There's a fourth message. It's from Trish. She's crying, rambling, saying words that don't make sense. She sounds so distraught I ring her back.

'My little girl has been stolen,' she sobs. 'I'm coming with you - I'll drag Alana home. Except she won't listen to me, even if I do find her. Who's to say she won't disappear again?'

'Trish,' I say when she finally takes a breath, 'I'll see what I can find out when I get there.'

'She won't listen to you either. All she cares about is Max.'

The words sting. This is the father of my children we're talking about.

'Look, I don't want to get involved in rumours,' Trish says, sounding serious and seriously tipsy.

'What rumours?'

'You know. People talk. They say you're a self-centred diva and that Max got sick of it.'

'People? Which people?' I demand.

'Just people. They're saying that it's a wonder he lasted so long. Not that I'm blaming you, of course.'

Of course.

There's silence for a moment while Trish drinks from her glass. I can hear the ice cubes tinkling.

Slurring her words, she starts up again. 'The church runs communication classes for couples, you know. Maybe if you'd come once in a while, none of this would have happened. If you'd kept your husband on a short leash instead of trying to pursue a career. I mean, you must be pushing thirty-six - and old people are so ugly on TV, aren't they? Not that I'm saying you are. But instead of chasing those dreams, maybe you should have been at home reading up on how to satisfy your man.'

'Trish,' I start. But it's useless trying to reason with her when the vodka's kicked in.

'Why do Alana and I have to pay for your mistakes?' she wails and hangs up.

Vodka or not, Trish is right. It is my fault. I couldn't keep my husband happy, so he found some nineteen-year-old babysitter who would.

When Nadia calls a while later, I'm desolate.

'Trish is out of her mind with worry. There's no reasoning with her. I've tried,' Nadia says.

'But she's right. Maybe if I'd gone to church, done more counselling, been more available -'

'Stop!' she says. 'Max is the arsehole, not you!'

Still, it gets me thinking. Maybe I am a diva. I should have seen the signs - recognised that our marriage was in serious trouble before Max sought solace in Alana's slender arms and teenage thighs. Now Alana's become the one he confides in . . . they're a team, a twosome. Max relies on her to tell him that there's goddamn froth on his upper lip or something gross hanging out of his nose. I wonder if Alana kicks him just like I used to, when he snores?

Maybe I should forget about Bali and take the kids to Disneyland instead.

Day 37.

Holiday doubt kicks in further when everyone I tell is clearly unimpressed. 'That's so irresponsible,' sniffs a mother in the morning kiss-and-drop zone. 'Taking Bella and Sam to a country with a dangerous travel warning.'

Not as irresponsible as inflicting a ruffled white shirt, thigh-high silver leather miniskirt, textured stockings and lace-up black high-heeled boots on us all first thing in the morning! Love, the go-go dancers from 1966 called. They want their costumes back.

I don't go to tennis because a bikini wax is in order. But even the beautician harps on at me. 'There are plenty of other islands - why on earth would you go to Bali, especially with all the political unrest?' she says as she rips hairs from my vulva.

I don't want to get into the whole 'to snoop on my cheating husband' explanation because I'm not sure whether spying is the thing to go around blabbing to strangers, but nor do I want to tell her it's none of her business, because she holds the power to hurt and scar me for life. So I just smile politely as she plucks at my pubic hair, while mentally tossing up how this torture compares to giving birth and having pap smears.

The bottom line is: I need to confront Max. For Bella and Sam's sake, as much as for my own. He and Alana need to face up to their responsibilities. Of course, once they're both actually back here that'll create a whole new set of problems, but I'll deal with them later.

Dom rings in the afternoon demanding to know if I've thought about what kind of inanimate object I'd prefer to be.

'You've had long enough to think about it.'

'I guess maybe a table, a timber table, because it's where everyone gathers for meals,' I blather nervously. 'You can't lose a table, or forget that it's sitting in the middle of a room.'

'Interesting answer. So, what's new?'

'I'm going to Bali.'

'Really?'

'The kids and I need a holiday.'

'Really?'

'Okay, the truth is, after you and I spoke, I got to thinking that I can't ignore Max and our marriage anymore. I need to sort everything out. You've inspired me to do the right thing.'

'I've inspired you?'

'Yes, with your "Lucy, you need to take control of your life" speech. Anyway, I agree with you. I do need to get my life back in order.'

