He's not exactly asking for forgiveness, is he? He's just talking about my hair.

Before I can confront him with this, Bella and Sam return. We eat grilled fish and chips, as though it's a normal family meal. Until something that's definitely not normal happens.

'Max, darling! You said you'd only be half an hour.' It's Alana and she's standing barely a metre away from us.

'Max, darling?' In front of me? Worse - in front of Bella and Sam! I want to kill her. Insensitive skinny bitch.

She's wearing a short, revealing lime caftan with sparkly diamantes sewn around the low neckline to accentuate her tanned breasts. Her perfectly pedicured toes rest on dazzling pink-beaded thongs. Her hair's loosely tied back in a messy ponytail and her only make-up seems to be the slash of pink across her teenage lips. She's tanned, blonde and pretty. Which I'm not. She's also young. Which I'm definitely not. Even in a disco with the lights dimmed, I couldn't pass for twenty-eight anymore. I'm fading away while my husband's lover - a girl who's a mere nine years older than my daughter - is brimming with youth and vitality.

'Alana,' says Bella, surprised. 'What are you doing here?'

'Holidays, sweetie,' Alana replies brightly. 'Don't you just love Bali?'

'Lani, Lani,' squeals Sam. 'You're here too!'

Yeah, we're all here. Me, Max, our children and Alana. Surely there's something wrong with this picture?

'Just another ten minutes,' Max says, his voice silky and soothing.

Alana pouts, then reluctantly turns away, but not before giving Max a come-hither look full of promise. I want to punch her - and him.

'What the hell is this, Max?' I demand as the children happily follow Alana down to the water's edge. 'You bring her with you to see us?'

He frowns. 'Alana's fragile,' he says. 'She's not like you.'

Fragile, my arse, I want to scream but the words don't come out.

'We'll talk later on,' he says. 'In private.'

'When?' I ask, suddenly feeling very tired.

'Tomorrow morning at your hotel, after breakfast. We'll go over everything then. I want to do the right thing by you and the kids, I promise.'

He's in a hurry to leave. His eyes are on Alana, who, despite giving piggybacks to Sam and Bella, is being chatted up by several Indonesian lads. It's too much. I push my chair back and call the kids, needing to get away from him, from them. I wait while they run up to Max and kiss him goodbye. They don't seem distressed about leaving their father and that makes me very sad. But I will myself not to cry. I refuse to break down until I'm back at the hotel and can lock myself in the bathroom.

We head back along the beach and my anger almost consumes me. Why should I wait for him again, I tell myself. Why does everything have to be played Max's way?

'Stay here a minute,' I say to Bella, and jog back towards the restaurant where Max is still sitting. I'm not waiting another minute. We need to talk now.

The sight of Alana sitting with him stops me abruptly. I hide from view behind a cart loaded with barbecued corn on the cob. I creep closer to listen but can't hear a word because three Elvises (complete with white jumpsuits and silver vinyl capes) are serenading diners close by with 'It's Now or Never'. So I stay where I am, rigid and straining my neck and ears as far as I can.

They're laughing and touching each other, holding hands over the candle-lit table. The table where Bella, Sam, Max and I were sitting barely ten minutes ago. Our table, where now, Max and Alana thumb-wrestle and giggle.

I slowly walk back towards the children. They're further along the beach than where I left them and I'm overcome by irrational fear until I spot them.

'Why is Alana here?' Sam asks as Wayan drives us back to our hotel.

'She's on holidays too,' says Bella.

I don't say anything. My mind is back at the restaurant - where Alana and Max have their heads together, whispering as lovers do, and laughing. No doubt laughing at me, his sucker of a wife. Max isn't coming home. He's clearly happy with Alana.

Day 43.

It's 1.15 am and I'm lying awake in bed. Did I really expect Max to turn up last night and tell me that the nightmare of the past six weeks was over? To beg me to take him back? To tell me he's sorry for making the worst mistake of his life? Sadly, yes. Part of me - the part that's been hoping against hope for the sake of the way we used to love each other, for our children - wants him to tell me he can't live without me, that he'll say goodbye to Alana forever and spend the rest of his days making it up to me, to us, till death do us part.

But if he did say all those things - and, let's face it, it's unlikely - could I really forgive the lies, the betrayal, the humiliation . . . again? Am I really so wretched that I'd accept him back into my life on his terms?

The sudden ring of the telephone shocks me.

It's not Max, it's Mum. I nearly fall off the bed in surprise. She's hysterical; almost incoherent. My first thought is that something's happened to one of the children, then reason kicks in. My second thought is that Dad's had a heart attack. My panic escalates when I can't decipher what she's saying through her sobs.

My dad comes on the line. 'Lucy, is that you?' I want to say, 'Who else would it be?' but can tell this isn't the time. 'There's been a terrible accident,' he goes on. 'A bomb in Bali.'

'No, there hasn't,' I say, thinking my parents have finally scooted over the edge into madness.

'You're safe - you, Bella and Sam?'

'Of course. We're fine.' Except for the fact that my husband and their father is living it up with his nineteen-year-old floozy.

'That's a relief. I don't want to spoil your holiday but it's not safe there. You have to come home.'

I can hear Mum still sobbing in the background.

'A bomb? Are you sure?'

'Happened a few hours ago - Jimbaran Bay, I think -'

'Jimbaran, did you say?'

'That's right, I -' I cut him off. 'Everything's fine here. But the kids have woken up so I should go,' I lie. I need to get off the phone. Get my head straight. Find out if what he's saying is true. 'I'll call you first thing in the morning, I promise.'

