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

bed. For goodness sake, be grown-up about it.’

‘I already know where he’s staying.’

‘See, there you go. Now you just have to buy the scorpions and smuggle them into Bali. Could be a tad difficult. Where is he staying?’

‘Sheraton, Nusa Dua.’

‘Typical. Tell me you’re not staying there as well?’

‘What? No, of course not. That is, I’ve booked a room -’

‘No, Lucy, you can’t.’

‘And why not?’

‘Because it’s stalking. Besides, think of Sam and Bella.’

Bloody Gloria. Sometimes I hate her. It’s all systems go when it suits her and her harebrained scorpions scheme. But when I come up with a plan - an excellent foolproof plan, I might add - she laughs and tells me I’m a stalker. So much for my good mood and walking on air.

‘I have to see him, Gloria. He has to face me.’

‘Why? He’ll only hurt you all over again. It’s pointless.’

‘No, it’s not. As Dom said the other night, I have to face Max to sort out our marriage. Max needs to see the kids . . . to see what he’s thrown away by running off with Alana.’

‘Dom, hey?’

‘Yes, Dom. I’m allowed to talk to him you know. You’re the one who begged me to get in touch, if you recall. Anyway, it’s no big deal.’

‘I wouldn’t say begged.’

Day 36

After dropping Bella and Sam at school, I stop to buy bread and milk at the shops nearby and see several mothers, including Trish, at the café there. No doubt they’re dissecting her woes so they don’t have to examine their own unfulfilling lives, infidelities and inadequacies. I know they’ve been taking her cooked dinners most nights, even though I’m sure Trish isn’t incapable of boiling spaghetti just because her tramp of a daughter has fled the country with my husband.

Am I bitter? Maybe. The thing is, seeing them gossiping and sympathising with Trish about Alana running off with Max makes me feel . . . well, it makes me feel paranoid. Because I know they’re all wondering, ‘Why didn’t Lucy stop them?’ The answer is, because I didn’t know they were running around behind my back. I was ignorant. Blind. Stupid.

Trish spots me standing with my groceries and waves me over to join the group. Practically every mother I know is here, except Nadia. I feel like an intruder who’s accidentally stumbled into a party I wasn’t invited to. Then I realise: I have stumbled into a party I wasn’t invited to.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ I say.

No one speaks for a moment, then Emma says, ‘Please join us. Have a scone.’

Have a scone? Who eats scones at nine o’clock in the morning? Come to think of it, who eats scones full stop?

She pulls up a seat beside her and pats it. Reluctantly, I sit.

‘We’re talking about how hard it is to stay married,’ laughs Camel-toe Wendy. Nervous titters from the women seated around her. Realising her insensitivity, she back-pedals. ‘Sorry, Lucy.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ I say, waving a hand in midair.

‘Well, relationships in general,’ she goes on, digging herself further into a hole. ‘You know, power struggles . . .’

‘Still doing Pilates, Wendy?’ Emma asks, changing the subject. (Camel-toe’s certainly dressed for it, day in, day out.)

‘No.’

‘I thought you loved Pilates?’

‘Well, I liked saying, “I’m going to Pilates” or “I’ve just come back from Pilates”,’ says Wendy. ‘But actually I don’t like the class at all.’

Then could you stop wearing the clothes, I think nastily.

‘I got kicked out of yoga class,’ says Dee. ‘Swore too much. The instructor said yoga couldn’t help me, I needed therapy.’ She laughs. The group laughs with her.

‘I can’t stay,’ I say, standing up. ‘Got a few things to organise before I fly out to Bali.’

Trish chokes on her latte. ‘Bali?’

‘It’s time this mess was sorted out.’

I’m shaking as I climb into my car. The school grapevine will be working overtime on that titbit.

‘They mean well,’ Mum says, when I arrive on her doorstep fifteen minutes later.

‘They bloody well don’t. They’re the sort of women who, if I put on five kilos, would be around in a finger snap with a huge chocolate mud cake and a shoulder to cry on.’

‘They cared when you cut your hand.’

‘Only because they thought it was a botched suicide attempt.’

‘A cry for help -’

‘It was a bloody accident, Mother.’

‘The point is, they cared.’

‘Only because they thought I was having a breakdown because Max had left me.’

‘And would that be far from the truth?’

‘Whatever. They only come around because they smell drama, blood and failure.’

At home, the winking red light of the answering machine greets me. There are three messages from concerned mothers. They all begin innocently enough with variations of: ‘Does Bella have the spelling words for this week?’ before moving quickly to ‘Are you sure you want to go to Bali?’ and ‘I’m here for you’.

There’s a fourth message. It’s from Trish. She’s crying, rambling, saying words that don’t make sense. She sounds so distraught I ring her back.

‘My little girl has been stolen,’ she sobs. ‘I’m coming with you - I’ll drag Alana home. Except she won’t listen to me, even if I do find her. Who’s to say she won’t disappear again?’

‘Trish,’ I say when she finally takes a breath, ‘I’ll see what I can find out when I get there.’

‘She won’t listen to you either. All she cares about is Max.’

The words sting. This is the father of my children we’re talking about.

‘Look, I don’t want to get involved in rumours,’ Trish says, sounding serious and seriously tipsy.

‘What rumours?’

‘You know. People talk. They say you’re a self-centred diva and that Max got sick of it.’

‘People? Which people?’ I demand.

‘Just people. They’re saying that it’s a wonder he lasted so long. Not that I’m blaming you, of course.’

Of course.

There’s silence for a moment while Trish drinks from her glass. I can hear the ice cubes tinkling.

Slurring her words, she starts up again. ‘The church runs communication classes for couples, you know. Maybe if you’d come once in a while, none of this