Day 9
The kids hate me. The bus driver hates me. Max hates me. Why else would he leave us like this without a word?
First I feel outraged. Then I feel guilty: that I might have pushed him away, that our perfect little family has been wrenched apart, that my children are separated from their father. Then I move on to feeling like a failure: as a wife, a mother . . . and, clearly, as a renovator extraordinaire. I’m living in loser land.
I venture downstairs. There’s no sign of Patch and his unhappy band of brothers.
We have no kitchen and no builders building the fucking kitchen. Surely Max could have stuck it out until the renovations were finished. They were his obsession, after all. I can’t manage without him. I really can’t.
In my more sane moments, I fantasise about my new kitchen with its brand-new gleaming stainless-steel appliances, marble benchtops, huge butler sink, chrome fittings. Ah! It will be perfect. The kitchen I’ve always dreamed of.
Yes, once the mess is cleared and our ‘to-die-for kitchen’ is fully operational, Max will be back. I can’t manage without him. I really can’t. He just needs a break from the hole in the ground we’re living around.
After the kids head off to school, Bella complaining about the shame of facing the bus driver, I drag myself to tennis. I don’t know why I bother. I hate it. I only go because Gloria insists, and turns up each week to pick me up.
I’m partnered with Bec, the competitive know-it-all. We lose four sets out of four. Actually, that’s not technically true. Although the fourth set should be a loss to us, Bec causes such a fuss when the ball ricochets off her head during the final point that the other team agree to play the point again. Bec calls ‘Out’ when the ball is very clearly in and we win. Cheers.
‘I fucking hate tennis,’ I moan to Gloria during the drive home. ‘I especially hate the fucking skorts we’re forced to wear.’
‘No one’s forcing you.’
There’s a long silence, then I apologise. ‘Glors, I think Max has left me,’ I add.
Gloria looks at me and makes a noise of some sort.
‘Did you just say “woo-woo” under your breath?’ I snap.
‘Might have.’
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘I am, and darl, I’m deeply distressed. You would know that if only my forehead was not pumped full of poison.’
‘Gloria, I’m serious.’
‘So am I. Let’s face it, it’s fabulous news, Luce, and about bloody time. We can finally go back to being good friends again.’ She turns to grin at me and her thick mane swings from side to side.
Gloria and Max have never clicked. It harks back to my last four months on The Young Residents, which I played out in a coma thanks to a pay dispute between the network and Max, who, at the time, had taken it upon himself to act as my manager. Gloria maintains that Max ruined my career. Max says Gloria and cellulite did. Gloria hates Max. And vice versa. If you ask me, it’s because they’re so alike.
‘He’s too opinionated,’ Gloria always complains.
‘She’s so opinionated,’ Max says without fail every time he sees her.
They were never going to agree on anything, least of all the management of my career.
‘We are good friends, Gloria,’ I say, sniffing back tears.
‘You know what I mean. Hey, you don’t think Max has . . .’
‘Has what?’
‘Have any of his habits changed, like last time?’
‘You mean has he upped and joined a gym, bought new clothes and had a decent haircut? No, but he has been on a health kick.’
‘Aren’t we all! For goodness sake, Lucy,’ says Gloria, softening, ‘he’s probably just off on some boy’s own adventure. He’ll tire of it soon enough. In the meantime, we can actually socialise - together. Without him. In fact,’ her eyes widen with excitement, ‘come to a party with me on Saturday night. You’ll have fun and it’ll help take your mind off Max.’
Gloria could be right. I grab the mobile and call Alana, the babysitter. I get her voicemail. Drat. She probably won’t be available anyway. That’s what I get for employing a nineteen-year-old babysitter with a better social life than mine. Then again, she’s gorgeous, lives around the corner, loves Sam and Bella, and is the older sister of one of Sam’s mates. Win-win. I leave her a message.
Gloria’s disappointed I can’t confirm and starts to wonder aloud about alternative babysitters.
‘I am not asking my mother to look after them,’ I say, my outstretched arm and splayed fingers almost touching Gloria’s face. ‘She’s spending way too much time at our house as it is.’
‘I don’t care how you do it, but we’re getting you out of the house on Saturday night,’ Gloria says, stopping her car to let me out. ‘And tell me you’ll think about Celebrity Archery?’
I get inside to find a message blinking on the answering machine. It’s Constable Peacock. They’ve found Max’s car, which is great. Not so great is the fact they found it in the long-term car park at the international airport.
I catch a cab to the airport car park, charging the fare to our joint American Express card - all of the bills for which go directly to Max’s office. Had he been thinking, he would have removed the Amex card from my purse before he bolted out the door with his oversized Malibu surfboard.
Max’s black Mercedes is parked exactly where Constable Peacock told me it would be - section D, row M. I’m going to enjoy this. Max hasn’t let me drive his car since I accidentally sideswiped a parked truck just after I found out about his affair with Poppy. Max said I did it on purpose to annoy him. Maybe; I can’t honestly say.
I fix up the exorbitant fee - all four hundred dollars of it - with the Amex card and hoon
