'It is. It's just that -'

'No, there's no "it's just that", Patch. We have an agreement. I've been trying to call you on your mobile.' I wave my phone in front of him.

'Lucy, I'll be there when I can.'

'We've got a lot to discuss,' I say.

'Such as?'

'Such as the new working timetable you promised me. When is my timber floor going to be laid for starters? The place looks like a pit.'

'Delay on the wharves, what with all the terrorist activity.'

'What bloody terrorists? Don't blame factional fighting in some Third World country for your incompetence.'

'Hurricane in South America?'

I glare at him.

'All right, all right. I'm waiting for the gyprockers to finish, but they can't finish until the electricians finish wiring, and the electricians can't finish wiring until the council inspector okays it all. And he happens to be having a rostered day off today and won't be back on the job until tomorrow.'

'And this inspector is coming to my house tomorrow?'

'More likely a couple of days . . . What I'm saying is, my boys are ready to go, but external forces are holding us up. I must say, though, I like the new assertive Lucy Springer. There's a fire in your eyes - it's kind of . . . sexy.'

I shake my head. 'Nice try. But the new assertive Lucy isn't going to stand for any more gibberish or flattery as a means to get around her.'

'Gibberish? Why, I'd never be so bold,' he says, grinning.

'Come on, Patch. Isn't there anything you guys could be doing?'

He shrugs his shoulders. 'We're waiting on knobs,' he manages.

'Story of my life,' I tell him.

Day 31.

Tonight, Mum insists on taking Bella and Sam so that I can 'get my head together'. No doubt she's force-feeding them baked lamb and roasted vegetables, but that's not such a bad thing. Unfortunately, I let it slip to Gloria that the kids are spending the night at Mum's so she's adamant we go out and drown my sorrows on overpriced bubbly.

Because I don't really feel like going, I choose a bar too close to home. It's not much fun. Even though the place is packed, it's full of sensible suburban couples wearing sensible shoes, sipping sensible spritzers and being ever so careful not to get drunk and fall flat on their sensible faces. I recognise several parents from school, including Lizzie and Dee who are talking animatedly together at the bar. Still, I'm surprised to see how many people have social lives on a Wednesday night. Or maybe I just need to get out more.

'Have you considered writing your autobiography?' Gloria says.

'And what would I write, exactly?'

'Your battle with depression, addiction, mental illness -'

'I haven't had any of those.'

'Really?' She's unconvinced. 'What about family dysfunction, your affair with a cross-dresser who turned out to be your uncle, that sort of thing?' She smiles benevolently and hugs her wine.

'Gloria!'

'Just trying to get you back in the headlines. It worked for Mikki Mansell. You remember her - the drug-addled bulimic whose career nosedived after her ill-fated affair with that transgender American fellow, old whatshisname? Anyway, once she announced she was adopting a tsunami orphan from Sri Lanka -' Gloria snaps her fingers. 'Bingo! She was hot property again.'

'Is she really going through with that?'

'Of course not, but she and a photographer friend of hers flew over to the orphanage, tossed around a few sweets, mentioned adopting a "swag of children from war-torn and weather-ravaged countries" a la Angelina, and wham-bam-thank-you-mam, life's sweet.'

'How you can live with yourself . . .'

'Publicity, that's what it's all about. What about your husband running off with the babysitter and you finding true love with the one-eyed builder? You know he's keen on you. People love a romance, especially a celebrity romance, and if there's a disability thrown in - well! Just think of the possibilities, Lucy-Lou.'

'I'm not sleeping with Patch and there is no romance.'

'As if that matters. You've got to write about something. Gay father? Hermaphrodite brother? A self-help book? You went through a numerology phase, didn't you?'

'I'm finished, aren't I? You can't get me any decent auditions, that's what you're saying. It's over.'

'I wouldn't say that exactly, but you saw the Logies, love-bug. The starlets are all eighteen-year-old tanorexics.'

'I know. I wanted to grab their pert breasts and tell them how far they'll fall. Gravity gets us all in the end.'

'Fantasies aside, we need something to remind people what a bombshell you could be - though losing weight, getting a decent haircut and having your toenails clipped and painted would really help me out here.'

Gloria's bright idea is to start by taking me to another bar halfway across town. I check my watch. It's only just past nine o'clock. Even I think that's too early to go home, especially to an empty house.

'Come on,' Gloria insists. 'It's just opened, and it's hip and hopping.'

Twenty-five minutes later, she leads me past a burly bouncer, through a narrow door (perhaps to keep out the obese) and up some stairs to a dimly lit room. It's packed. Thump-thump music is pumping. The crowd is young, groovy and attractive, all throwing back their glorious manes, laughing deep, throaty laughs and drinking attractive citrus cocktails. It's mere minutes before I see Rock in his designer suit and obvious fake tan. He looks a little like a tandoori chicken. Several groupies cling to him. He buys me a drink and I play hard to get for . . . oh, all of twenty-two seconds.

Gloria dances past me with not one but three handsome men in tow. 'Take life with a grain of salt, a wedge of lime and a shot of tequila,' she says, and swigs from a glass.

Why the hell not, I think, as Rock and I boogie on the dance floor to 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' (it's retro night, apparently). I must say, I'm impressed with his young bod and the way he moves. Rock might even make it onto Celebrity So You Think You Can Dance.

