Sam - the three of them are laughing and glowing with health and vitality. Bloody Alana! She must have snapped it.
Then I see the little red box with the huge yellow question mark painted inside it and the words:
Who is Lucy’s new man? Could it be the gorgeous Rock Hardy? Will he be able to keep up with her reckless ways? We’ll keep you posted.
The good news?
New Idea
only has a readership of two million. Barely a drop in the ocean! To think that only yesterday I was gloating over Gracie’s career setback. Now I figure gluing an adulterous husband’s dick to his tummy is actually quite clever.
Mum’s waiting for me with a strong vat of coffee when I arrive home.
‘So you’ve read it?’ she says.
‘Of course I have.’ I bang my elbows on the table and allow my head to slump into my hands. ‘This is going to destroy me.’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘Not that bad? Which planet are you living on?’
‘Gloria called. She’s coming straight over. Wants to know if you’re okay.’
‘I’m just dandy. Friggin’ dandy.’
‘You don’t have any more wine in the cellar do you?’ Mum asks.
‘As much as I’d love to guzzle a bottle of wine or ten, Mother, I can’t. I still have a film crew here. Besides, I’m not giving Max any more ammunition against me.’
‘Just checking,’ replies Mum, relieved. ‘I see the renovation’s coming along nicely.’
Shaking my head, I stare at the ceiling.
Minutes later, the phone rings. ‘Take a message,’ I tell Mum.
It’s the
Daily Telegraph
wanting to know if I have any comment on the magazine article. They want to do a ‘he says, she says’ piece for their social pages.
The phone rings again. I let the answering machine take it.
‘Hey Luce, it’s Dom. I know you’re there. Where else would you be? I bet you’re huddled over the answering machine as I speak. Pick up. One, two, three . . . So you’re not picking up? Okay. Call me when you can.’
The phone rings barely three minutes later. It’s Dom again.
‘Lucy, no matter what anyone says, I’m sure you’re still as gorgeous as the last time I saw you. Those photos in
New Idea
don’t do you justice. Do they? No, of course they don’t. They’re hideous. Absolutely bloody atrocious. Okay, so I’m totally out of line saying the photos are atrocious. Understandably, it’s been a difficult time for you. Besides, I don’t care what you look like -’
‘Excuse me,’ I say, picking up the phone. ‘The photos
are
atrocious, and no, I don’t look anything like them.’
‘So you
were
huddled over the answering machine!’
‘I told you - you should have got in first and written your autobiography,’ Gloria says when she arrives with chocolate muffins and super-strength coffee in hand. ‘The public love a scandal. Love. It.’
‘You don’t say. My life’s over, isn’t it? I can never show my face in public again.’
‘You can and you will,’ says Gloria.
I don’t mention Dom phoning. He’s just being a supportive friend, but Gloria will make a bigger deal out of it than is warranted and I can’t be bothered humouring her. My heart’s not in it.
‘Hey,’ Gloria says in a surprisingly cheery tone, ‘I’ve got some news that’ll make you feel better. The first reviews are in about Gracie Gardener in
Seasons
.’
‘The role she stole from me!’
‘Exactly. Want to hear?’
I nod.
‘
Gracie Gardener’s new role as a flaming redhead femme fatale is a cinematic train wreck
,’ Gloria quotes. ‘
Hopelessly miscast
, says another. That’s got to give you some hope, Lucy-Lou. And I’ve saved the best for last.’ Gloria clears her throat. ‘
Is Gracie Gardener the world’s worst living actress? Evidence continues to mount
.’
I don’t mention anything to the kids about the
New Idea
piece. We eat sushi for dinner and complete the following homework tasks:
• Sam - mastering the eight times table; summarising ‘Captain Cook’s Amazing Adventure’ from the latest
School Magazine
; drawing the detailed life cycle of a carnivorous plant.
• Bella - algorithms; mapping Skull Island; sequencing in a bullet list the main points of
The Story of Camels in Australia
.
B
ecause my name is mud and I can never show my face in public again, suddenly, I become Miss Popular.
By
ten o’clock in the morning two huge bouquets of gorgeous flowers have arrived - one from the school mothers with kids in Bella’s grade, the other from Sam’s classmates’ mums. And the phone’s been ringing off the hook. Not that I am answering. There are messages inviting me to dinner, lunch, brunch, coffee - all from eager women wanting to dissect my misery. It’s funny, I didn’t hear from anyone except Nadia when I got back from Bali, but now I’m tabloid fodder - public humiliation is much more interesting.
‘Come out to lunch with us,’ Nadia says. ‘It’ll be fun, I promise, and I’ll protect you.’
‘I really don’t want to lunch with the Subservient Wives Club,’ I tell her. ‘Besides, I’ve got nothing to talk about.’
‘Really? You could have fooled me.’
‘Well, nothing that doesn’t cast me in a bad light.’
But Nadia’s right. I need to get out. Patch, Joel and the rest of them are giving me funny looks, and I don’t want to be here if and when Rock turns up. Besides, I have to show my face sooner or later. It may as well be now. After all, my life’s one huge scandal. And let’s face it: I may be humiliated but I still have to eat.
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 his overactive penis at home where it belongs. Therefore, according to the rules of polite society, it’s all my fault and I should feel guilty and ashamed. Well, guess what? I’m over that crap! Yes, I’m mortified because Max is an idiot and has been slandering me, but I’m over feeling accountable for his behaviour.
I try to focus on my breathing: in with the good, out with the bad. The air is cool so the tears falling on my cheeks are cold. I’m shivering. The racket in my head is so loud I can barely hear the traffic noise.
‘They wanted to interview me for that story,’ Patch says when he finds me in a corner re-reading Max’s article and crying.
‘What did you say?’
‘I told them to fuck off. I said you’re really cool and it should have been you who walked out on the prick and you should have done it years ago.’
‘I bet they were thrilled to hear that.’
‘Yeah, not at all. I told them how Max never gave us the time of day, is an up-himself snob and has as much class as a farting dog.’
Despite Patch’s attempts to make me feel better, I’m dreading reading the things Trish has told
New Idea
in reply to Max’s article. The good news is I only have to wait another six days to find out.