Speaking of which, the front yard is an absolute pit.

There's an overflowing skip full of rubbish, half-empty pallets of bricks, lengths of wood with nails sticking out of them thrown against mangled hedges . . . Welcome home!

As soon as I've unlocked the front door, the kids bolt past me to their bedrooms.

'I've missed you,' I hear Sam telling his menagerie of stuffed animals.

It's a relief to be home, despite the building debris outside. But I've barely had time to bring all the bags inside when the phone starts ringing.

'Mum,' says Bella, 'some woman for you.'

'Prue Hamilton from the Daily Telegraph, Ms Springer.

How are you?'

'Fine . . . I think.'

'Just wanting to talk about your escape from Bali. Do you have any comment?'

'I'm sorry but we were nowhere near the explosions.'

'You stayed on regardless, didn't you? In Bali? Despite dozens of fatalities, you thought, bugger the dead. I'm on holidays enjoying myself. Isn't that right?'

'I'm sorry, I have to go.' I slam the phone down.

Prue's is the first of four calls from the media. Hers is the worst, though. I direct all their questions to Gloria, then wonder if that's such a smart idea. Bloody Gloria. I'm going to kill her.

I quickly check my messages. There are calls from Nadia and Dom, as well as a couple of hang-ups.

Dom: 'Hey, trust you to get caught up in disaster under the pretence of going on holiday! Between you and me, I was a little rattled when I heard about the bombs, but then I know you and knew you could handle it. You're a trouper, Luce. I want to see you. Call me.'

I panic and delete the message. My life's complicated enough without adding Clark Kent to the mix.

Nadia says she'll pop in tomorrow with scones. I assume she's joking about the scones.

By early afternoon, Bella, Sam and I are so tired we're almost delirious. I can hardly speak. It doesn't help that Mum and Dad have been here for two hours forcing me to go over the holiday in minute detail.

'We'd given you up for dead,' Mum says, the second she's in the front door.

'Stop being dramatic. You spoke to me straightaway.'

'But the shock . . . I knew no good could come of you going there,' she replies with a dramatic flurry of arm movements.

'A monkey bit me, Nanna,' says Sam.

'Dear God! Did you see a doctor? Where did it bite you? You'll get rabies. Oh, Sam, you'll die!'

I glance over to Sam and raise my eyebrows. 'Your little joke backfired, didn't it, Sammy?'

Sam squirms uncomfortably. 'I was joking, Nan,' he says quietly.

'Idiot,' Bella says, and sneezes.

'Bird flu,' Mum shrieks. 'My poor Bella's got bird flu!'

I laugh.

Mum glares at me. 'It's not funny.'

'At least the builders got stuck into the place while you were away,' Dad says, after he's inspected the house.

He's right. The gyprocking appears to be entirely finished, the painters have primed and undercoated the walls, and the electrics are close to being completed. The halogen down lights in the new extension work, and all of the new windows have been fitted. There's still only a concrete floor but once the timber's laid, the family room will be functional. Sort of.

'Do you really want parquetry?' Mum says, sighing. 'It looks so busy. What's wrong with good old-fashioned linoleum - especially with the kids and the swimming pool?

It's so easy to keep clean, and quiet as well. No clomping like with timber floors.'

'I hear bamboo's the way to go these days,' Dad says, throwing in his two cents' worth. 'Apparently it's termite-and fire-resistant.'

'You're right, Frank. Environmentally friendly as well, not like hardwood.'

'What's happening with the hole in the wall over here?' Dad asks, inspecting the huge cavity in the middle of the family room feature wall.

'Gas fireplace,' I say, making a mental note never to invite my parents over to my house again. Blast it - they invited themselves.

I wander to the other end of the extension. No sign of the bi-fold doors. The opening to the outside terrace is still blocked by several sheets of timber, and no sandstone paving's been laid outside either. I guess I shouldn't expect miracles. But the whole place seems a lot cleaner, at least on the inside. Most of the mess has been cleared (even if it has been tossed into the front garden). I have to say, Patch has pulled it together. It looks good, almost great.

Dad disappears into the bathroom. 'I remember when bathrooms used to be the smallest room in the house,' he says. 'This one's bigger than most bedrooms.'

'I guess,' I reply. 'Max wanted luxury.'

'Well,' Mum snorts, 'you've certainly got that. There are six showerheads - not at all environmentally friendly!'

'There's even piped music,' Dad says in wonder. 'You could live in here.' He's clearly angling for an invitation to move in. 'You won't know yourself once the stairs are up.'

'Well, we were using a ramp till we left for Bali,' I say, looking at the ladder leading to the first floor. 'The stairs should be here soon.'

'I don't see any smoke alarms,' Mum comments.

No sooner have I pushed my parents out the door than Trish rings. I've been home six hours. It feels like four months. I'm ready to fly back to Bali and disappear into the rice paddies.

'I thought you were bringing my girl home,' Trish wails.

'I don't have any control over Alana, Trish. Besides, she looked happy enough last time I saw her.'

