I think about him signing off with love always and feel a momentary surge of hope. I remember back to our wedding, to our vows of eternal, everlasting love. We promised each other we’d be together forever. Not to waltz off to Bali when things got tough.
Sorry, the note begins - but Max isn’t sorry at all. If he was sorry, he would never have left me in the first place. He would have stuck it out and suffered alongside me, the way married couples are supposed to. You don’t see me jetting off to some exotic location just because my world has become a kitchen-less, hot-water-less misery!
And to Bali of all places! We were supposed to go there together, as a family, after the renovations were done. It’s one of the things on our To Do list, along with climbing the Eiffel Tower, trekking the ruins of Machu Picchu and filming polar bears at the North Pole.
Why couldn’t he have taken us to Bali with him?
Life is what it is - what the bloody hell does that mean? Reading the postcard again, I can’t help but wonder if Max is in Bali with someone. Then I get angry. Very angry.
* * *
‘When’s my kitchen going to be ready?’ I say to Patch when I see him trying to avoid me. It’s a reasonable question but my delivery’s a bit off, what with my anger at Max.
‘Lucy, exactly how will your life change once you have this new kitchen?’ he says with that easy smile. ‘You told me you don’t even cook.’
‘I’m going to start cooking once I get my kitchen,’ I retort. ‘And one day I might even have a bathroom to bathe my children in, not to mention somewhere to watch television without a spin cycle in the background.’
‘You’re impossible,’ says Patch, shaking his head and laughing.
I know for a fact I’m not impossible. I’ve seen impossible; I’ve played impossible. I am definitely not impossible.
I stomp off to the bathroom, and scream as I enter to find Joel on the loo, safety glasses firmly strapped to his head. Not a pretty sight. I back out, eyes closed, and make for the safety of my bedroom. I have no idea what Joel is doing upstairs, but I do know I’ll have to thoroughly disinfect the toilet before I can place my bare bottom on its seat again.
I wallow in my bedroom, totally unproductive, until the kids come home. I decide not to show them Max’s card. I want to protect them, keep the truth from them a little bit longer. At least until I speak to Max.
‘Mum, why did God make mothers?’ Sam asks as I haul hot water to the bathroom for the umpteenth time. Obviously, he’s been to scripture class today.
‘Because they know where the clean underwear is,’ I answer.
‘Mostly, they’re supposed to cook and clean and look after us,’ says Bella. ‘Supposed to.’
After a family discussion re dinner, we dial in pizza. The kids drink lemonade and I down half a bottle of champagne - Bollinger, with the same DO NOT TOUCH tag as the Grange. It’s been sitting in the cellar waiting for a special occasion. Tonight is about as special as it gets, I think.
I try Max’s mobile again after dinner. Still switched off. How am I supposed to get on with my life, the children, the renovation, when I have no idea when or, even if, Max is coming home? Clearly, he’s having a massive mid-life crisis, and I can understand, to a point. But why doesn’t he call?
I have to do something to distract myself and my gaze falls on a pile of photo albums that were left in the hall when we were moving everything for the renovations. ‘Come on. Help me move these albums,’ I say to the kids.
Bella and Sam remain squashed on an uncomfortable chair watching Big Brother.
‘Mum,’ asks Sam, ‘why don’t you go on Big Brother?’
Bella laughs out loud but at least gets up. ‘Where do you want me to put these after I’ve cleaned them?’ she asks, turning her nose up at the dusty, neglected volumes.
‘Follow me,’ I say, walking upstairs with an armful of memories.
Sam follows Bella’s lead, and sits on my bed looking at a shoebox of old photos, circa 1992. ‘Who are all these people?’ he says. ‘You were so pretty, Mummy. Look at your hair.’
‘Yeah, you look pretty, Mum, and happy,’ says Bella.
They’re looking at party photos from my time at NIDA. I do look happy. And young. But my hair! A spiral perm à la Mariah Carey. I pick up a photo of Gloria and me at a toga party. God, we were fools.
‘These were taken before you were born, when I was at acting school,’ I say. Ah, for those grunge years, when we smoked endless dope, partied hard, wore black clothes, Doc Martens and heavy make-up. I hardly recognise myself - I look so thin. Not gaunt, ugly thin, just clothes-hanger thin with a perfect smile and straight white teeth. I remember religiously cleaning them with bicarbonate of soda every morning and evening. Back then, I was hungry for fame, determined to make it as an actress.
‘Who’s this?’ Bella asks, passing me a photo.
It’s Dom, Gloria and me, all three of us laughing mischievously, arm in arm at the Sandringham Hotel. I’m the redhead between the two dark heads of hair. Dom was so handsome, athletic, and those sparkling blue eyes . . .
This particular photo was taken the first night we moved into a fabulously dilapidated terrace at the seedy south end of Newtown. It wasn’t until after the pub closed, and we were standing outside our new home utterly pissed, that we realised no one had brought a front-door key. Heavy iron bars
