I don't mention anything to the kids about the New Idea piece. We eat sushi for dinner and complete the following homework tasks: * Sam - mastering the eight times table; summarising 'Captain Cook's Amazing Adventure' from the latest School Magazine; drawing the detailed life cycle of a carnivorous plant.

* Bella - algorithms; mapping Skull Island; sequencing in a bullet list the main points of The Story of Camels in Australia.

Day 58.

Because my name is mud and I can never show my face in public again, suddenly, I become Miss Popular.

By ten o'clock in the morning two huge bouquets of gorgeous flowers have arrived - one from the school mothers with kids in Bella's grade, the other from Sam's classmates' mums. And the phone's been ringing off the hook. Not that I am answering. There are messages inviting me to dinner, lunch, brunch, coffee - all from eager women wanting to dissect my misery. It's funny, I didn't hear from anyone except Nadia when I got back from Bali, but now I'm tabloid fodder - public humiliation is much more interesting.

'Come out to lunch with us,' Nadia says. 'It'll be fun, I promise, and I'll protect you.'

'I really don't want to lunch with the Subservient Wives Club,' I tell her. 'Besides, I've got nothing to talk about.'

'Really? You could have fooled me.'

'Well, nothing that doesn't cast me in a bad light.'

But Nadia's right. I need to get out. Patch, Joel and the rest of them are giving me funny looks, and I don't want to be here if and when Rock turns up. Besides, I have to show my face sooner or later. It may as well be now. After all, my life's one huge scandal. And let's face it: I may be humiliated but I still have to eat.

When Nadia and I arrive at The Pickled Herring the others are already seated and drinking wine. Thankfully, Trish isn't there. I haven't seen her since before I went to Bali, and after our last conversation, where she accused me of destroying her daughter's life, again, I don't want to. Still, I ask Nadia how Trish is doing.

'Withering under the stress. She's down to about forty-three kilos and the blue veins on her neck are sticking out.'

I accept a glass of wine from Emma and sit quietly for the first ten minutes, just listening to the conversation.

There's the usual school gossip: the bulk of last Tuesday's tuckshop money going missing; a certain silver-headed P&C committee member letting the power go to his head and wanting to take over the school; Harry Mackenzie's dad driving a new silver Jaguar - thanks to drug money, so rumour has it. There's also whisper of a hush-hush campaign to rid the school of the principal. Good luck, I think. She's been there twenty years and the new centenary school hall is named after her. I'm not saying it's a bad thing trying to vote her out, given that she thinks I'm peculiar. I just think it'd be easier bringing Elvis back to life.

'What about Soon Yi and his purple hair?' Dee says, shaking her head. 'And there's that new Steiner kiddie in Ben's class . . .'

'There's definitely a radical element creeping in,' says Lizzie, lightly touching Dee on the arm. 'Soon we'll have gays teaching our children!'

Heaven forbid.

'And don't you think there should be a rule about suitable clothing attire when picking up the kids?' Dee says. 'Those bottom-gate mothers can dress in rags, but tracksuits should definitely not be worn at the top gate. It's the main entrance - the showpiece of the school.'

Wendy looks decidedly uncomfortable.

Imagine if they knew I sometimes drove my kids to school wearing pyjamas. At least I did before the threat of tradesmen at my doorstep, first thing in the morning.

It isn't long before the conversation turns to the real point of this little gathering . . . ME. Dissecting my troubled life. I think longingly of old times and discussions of rostered sex lives.

'Lucy, you poor thing, I'd want to kill him,' Lizzie says. 'Imagine . . .' she lets the word hang in the air '. . . the humiliation, the mortification, the shame you must be feeling.'

Smiling weakly, I say, 'I'm thinking of hiring a hit man to take Max out - you know, professionally, so there's no slip-up and no evidence.'

Nadia laughs and slaps my arm, but the others just stare at me, mouths gaping. These women. Don't they get it? I have to make jokes about my life or I'll cry, and once the tears start there'll be no stopping them.

'Joking,' I say. 'Though, really, how much worse can things get?'

Seconds later, the waiter trips and tips a full chicken caesar salad into my lap. I scrape egg and anchovy off my pants while the waiter flaps about ineffectually.

'Maybe it's God's way of telling you something,' says Lizzie.

'Like what? This restaurant has the clumsiest waiter in the world?'

Jesus, it's incredibly disappointing if a salad in my lap is God's way of telling me something in my life is amiss. I feel wretched and small. Tears trickle down my cheeks.

'We're all here for you, you know,' Wendy says, patting me on the back.

