In my heart, I know this can't possibly work. Not after the heartbreak of another affair, the humiliation, the betrayal. But still, a tiny part of me hopes we can work it out because in many ways it would make life easier. Certainly for Bella and Sam.

I try to be positive. Who knows? Yesterday, shocking and horrific as it was, could actually bring Max and me closer together.

I doze again until the children rush in and jump all over Max. They can't wait to take him to breakfast.

'There's so much food!' Sam squeals.

'You go ahead,' I tell them. 'I'll be there soon.'

I take my time showering and dressing. The rational, sensible, adult part of me knows it was a mistake to allow Max to stay last night. Bloody bumblebees and their courtship rituals! It was impossible to say no. Not to mention the half a bottle of wine and two cocktails I'd drunk by the night's end, which may have slightly impaired my judgement.

'You won't let me down, will you?' I say to Max after breakfast, when he tells me he's leaving to sort things out with Alana.

'How can you say that after last night? You and the children are the most important people in the world to me,' Max says and kisses me gently on the eyelids. 'My family.'

'So you don't love Alana anymore?' I ask. I can hardly bear to hear his response.

Max lets the question hang and kisses my forehead. 'I'll see you soon.'

Back at our room, the phone's ringing as I open the door. It's Mum, distraught we haven't flown home.

'If we allow these people to hijack our lives, then they'll win,' I tell her.

'But, Lucy, you have children to think of.'

'Exactly. And they're on holiday. I'm looking after them. They're not in any danger,' I say, peering out to the grounds that are now patrolled by gun-wearing security guards. I'd be less than truthful if I didn't admit the sight of them unnerves me somewhat.

I reassure Mum again that we're okay and say goodbye.

When I return to the pool, Sam's drinking lemonade. 'Mum, we're having the best day,' he says, spitting soft drink all over me.

'Where's Bella?' I ask, anxiously looking around.

'You're supposed to stay together.' I can't help the alarm in my voice.

'Over there,' he says, before jumping back into the pool. 'Watch me. I can hold my breath underwater for five minutes.'

Bella's having her hair braided by three Indonesian teenage girls wearing beige safari suits topped off with beige pink-rimmed caps.

'Mum, isn't this cool?' Bella says when I reach her. 'Do you like them?' She twirls one of her new tiny braids. At the end of each plait is a red and green bead. 'There were so many colours to choose from, it was hard to decide.'

'You look gorgeous,' I tell her.

'Is Daddy all right? Is he coming back? Are we having lunch with him?'

'Yes, of course he is. Not sure if he's coming to the pool, though. We'll have to wait and see.'

Bella becomes engrossed in the many nimble fingers weaving her hair. 'How will I wash it?' she asks. 'You don't think bugs can get inside the braids, do you?'

I shrug. I'm a million miles away, wondering what's going to happen with Max and Alana. Will she cry, I wonder. Will she beg him not to leave her? In the distance, I hear the sound of the waves on the beach.

'Come for a swim,' Sam urges.

'I will,' I answer, distracted. 'But first I need to change into my swimmers.'

Maybe a swim's just what I need to take my mind off Max. I blow Sam a kiss and walk back to our suite. Pushed under the door is a letter from the Australian Embassy. The gist of it: . . . Australians concerned for their safety should consider departing Bali . . . the possibility of further explosions cannot be ruled out . . . exercise extreme caution.

I sit on my bed and can't help crying for the destruction of this beautiful island, for those poor families I saw yesterday at the hospital, looking for their loved ones and fearing the worst. With so many dead, not everyone can have a happy outcome like mine.

I switch on the television. There's saturation coverage of the bombings. The latest number of dead is twenty-three.

I hope Max comes back soon. We have to talk to Bella and Sam and tell them we're leaving. We have no choice: I can't keep them in danger like this, despite what I've been saying to my mother. And I want to make sure that Max comes with us.

I ring the number listed on the embassy printout to book the three of us on one of the additional Qantas flights to Australia. Engaged. No doubt clogged with desperate travellers frantic to leave Bali and return to the familiarity of home where they can put this tragedy behind them.

I try the number again and finally get through to an operator. I book this evening's midnight flight home for me and the kids, then ring Max. He doesn't answer so I leave a message.

I walk back down to the pool. Water gushes from sandstone gargoyle fountains. The palm trees sway and the scent of frangipani lingers in the air. People sit on beach towels, reading magazines and shielding themselves from the heat of the sun. I can just see the waves on the beach as they crash onto the sand. But for me, this paradise is lost.

