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

sake. And she’s not the only problem. The electrician and the carpenter both promised they’d be here yesterday and both of them were no-shows. It’s a fucking disaster. But everyone just shrugs their shoulders and tells me it’s not their problem.’

Welcome to my world, love, I think.

Am feeling rather smug until Gloria rings me after I’ve dropped off the kids at school.

‘Why don’t you just move in here and be done with it,’ I tell her.

‘Ha, ha. Sandy tells me you’re being difficult.’

‘I’m not fucking being fucking difficult.’

‘No, doesn’t sound like it. Clearly, it’s all in her imagination.’

‘I’m not wearing a fucking bikini!’

‘Could you scream a little louder? I don’t think the good folks in New Zealand heard you. What’s the big problem here? Okay, so don’t wear the bikini, just do a tiny piece to camera with Rock about your marriage break-up, the romantic reunion in Bali, the bombs, your love-rat husband dumping you . . . again . . . yada, yada.’

‘I don’t want to tell the world that my husband left me for our nineteen-year-old babysitter. It’s pathetic and such a cliché.’ I absentmindedly go to touch my missing wedding ring.

‘Whyever not? This sort of thing happens all the time.

You’ll get the audience’s sympathy. Then you can say how you’ve transformed yourself, made a go of your life, overcome obstacles . . .’

‘Gloria!’

‘What? It could happen.’

‘That’s why you got them to use my house on the show, isn’t it? Because of Bali, the bombs, then the break-up, my disastrous renovation . . .’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well, I’m not doing it. You’ll have to cancel.’

‘You’ve signed a contract, Lucy-Lou. Now, if you just up your meds . . .’

‘Shut. Up.’

‘You think I’m being funny, don’t you?’

It’s five in the evening. Bella and Sam spent the afternoon with Max and he’s dropping them at Mum and Dad’s for the night. My parents haven’t said much about Max. Dad, in particular, seems to have his head firmly entrenched in the sand, as if this is a little vacation we’re taking away from each other and not a permanent separation. He’s wrong.

I haven’t gone into explicit detail with Mum about what happened with Max and Alana in Bali, but I’ve given her enough information so she can draw a pretty clear picture.

No doubt she’s in the process of pecking at Max for more information as I sit here on a rickety cane lounge in the garden, drinking wine from an ancient Thomas the Tank Engine plastic mug and contemplating my lonely and miserable life.

The way I see it, I have several options:

1. Renege on the TV contract. Obviously, I’ll have to pay some sort of penalty, which will push me further into financial oblivion.

2. Make up with Max. Allow him back into my house and life. Live from here on in an unhappy compromise, albeit with a swanky kitchen and financial freedom.

3. Kill myself.

4. Kill Max.

5. Finish the renovation ASAP, slap the house up for sale and downsize.

6. Compromise with Gloria on the TV contract; get the renovation finished ASAP, then sell the house - all the while retaining most of my self-respect.

Am thinking option six looks like a winner when Rock appears. I hardly recognise him without his mask and gloves. I glance at his shoes and smile. They’re still covered in socks. Of course they are; he’s standing in my muddy backyard.

‘Rock, take a seat. What’s up? Shouldn’t you be out at some fabulous bar?’

‘I came back for my notes. And I’m over bars. Besides, the press hound me everywhere I go.’

‘But you are the press, aren’t you, strictly speaking?’

‘I’m more than the press, I hope. I write my own lines. And hey, I’ve got a book coming out.’

‘Really? I’m impressed. What’s it about?’

‘Me.’

I almost laugh. ‘This calls for a celebration. Come on inside.’

Rock follows me into the laundry/kitchen/family room, alert for dust and debris. I retrieve a bottle of Croser from the fridge and a couple of glasses. I may be on the brink of financial oblivion but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a sparkling wine now and then.

‘This okay?’ I ask, showing him the bottle.

Rock nods and I pop the cork. I hand him a full glass and lean against the washing machine.

‘Cheers,’ I say, clinking my glass with his. ‘Congratulations. Tell me all about it.’

‘Well, it’s about my ups and downs, life’s triumphs until now.’

He’s all of twenty-five years old. What on earth could he possibly have to say to fill an entire book?

‘So you’ve written an autobiography?’ I say, not quite believing him.

‘Well, not exactly. I started writing, but then the publishers suggested a ghost writer. Besides, I’m too busy. It’s all happening.’

‘Won’t having a book out there intrude even more on your personal life?’

Rock looks at me blankly.

‘Given that you want to get away from your fans?’ I go on.

‘Who said I wanted to get away?’

‘I thought you said you couldn’t go anywhere without people harassing you?’

‘I don’t think people harass me. It’s just that they want to talk to me and touch me all the time. Except you.’

I blush crimson. ‘That’s not true.’

‘Where are your children tonight?’ he says, grabbing the Croser bottle and topping up my glass.

‘Er . . . at my mother’s,’ I say, suddenly realising that asking Rock to stay for a drink when the kids aren’t at home is tantamount to inviting him into a full-time relationship.

He takes the glass from my hand and moves in to kiss me. ‘I want you,’ he gasps.

And while my head is saying ‘No, no, no’, my body, and breasts in particular . . . whoops . . . are screaming, ‘YES’. I want to be held, touched, adored. I want to make love and have a man’s strong hands explore my body.

Then sense clicks in. I’m being ridiculous - it’s a disaster waiting to happen. I only want Rock because he wants me. And I don’t really want Rock. I truly don’t.

I’m in the process of pulling away from him when I hear footsteps.

‘Bloody