Nadia suggested I should talk to her lawyer, check out my options. But I'm not ready for that yet. It sounds so final.

Day 27.

I think I've been too patient with the builders, Patch in particular. He always has an excuse for why there hasn't been more progress. 'I'm sorry to complain,' I tend to begin most conversations, when in fact I'm seething with fury. The builders have a job to do and they're being paid well for it. They've completely blown out their initial time estimate and I'm over it.

I start writing a whinge list.

1. No feature tiles used under capping in bathroom, which I specifically purchased two months ago. It set the tiler back two weeks because he had to take away the capping, breaking several dozen pre-existing tiles in the process.

2. We still only have one toilet because we surrendered the second one to the builders after I walked in on Joel sitting on the loo upstairs. I still can't erase the image from my mind. (Since then, Gloria's taken to calling him Creepy Joel, convinced he's on the run from Jamaica. The way that woman's mind works!) Anyway, after that, I relented and agreed that Patch should install a portaloo for the tradesmen. It is still to appear.

3. Builders working with shirts off, nude from the waist up. It's illegal and contravenes the industrial relations code. Sure, I don't mind the younger, muscular ones but the over-forties with their flabby guts? I don't think so. Whenever I mention this to Patch he laughs and asks if I want to see his chest.

4. New fire alarms, purchased weeks ago, are yet to be installed.

I'm staring up at a leaking skylight, ready to write that down too, when Patch walks by.

'What's that about?' I ask him, pointing upwards.

'The roofer didn't get to finish the flashing.'

'I can see that. Water's still leaking everywhere.'

'His mother died,' Patch says, without a flicker of a smile.

I laugh. 'At least have the decency to tell me the truth.'

'It's true, I swear. I didn't believe it myself until I read the old bird's death notice in the paper. I'll get you a copy if you like.'

'I'm sorry about the roofer's mother, but could you get someone else to finish the job?'

'I can, but it'll cost. Good tradesmen are impossible to find.'

'Tell me about it. Could you possibly get it fixed before it rains again, please?'

'Aye, aye, Captain.'

I follow Patch outside. 'And why can't the tiler complete the tiling around the outside of the verandah? It's only half-finished. What about the rest of it?'

'Ran out of tiles.'

'What are they?' I ask, pointing to several soggy cardboard boxes of tessellated tiles stacked in a mud patch near the side fence.

His beady brown eye glares at me.

'And while we're talking tiles,' I go on, unflinchingly, 'can you tell me why the tiles that lead from the laundry to the storeroom are a different colour than I specified?'

I make him walk back inside with me by pushing him firmly in the back. He thinks it's amusing.

'See, they're plain white, not black and white as we agreed,' I say. 'They'll need to be pulled up and done again with the correct ones.'

'Good luck telling the tiler that,' Patch says, and meanders off.

Day 28.

The pool's completely green and I don't know how to drain it. Even the mozzies are boycotting it. Any moment, I'm expecting a large flock of migrating geese to land, under the delusion they've found Nirvana.

'I'm feth up,' I tell Gloria when she turns up with curries for dinner. 'I'm thick of thith houth . . . and efthing.'

'Have you heard anything?'

'Of courth not,' I whisper. 'He and Alana have dithappeared.'

'He's got to resurface eventually.'

'What's on your teeth, Mum?' Bella asks, appearing at the smell of food. 'You look like Bucky Beaver.'

'That'th enough, Ithabella,' I say.

'She's right, you know,' says Gloria, peering at my mouth through her oversized J.Lo reading glasses. 'And you sound terrible.'

'They're thtick-on whitening thtripth.' Realising the futility of them, I pull the strips off.

'Thank God. I guess you're trying,' Gloria says, 'but you look seriously ill, girl. I keep telling you, we need to repackage and relaunch you. We need a bright new Lucy Springer - of course, you'll still be you, darl, only better.

Let me make you a star again. Maybe even get you a hosting gig on one of those lifestyle shows -'

'I wish you'd stop asking me to auditon for ridiculous celebrity dating and dancing shows,' I tell her. 'Do you really think Max has gone . . . forever?'

'Why are you so opposed to taking dance lessons? Reality dance shows are huge. Huge! Especially in Israel. The sooner you learn the quickstep, the cha cha, and the paso doble . . . No, I don't think Max has gone forever, unfortunately. He'll be back.'

Day 29.

Patch bounds up to me at seven-thirty-five in the morning to inform me that the concrete slab is being poured today.

'About time,' I snap. 'There's still a hell of a lot to do.'

He stares at me.

I unfold the notes I'm holding in my right hand and clear my throat before reading aloud my list. 'Like, start the kitchen, install light fixtures, install and finish new hardwood floor, scrape old paint off ceiling boards, paint ceiling . . .' I sneak a look at his stunned face.

'Just give me the list,' he sighs.

He glances through it, all seven pages, and says, 'All in hand, Lucy. All under control. I promise the team are devoting themselves to your house until the job's finished.'

Victory. That's all I wanted to hear.

'Are you sure you 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.