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Authors: Lucy Springer Gets Even (mobi)
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Windsor Hotel; picnics in the Botanic Gardens . . . Max and I seemed blessed with happiness. Even as recently as Valentine’s Day this year, Max gave me red roses and Bollinger champagne. (Thanks very much. It was delicious. Pity you weren’t here to share it with me.)
Since Valentine’s Day, it has to be said, there’s been a definite shift. Max’s late nights and early morning starts began before the demolition, but afterwards they really kicked into top gear. When I asked him if everything was okay, he snapped, ‘What is this? An inquisition? You really need to get a life, Lucy, so you don’t keep hammering on about mine.’
So I did - taking up tennis with Gloria, buying a whizzbang sewing machine (still in its box, but I had good intentions), and putting more effort into reviving my acting career. And somehow the crack of distance between us widened into a chasm . . .
* * *
The rain has saturated the linen cupboard and destroyed our wedding album. I 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
T he 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
Since Valentine’s Day, it has to be said, there’s been a definite shift. Max’s late nights and early morning starts began before the demolition, but afterwards they really kicked into top gear. When I asked him if everything was okay, he snapped, ‘What is this? An inquisition? You really need to get a life, Lucy, so you don’t keep hammering on about mine.’
So I did - taking up tennis with Gloria, buying a whizzbang sewing machine (still in its box, but I had good intentions), and putting more effort into reviving my acting career. And somehow the crack of distance between us widened into a chasm . . .
* * *
The rain has saturated the linen cupboard and destroyed our wedding album. I 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
T he 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
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