Lisa Heidke

you just tell them about him and Alana?’ she says.
‘Yeah, right, and break their little hearts? I’m not that cruel.’
‘But Max obviously is.’
‘Anyway, I’m seriously thinking about moving away from the city -’
‘To where, exactly?’
‘The coast.’
‘Get a grip, girl. The coast is where all washed-up actors disappear to.’
‘The country, then.’
‘The country’s worse. Come on, Luce. Is this because of the dog poo commercial?’
‘I didn’t get it, did I?’
‘Sorry, hon.’
‘Hell, Gloria. I’m a loser. I can’t even nab a gig scooping dog shit. I remember when my life was one big carousel of limos, premieres, charity balls and six-star hotels.’
I was sought after once upon a time. I was loved. Max loved me, for starters. I had fans, stalkers even. Once this man sent me a photograph of myself walking out of my front door. That’s stalking in my book. Men wanted to sleep with me. Women wanted to be me, red hair and all.
‘I’m leaving,’ I say, ‘starting a new life.’
‘There’ll be other commercials,’ Gloria tells me.
‘I don’t want other commercials.’
‘Luce, stay in the city. You love the city. What am I saying? You’re not living anywhere near civilisation as it is, all the way out there in the ’burbs. But at least you’ve got more chance of success than you’ll have living in some hick town three hundred kilometres away.’
‘I should give up this acting crap. You saw those people at the Actors’ Studio the other night, Glors. I’m not in their league. I’m past it. A has-been. No one’s hiring women like me.’
‘Of course they are. You just need sexing up.’
‘I’m not twenty-one anymore. I should bow out gracefully and disappear somewhere with the kids.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, then goes quiet before saying, ‘Did you google Dominic?’
I shake my head, not that she can see me. ‘No.’
‘Thought as much. I’ve been in touch with him -’
‘I know. I’ve received three emails from him. I knew it was due to your handiwork.’
‘What did he say? Are you catching up? Tell me everything.’
‘He said he was thinking of me, told me to call him.’
‘And?’
‘I didn’t reply. My life’s complicated enough.’

Day 22
I wake up at three in the morning crying, and continue until six-thirty, when I have to get out of bed and be brave for the children.
Mum calls in with some red gerberas and asks how I’m doing.
‘Terrible,’ I reply, putting the pretty flowers in a grubby, dusty vase.
‘You’re going to have to tell the children about Alana eventually.’
‘Hopefully he’ll die in some really bizarre accident and I won’t have to,’ I say.
Mum looks doubtful. ‘What about the builders?’
‘What about them? They won’t be here for days because of the rain.’
‘Lucy, you’ve got to get this place finished.’
‘Why me? Why do I have to do it?’
‘Because you’re the only one here, love.’
* * *
It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. There’s no rain, the sun is shining and there’s not a builder in sight. According to my calculations, as long as there’s not a downpour again today, Patch should (here’s hoping) be back on-site tomorrow. So I head out for some retail therapy.
Driving to Bondi Westfield, I make the mistake of going through the cross-city tunnel and get stuck in the most God-awful traffic. By the time I reach the shopping centre car park, I’m stressed beyond belief.
I walk briskly from shop to shop, only stopping to pull out Max’s American Express card and buy fabulous frivolities - a pink Spencer & Rutherford bag that’s gorgeous but completely impractical; a pair of pink-and-maroon suede Alannah Hill eight-centimetre-high slingbacks. And seriously, when am I ever going to have occasion to wear a red rabbit-fur poncho? I also buy a complete new tennis ensemble. I can’t hit a ball but I might as well look good trying.
I even eye a new Cartier watch, hesitating for a moment before giving it back to the salesgirl. Maybe next time. Not so with the DKNY green suede coat and black Prada pants.
I’m trying on an exquisite Collette Dinnigan sequined top that goes nowhere near fitting me, when a blonde skeletal sales assistant taps me on the shoulder and says, ‘Maybe you wouldn’t be so depressed if you weren’t wearing such ugly boots.’
Excuse me! Am I wearing a neon sign that says I’m depressed? Are my antidepressants sticking out of my bag, on show for the world to see? I don’t even take antidepressants. I’m not depressed. I turn around to see the giraffe from the party at the Actors’ Studio. She doesn’t bother with the dressing room, just strips off in front of one of the shop mirrors and stands there checking out her physique in a black satin bra and boy briefs. I glare at her, but she’s too self-absorbed to notice other people exist. Now, I’m depressed.
Sipping a skinny soy latte in a café, I calculate that I’ve spent over $5800, and feel guilty, guilty, guilty and furious, furious, furious.
Exhausted, I arrive home to find a message from Max.
‘Lucy, it’s me. I’ve had a call from American Express.
Been on a shopping spree, have we? How are Bella and Sam? We’ll talk soon.’
I play the message no less than fifteen times before realising that Max’s phone is working. He’s just not taking my calls.
‘I’m drinking all your Grange, you C-U-Next-Time prickhead!’ I scream when the voicemail clicks in yet again. ‘And I’m giving all of your clothes to charity. That’s right. All of them.’
This time, I drive to a different charity bin - I don’t want to risk running into the mad old biddy from last week. I take malicious pleasure in casting all of Max’s clothes into the bin, bag by bag. Driving home, I feel triumphant. Well, a little sad too, but mostly triumphant.
Emma calls and asks Bella, Sam and me over to dinner. I like Emma but we’re not close. Still, she’s invited us over when we still have no kitchen and no husband/father, so I take a bottle of wine from the cellar and we walk the four