'But what about the bombs? She's so fragile.'

I want to scream. If Alana is fragile then I believe in Santa Claus. Alana is no more fragile than cement, but she seems to have convinced both Max and Trish otherwise.

'Fragile or not, I think Alana can look after herself,' I say, trying to be reasonable. 'She is an adult, in an adult relationship -'

'You don't care. My poor, poor Alana.'

'Max told me she'd called you,' I say, restraining myself from letting loose with my real thoughts about her dear Alana.

Remember, I tell myself, I'm happy for them. Max and I have run our course. We all need to move on with our lives.

And I believe myself, really. Despite wanting to see Max hit in the head by a freak frozen leg of ham flying through the air.

'This is your fault, Lucy,' Trish says, dragging me back to the moment. 'You'll be the ruin of us all.'

Has Trish just tried to curse me, I wonder as I end the call. Religious people don't do that, do they?

Climbing the ladder upstairs, I find Sam asleep on his bed and Bella sitting on a chair behind her desk.

'You okay?' I ask her.

'When will all this be finished? When will we have a kitchen again?'

'I know it's hard.'

'Hard? It's impossible.'

To cheer ourselves up, we order takeaway noodles, surround ourselves with our Balinese purchases and pretend we're still over there. Then we pop on one of the pirated movies we bought: Pirates of the Caribbean 3. Midway through, Johnny Depp starts speaking Mandarin. Quite unsettling, but the general story-line is still obvious and the kids, though exhausted, are rather amused.

Day 49.

We sleep in. I'm having a slow morning unpacking bags and sorting through dirty clothes and souvenirs when Gloria phones. I bawl her out about the media calls.

'They're obviously running very low on celebrities holidaying in Bali if they're chasing me for comments,' I growl. 'Tell me, were there any other well-known Australians on the island at the time?'

'Not a one,' Gloria laughs. 'Well, there was a minor fashion designer, but no, you're the most interesting person they've got. Darl, I've spent a lot of time schmoozing, lining you up with the likes of Melissa Doyle and Ellen Fanning. They're all nipping at my heels wanting a piece of your action.'

'Well, they can bite you for all I care because I'm saying nothing.'

'We'll see about that, young lady. After all, tomorrow is another day.'

'Please don't get all Scarlett O'Hara on me, I'm not in the mood. Anyway, what exactly do you mean?'

'You'll see, sweetie. All will be revealed. Patience, patience.'

When the doorbell rings, I have a feeling it might be Gloria or, worse still, Trish, so I'm relieved to find Nadia on my doorstep, her arms full with freshly baked bread, quiche, salad and wine. My mood improves dramatically.

I fill her in on Bali, the bombs, Max, my foolhardy belief that we were close to reconciling, the betrayal. It takes the whole bottle of wine, the entire quiche, most of the salad and half a loaf of bread.

'Luce, I know it's damned hard, and I hate to go on about it, but have you called my lawyer?'

I shake my head.

'Any lawyer?'

'No.'

'A financial planner to get some perspective on your financial estate? Did you change your bank details so Max can't abscond with your money?'

I stare at her blankly.

'If it's really over,' she says, draining the last of her wine, 'you need to think about these things. Remember, we're talking war here.'

That night in bed, I glance over at Max's side - his pillows, his bedside cabinet, his alarm clock. Inside his cabinet drawers are Father's Day and birthday cards, all handmade by the children and amassed over the years. I harden my heart. If I'm to make a fresh start, I need to clear out all of his things.

Day 50.

Last night I slept peacefully, and when I wake up this morning there isn't that dreaded twenty seconds where I think everything's fine, only to realise it isn't because Max has left me. Today, I wake up feeling that everything really is okay, and that sentiment is still with me one minute, five minutes, even ten minutes later.

Regardless of the renovation and whatever mess Gloria is trying to get me involved in, I don't have an ominous sense of dread, or a feeling I can't cope without Max. Because, miracle of miracles, I can cope.

I hear noises coming from downstairs. Building noises and it's only seven o'clock. Clearly Patch is trying to make a good impression. About time!

Before going downstairs to talk to him, I shower and call the kids. No response. So I go into their rooms and drag them from their beds.

'Come on, Bella, don't you want to show your friends your plaits?' I say as I point her in the direction of her school uniform. (Freshly ironed by me, I might add.) Sam's groggy but coherent. We make it to school on time - just.

I have to blink a couple of times when I walk into what will be my new kitchen. Patch has a spiffy haircut, is wearing new navy overalls and is holding a clipboard. I hadn't expected our embarrassing misunderstanding to have such a dramatic effect.

'Ms Springer,' he says, genuine concern in his voice. 'Welcome home. We were all very worried about you.'

'Thanks,' I say. 'What's happened? Where have you taken Patch?'

He grins, then checks himself. 'I have an up-to-date progress report to go through with you when you're ready.'

Patch - Mr Super Efficient?

A couple of men wearing Levi's and faded polo shirts stand nearby making notes on their own clipboards. I smile at them benignly. Who are they and why are they in my house?