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

want parquetry, Lucy? Polished concrete floors are very popular these days.’

I go inside and dig out an enormous packet of Darrell Lea chocolate bullets I’ve hidden from myself at the back of the laundry cupboard and devour them. And, for the first time in weeks, I feel somewhat happy.

The concrete takes, oh, seven hours to pour, give or take an hour or two. There are cement droppings all over the yard, but I’m not going to complain. At least we have a solid foundation and that means floorboards can’t be too far away. (Polished concrete? As if!)

When Bella and Sam arrive home, Bella casually mentions that it was Sam’s news day.

‘That’s nice,’ I say as I’m serving afternoon tea - lamingtons from the family-owned bakery around the corner. ‘What did you talk about, Sam?’

Sam kicks Bella but doesn’t speak.

‘Sam’s news was that Dad’s left us and you’re getting a divorce,’ says Bella, spitting coconut as she speaks. ‘Everyone was talking about it in the playground at lunchtime.’

‘Is that true?’ I ask Sam.

‘Yeah, but Mrs Taylor wouldn’t let anyone ask questions at the end.’

I guess I should be very grateful to Mrs Taylor.

I tell the children that of course their father and I aren’t divorcing, but that he is having some time out from his life. I also mention to Sam that what happens at home should perhaps be kept at home, rather than announced to the entire school community. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we made it into the school newsletter this week.

* * *

Late in the afternoon a courier arrives with tap shoes. Black. My size. A present from Gloria. I throw them into the laundry/kitchen/family room. It’s getting crowded in there.

Day 30

Last night I dreamt about dancing, or rather, attempting to dance and stumbling as disfigured clowns surrounded me, laughing. Then I dreamt I was on a tennis court wearing tap shoes and Bec was screaming at me to ‘Chase the ball, club foot!’ Just the way to start a Tuesday.

I walk around the house inspecting the new concrete slab and checking on the general progress. There are at least six builders here. Most are short and stubby with vile builder’s cracks shouting ‘Hello’ to the world, but I don’t mind. There’s also a portaloo at the side of the garage. Extraordinarily unattractive, but at least my complaints are being taken seriously.

‘Any clones about?’ Gloria asks when she arrives to take me to tennis.

‘Out there, look.’ I say, pointing to Tom and Ted who are manoeuvring a long plank of wood through a narrow pathway. ‘I can’t see a single genetic difference between them. You know they complete each other’s sentences?’

‘Really?’ says Gloria, unimpressed.

‘Do you not find it odd? Freakish even?’

‘Lucy, I keep telling you, you need to get out more.’ She walks outside and stands in front of them. ‘I’m Gloria.’

They both look up at the same time. ‘Ted.’

‘Tom.’

‘Twins, hey?’ Gloria says.

‘Singleton, hey?’ T answers. ‘You’re not going to ask who’s older are you? Or which of us is the evil twin?’

‘Of course not.’ Gloria snorts as we walk to her car. ‘I thought you said they were nice. Singleton indeed!’

Returning home three hours later, I find the house deserted except for a lone spotty, gangly apprentice, Ben. He’s all of sixteen years old. Why couldn’t Alana have run off with him?

I say ‘Hi’ and walk outside to call Patch on his mobile.

It’s switched off. I march straight back inside.

‘Ben, do you know where Patch is?’

Ben shrugs his shoulders and flicks the ash from his cigarette right about where my new kitchen bench should be. Any advance on a shrug of the shoulders, I wonder?

I wait. He finishes his cigarette and says, ‘My bet is, he’s at Station Street.’

‘Station Street?’

‘Yeah, the old lady was getting stroppy that the job wasn’t finished, so he high-tailed it over there.’

Armed with that information, I can do one of three things:

1. Wait for Patch to call me, if and when he deems fit.

2. Slump in a chair fuming, and get angrier by the second, but ultimately achieve nothing.

3. Get in my car, drive over to Station Street and kill him.

Being the new confident me, I choose option three.

Patch is arguing with a very dirty plumber when I arrive at a Federation home in Station Street ten minutes later.

‘I thought you said your focus from now on would be my house,’ I say, trying to control my rising temper.

‘It is. It’s just that -’

‘No, there’s no “it’s just that”, Patch. We have an agreement. I’ve been trying to call you on your mobile.’ I wave my phone in front of him.

‘Lucy, I’ll be there when I can.’

‘We’ve got a lot to discuss,’ I say.

‘Such as?’

‘Such as the new working timetable you promised me. When is my timber floor going to be laid for starters? The place looks like a pit.’

‘Delay on the wharves, what with all the terrorist activity.’

‘What bloody terrorists? Don’t blame factional fighting in some Third World country for your incompetence.’

‘Hurricane in South America?’

I glare at him.

‘All right, all right. I’m waiting for the gyprockers to finish, but they can’t finish until the electricians finish wiring, and the electricians can’t finish wiring until the council inspector okays it all. And he happens to be having a rostered day off today and won’t be back on the job until tomorrow.’

‘And this inspector is coming to my house tomorrow?’

‘More likely a couple of days . . . What I’m saying is, my boys are ready to go, but external forces are holding us up. I must say, though, I like the new assertive Lucy Springer. There’s a fire in your eyes - it’s kind of . . . sexy.’

I shake my head. ‘Nice try. But the new assertive Lucy isn’t going to stand for any more gibberish or flattery as a means to get around her.’

‘Gibberish? Why, I’d never be so bold,’ he says, grinning.

‘Come on, Patch. Isn’t there anything you guys could be doing?’

He shrugs his shoulders.