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

on their submerged stools and talk. He’s drinking a Bintang beer; she’s sipping what looks like a pina colada . . . honeymooners probably. He leans over and kisses her on the lips. She smiles and playfully pushes him away. I wonder if they will grow old together the way married couples are supposed to? Max and I will never grow old together. It is what it is. I wonder whether Max and Alana will still be together when they’re sixty. Sorry, when he’s sixty and she’s forty. And if by some miracle they are, will they finish each other’s sentences and repeat each other’s stories the way Max and I used to?

Every Christmas, Max likes to tell the story about the Christmas before Bella was born, when he was served a dodgy prawn at Doyles. (It had nothing to do with the two bottles of chardonnay he’d drunk.) It’s tradition . . . at least it was when Max and I were together. But now that he’s with her, the Christmas prawn story would be off limits, wouldn’t it?

And what about the kids’ birth stories? At Sam’s future birthdays, Max won’t be able to recount to his new in-laws the drama of me going into labour in the middle of the David Jones food hall. They’re our stories . . . our truths.

He’ll have to find new stories . . . with her. Together, they’ll have to build their own catalogue of anecdotes. So does that mean all our shared stories will disappear from his new life?

I leave the pool, throw on a green sundress and red thongs and leave the hotel grounds. The streets are still empty of tourists. I buy three pairs of totally impractical but gorgeous beaded sandals, numerous beaded bracelets and necklaces, and two rather exotic caftans, one blood-red, the other a piercing aqua.

Exhausted and hot by the time I get back to the hotel, I drop off my goodies at the room and wander over to the day spa. It’s outrageously expensive but I go for the three-hour total relaxation package - Balinese massage, pedicure, manicure and herbal facial. The works.

First, my therapist, Widi, paints me with a thick layer of green marine algae, then wraps me in foil and linen. ‘Very good,’ she assures me as I sweat it out uncomfortably.

Then it’s on to body scrubbing, which Widi particularly seems to enjoy. Yes, my skin feels revitalised but also a little raw. Thankfully, we move on to the body massage and I use the time to think. I try to slow down the images as they rush through my mind: the hospital, the dozens of critically injured people, the overwhelming sadness that the Max part of my life is over. I wonder if things might have turned out differently had Max been injured, or at least been at the hospital to witness the gut-wrenching chaos and destruction first-hand.

After the spa, I walk down to the beach and search for Betty. She’s startled when I tap her on the shoulder.

‘Loo-see! You come for massage?’

I shake my head.

‘Manicure?’

‘No, Betty, I have a gift for you.’ I give her my shampoo, conditioner, face cream and body lotion.

‘Loo-see, you very kind lady,’ Betty says, her eyes bulging.

‘I have something else as well.’ I search my pockets and hand over my ring.

‘Is this . . . is this wedding ring?’

‘It used to be,’ I say. ‘I don’t need it anymore. It’s yours now.’

I could have thrown the ring into the ocean, but it would be a waste - probably gobbled up by an unsuspecting fish. I know Betty will put the gold to good use.

As I wander along the sand back to the hotel, I wonder if I’ll ever come to Bali again. And if I do, will the island have changed? Will I have changed?

The kids are wildly excited when Max brings them back, and loaded down with T-shirts and a million other trinkets. They unwrap their treasures and spread their massive haul over the beds. I motion for Max to join me outside.

‘I don’t want to talk about this now, Lucy,’ Max says, as I close the door behind us.

‘Well, I need to, Max. The kids and I are about to fly home. I need to know what you’re doing.’

He doesn’t say anything.

‘Our marriage is -’ I start.

‘I’ll always love you, Luce.’

‘I want to hear you say the goddamn words, Max. Tell me our marriage is over!’

‘This isn’t what . . . Look, let’s not do anything hasty.’

As usual, Max would rather not think about or discuss the problem. No doubt he’s hoping that if he ignores it (i.e. me), it (me, again) will go away or, at the very least, shut up.

‘Hasty?’ I repeat. ‘Isn’t it a bit late for that? What? You want your wife, your kids and your mistress, all of us, on a short leash at your beck and call?’

‘If you’re going to get hysterical -’

‘I’m not hysterical. Under the circumstances, I feel I’ve been very patient. But now we have to tell the children.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

‘Max, I’ve been behind the eight ball from the very beginning. Okay then, if our marriage isn’t over, tell me you’re going to leave Alana and come home with us.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘I thought so.’

Max goes to hug me but I throw my hands up in front of him. ‘Don’t ever touch me again.’

Blinking away the tears, I walk back inside and tell the kids, ‘It’s time to pack up, we’re going home.’

Bella and Sam look at their dad. For a moment Bella looks as though she might burst into tears.

‘So you’re not coming with us,’ she says to him.

Max avoids the question. ‘Let’s get you guys packed,’ he says.

Fifteen minutes later, the four of us, standing in the foyer and surrounded by bulging suitcases, paint a glum picture. Bella’s on the verge of tears, Sam’s confused, I’m exhausted. And Max? He appears shockingly devoid of any emotional understanding about what has transpired