‘And they’re paying big bucks,’ says Gloria.
‘Sold!’
‘There’s one tiny thing I should mention. It’s called porta-puppy-potty . . . ah . . . and you may have dogs slobbering over you when you demonstrate the device. Whichmeansscoopingdogshit.’
‘What? Shit.’
‘Exactly. But it’s national and it’ll be fun.’
Joel starts up a chainsaw and drowns out the rest of our conversation. He’s got his safety glasses glued to his face, as usual, but is working without the guard on the chainsaw ‘so the boys can get a better view, mon’. I wonder if home insurance covers workmen who are obsessed with lecturing others about safety in the workplace but don’t bother following the rules themselves?
I stomp up to my bedroom, take to my bed and drink three-quarters of a bottle of 1991 Hill of Grace. I’ll start on the TLC thing tomorrow.
Some time later I glance at the bedside clock. It’s three-thirty. Any minute now the kids will be arriving home. I go to get up but must drift back to sleep because the next thing I know it’s five o’clock and Mum’s in my bedroom. Bella, the brat, must have called her. Again.
‘I can’t believe you’re lying around the house all day and not taking your responsibilities as a mother seriously,’ Mum huffs.
‘Go and disinfect some walls,’ I yell.
She suggests I need to talk to someone - ‘a professional’.
‘Been there, done that,’ I shout back.
Day 12
Driving Bella and Sam to school this morning - lack of clean clothes causes them to miss the bus - I politely request that Bella stop phoning her grandmother every two seconds of the day.
‘It’s really quite annoying.’
‘Mum, you’re so weird. Nanna and I agree it’s best if I call her every day just now.’
They agree it’s for the best! Since when did my daughter suddenly age thirty years?
‘Bella, Nanna is not your mother. I am. I decide what’s best for this family,’ I say, glancing in the rear-vision mirror just as Bella does her famous skyward eye-roll.
‘Don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady,’ I snap.
We drive in silence the rest of the way to school.
‘I’ll walk you both in this morning,’ I say, to more eye-rolling.
Bella and Sam walk as slowly as possible behind me, then grudgingly say goodbye at the school gates before disappearing into a sea of grey shirts and green hats. I’m left at the entrance listening to a conversation about the Year Three concert, which is apparently being held next Wednesday.
‘I’d forgotten all about the concert,’ I admit to Nadia when she comes up to say hello. Nadia’s son, Lachlan, is in the same soccer team as Sam, which reminds me that Max is the assistant coach. Bloody Max. How am I going to explain his absence at tomorrow’s game?
‘Yeah,’ Nadia says. ‘It’s hard keeping on top of everything.’
I’ve always liked Nadia. She’s strong and funny, not to mention a stunning advertisement for the single life - expensive golden hair, youthful sun-kissed complexion, wide happy smile.
‘By the way, Max is away on business,’ I say casually, ‘so he won’t be at the game tomorrow, or for the next couple of weeks probably.’
‘Oh, Lucy, please don’t worry; you’ve got enough on your plate as it is.’ Nadia’s tone suggests I’m terminally ill, or worse. What have my children been saying?
An extended group of mothers gathers and we chat a while, though I feel at sea during their talk about such pressing issues as the lack of homework given by Mrs Johnson. Eventually, everyone disperses and I begin the long trek to my car, thinking how you have to be at the school gates every morning and afternoon to avoid feeling left out of the loop. Then again, how could I have forgotten about Sam’s concert? God knows, he’s been practising to trot like a mountain goat for months.
‘Lucy?’ Nadia waves to me from her car. ‘Do you want me to pick up Sam before the game tomorrow?’
‘Thanks, but with his dad away, I should make the effort,’ I say.
Wandering out to the letterbox, I discover a postcard to Sam and Bella from Max. My heart skips a beat and my first thought is: Thank God he’s okay.
Dear Sam and Isabella, the surf ’s great in Bali. Wish you could be here with me. Will be in touch soon. Love, Dad xxx
I can’t believe it. Bali! What the fuck’s he doing in Bali?
Outraged, I search around in the letterbox, flipping bills out of the way, and then I find it. A letter for me from Max. Fuming, I decide not to open it. It’s a Dear John letter, I’m sure, and no good can come of reading it.
Back inside our half-house, I run around madly ripping sheets off beds. I can’t remember the last time I washed the bed linen. Isn’t that disgusting? I know I meant to as soon as the kids left for camp, but . . . well . . . shit happened.
At the end of three loads of washing, Max’s letter is still sitting on my dressing table unopened. What if it’s an invitation for the children and me to join him in Bali? For a brief moment, my hopes rise. It might be airline tickets. I feel the envelope. It’s too thin for three tickets to Bali.
I search for other cleaning activities I can do that will help take my mind off Max’s letter. That takes all of eighteen minutes. Despite my reluctance and fear, I can’t hold off any longer. Taking a deep breath, I run my finger along the inside top of the envelope to open it, and pull out a postcard featuring eight scantily clad Balinese dancers.
Be brave, I tell myself, and turn the card over.
Max is succinct. His whole twenty-nine words read as follows: Dear Lucy, Sorry I left without telling you, but life is what it is. I need space and time to think. We’ll talk soon.Take care. Love always, Max.
He needs space?
