Lisa Heidke by Lucy (mobi) (rosie project .TXT) 📕

attention back to him, I continue, ‘You were saying about the new oven?’

‘Yeah, I’m on to it,’ he says, twitching a little.

I walk away, confident I’ve left the impression I could turn on him at any moment because I’m so unhinged.

‘Let’s play Monopoly tonight, Mum,’ Bella says after dinner.

And we do. We eat popcorn, we smile and we are happy.

Sam, channelling Donald Trump, buys a gazillion hotels on the green squares (Regent, Oxford and Bond streets) and the yellow ones (Piccadilly, Leicester Square and Coventry Street), while I’m facing bankruptcy. Bella, in jail, cheers Sam on and doesn’t express any desire for freedom, despite holding a Get Out of Jail Free card. We’re in the middle of what is traditionally (in our house) a very competitive board game. Yet the kids are sticking to the rules and being nice to each other. The last time we played Monopoly, I had to bend the rules significantly to get Bella released from jail. It was either that or deal with the catastrophic consequences - tantrums, name-calling, tears. But this time, Bella’s cheering Sam as he strives for world domination. I never thought I’d see the day. I’m not convinced these are my children.

Day 16

I’m admiring Patch’s spectacularly chiselled arms from a distance when he notices me and walks over. Launching into what sounds like a rehearsed speech, he tells me they’re encountering problems with the renovation: apart from rising damp and a leaking roof, they need to do additional excavation before the cement slab can be laid. I tune out. The bloody slab was supposed to be poured months ago. Why couldn’t Patch have foreseen all this and mentioned it while Max was still here?

‘Can you fix it?’ I ask him.

‘Of course, but it’ll cost.’

I flinch. I’m a little nervous that the money’s going to run out - quite possibly sooner rather than later.

Patch has a smile on his face and looks annoyingly happy.

Handsome, almost.

‘Why are you so happy?’ I ask him.

‘I just am. Generally speaking, men are happier than women. We can’t get pregnant, and for us chocolate is just food.’

I nod, but he isn’t finished.

‘We can wear white T-shirts in the rain, no shirts in the sun. Car mechanics don’t lie to us, the world is our urinal and people never stare at our chest when talking to us.’

‘Thanks, I get it now. Men are so much happier than women.’

‘You betcha,’ Patch says. He’s still going as I walk away.

‘We have freedom of choice when it comes to growing a moustache, we don’t need to wax our bikini line, or our legs, we can live with the same hairstyle all our lives . . .’

‘I’m leaving if I’m partnered with Bec again this week,’ I say to Gloria when we arrive at the tennis courts. ‘I can’t bear her bossiness. “Keep your racquet up, Lucy”, “Use your forearm grip, Lucy”, “Lucy, the aim is to hit the ball over the net”. Then there’s my hand. I can’t really throw the ball in the air.’

‘All excuses,’ Gloria says and pulls me across the car park.

I’m not partnered with Bec - hurrah! Instead, I’m partnered with the second-most competitive woman in the group: Tracee, with an ‘e’ not a ‘y’.

‘Thought any more about Dom?’ Gloria says as we stagger back to the car afterwards.

I shake my head. ‘Don’t you remember, my therapist said not to.’

‘Thirteen years ago!’ says Gloria, making an ugly snorting noise.

‘Maybe, but we don’t want me becoming “delicate” again, do we?’

‘It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think, lovely?’

‘Whatever. The past should be left in the past.’

‘This time it might be different. Maybe this time around you two could -’

‘Would you just stop? I’m a married woman! And I don’t want to talk about him.’

‘Okay, but I found his website and got his email address -’

‘Enough already!’

But she’s let the genie out of the bottle and I think even more about Dom that night. I’d promised him I’d be there at the airport to say goodbye, but Gloria did the honours in the end.

Would life have turned out differently for Dom and me if I had gone to the airport that day? I doubt it. The only difference is that instead of crying about him in private, like I did, I’d have sobbed in public. And that’s never a good look.

Day 17

It’s the day of the audition for the porta-puppy-potty. One of the women auditioning looks like Jessica Simpson straight out of the remake of The Dukes of Hazzard. I’m talking bikini top and short shorts with preposterously high stiletto heels. What the hell is she thinking? Do dogs need to see your backside and toned, tanned calves to do their business?

I glance down at my sheer pink blouse. Perhaps if I undo a couple of buttons . . .

During the course of the audition, several breeds of dog, including an overly excited Great Dane, slobber on me and I have to scoop up real dog shit nine times. (I count.)

Afterwards, an attractive young girl bounces up to me. It seems she recognises me from my days on The Young Residents, in particular my death scene.

‘That was so cool,’ she trills. ‘I really thought you were dying. ’Cause I saw my nan die - she was in hospital too - and you died exactly like she did, with a final gasp, snort and then . . . nothing. So cool. The way the family gathered around you crying . . . and then your funeral. God! I cried so much.

‘Did you actually have to lie in that box?’ she burbles on. ‘I mean, of course you did - it was an open casket. We saw everything. Nice death dress, by the way. And your husband! What a bastard.’

You don’t know the half of it, I think as I watch a miniature apricot schnoodle take on a German shepherd.

‘Shagging his girlfriend in the funeral home bathroom, while you’re all made up in your best clothes