'Wow. Okay, so after you confront Max, sort out visitation rights and come home, you and the kids can jump in the car and head down here for a real holiday. You'll need it. Maybe you could even venture down before you go to Bali . . .'

'I'm leaving in three days, so, no, I don't think so. Besides, I look like a two-dollar hooker.'

'Tell me more!'

'New hair . . . I might have overstepped the boundaries of good taste.'

'Still, I'm sure you're worth ten bucks, at least.'

We banter a bit more, and just as I'm about to hang up, Dom says, 'Given that you'd choose to be a timber table, do you have one?'

'Just an old chipboard monstrosity. I'm waiting until after the renovation's finished to buy a good one. Now, my turn,' I say, changing the subject. 'If you had to be trapped in a TV show for a month, which show would you choose?'

'Current?'

'Either/or.'

'No contest. Superman.

'Jimmy Olsen?'

'Ha, ha. Clark Kent, thank you very much,' he says with a laugh.

'Not Superman?'

'Superman is what I can do, but Clark is who I am - quoted from Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman.'

'Way too much time on your hands,' I tell him.

Day 38.

The stove arrives. When I unwrap the packaging I see that it's got an electric cooktop and an electric oven. The order form clenched in my hand clearly states 'gas cooktop, electric oven'. How hard is that to get right?

I'm furious and, while it's not Patch's fault, he gets the blame. Because he's running six jobs at once and while he may be cute, albeit with a gammy eye, he should be devoted to my job.

'You need to concentrate on this job,' I snap at him.

'I know, love, but so many people want me.'

I snort. But it's my first giggle of the day and my mood softens.

'Well, they'll have to wait until I've finished with you,' I tell him. 'Seriously, when can we get this thing moving along?'

I am pinning my hopes on the dream that once the renovation is complete our lives will miraculously return to normal - though without Max - but at least having a kitchen and family room will make the kids and I feel more settled. This renovation's been going on forever and it's wearing very thin.

'Don't know why I'm so concerned about my renovation when it's obvious I'm going to be run out of town by the mother Mafioso,' I tell Gloria later at her office.

'And would that be such a bad thing?' she says.

'It's just that -'

'Just what?'

'Soon we'll have a beautiful house; Max will be back -'

Gloria shoots me 'the look'.

'- or not, the kids are happy -'

'They're kids, they'll be happy anywhere - well, maybe not Bella but she'll adapt . . . eventually. As for Max, whether you go to Bali or not, what makes you think he's going to see you and automatically say, "Yes dear I've made a huge mistake, biggest mistake of my life. I'm coming home." Anyway, why do you want that cocksucker back?'

'He's not a cocksucker -'

'Okay, pussysucker -'

'Gloria!' I peer over her shoulder as she scribbles notes on head sheets. 'What are you doing, anyway?'

'Updating client profiles. Take Naomi here,' Gloria shows me a photo of a leggy, horsy brunette I recognise as having been a couple of years ahead of me at NIDA, 'used to be late twenties, now, I'll write thirty-ish.'

'She's older than me.'

'Thirty-ish means thirty-nine, you know that. She's adventurous -'

'Will sleep with anyone.'

'With a contagious smile -'

'Does lots of drugs,' I laugh.

'And is a free spirit,' says Gloria.

'Exactly, she's a junkie.'

'Lucy, these are my clients you're talking about.'

I stab a finger at a photo of a woman with fluffy brown hair and huge boobs. 'Who's this?'

'Isobel, very outgoing -'

'Loud and embarrassing.'

'That's it,' says Gloria, snapping her folder shut. 'I'm closing my books until after you leave.'

'What did you write about me?'

'Needs a complete makeover. Voluptuous.'

'So I am fat?'

Trish comes around, sheepish and weepy. I want to toss her out for being so cruel to me on the phone, but I know she's devastated about Alana. Her only daughter's run off with a married, middle-aged man, which, I dare say, isn't the future she dreamed of when Alana was in nappies and gurgling happily. If Bella did that . . . well, I hate to think how I'd react. It certainly wouldn't be pretty.

'I'm sorry for what I said,' Trish tells me.

'Thanks,' I say. 'I'm sorry for this whole mess.'

She barely stays five minutes. Just long enough to give me a letter addressed to Alana. 'Please call as soon as you see her, just to let me know she's okay,' she asks. We hug awkwardly, before she leaves, still crying.