'But this is lunch,' says Sam, looking at it in disgust.

'It's dinner,' I tell him.

'Lunch,' Bella says.

'It's six-thirty at night. This is dinner.'

They look at me then reluctantly eat the sandwiches. I guess they decide toasted bread is preferable to no food at all.

After Bella and Sam go to sleep, I take to my bed. As much as I'd like to consume copious amounts of booze, the thought of feeling even more wretched tomorrow than I do now helps me to resist - just. Wretched, sad, angry, miserable . . .

Where is Max and what is he up to? Is he alone? A couple of years after Max and I married, he said, 'So I'm never going to be with another woman - naked - ever again?' The occasion? His thirtieth birthday after maybe a dozen beers. I couldn't escape the feeling that perhaps he was hoping I'd suggest a threesome. Why am I remembering that now? Because I can't stop tormenting myself with the idea that Max has left me and is happily ensconced in someone else's arms. I want to scream, throw things, punch him. But I don't have a clue where he is.

Day 10.

I have to bribe Patch and his cronies back to work with a case of French wine from Max's precious cellar. I also have to promise to answer any house-related questions promptly and desist from abusing anyone using power tools.

'Well, I don't like the builders sneaking up on me,' I say, trying to save face. 'They seem to be all over the place and they all look alike. I can't tell them apart, and I'm sick of them urinating on my hydrangeas.'

'None of my men have ever urinated in your garden,' says Patch.

I beg to differ.

Then Patch and I squabble over toilet arrangements.

On the subject of toilets, I've ordered the Magic Flush 4000. That's right, the three-thousand-dollar loo that caused a purple vein to throb on Max's forehead.

Gloria arrives on my doorstep at eleven o'clock bearing Moet and lilies. Acres of lilies.

'Bit of a mess,' she says with a sniff as she surveys the disaster area from the millimetre of grass we're sharing near the barbecue. 'I've been thinking, lovely, now that Max has gone we can really focus on some serious television auditions.'

'What if he never comes back?' I say tearily.

'Good God! The whole idea is that he doesn't. What do you want a man wasting your time and energy for?'

Patch throws her a dirty look.

'I'm serious, Gloria. He's walked out. Who knows for how long? What am I going to tell Bella and Sam?'

'The truth. Stop whining, girl. As long as you've got cash . . . you have still got money, haven't you?'

I raise my eyebrows.

'Good. I don't see what the problem is then. You're better off without him. So are Bella and Sam.'

'It's just that . . . I love him. And I can't live without him.'

'Nonsense. You sound like a snivelling soapie character. Get a grip. It's time we updated your website. All the photos we have of you are too staid, too wholesome. The only sexy ones are from when you played Sophia in The Young Residents, including several of your television wedding to Dr Andres . . .'

Our wedding was the biggest thing since Lady Di and Charles, being paraded around the country in our wedding finery at mock receptions in every city.

'The point is,' continues Gloria, 'we need to jazz up your image, update your wardrobe -'

'I like the clothes I wear. So do a lot of other people.'

'Right. And would those style icons include Camilla Parker Bowles? Seriously, Lucy, you need to show some cleavage. You've got boobs -'

'I'm a B cup.'

'B, D - what's the difference? It's nothing a black Wonderbra and good lighting can't fix. Come on, you need to get those puppies out there. When you waltz into an audition, no offence, but it's a shock to casting directors.

After all, they're expecting sexy Sophia and they get -'

'They get Lucy Springer, mother, queen of broccoli,' I say.

'Exactly, my dear.'

Later that night while brushing my teeth, I glance at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Teeth? Straight, at least. Skin? Okay, given I haven't been obsessing about it the last week, though somewhat sallow. Could do with a resurfacing peel (or three). Eyes? Clear-ish, but with dark circles under them. Eyelashes? Invisible, but long. Nothing a tint and an eyelash perm can't fix.

Gloria's right. A makeover is just what I need. The bones are there - just - and so are the breasts, I guess. But the whole package could do with a hell of a lot of TLC.

Day 11.

'Great news!' squeals Gloria down the phone the next morning. 'I got you an audition - a commercial, but it's national.'

'Hit me.'

'International brand, well known, consumer friendly -'

'You're stalling.'

'Well, it's for incontinence -'

'No way,' I shriek at her. 'No fucking way. How old do you think I am?'

'Joking, Luce, joking. It's a revolutionary new device for dogs. The manufacturer is looking for a public face. You know, to front the whole campaign, print, media . . .'

'National coverage?'

'Of course. They'll also want you to appear on all the morning infotainment programs.'

'I guess if Paula Duncan can spruik kitchen cleaners and insurance policies on the morning shows, I can spruik revolutionary dog devices,' I say.

'And they're paying big bucks,' says Gloria.

'Sold!'

'There's one tiny thing I should mention. It's called porta-puppy-potty . . . ah . . . and you may have dogs slobbering over you when you demonstrate the device. Whichmeansscoopingdogshit.'

'What? Shit.'

'Exactly. But it's national and it'll be fun.'

Joel starts up a chainsaw and drowns out the rest of our conversation. He's got his safety glasses glued to his face, as usual, but is working without the guard on the chainsaw 'so the boys can get a better view, mon'. I wonder if home insurance covers workmen who are obsessed with lecturing others about safety in the workplace but don't bother following the rules themselves?

