Lisa Heidke

should have taken it upstairs when I moved the others. Now, Max’s and my faces are distorted beyond repair. An omen if ever there was one.
I’m mopping up the laundry/living room when Patch pokes his head in.
‘We can’t work here today,’ he tells me.
‘So I gathered,’ I say, squeezing dirty water into a bucket.
‘Yeah, it’s um, like raining. Bummer.’
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve broken down in front of Patch, and I refuse to do it again today. Still, my voice catches when I say, ‘Welcome to my world. There are leaks everywhere.’
‘Come on, Lucy, it’s not too bad. The long-term forecast is for sunshine. Still, I guess those weather guys are wrong ninety per cent of the time.’
‘You had me at “The long-term forecast is for sunshine”.
Why did you have to keep talking?’
To my relief, Patch and two of his offsiders work in the torrential downpour for the next two hours, fixing new tarpaulins to the roof.

Day 19
The rain is so heavy that everything has become damp and mildewy. Black mould is attempting a hostile takeover of the entire house and Bella is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Before school, the kids pester me about Max (where is he?) and raincoats (they don’t have any). Why is it that as soon as it rains you can never find an umbrella or a raincoat?
On the drive to school, Sam says, ‘Seriously, Mum, when’s Dad coming home?’
‘Any day now,’ I lie.
I know I should prepare them, warn them their father might have decided to start a new life without us. But now’s not the time. Not when it’s 8.40 am, we’re at the kiss-and-drop zone and the principal’s eyeballing me to make sure I don’t overstay my allotted two minutes. The children, each wearing a daggy old parka, jump out of the car and run for cover in the school grounds.
Stopping at the local coffee shop, I see Trish and wave to her. She ignores me. She’s one moody piece of work lately - or maybe I’ve just become horribly paranoid. Trish leads the weekly prayer meeting at the local church and she’s always inviting me along to pray for our souls, our school and other worthy community causes. But I can never quite make it. For a start, I blaspheme too much to go to church. And part of me (a big part; huge, actually) doesn’t want to be swept along by some perverse cult. Okay, okay, so she belongs to a mainstream religion, but still, sometimes the words ‘religious freak’ pop into my head when I see her. Anyway, last time I declined her invitation she got quite shirty. But that was a couple of months ago. And Christians aren’t supposed to hold grudges, are they?
Armed with my large takeaway soy cappuccino, I sit in my bedroom and re-read Max’s postcard for the umpteenth time. What am I hoping for? An extra couple of sentences I missed the first time? Something like: Having a tiny mid-life crisis but I love you so much and promise to be a happier, more attentive and loving husband when I get back, which will be very, very soon. I love you more than life itself, Lucy, so please don’t worry. Max xx Instead, I get zip.
It’s one thing for him to walk out on me, but to leave Bella and Sam as well? It’s incomprehensible. What would make him do such a thing? It makes me so angry I could cut his clothes up into tiny pieces and scatter them in the pool.
Now, there’s an idea. But what would be the point? I’d just have to fish them out again once my anger subsided because no other bastard would do it for me.
One of the mothers from school threw her husband’s laptop into their pool when he left her. That little incident kept the mothers from 5L gossiping for a good three weeks. But Max seems to have taken his laptop with him.
A tidal wave of sadness engulfs me. Have I really been such a terrible wife and mother? Then I get angry again and want to hit him, hard; maybe throw him in the sludgy pool. Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold?
I’m shoving piles of Max’s clothes into garbage bags when the phone rings. It’s Gloria.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to try out for Celebrity Circus, Luce? The wheel of death is really connecting with the twenty- to thirty-nine-year-olds out there.’
‘Give up, Gloria.’
‘Australian Fear Factor?’
‘There is no way on this earth I’m letting some crazy guy talk me into eating rotten bull’s balls or any other dead animal’s genitalia.’
‘You’re making it hard for yourself, Lucy. You should at least try these things - I, myself, wouldn’t be averse to a bit of ball action of any description right now. Besides, reality TV is not going to disappear, so the sooner you get used to the fact your future involves playing poker, eating witchetty grubs or parading half-nude in a fishbowl, the sooner you’ll get real television work again.’
‘Don’t you think it’s slightly odd that families gather round their television on Sunday nights to watch C-grade celebrities cram as many maggot-infested dead scorpions into their mouths as possible?’
‘Give the audience what they want, that’s my motto,’ says Gloria, then takes a deep breath. ‘Look, you know I’ll keep putting you forward for commercials, Luce, but you have to make an effort.’
‘Speaking of which, have you heard anything about the dog commercial?’
Gloria hesitates. ‘Not yet.’
‘That’s not a good sign, is it?’
‘I’m sure you’ll get it.’
‘You’re such a bad liar.’
‘I’m not. It’s just that a lot of people auditioned. You know how it is. There’s a tinnitus ad coming up. I’ll see what buttons I need to push to get you an audition.’
‘Great! I’ll make sure I keep an ear out for your call. Can’t wait.’
‘Now, now, there are other people in the world -’ she starts, but I hang up on her.
Instead of continuing to pack