We finish our walk and head up to the hotel for breakfast where we gobble eggs and bacon, followed by coconut pancakes. We spend the day poolside again, and still there's no word from Max. I'm trying to remain calm but a bigger part of me is trying to signal danger. If he meant all the things he said the other night, then why isn't he here? With me. With Bella and Sam. Why is it taking so long to break up with Alana?

Day 46.

I take Bella and Sam to the kids club soon after breakfast. Thank goodness this morning's activity is handfeeding the fish in the hotel's many ponds, so there are no protests from either of them. I need some time alone to get my head together, to figure out what the hell is going on with Max. I've left several messages for him.

Minutes after I get back to our room, he turns up.

'Luce, don't be angry,' he begins.

I want to kick myself. I want to gouge out both my eyes with my bare hands because I know Max well enough to predict what he's going to say next.

'Alana needs me.'

Bingo!

'You told me you loved me,' I say, without conviction. I'm so angry with myself. Did I really think this story could possibly have a happy ending? You can't fix something that's beyond repair. If I wasn't so furious, it would be funny. Hysterical.

'I do love you,' he says.

'Just not the way you love her,' I finish for him.

I hate him. I hate myself. I'm an idiot and I deserve to be treated this way.

'Lucy, I'm sorry. I still love you, but it is what it is.'

'What does that mean? What are you telling me?'

'Alana and I happened. I can't deny it.' Max shows no remorse. His face is devoid of expression and he speaks without passion, anger or sadness.

'Do you love her?' I demand.

'She's so young.'

'That's not an answer, Max. Do you love her?'

'I love you too.'

'But not enough to stay with me? With the kids?' I'm furiously wiping away tears.

'I've never felt like this before.'

'That makes me feel so good.'

'You know what I mean . . . Alana is my soul mate. I'm sorry, Lucy, really . . . This is a really difficult time for her. You understand.'

I understand? Who am I? Bloody Mother Teresa? Yes, I understand, you C-U-Next-Tuesday arsehole. I feel the roller-coaster of my emotions threatening to derail. Where are my Omega-3 fish oil capsules when I need them?

Max looks over to the buddha statue less than five metres away and I see that Alana's standing there. Max gestures to her and she starts walking over.

Shit!

'Why the hell is she here, Max? Tell her to go away. She's not part of our family.'

'Maxie,' says Alana in a bored voice, staring at me like I'm some neurotic over-exaggerating hausfrau, 'you said we'd go back to the Four Seasons today.'

'Four Seasons?' I say. 'At Jimbaran Bay?'

Max shoots Alana a warning glance then looks away from both of us.

'Yeah, we stayed there the other night,' Alana says.

'I beg your pardon?' I force the words out through clenched teeth. Surely, I haven't heard right.

'That's enough, Lani,' Max says.

'No, no,' I say, feeling sicker by the second. I think I'm going to faint. 'That's why we couldn't reach you at the Sheraton. You were at another hotel. While I was going crazy with worry, ringing the embassy and searching hospitals looking for the pair of you, fearing the worst, you couldn't have cared less. You were completely clueless. Have you any idea what you've put me through? And Trish too.'

I'm seething with rage but neither of them says anything. It's like they haven't heard a word I've said.

I have an overwhelming desire to push Max into the pond. I imagine him losing his balance, totally unprepared for my shove, and hitting the sandstone edge, his head cracking open, his face sinking below the water's surface, his ridiculous puffy white linen shirt turning pink as the blood gushes from his wound.

'Max, haven't you got anything to say?' I ask with as much control as I can muster. 'And, as for you,' I turn to Alana, who's started walking back towards the foyer, 'what the hell do you think you're doing with a man more than twice your age?'

She doesn't look back or answer.

'Lucy, Alana and I are moving on with our lives. You need to as well,' Max says matter-of-factly.

I'm lost for words.

He hesitates before putting his hand on my shoulder.

'I really do love you, Lucy.'

When I shake free, he looks wounded and confused - as though I'm the one who's had the affair and broken his heart.

I rush back to my room, slam the door and run into the bathroom where I destroy a full box of tissues mopping up my tears. I can't stop crying. This is my own fault. I have no one to blame but myself. I have wasted years of my life on an emotional fucking cripple who clearly doesn't give a damn about me.

I glance into the bathroom mirror. My face is blotchy, wrinkled and sad. How could I ever have had any hope against the youthful Alana?