I stomp up to my bedroom, take to my bed and drink three-quarters of a bottle of 1991 Hill of Grace. I'll start on the TLC thing tomorrow.

Some time later I glance at the bedside clock. It's three-thirty. Any minute now the kids will be arriving home. I go to get up but must drift back to sleep because the next thing I know it's five o'clock and Mum's in my bedroom. Bella, the brat, must have called her. Again.

'I can't believe you're lying around the house all day and not taking your responsibilities as a mother seriously,' Mum huffs.

'Go and disinfect some walls,' I yell.

She suggests I need to talk to someone - 'a professional'.

'Been there, done that,' I shout back.

Day 12.

Driving Bella and Sam to school this morning - lack of clean clothes causes them to miss the bus - I politely request that Bella stop phoning her grandmother every two seconds of the day.

'It's really quite annoying.'

'Mum, you're so weird. Nanna and I agree it's best if I call her every day just now.'

They agree it's for the best! Since when did my daughter suddenly age thirty years?

'Bella, Nanna is not your mother. I am. I decide what's best for this family,' I say, glancing in the rear-vision mirror just as Bella does her famous skyward eye-roll.

'Don't roll your eyes at me, young lady,' I snap.

We drive in silence the rest of the way to school.

'I'll walk you both in this morning,' I say, to more eye-rolling.

Bella and Sam walk as slowly as possible behind me, then grudgingly say goodbye at the school gates before disappearing into a sea of grey shirts and green hats. I'm left at the entrance listening to a conversation about the Year Three concert, which is apparently being held next Wednesday.

'I'd forgotten all about the concert,' I admit to Nadia when she comes up to say hello. Nadia's son, Lachlan, is in the same soccer team as Sam, which reminds me that Max is the assistant coach. Bloody Max. How am I going to explain his absence at tomorrow's game?

'Yeah,' Nadia says. 'It's hard keeping on top of everything.'

I've always liked Nadia. She's strong and funny, not to mention a stunning advertisement for the single life - expensive golden hair, youthful sun-kissed complexion, wide happy smile.

'By the way, Max is away on business,' I say casually, 'so he won't be at the game tomorrow, or for the next couple of weeks probably.'

'Oh, Lucy, please don't worry; you've got enough on your plate as it is.' Nadia's tone suggests I'm terminally ill, or worse. What have my children been saying?

An extended group of mothers gathers and we chat a while, though I feel at sea during their talk about such pressing issues as the lack of homework given by Mrs Johnson. Eventually, everyone disperses and I begin the long trek to my car, thinking how you have to be at the school gates every morning and afternoon to avoid feeling left out of the loop. Then again, how could I have forgotten about Sam's concert? God knows, he's been practising to trot like a mountain goat for months.

'Lucy?' Nadia waves to me from her car. 'Do you want me to pick up Sam before the game tomorrow?'

'Thanks, but with his dad away, I should make the effort,' I say.

Wandering out to the letterbox, I discover a postcard to Sam and Bella from Max. My heart skips a beat and my first thought is: Thank God he's okay.

Dear Sam and Isabella, the surf 's great in Bali. Wish you could be here with me. Will be in touch soon. Love, Dad xxx I can't believe it. Bali! What the fuck's he doing in Bali?

Outraged, I search around in the letterbox, flipping bills out of the way, and then I find it. A letter for me from Max. Fuming, I decide not to open it. It's a Dear John letter, I'm sure, and no good can come of reading it.

Back inside our half-house, I run around madly ripping sheets off beds. I can't remember the last time I washed the bed linen. Isn't that disgusting? I know I meant to as soon as the kids left for camp, but . . . well . . . shit happened.

At the end of three loads of washing, Max's letter is still sitting on my dressing table unopened. What if it's an invitation for the children and me to join him in Bali? For a brief moment, my hopes rise. It might be airline tickets. I feel the envelope. It's too thin for three tickets to Bali.

I search for other cleaning activities I can do that will help take my mind off Max's letter. That takes all of eighteen minutes. Despite my reluctance and fear, I can't hold off any longer. Taking a deep breath, I run my finger along the inside top of the envelope to open it, and pull out a postcard featuring eight scantily clad Balinese dancers.

Be brave, I tell myself, and turn the card over.

Max is succinct. His whole twenty-nine words read as follows: Dear Lucy, Sorry I left without telling you, but life is what it is. I need space and time to think. We'll talk soon.Take care. Love always, Max.

He needs space? Well, so do I! Max is swanning around in Bali, surfing, drinking Bintang - and I'm here in Sydney, struggling with faulty plumbing and shoddy electrics in the freezing cold. Tears trickle down my cheeks.

I think about him signing off with love always and feel a momentary surge of hope. I remember back to our wedding, to our vows of eternal, everlasting love. We promised each other we'd be together forever. Not to waltz off to Bali when things got tough.

Sorry, the note begins - but Max isn't sorry at all. If he was sorry, he would never have left me in the first place. He would have stuck it out and suffered alongside me, the way married couples are supposed to. You don't see me jetting off to some exotic location just because my world has become a kitchen-less, hot-water-less misery!

And to Bali of all places! We were supposed to go there together, as a family, after the renovations were done. It's one of the things on our To Do list, along with climbing the Eiffel Tower, trekking the ruins of Machu Picchu and filming polar bears at the North Pole.

Why couldn't he have taken us to Bali with him?