An hour later, a combination of his suggestive dance moves, alcohol and eighties tunes leads me to eagerly agree when Rock suggests we go back to his place.

Going home with a handsome minor celebrity to avenge herself on her cheating husband isn't the worst thing a woman can do. See, Max, I can get laid as easily as you can. And it's great for my ego. Rock's kissing me on his worn-out futon and telling me how much he wants me. He's a good kisser - maybe not as good as Dom, but good enough. Where did that bloody thought about Dom come from? I'm not thinking about Dom! It's Rock lying above me, Rock putting his tongue in my ear - oh!

'Oh baby,' Rock's cooing, his mouth now at my naked breasts. I stop thinking altogether and give in to the momentary pleasure.

Day 32.

Though last night was fun and did much to restore my sense of being a sexy, desirable woman, I'm thankful to wake in my own bed. I didn't want to wake up in Rock's. I haven't slept in someone else's bed (except Gloria's) since Max and I started dating, and staying out all night would have made me feel bad about being a married woman who'd effectively picked up a stray man in a bar. (Hot and young - and the stamina! Oh, baby! Eat your heart out, Max. But a stray, nonetheless.) And that's not how I live my life. (Yet.) Of course, Gloria has to call. 'So, Mrs Robinson, did you seduce the boy?'

'Oh, shut up.'

'You don't have the MASBs, do you?'

'The what?'

'The Morning After Shagging Blues. C'mon, Lucy, tell me, was he a good fuck?'

'Shut. Up.'

'Ah, so he was. You did well. I could tell from the way he was gyrating on the dance floor.'

'He's so young -'

'Who cares? Anyway, it's only natural you'd be feeling a bit -'

'A bit what? Ashamed? Embarrassed?' I launch, ready to defend myself.

'I was going to say, emotional.'

Patch tells me we're over-budget.

'How can you be over-budget? You haven't done anything.'

'I'm working through the list, like you asked me,' he says, waving several sheets of paper in the air. 'There's the trouble with the cabinet-maker, the extra excavation we needed to do in the garden, replacement of the sewer pipes -'

'How much over-budget?' I'm trying to remain professional, despite my overwhelming urge to throttle him.

'About fifty per cent, give or take.'

'Give or take what?'

'It all depends on the next stage, Lucy. Appliances, fittings . . .'

I want to take his little head and ram it through the glass door. Instead, I say, 'I need a breakdown of the costs, including what you've already spent and future projections, including extras.' I'm getting fired up now. 'And, Patch, I think the contractors are harassing my cat. He turned up the other day in a tizz because bits of concrete were stuck to his tail. I had to cut the fur out.'

Patch puts him arm around me. 'Have you thought about taking anger-management classes? They're really very helpful. A client of mine -'

'For your information, I don't need anger-management classes,' I say, removing his arm. 'What I need are builders who turn up when they say they are going to. What I need is my house back. I'm living with constant dust - on the floor, the furniture, in my hair, my clothes, the breakfast cereal . . .'

'I like the new forceful Lucy, it suits you.'

I want to go on but Patch's good eye glazes over with something suspiciously resembling desire. I make a hasty retreat.

Nadia phones and invites the children and me over for dinner.

'How's it going?' she asks, looking totally gorgeous in a white cotton empire-line dress, her magnificent bosom on display.

'Fine, great,' I say.

'Haven't seen you at school this week.'

'No, the children don't like me stopping by unless it's absolutely necessary.'

Especially after what Sam told his class, the incident with the bus driver, and then Sam's concert where I wore a see-through shirt, smelt of dog and accidentally sat in the principal's chair.

'Don't take it to heart,' she says. 'No one blames you for Max running off with Alana.'

'Really? I can only imagine what people must be saying about me.'

Nadia looks away for a moment and shrugs. 'Every family has its ups and downs - you can't get by in this life without messing up. Shit happens, and it happens to everyone. People who say their lives are perfect are lying . . . or drinking heavily. Speaking of which, here.' She hands me a glass of wine.

'Maybe some people are better at hiding it,' I say, hopefully.

'That's the spirit. Just remember, everyone's fucked up about something. Now, have you rung my lawyer?'

I shake my head. 'I can't. It's too soon.'

'There's plenty of time. On the bright side, being single you get to have the whole bed to yourself, don't have to share the remote control or shave your legs - and you've got those cute builders crawling all over your house. Who was the one I saw the other day - had a patch over one eye?'

'That would be Patch.'

Nadia smirks as if to say, of course, how silly of me. 'He's cute.'

'You think?'

'Honey, up here anyone who can walk and talk and doesn't have a hunchback is considered fair game. He's on the money. I couldn't stop staring at his biceps. Man, oh man.'

'Don't you get lonely?' I ask, trying not to think about Patch's cuteness or his bulging biceps.

'Sure, sometimes. But I have the kids, my trusty vibrator . . .' Nadia laughs. 'Seriously, you know Jack's mum, Andrea? She hosts lingerie parties, husband's a doctor? I bought a couple from her. She has a handcuff fetish. I'll introduce you. And occasionally I go out on dates.'

I shake my head, thinking back to last night.

'I know you can't imagine it now, Lucy, but the time will come.'

'No, I -'

'I've been out on some doozies. Once, I even had dinner with a toothless man. Of course, I didn't realise he was toothless until we kissed.'

'And?'