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

day. Sam gets to hold a boa constrictor and Bella pats a koala. Still, their questions hit hard. It’s bloody tough. But at least Max hasn’t shown up at the house again. In fact, the last conversation we had - yesterday, regarding him seeing the kids next week - went rather well. I think the message is finally sinking in. He knows I don’t want to see him, but that he can pick the kids up from school and see them whenever he likes, just so long as he calls first.

The main thing is getting the renovation finished so all of us can move forward with our lives - that’s the rational Lucy talking. And, gee, I like it when my balanced side emerges from time to time. It gets me thinking that maybe I can ease off the antidepressants because all is moving along nicely in my little world.

Nadia’s right though. I really need to talk to her fabulous lawyer.

Day 57

Between our house and the kids’ school, there’s one set of traffic lights. And just before those traffic lights is a newsagency. Outside, plastered on huge one-metre-high newsstands are the latest women’s magazines’ title covers for the week. The new covers come out on a Monday and I always find them highly amusing. Last week’s was: ‘I did not glue my ex-husband’s genitals to his stomach’ - exclusive interview with Gracie Gardener. That made me laugh and laugh. Because Gloria knows for a fact that Gracie did glue Edwin’s dick to his tummy. Apparently, Marcus took photos as proof.

This morning I slow down at the lights to have a good gawk at this week’s headlines.

It can’t be.

Blaring out from the New Idea newsstand is a Max Springer exclusive: ‘I survived the Bali bombs AND my wife’s betrayal’. My gut churns with horror. This can’t be happening. It really can’t.

I slam on my brakes and swerve, narrowly missing a shaggy cream spoodle sauntering across the road. In the back seat, the kids scream, ‘Mum, you almost killed him!’

Three minutes later, I offload the kids at the kiss-and-drop zone and zip back to the newsagent’s. I slip on my oversized dark glasses and buy the offensive magazine, leaving a six-dollar tip because I can’t bear to wait for the change. Then I drive as calmly as I can to a nearby cul-de-sac and pull over. I open the magazine and read. There are four pages of Max’s wrath. Who would have thought anyone would be interested enough in Max to fill one page, let alone four?

The gist of the article, written by Tina Stump, is that poor hard-done-by Max ‘loves Lucy very much’, but it’s been ‘incredibly difficult living with a temperamental star all these years’.

Really? Do tell.

‘My affair was a cry for help,’ says Max. ‘A wake-up call to Lucy in the hope she’d settle down and not carry on looking at life through rose-coloured glasses. When I saw Lucy last week, I could tell she wasn’t well. She was wearing what looked like a dead rabbit over her shoulders - and her spending is out of control. She spent three thousand dollars on a toilet! I mean, come on. Three thousand dollars for a new toilet? Clearly, the woman’s crazy. She’s unhinged and possibly on medication. She even threw out my clothes. Though what can you expect when she got through three cases of Grange in four days.’

‘Liar!’ I scream out loud and hit my hand on the car steering wheel, causing the horn to blare and two startled joggers to trip over their feet as they pass. I gave several of those cases of wine to Patch.

I don’t want to read on but I force myself. It’s like a train wreck; I can’t help but stop and view the carnage even though it sickens me.

There’s an aside where the old fossil who attacked me with her walking stick at the charity bin comes to Max’s defence. ‘So that was the crazy woman hanging from the local clothing disposal,’ she says. ‘She was trying to steal from poor people.’ Bloody hell. I read further. It turns out the old woman is a Christian and - hold the phone - belongs to the same church as Trish. What are the chances!

There’s another box where the teenagers who ran into my car with their Land Cruiser talk about the bingle. ‘I can’t be sure,’ says Tiffany, ‘but I think she might have been drinking.’

Meanwhile, in the main article, Max’s vitriol continues. ‘Lucy booked a holiday at an expensive resort in Bali on a whim with no notion of how she’d pay for it. She’s living in a fantasy world. She spends her days auditioning for reality television programs and failing. It’s so sad. She needs help.’

The article ends with Max saying that he’s confident ‘my family can get back on track now that Lucy has had a real-life wake-up call. Our children are still young and vulnerable and we need to make sure we do all we can to set them on the right path to adulthood. It’s up to me to get Lucy the help she needs so that our children aren’t affected by her erratic moods.’

Thank you so much, my darling husband - soon to be ex-husband. At least there’s no mention of Rock. I suppose I should be thankful for very small mercies.

In his bleeding-heart story, Max doesn’t apologise to me or our children for the affair or for the distress he’s caused us - and Alana and her family. Instead, he big-notes himself by saying, ‘Of course, I’ll pick up the tab for the renovation.’

I scan the pages again. Is Lucy out of control? the magazine screams. From car crashes to crashing into elderly ladies - it appears this fading starlet is determined to live life on the edge.

There are several photos of me looking tired and unkempt.

Photo one: me putting out the garbage.

Photo two: me walking at six in the morning. (Yes, I walk