Authors: Lucy Springer Gets Even (mobi)
T
hough last night was fun and did much to restore my sense of being a sexy, desirable woman, I’m thankful to wake in my own bed. I didn’t want to wake up in Rock’s. I haven’t slept in someone else’s bed (except Gloria’s) since Max and I started dating, and staying out all night would have made me feel bad about being a married woman who’d effectively picked up a stray man in a bar. (Hot and young - and the stamina! Oh, baby! Eat your heart out, Max. But a stray, nonetheless.) And that’s not how I live my life. (Yet.)
Of course, Gloria has to call. ‘So, Mrs Robinson, did you seduce the boy?’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘You don’t have the MASBs, do you?’
‘The what?’
‘The Morning After Shagging Blues. C’mon, Lucy, tell me, was he a good fuck?’
‘Shut. Up.’
‘Ah, so he was. You did well. I could tell from the way he was gyrating on the dance floor.’
‘He’s so young -’
‘Who cares? Anyway, it’s only natural you’d be feeling a bit -’
‘A bit what? Ashamed? Embarrassed?’ I launch, ready to defend myself.
‘I was going to say, emotional.’
Patch tells me we’re over-budget.
‘How can
you
be over-budget? You haven’t done anything.’
‘I’m working through the list, like you asked me,’ he says, waving several sheets of paper in the air. ‘There’s the trouble with the cabinet-maker, the extra excavation we needed to do in the garden, replacement of the sewer pipes -’
‘How much over-budget?’ I’m trying to remain professional, despite my overwhelming urge to throttle him.
‘About fifty per cent, give or take.’
‘Give or take what?’
‘It all depends on the next stage, Lucy. Appliances, fittings . . .’
I want to take his little head and ram it through the glass door. Instead, I say, ‘I need a breakdown of the costs, including what you’ve already spent and future projections, including extras.’ I’m getting fired up now. ‘And, Patch, I think the contractors are harassing my cat. He turned up the other day in a tizz because bits of concrete were stuck to his tail. I had to cut the fur out.’
Patch puts him arm around me. ‘Have you thought about taking anger-management classes? They’re really very helpful. A client of mine -’
‘For your information, I don’t need anger-management classes,’ I say, removing his arm. ‘What I need are builders who turn up when they say they are going to. What I need is my house back. I’m living with constant dust - on the floor, the furniture, in my hair, my clothes, the breakfast cereal . . .’
‘I like the new forceful Lucy, it suits you.’
I want to go on but Patch’s good eye glazes over with something suspiciously resembling desire. I make a hasty retreat.
Nadia phones and invites the children and me over for dinner.
‘How’s it going?’ she asks, looking totally gorgeous in a white cotton empire-line dress, her magnificent bosom on display.
‘Fine, great,’ I say.
‘Haven’t seen you at school this week.’
‘No, the children don’t like me stopping by unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
Especially after what Sam told his class, the incident with the bus driver, and then Sam’s concert where I wore a see-through shirt, smelt of dog and accidentally sat in the principal’s chair.
‘Don’t take it to heart,’ she says. ‘No one blames you for Max running off with Alana.’
‘Really? I can only imagine what people must be saying about me.’
Nadia looks away for a moment and shrugs. ‘Every family has its ups and downs - you can’t get by in this life without messing up. Shit happens, and it happens to everyone. People who say their lives are perfect are lying . . . or drinking heavily. Speaking of which, here.’ She hands me a glass of wine.
‘Maybe some people are better at hiding it,’ I say, hopefully.
‘That’s the spirit. Just remember, everyone’s fucked up about something. Now, have you rung my lawyer?’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t. It’s too soon.’
‘There’s plenty of time. On the bright side, being single you get to have the whole bed to yourself, don’t have to share the remote control or shave your legs - and you’ve got those cute builders crawling all over your house. Who was the one I saw the other day - had a patch over one eye?’
‘That would be Patch.’
Nadia smirks as if to say, of course, how silly of me. ‘He’s cute.’
‘You think?’
‘Honey, up here anyone who can walk and talk and doesn’t have a hunchback is considered fair game. He’s on the money. I couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. Man, oh man.’
‘Don’t you get lonely?’ I ask, trying not to think about Patch’s cuteness or his bulging biceps.
‘Sure, sometimes. But I have the kids, my trusty vibrator . . .’ Nadia laughs. ‘Seriously, you know Jack’s mum, Andrea? She hosts lingerie parties, husband’s a doctor? I bought a couple from her. She has a handcuff fetish. I’ll introduce you. And occasionally I go out on dates.’
I shake my head, thinking back to last night.
‘I know you can’t imagine it now, Lucy, but the time will come.’
‘No, I -’
‘I’ve been out on some doozies. Once, I even had dinner with a toothless man. Of course, I didn’t realise he was toothless until we kissed.’
‘And?’
‘His denture dislodged and I ended up with a molar entwined with my tongue. True story.’
I arrive home two hours later to the sound of the telephone ringing. Bloody Gloria!
‘Yes, Gloria.’
‘Yes, yourself.’
It’s not Gloria. My stomach lurches. I feel twenty years old again.