Sam waves me over. He's joined up with a couple of boys his age and they're swimming backstroke across the pool, much to the annoyance of the Japanese honeymooners canoodling in front of them.

Nearby, a camera crew is setting up and looking for people to interview, preferably those with first-hand reports of the explosions. All their dreams would come true if they could actually interview the relative of someone seriously maimed or, better still, dead.

Gloria would be in her element here.

As people notice the cameras, the holiday mood shifts. Just near me, a couple whisper to each other, then gather their belongings and leave. A dozen more people quickly do the same.

'Mum! Mum, are you okay?' Bella asks. Her hair has thirty-eight tiny plaits, she tells me.

'Come for a swim,' Sam calls again.

The sun is scorching. To satisfy Bella and Sam, I jump in the pool and we all hug each other. I'm thankful that we're all okay.

To take my mind off Max, I settle down with my book, keeping an eye on the kids in the pool. It's a novel about adultery, which should upset me, but I can't help smiling because the wife stabs the adulterous husband, who, as a result, becomes impotent and the mistress drops him. I don't think it's meant to be a comedy.

I notice a man, probably in his early forties, swimming with two teenage girls, both blonde. One has her hair braided and is wearing a red polka-dot bikini. The other wears a one-piece with dark green and brown Pucci swirls. They're laughing, hugging him and smiling. A woman joins them. I assume she's their mother. She sits by the side of the pool, careful not to get her straight, blonde, blow-dried hair wet. She's wearing a red hibiscus tucked behind her ear. The dad and the red polka-dot girl swim into the centre of the pool leaving Mum and the Pucci teen alone. I hear the girl call the older woman by her first name, Pat. So she's not the mother! The plot thickens. But she's wearing a wedding ring, and when the dad swims back she chats animatedly to him.

Then it clicks. Pat is the second wife. I close my eyes, imagining Alana as Max's second wife.

'Mum, Mum. Save me!' It's the girl with the polka dots calling out to another blonde woman who's just arrived. The woman shakes her head and laughs as she takes off her sarong to reveal a plain black one-piece. She removes her black bug-eyed glasses, dives in and swims to the man. They hug and kiss. The girls swarm around them both.

I find out later that the other woman is the father's sister. A good omen for us, I can't help thinking.

By two o'clock, Max still hasn't shown and the kids are 'starving, Mum'. So we head outside the hotel grounds to eat at one of the many food bars nearby. It's the first time since the bombings that the children have left the resort.

It's quiet. The sun is burning and the breeze is nonexistent. I closely eyeball passers-by, daring them to mess with me or my children. Quite harsh really, because the only people around are the Balinese with their welcoming smiles and sore hearts. I am the only foreigner walking the streets with children.

The markets and shops are open, and the restaurants and bars still blast upbeat music from tiny, tinny sound systems, but there aren't any customers, just an air of unease and unrest.

Every couple of metres, a local tries to sell me an Australian newspaper. I shake my head and turn away. I don't want to read what the papers have to say. But Bella does. She's mesmerised by headlines shrieking: AUSTRALIANS KILED, DOZENS INJURED IN BALI BLASTS.

Over satay chicken and nasi goreng, I broach the subject of going home.

'Mum, we can't leave. We're on holiday,' Bella says.

'I don't want to go home,' Sam adds.

I'm torn between wanting to return my children to the quiet safety of their everyday lives and staying so Bella and Sam can continue the holiday they're enjoying so much.

'You promised we'd stay a whole week,' Bella says.

'That was before -'

'I know it was before, but everything's fine now. It's over, isn't it?'

I smile at her and continue eating. Every time I see a person in a puffy parka, long dark trousers and a black helmet, I have a mini panic attack. The children are oblivious.

As we walk back to the hotel, several Balinese stop us. One woman hawking silver jewellery tells me, 'Bali finished'. Another woman rests her hand on my shoulder and apologises for what's happened. 'Please be telling your friends, Bali safe. Bali good place,' she begs.

Bella looks at me. 'We can't leave, Mum. Not now.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' says Gloria, when I phone her for advice. I don't mention spending the night with Max, or that he's breaking up with Alana. 'You're over there now - nothing more will happen. Besides, it's freezing here. Stay. Have fun.'

'You're up to something,' I say.

'No, Paranoid Pam. It's just that your house and life are a mess back here - you may as well finish your holiday. Though I hope you're keeping a diary so you can write about it when you get back.'

'No, Gloria.'