I hang up. Fingers shaking, I dial Max's number. My heart's pounding so loudly it feels like it's jumping out of my chest. We were at Jimbaran Bay only a few hours ago.

Max's phone is turned off and fear overwhelms me. I sit rigid, unable to move. I'm sure Max is fine, I tell myself. He has to be. Dad's just making it sound worse than it actually is. That's what parents do. It's their job to terrify you into looking at the world their way.

I turn on the television and flick to CNN. It's headline news, with video footage of the bomb sites - one at Jimbaran and another at Kuta. It doesn't seem real. It can't be real.

The phone rings again. It's Gloria.

'Way to go, girl,' she says. 'You okay? I was really worried. I mean, I know you're a survivor and all -'

'We're okay. I'm a bit shaken though,' I say wearily as I focus on the sickening images on TV.

'Good, good. Now, I might be able to hook you up with A Current Affair, set you up with some interviews -'

'Gloria!

'What? This is news. Big news. Huge. And news sells.'

'People are dying.'

'Yes, they are. Thankfully, you're not one of them, though it would be useful had you been a witness or got shrapnel stuck in your leg.'

'Thanks very much for your concern - hanging up now.'

'Okay. Call m -'

Staring at the television, I try to take in the information as words and numbers skip along the bottom of the screen - many dead, more injured and unaccounted for. I feel numb. I'm certain something bad's happened to Max. Something really bad.

I don't want to think the worst but it's impossible not to. Images rush into my mind: hearing that Max is dead, having to tell the children they're never going to see their father again. It's too much to bear.

I call his number again even though I know it will yield the same result. His phone is off. I call his hotel but there's no answer.

I sit in a daze, torturing myself with horrible scenarios about Max's death, each one more gruesome than the last.

The phone rings again. It's Nadia.

'Trish is frantic,' she tells me, after checking the kids and I are safe. 'Alana's phone's switched off and there's no answer at her hotel.'

'Yeah, I've tried as well. Tell Trish I'll ring when I find her.'

'Lucy, are you sure you're okay?'

'I will be once I find Alana and Max.'

Max's name gets caught in my throat. I say a quick goodbye to Nadia and hang up. I can't let myself think the worst. It serves no purpose, and I have to be brave and upbeat for the sake of the kids.

'Who's calling so early in the morning?' Bella asks as she stumbles into my room, yawning, her hair over her face. It's nearly five o'clock.

'Housekeeping,' I mumble. I haven't even noticed the sun come up. I feel frozen with shock.

Bella, sensing that all's not well, climbs into my bed and gives me a cuddle. I hold her close until she dozes back to sleep.

By seven o'clock Max still hasn't phoned. I call his hotel and, once more, the receptionist puts me through to his room. As it rings, I think how horrific it would be to have to tell Sam and Bella that their father has gone . . . forever. Having to tell his parents, work, the families at school . . .

'Sorry, ma'am, no answer,' the receptionist says after a few minutes, exactly as she has done the other five times I've rung.

The mood at breakfast is subdued. The Indonesian staff stand in groups, shaking their heads and looking miserable.

'What's the matter, Mum?' Bella asks. It's obvious to her that something's wrong because the Balinese are usually so friendly and relaxed.

'There's been an accident,' I explain, 'just near where we ate dinner last night. I need to find Daddy -'

'Was he in the accident?' Bella says, stricken.

'No, but I need to make sure, okay?'

Then I lose it and start to cry. Bella does too. Sam joins in. Suddenly the three of us are sitting at the breakfast table holding hands, tears streaming down our cheeks.

'One of the ladies from the hotel will look after you,' I say. 'You can still go swimming but you have to stay together.'

'Why can't we come with you?' Sam asks. 'Dad said he was coming to the hotel after breakfast.'

'And he still might. That's why I need you to stay here and wait for him.'

I explain to Sari, the woman who'll be looking after them, that the children can swim in the pool but need to wear hats and sunscreen the whole time. 'No excuses,' I say, looking at Bella and Sam.

'I'll find Dad and the four of us will have a really nice lunch,' I go on. Bella doesn't look convinced.

After kissing them goodbye, I head up to reception where lots of people are milling around.

'Bomb no good for Bali,' says the Indonesian man standing behind the desk. He looks and sounds sad.

'I know,' I say, tears welling in my eyes. 'It's just that . . . I think . . .' I start to cry. 'My husband is missing. We were at Jimbaran last night.'

Of course, I can't explain why Max isn't a registered guest at this hotel.

'It's okay, madam, we help.'

'I need a driver,' I say, and give him my name and room number.

He nods, then turns to answer the phone. He motions for me to go over to the nearby lobby phone. As I reach it, the phone starts vibrating and I pick up.

It's Trish. She's crying. 'My baby, my baby. Please tell me my baby's okay!'

'I saw Alana last night,' I tell her. 'And I'm going to her hotel room right now.'

I don't want to upset Trish further but I can feel my own anxiety levels increasing. Imagine having to tell Trish that Alana has died in the blast. There's no way Trish could cope. She'd kill herself.

'But she's not at her hotel,' Trish wails.

'She could be.'

'No, I've rung so many times. She's not there. She's dead.' And she hangs up.

The children and I are fine by the way, I say silently to myself. Wayan appears in the reception area. I am so happy to see a familiar face I could kiss him. Luckily for all concerned, I restrain myself.

'Loo-see, I take you where you need to go,' he says brightly.

The drive to Nusa Dua takes forever. There are road closures and traffic diversions. The chaotic atmosphere of the last couple of days has been replaced by a sombre feeling of dread. It's too early for tourists to be out, but even so it's eerily quiet, except for the military personnel and police walking the roads and riding motorbikes.