‘Dom,’ I squeak. ‘How are you?’
‘Not bad. You’re a difficult one to track down. After I called and you didn’t phone me back -’
‘I can explain.’
‘I’m sure you can. I sent you a couple of emails, three, but you didn’t answer any.’
‘But -’
‘I was starting to think that either you were dead, you hated me, or you thought I was stalking you like one of your lovesick fans.’
‘I don’t have any lovesick fans.’
‘I’ve always been a fan.’
‘Hmm,’ I murmur, lost for words. ‘So . . .’
‘Why am I calling? Thought it was about time I tried again. I know things haven’t been easy for you lately . . . You weren’t going to call me, were you, Luce?’
I hesitate. ‘Of course I was.’
‘Liar, liar.’
‘Okay . . . maybe not right away.’
‘Aha! So how you holding up?’
‘Fine . . .’
‘Except you’re living in a dump. Am I right?’ He sounds exactly like the straightforward Dom of old. I almost forget to be nervous.
‘I wouldn’t exactly call it a dump,’ I say, looking around the dump I’m standing in. For the next forty minutes I tell him everything about the renovation, and Max and Alana. On and on. The more we talk, the more I realise how much I’ve missed him.
‘Luce, it sounds to me like you really need to sort things out with Max. After all, he’s Bella and Sam’s father, and I guess if he can’t be grown-up about it, you have to be.’
‘But -’
‘For the sake of the kids, yourself - c’mon, you deserve more than a lousy postcard. Besides, there’s too much history, too much at stake, for you to throw it all away without at least talking things through, isn’t there?’
When Dom says this, it brings back memories of the history he and I have shared.
‘But he’s in Bali,’ I manage.
‘So?’
I don’t speak because I don’t have an answer.
Finally, Dom says, ‘Promise you’ll call me any time. I mean it. And don’t go stabbing yourself or others and, for God’s sake,
do not
under any circumstances let Gloria talk you into any more auditions for toilet adverts - with animals
or
humans.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
He doesn’t suggest we meet up and I’m disappointed. It would have been nice if he’d asked me for coffee, or lunch. Instead, he asks me if I could be any kind of inanimate object for a day, what would I choose.
T
he good news? I think I’m starting to get through to Patch. He’s on my doorstep at 7 am looking alert and holding a piece of paper with a list of completion dates.
‘A month away from finishing, Lucy,’ he says. ‘Five weeks tops.’
I really want to believe him because it sounds so doable when he says it.
‘I don’t foresee any problem with the council inspection this morning, even though we’re not quite finished doing the electrics, and if there is, we can always slip the guy a few bob.’
‘You’re joking, of course.’
‘Of course.’
But I wouldn’t put it past him to bribe people, officials in particular. All I can think is that it’s coming out of my pocket. Next thing I know, I’ll be arrested for aiding and abetting dodgy building practices.
‘So what’s next?’ I ask.
‘The plasterers are in today, and after the electrician finishes, give or take a day, we move on to tiling, laying the floors, installing the kitchen and painting.
Voila!
’
‘Has the kitchen actually been built?’
Patch hesitates. ‘It’s on its way, well on its way.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Soon, very soon.’
‘Five weeks tops?’ I say.
‘Absolutely. Definitely no more than six. We’re pulling down the old stairs tomorrow, so for the next week there’ll be ramp access upstairs until the Oregon timber for the new set arrives. Yeah, it’s all taking shape.’ Patch smiles and looks down at his notes. ‘There’s just one more thing. You know that toilet you ordered?’
Yes, I do. It cost three thousand dollars. Buying a toilet to pay back my cheating husband was perhaps not such a good idea in hindsight. The money situation is escalating out of control. The bills come in, I write the cheques, and while no one’s rung to say their cheque’s bounced, logic tells me that the money has to run out eventually. Especially if Max never comes back. For now, at least, his salary is being paid directly into our bank account, and we had money set aside for the renovation, but the costs . . . Who knew something as trivial as waterproofing could be so expensive?
‘It seems to have disappeared,’ Patch goes on. ‘The boys have looked everywhere but there’s no sign of the Magic Flush 4000. Don’t worry, though. Insurance should cover it. Most of it, anyway.’
Despite the disappearance of my overpriced loo and the sick feeling I have regarding spiralling renovation costs, I feel strangely comforted now that Patch has given me a completion schedule. I know he won’t stick to it, but having a piece of paper at least gives me hope.
Patch shows me a Villeroy & Boch bathroom brochure. ‘This one’s a back-to-wall model with a soft-close seat,’ he says, pointing at a black-and-white photo of an ordinary-looking toilet. ‘And it has a built-in auto-flush so you don’t even have to push a button when you’re finished doing your business.’
‘Great . . . I think.’
‘Yeah, it’s so much better than the Magic Flush 4000. It even has an in-built air-freshener. Best of all, it’s a third of the price.’
‘Go for it,’ I say, and fling my red rabbit-furred pom-pom poncho over my shoulders. Why didn’t he show me that one in the first place?
Flowers arrive at the front door with a gift-wrapped little package. My heart jumps. Could they be from Max? Dom, even?
