Lisa Heidke

restaurant’s turning our way. ‘You think it’s funny, your mongrel husband running off with Alana?’ she shrieks.
‘Alana?’ I say, shocked. ‘Max doesn’t even -’ I stop, horrified at the knowledge that’s dawning on me. Max and Alana? Max said he needed space . . . with Alana? The same Alana who started babysitting for us two years ago when she was studying for her HSC? Bookish, freckles on the nose, Justin-Timberlake-lovingAlana? The women around the table shift uncomfortably in their seats. It’s blindingly clear they know exactly what Trish is talking about.
‘My God, why didn’t anyone tell me?’ I say, feeling utterly humiliated. Tears start rolling down my cheeks. ‘I didn’t know he was with Alana,’ I sob.
‘It’s okay,’ says Nadia.
‘How could you have known,’ says Emma, putting an arm around me.
‘Thanks to your husband,’ Trish continues, undaunted, ‘Alana’s given up university. She says she’s in love with him and isn’t coming back.’
I feel faint and short of breath, in the grip of what seems like a panic attack. I want to die. I push my chair back violently and rush to the bathroom. I desperately need to be alone. Except there are a couple of people in the cubicle next to me, doing . . . well, I’m not quite sure what they’re doing now. The noise seemed to stop when they realised another person was present.
Finally, the cubicle door opens and I’m drawn to the keyhole, watching as the couple leave. It’s Lizzie and Dee. Well, there you go. That explains the rostered-sex thing Lizzie’s got going with her husband.
I wash my face and then wait a few more minutes before walking back out to the restaurant. I need to go home. I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there, but I just know I need to go.
‘You all right?’ Nadia asks.
‘No,’ I say, wiping away new tears. ‘My husband’s fucking the babysitter. Everyone knew he was and nobody told me. And now he and Alana have disappeared to Bali.’
‘Come on, it’s not that bad.’
I snort.
‘All right,’ says Nadia, ‘it is that bad, but it’s not your fault. I wanted to tell you, really I did. But then I thought you might think I was butting in. Sorry.’
‘Trish hates me.’
‘Fuck Trish. She’s a pain in the arse,’ Nadia says. ‘But seriously, she’s crazy with grief. It’s really going to fuck with the Prozac she’s taking.’
‘Prozac?’
‘Yeah, Trish is depressed.’
‘Shit.’
‘See. We’re all fucked up in our own way,’ Nadia says and drives me home.
The house is dark and cold. I open the drinks cabinet and pour myself two nips of vodka, down them in one gulp. How long ago did it start? When was the moment when he/she/they decided they’d take the next step? Did Max try and stop himself? At any point did he think, ‘I can’t do this. I have a wife and two children. I have a family and they come first?’ What a cliché - taking off with the babysitter. Couldn’t Max think of anything more original?

Day 21
I have a very bad night’s sleep punctuated by haunting memories of all the things Max did that show me now how inattentive he was.
1. His eyes would glaze over when I spoke to him. He rarely wanted to talk about anything but the kids.
2. On the very rare occasions we made love recently, he didn’t want to kiss me - because he had a cold; I had a sniffle; he thought he was getting a cold sore . . .
3. He’d even stopped kissing me goodbye in the morning and hello in the evening.
Clearly Max had checked out of our marriage long before he actually walked out. Why hadn’t I noticed? You’d think I’d have learnt my lesson after his affair with Poppy; that Max running off with Alana wouldn’t come as a huge surprise. But it does. I truly thought Max loved me, but no, he had sweet, young and pretty Alana picked out, all ready to replace me.
After Poppy, Max begged my forgiveness, saying the affair was a one-off, reckless lapse (lasting nineteen months) and would never happen again. I believed him, more fool me. Perhaps because we sought counselling.
Max hated going; said it made him feel inadequate. (Honey, try coping with the knowledge that your spouse is cheating on you. Talk about self-esteem issues!) But I insisted. And we worked through our problems - or so I stupidly believed. We renewed our commitment to stick with each other through good times and bad. Not just because of the children, but because we loved each other and wanted to see out our days together. I should have realised he didn’t mean a word of it when he refused to budge on the vasectomy issue. One in four married men gets the snip, but not Max. Clearly because he wanted to save his sperm for Alana.
I torment myself with images of Max and Alana playing happy families in a perfectly renovated country cottage with a white picket fence and adorable, impeccably behaved twins. (Don’t ask me why they have twins. They just do!)
Then I think about how all those times I was cooking dinner for Max, he was busy fucking Alana. All those late nights at work, or when his mobile was switched off or ‘out of range’, he was fucking Alana. While I was at home being the good wife, listening to our children read or recite their six times table, he was fucking Alana. I feel sick. Furious. I want to kill that no-good babysitter-fucker!
I finish what I started two days ago - that is, throwing every piece of clothing Max owns into plastic bags. When I’m finished, there are thirteen garbage bags. I toss them all into the boot of the car and drive to the nearest charity bin. I heave in the first bag, then the second. And suddenly feel guilty. Max will be furious . . .
I pull down on the handle to open the bin. The only