Lisa Heidke

home.
Unfortunately, when the kids see Max’s car parked in the driveway when they arrive home from school, they rush in eagerly calling out for him.
‘So when is Daddy coming home?’ Sam asks when I explain about the car.
I tell him that Daddy has to stay on for an extra couple of weeks after the conference ends. ‘Your dad’s the best in the business so his bosses want him to train the new guys overseas. It’s a big honour.’
I don’t know why I’m being so kind to Max. I feel like telling them he’s stuck in a coalmine somewhere, unlikely to resurface any time soon.
I give the kids toasted ham and cheese sandwiches for dinner.
‘But this is lunch,’ says Sam, looking at it in disgust.
‘It’s dinner,’ I tell him.
‘Lunch,’ Bella says.
‘It’s six-thirty at night. This is dinner.’
They look at me then reluctantly eat the sandwiches. I guess they decide toasted bread is preferable to no food at all.
* * *
After Bella and Sam go to sleep, I take to my bed. As much as I’d like to consume copious amounts of booze, the thought of feeling even more wretched tomorrow than I do now helps me to resist - just. Wretched, sad, angry, miserable . . .
Where is Max and what is he up to? Is he alone? A couple of years after Max and I married, he said, ‘So I’m never going to be with another woman - naked - ever again?’ The occasion? His thirtieth birthday after maybe a dozen beers. I couldn’t escape the feeling that perhaps he was hoping I’d suggest a threesome. Why am I remembering that now? Because I can’t stop tormenting myself with the idea that Max has left me and is happily ensconced in someone else’s arms. I want to scream, throw things, punch him. But I don’t have a clue where he is.

Day 10
I have to bribe Patch and his cronies back to work with a case of French wine from Max’s precious cellar. I also have to promise to answer any house-related questions promptly and desist from abusing anyone using power tools.
‘Well, I don’t like the builders sneaking up on me,’ I say, trying to save face. ‘They seem to be all over the place and they all look alike. I can’t tell them apart, and I’m sick of them urinating on my hydrangeas.’
‘None of my men have ever urinated in your garden,’ says Patch.
I beg to differ.
Then Patch and I squabble over toilet arrangements.
On the subject of toilets, I’ve ordered the Magic Flush 4000. That’s right, the three-thousand-dollar loo that caused a purple vein to throb on Max’s forehead.
Gloria arrives on my doorstep at eleven o’clock bearing Moët and lilies. Acres of lilies.
‘Bit of a mess,’ she says with a sniff as she surveys the disaster area from the millimetre of grass we’re sharing near the barbecue. ‘I’ve been thinking, lovely, now that Max has gone we can really focus on some serious television auditions.’
‘What if he never comes back?’ I say tearily.
‘Good God! The whole idea is that he doesn’t. What do you want a man wasting your time and energy for?’
Patch throws her a dirty look.
‘I’m serious, Gloria. He’s walked out. Who knows for how long? What am I going to tell Bella and Sam?’
‘The truth. Stop whining, girl. As long as you’ve got cash . . . you have still got money, haven’t you?’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Good. I don’t see what the problem is then. You’re better off without him. So are Bella and Sam.’
‘It’s just that . . . I love him. And I can’t live without him.’
‘Nonsense. You sound like a snivelling soapie character. Get a grip. It’s time we updated your website. All the photos we have of you are too staid, too wholesome. The only sexy ones are from when you played Sophia in The Young Residents, including several of your television wedding to Dr Andres . . .’
Our wedding was the biggest thing since Lady Di and Charles, being paraded around the country in our wedding finery at mock receptions in every city.
‘The point is,’ continues Gloria, ‘we need to jazz up your image, update your wardrobe -’
‘I like the clothes I wear. So do a lot of other people.’
‘Right. And would those style icons include Camilla Parker Bowles? Seriously, Lucy, you need to show some cleavage. You’ve got boobs -’
‘I’m a B cup.’
‘B, D - what’s the difference? It’s nothing a black Wonderbra and good lighting can’t fix. Come on, you need to get those puppies out there. When you waltz into an audition, no offence, but it’s a shock to casting directors.
After all, they’re expecting sexy Sophia and they get -’
‘They get Lucy Springer, mother, queen of broccoli,’ I say.
‘Exactly, my dear.’
Later that night while brushing my teeth, I glance at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Teeth? Straight, at least. Skin? Okay, given I haven’t been obsessing about it the last week, though somewhat sallow. Could do with a resurfacing peel (or three). Eyes? Clear-ish, but with dark circles under them. Eyelashes? Invisible, but long. Nothing a tint and an eyelash perm can’t fix.
Gloria’s right. A makeover is just what I need. The bones are there - just - and so are the breasts, I guess. But the whole package could do with a hell of a lot of TLC.


Day 11
‘Great news!’ squeals Gloria down the phone the next morning. ‘I got you an audition - a commercial, but it’s national.’
‘Hit me.’
‘International brand, well known, consumer friendly -’
‘You’re stalling.’
‘Well, it’s for incontinence -’
‘No way,’ I shriek at her. ‘No fucking way. How old do you think I am?’
‘Joking, Luce, joking. It’s a revolutionary new device for dogs. The manufacturer is looking for a public face. You know, to front the whole campaign, print, media . . .’
‘National coverage?’
‘Of course. They’ll also want you to appear on all the morning infotainment programs.’
‘I guess if Paula Duncan can spruik kitchen cleaners and insurance policies on the morning