No, they’re from Rock. He must have asked Gloria for my address. I open the package. My knickers. I wondered what had happened to them. I was kind of hoping they’d disappear, never to be seen or spoken of again. Alas . . . At least they’ve been washed.
I do my rounds of the building work and my top lip curls automatically as I watch the plasterers. Don’t get me wrong, it’s progress. The more noise, filth and general disorder, the closer we move towards the logical conclusion of a new kitchen, living area and bathroom. And I really want these things. I do. It’s just that these guys are too loud, too filthy and far too messy for my liking. Today, I can’t even get my big toe inside the laundry/kitchen/family room.
After lunch, the plasterers leave empty Coke cans, half-eaten pies and a mound of cigarette butts. But I don’t say anything. The last thing I want is for them to walk off the job, the way the tiler did three days ago when I made a tiny comment about the tiles not being the right colour.
Afterwards, Patch told me it would take him forever to find another tiler.
‘But there must be dozens of them,’ I said.
‘Yeah, but tilers talk and word is you’re one difficult customer.’
‘I wouldn’t be difficult if my job had been finished on time. In fact, by my reckoning, you guys should have been out of here three and a half months ago.’
‘You can’t rush perfection.’
‘My point exactly. If it was perfect, I wouldn’t be complaining.’
Given that I can’t stand the sight of anyone in my house, I follow Gloria’s advice and get me to a beautician for a general overhaul; the birth of a brand-new me. A new life . . . my life without Max. It’s time to move on. Because today I’m thinking I
can
get by without Max. What’s the point of wishing someone would come home when they clearly don’t want to?
I spend the afternoon gaining a new perspective on my life as the beautician sloughs dead skin from my heels and paints my toenails fire-engine red. I also have a manicure, eyebrow wax, eyelash tint and an exotically named youth elixir oxygen therapy facial, which involves a combination of oxygen treatment and a cocktail of vitamins and minerals slathered over my face to restore, tighten and rejuvenate my skin. Excellent.
I decide it’ll be fine if Max never comes home - as long as the finances are under control, which they will be once I transform myself and am offered a television contract.
Lucy Springer is getting her life in order! I’m damned if I’m ever going to do an audition for a dog poo ad again. If Gracie Gardener, slut and my nemesis, can act then so can I. She has a coke habit, for God’s sake. I’m no longer even opposed to adopting an Asian orphan. I could do that. I’m sure Sam wouldn’t mind sharing his room. I’ll have a new life post-Max. So he left me for the babysitter? So he’s in Bali? Big deal.
Walking out of the beautician’s, I feel on top of the world.
Moments later, I saunter past a hairdressing salon and spot a hairdresser - male, drag queen, complete with make-up (obviously). He has the Priscilla thing going and looks fabulous. I’m in love. In love, and unhappy with my same old redhead do. I look exactly like old Lucy Springer, not new me at all.
I walk in, introduce myself to the drag queen - Pete, he tells me - and demand he ‘do me over’.
‘Love, are you serious?’ he screeches.
‘Absolutely. Do whatever you want,’ I tell him, feeling silently queasy. After all, I love my red hair. It’s my trademark.
‘Get rid of the red,’ Pete snaps straightaway. ‘Doesn’t suit you.’
I spend the next three and a half hours having a complete hair makeover. In addition to blonde, I have honey, copper and ash stripes through my hair, the base colour being chocolate. Not a hint of red.
After it’s done, I say to Pete, ‘I want to look more Newtown than North Shore, but do I just look like an aging, cheap slut?’
‘You’re an artist, darling. Artists are entitled to own any hair they want.’
I bobble out of his salon feeling chuffed, proudly flicking my multicoloured hair from side to side . . . and that’s when I happen upon a travel agent’s window.
Fate.
I remember Dom’s comment, about me needing to sort out my marriage before moving on with my life. He has a point. Then there’s Bella and Sam. They need to see their father.
I
need to see their father. I’m stuck in limbo land, and as much as I think I want to move onward and upward, I really should sort out my feelings about Max as well.
I walk through the travel agent’s door.
If Max can take off to Bali, so can I.
I’d love to say that my day ended on that spectacular note, but as this is a diary I have to be honest and confess how Patch and another builder caught me in my underwear less than an hour after I arrived home from my day of beautification.
Really, it wasn’t funny.
Why was I clad only in my Elle Macpherson Intimates? Because after my beauty treatments, I decided I was looking somewhat pale - I’m naturally a fair-skinned redhead after all. So I proceeded to slather myself in Clinique fake tan - the downside being that I couldn’t put my clothes back on for fifteen minutes until the lotion had completely dried. Eight minutes in, I needed to use the toilet. I didn’t think anyone other than Bella and Sam were in the house. God knows, it was four o’clock and Patch never works late on Friday afternoons.
So there I was, about to enter the bathroom, when Patch and another builder appeared on the landing, having just climbed up the ramp.
‘Avert your eyes,’ I cried and fell into the bathroom, where I stayed for a good half-hour, only emerging after Sam reassured me several times that there were ‘No strange men in the house, Mummy.’