I'm shaking . . . numb. Somewhere deep inside I'm howling. Completely broken. Crying for Max, for the life that we had together, a life which is over. Finished. I want to hate him but right now I'm too sad. Some day, months from now, I'll look back on this and realise it was a turning point: the end of an era, a new beginning. But right now it's too raw. I can't open my eyes without crying.

My marriage is over. Max isn't coming back. Why would he? I'm old. Old and wrinkled. It's over. It's one hundred per cent completely over. I wonder if Alana has seen the real Max yet. Or is he still on his best behaviour with her? Does he pick his nose in front of her? Belch? Fart? Become an inarticulate slug after three drinks? Wait till she finds out what he's really like. She might find out that shacking up with a middle-aged man is not all it's cracked up to be.

I twist off my wedding ring. There's a white band of skin on my finger where it's lived for eleven years. I should take the ring down to the beach and throw it into the sea forever, or better yet, give it to poor Betty, but I can't bring myself to. Instead, I throw it into my make-up bag.

I agonise over the 'could haves', 'should haves' and 'what ifs', and when I glance at my watch I smack the back of my head against the bathroom wall, annoyed because I've wallowed far longer than I'd intended.

I wash my face, brush my hair into a high ponytail, then head down to the kids club in search of Bella and Sam. They're playing ping-pong and eating donuts, oblivious. And as pissed off and emotional as I am, I'm also determined to enjoy these last couple of days with them so they take home good memories of Bali.

When I suggest we take an afternoon cruise, they jump at the chance. After sailing around Lembongan Island, the boat anchors and the kids and I spend our time collecting shells along the shore and swimming. The kids love the banana boat rides and snorkelling, but their absolute favourite activity is the ride in the glass-bottom boat along the fringe of the coral reef, where they can see all the sea creatures up close. Unfortunately, the captain has a penchant for Dr Hook and 'Living Next Door to Alice' is on high rotation.

My favourite is snorkelling in the crystal clear water, which gives me time to think without Dr Hook playing in my ear. To think about how much of my life I've wasted on Max.

In the evening, after much pleading from Bella and Sam, we walk along the block of shops near the hotel. Speeding scooters and cars zoom through the streets, narrowly avoiding stray dogs, but the taxis are empty. It's sad and depressing. I feel bad walking into the deserted stores, but the shopkeepers plead for the kids and me to buy, knowing that when this batch of tourists leave, very few will come in their place.

'You don't see that in Sydney, do you, Mum?' Bella says, pointing out two policemen gripping machine guns who ride past on the one motorbike. She has no fear in her voice. Seconds later, she returns her attention to the pirated movies, as if she could possibly buy any more. Perhaps the joy of buying inferior clothes and DVDs takes the fear away. I don't know.

'You're having fun, aren't you?' I ask her as we try on bracelets in a bead shop.

'Yeah, but I wish Dad was here more.'

'Bell, about your dad and I -'

'I don't want to hear,' she says, covering her ears.

As we walk out onto the street, Sam says, 'Are you and Dad getting a divorce?'

'Dad and I are trying to sort some things out but it's going to take a while. We both love you very much.'

'So you are getting a divorce,' Bella says, stopping in front of a reflexology shop. 'Dad's not going to live with us anymore, is he?'

I shake my head. 'No, I don't think so.' I stare at my bare ring finger; it feels weird, naked. My bottom lip trembles with the knowledge I'll never wear my wedding ring again. But I have to keep repeating my mantra: Max and I are finished. It's over.

'That's sad,' Sam says, hugging me. 'I'll always want to live with you, Mummy.'

We're all silent on the walk back to the hotel. Near the foyer, Bella picks a frangipani flower. 'Smell this,' she commands, and pops it behind my ear when I lean forward. 'You look pretty, Mum. And you're not frowning so much anymore.'

'Do I really frown that much?'

'You used to frown all the time, but you don't now.' Bella takes my hand and squeezes it tight.

Waiting in our room is a message from Max. He wants to take the children to Sanur tomorrow. I want to say, 'Damn you! You can't take my children away from me on the last day of our holiday', but then I think: I have to do what's right for the kids.

I go to bed depressed about Max and humming 'Living Next Door to Alice'.

Day 47.

Max has the surprising decency to arrive alone at eight o'clock in the morning to take Bella and Sam to Sanur. He asks me along (how very civilised - I hate him!) but I decline, much to his bewilderment. The man has no idea at all. I'm happy for the kids to spend the day with their father and am polite to a point, but I certainly don't wish to play happy families when we're anything but.