'But I can get you airtime on radio and TV -'

'No!' I say, and hang up.

Knowing that we won't be coming back to this island any time soon, I relent and promise the kids I'll cancel our flight home. They're delighted.

Nevertheless, I'm still being swamped by massive waves of fear and sadness. What if the island is unlucky enough to be hit again? We have a chance to escape tonight and I'm turning it down. Am I the most irresponsible mother in the world? People have accused me of such a crime for much lesser incidents. Imagine what they'll say about me now, putting my children's lives at risk?

I think about Max's dismissal of the incident as 'one of those things' rather than an ongoing war of terrorism. I bet he wouldn't be so blase if he'd been at the hospital with me and seen the mutilated bodies for himself.

As the afternoon eases into early evening, Max still doesn't come back or call. Bella and Sam don't seem worried. They're happy to keep diving into the pool, yelling, 'Look at me, Mum, look at me!'

It's a different story when Max doesn't show for dinner. 'I thought Daddy was coming back tonight,' Sam says. We are all hurt and confused. I call Max's mobile several times but it goes to his message bank. I have a sinking, gut-wrenching feeling and, as the night drags on, I become increasingly agitated.

At eleven o'clock, about the time we would have been boarding our flight home, I turn out the lights.

From Max there is no message, no phone call, nothing. He's a total no-show.

Day 45.

I don't sleep well, and when I do nod off I dream about Sanglah Hospital. I'm running down endless corridors littered with lifeless, limbless bodies, searching for Max, hoping he won't be among the dead. People scream but are silent. I shout as well but no sound escapes my mouth. Everything's completely and eerily noiseless. I turn over countless dead bodies, searching. Finally, I see Max. I can't see his face, but I know it's him and I know he's dead. I inch slowly towards him, knowing I have to face the truth regardless of how terrifying it is. Just as I reach him, he jumps up, turns and smiles. I wake shaking, twisted in the sheets.

When I fall asleep again, I'm in the midst of dozens of weeping, wailing people holding their dead and dying loved ones in their arms. I'm sobbing, hugging Bella and Sam and telling them that their dad has died. It's horrible and I wake in a sweat.

It's just a nightmare, I tell myself, but can't help but get a sick feeling in my stomach about Max and me. He didn't call last night. Were the dreams my subconscious mind trying to warn me?

I check that the children are safely asleep in their beds, then I doze.

Bella, Sam and I head to the beach for an early morning walk. Again, I eyeball every walker we pass. Any one of them could be a maniacal suicide bomber waiting for his or her opportunity to pounce. Common sense tells me that no one is going to target three scruffy tourists at seven-thirty in the morning, but I still keep the children within safe snatching distance.

We've gone only a few metres before an Indonesian woman comes up to us offering sarongs for sale. I wave her away but she tells me I don't have to buy. 'I just practise my English.'

She introduces herself as Betty and says, 'Your name, ma'am?'

'Lucy.'

'Loo-see. Very pretty. How many children you have, Loo-see?'

I point to Bella and Sam. They smile and she smiles back.

'Very beautiful children,' she says, her eyes wide. She holds up several sarongs. 'You like, you try, you buy.' From her bottomless black plastic bag she also pulls out skirts, cotton shirts, pants and trucker caps in different colours and styles. How can I not buy clothes from her after she's said nice things about my children? Besides, she's only asking the equivalent of a couple of Australian dollars.

I glance at Bella and Sam, now doing cartwheels in the sand - yes, they are beautiful. I am so relieved and happy. Then I feel guilty because I haven't always been the most involved parent, but I'm determined to try harder. After all, I did promise God, back when I prayed Max would be found alive.

As Betty lays out the clothing on the beach in front of us, another local, Bob, appears, selling watches, wood carvings and wallets.

'You here for bomb?' he asks.

I nod my head. 'Yes.'

'Very bad, very bad for Bali. Terrible,' Betty says. She looks my age but is probably ten years younger. 'Nobody come here. All tourists go home.'

'We're not going home, are we, Mum?' Bella says, bounding up.

'Not yet,' I say quietly.

'No, silly,' says Sam, 'we have another two whole days. I'm having THE best time.' He manages a spectacular handstand to prove his point. 'Can I buy a watch?'

'You like?' Bob says, his dark brown eyes pleading with me to buy. It works. I buy three watches and six sarongs in different colours. They are so cheap I feel as though I'm stealing.

'You come back tomorrow, Loo-see, for manicure and massage?'

'Maybe,' I tell Betty. 'Maybe.'