After they leave, I figure I have a choice. I can stay in my room all day and cry, or I can go out and have fun. I opt for the latter, deciding to make it an 'I Love Lucy Day'. It's been years since the last one.

For the first two hours, I sit by the pool and read a new psychological thriller. (Husband mysteriously disappears on a yachting expedition; wife is the main suspect. I hope she has a watertight alibi.) Fantasies of Max similarly disappearing, or getting fatally bitten by a funnel-web or accidentally ingesting rat poison, keep me amused for some time.

Nearby, a father is teaching his son to swim. The boy is all of three years old and nervously clings to his father's shoulders and neck. 'Don't let me go, Daddy,' he pleads, his chubby arms wrapping tighter around his father's neck, almost choking him.

A moment later, a woman and a girl, maybe a year or two younger than Bella, jump in beside them. They're laughing. The father hands the boy to his mother and turns to pick up the girl and lifts her high in the air. 'Throw me, Dad, throw me!' she screams. He obliges, and after a splash she disappears under the water. The mother looks at the ripples on the surface, waiting for her daughter to break through the water. Nothing happens. I feel a lurch of panic. But seconds later, the girl's head appears and she's giggling. 'Throw me again - higher this time!'

I turn away, realising I'll never have that family time again. Max is right: it is what it is.

Over at the pool bar, a couple sit on their submerged stools and talk. He's drinking a Bintang beer; she's sipping what looks like a pina colada . . . honeymooners probably. He leans over and kisses her on the lips. She smiles and playfully pushes him away. I wonder if they will grow old together the way married couples are supposed to? Max and I will never grow old together. It is what it is. I wonder whether Max and Alana will still be together when they're sixty. Sorry, when he's sixty and she's forty. And if by some miracle they are, will they finish each other's sentences and repeat each other's stories the way Max and I used to?

Every Christmas, Max likes to tell the story about the Christmas before Bella was born, when he was served a dodgy prawn at Doyles. (It had nothing to do with the two bottles of chardonnay he'd drunk.) It's tradition . . . at least it was when Max and I were together. But now that he's with her, the Christmas prawn story would be off limits, wouldn't it?

And what about the kids' birth stories? At Sam's future birthdays, Max won't be able to recount to his new in-laws the drama of me going into labour in the middle of the David Jones food hall. They're our stories . . . our truths.

He'll have to find new stories . . . with her. Together, they'll have to build their own catalogue of anecdotes. So does that mean all our shared stories will disappear from his new life?

I leave the pool, throw on a green sundress and red thongs and leave the hotel grounds. The streets are still empty of tourists. I buy three pairs of totally impractical but gorgeous beaded sandals, numerous beaded bracelets and necklaces, and two rather exotic caftans, one blood-red, the other a piercing aqua.

Exhausted and hot by the time I get back to the hotel, I drop off my goodies at the room and wander over to the day spa. It's outrageously expensive but I go for the three-hour total relaxation package - Balinese massage, pedicure, manicure and herbal facial. The works.

First, my therapist, Widi, paints me with a thick layer of green marine algae, then wraps me in foil and linen. 'Very good,' she assures me as I sweat it out uncomfortably.

Then it's on to body scrubbing, which Widi particularly seems to enjoy. Yes, my skin feels revitalised but also a little raw. Thankfully, we move on to the body massage and I use the time to think. I try to slow down the images as they rush through my mind: the hospital, the dozens of critically injured people, the overwhelming sadness that the Max part of my life is over. I wonder if things might have turned out differently had Max been injured, or at least been at the hospital to witness the gut-wrenching chaos and destruction first-hand.

After the spa, I walk down to the beach and search for Betty. She's startled when I tap her on the shoulder.

'Loo-see! You come for massage?'

I shake my head.

'Manicure?'

'No, Betty, I have a gift for you.' I give her my shampoo, conditioner, face cream and body lotion.

'Loo-see, you very kind lady,' Betty says, her eyes bulging.

'I have something else as well.' I search my pockets and hand over my ring.

'Is this . . . is this wedding ring?'

'It used to be,' I say. 'I don't need it anymore. It's yours now.'

I could have thrown the ring into the ocean, but it would be a waste - probably gobbled up by an unsuspecting fish. I know Betty will put the gold to good use.

As I wander along the sand back to the hotel, I wonder if I'll ever come to Bali again. And if I do, will the island have changed? Will I have changed?