'But maybe you shouldn't have assaulted the old lady,' Lizzie adds.

That's it. I'm out of here. I stand and shake the last bits of lettuce to the floor.

'I promise I won't say a word if anyone rings me for a comment,' Lizzie goes on.

I nod, thinking, why on earth would they do that? Then I realise that's exactly what magazine writers do.

'Have they been calling other people?' I ask. I so do not want to hear the answer to this question.

'Well, I think they called Trish,' Lizzie says tentatively, 'when she was having a bad day. They might have weaselled something out of her.'

'What exactly?' Nadia says. 'Trish had no right to speak to them.'

Lizzie looks worried. 'I'm only telling you what Trish told me. She talked to them about Lucy, Max and Alana.'

'What did she say?' I ask, slumping back onto my seat.

'I think she might have said there was a time when you appeared more intent on resurrecting your acting career than taking care of your family.'

'Which, we all know,' says Dee without a trace of irony, 'is why women were put on earth in the first place - to have children and take care of our husbands.'

I have no idea whether Dee's joking or just a complete idiot. Maybe she's a Mormon lesbian. It doesn't matter. I have to leave quickly before I stab everyone in my immediate vicinity with a dinner knife and then go to jail for the rest of my life. Alternatively, I could run outside and throw myself under a bus. But that might prove messy, and what if I wasn't killed outright but had to be hooked up to life support and live in a vegetative state for the next twenty years? Imagine the burden on Bella and Sam, and Mum. Even Gloria.

'Maybe lunch wasn't such a good idea,' Emma says quietly.

'Maybe you're right,' I say, picking up my bag off the floor. I open my wallet, throw forty dollars on the table and walk out.

Nadia catches up with me on the pavement, where I'm standing arm outstretched hailing a cab.

'Can I drive you?' she asks.

'Thanks, but I'd rather you stayed. Ring me later and tell me how badly I fared.'

She gives me a hug and goes back inside.

I'm angry and pissed off. My chest is tight, so tight it's threatening to explode at any moment. I'm not the one who had the affair with the teenage babysitter. So why am I the one who's being forced to stand trial? Because everyone blames me for not satisfying my man - I couldn't keep his overactive penis at home where it belongs. Therefore, according to the rules of polite society, it's all my fault and I should feel guilty and ashamed. Well, guess what? I'm over that crap! Yes, I'm mortified because Max is an idiot and has been slandering me, but I'm over feeling accountable for his behaviour.

I try to focus on my breathing: in with the good, out with the bad. The air is cool so the tears falling on my cheeks are cold. I'm shivering. The racket in my head is so loud I can barely hear the traffic noise.

'They wanted to interview me for that story,' Patch says when he finds me in a corner re-reading Max's article and crying.

'What did you say?'

'I told them to fuck off. I said you're really cool and it should have been you who walked out on the prick and you should have done it years ago.'

'I bet they were thrilled to hear that.'

'Yeah, not at all. I told them how Max never gave us the time of day, is an up-himself snob and has as much class as a farting dog.'

Despite Patch's attempts to make me feel better, I'm dreading reading the things Trish has told New Idea in reply to Max's article. The good news is I only have to wait another six days to find out.

Day 59.

Sandy calls an early morning meeting to discuss the 'Max issue' - i.e. the tell-all interview with New Idea. andy 'I'm worried that we're going to look like fools doing a show about Lucy when she's so obviously unhinged.'

'Excuse me, I'm right here,' I say. 'And I'm not unhinged. Don't you think that Max is the one who's coming across as slightly insane?'

'Not really. Anyway, that's not the point,' Sandy replies.

'That little old lady really stuck it up you.'

'I don't know why. All I was doing was trying to retrieve bags from a clothing bin - my own bags. Besides, she was crazy. She kept calling me Sophia.'

'Again, not the point.'

'Come on, Sandy, any publicity's good publicity, hey?' Gloria says.

'Not if it involves our supposed star being portrayed all over town as a crazed alcoholic spendthrift who beats up little old ladies.'

'I guess Sandy's talking damage control,' Gloria says quietly. 'You can remain dignified, Lucy, but you need to explain your side of the story. Tell the public that your husband is a dirty stinking rotten philanderer who's always been jealous of your success. In fact, I'll do the interview.

You can just sign your name to it.'

'You can't do that,' I tell her.

'Watch me.'

'No, Lucy's right,' says Sandy. 'We need more than that.

We need face-to-face airtime, like an interview with A Current Affair.'

I shake my head. This isn't going well.

'You can't hide otherwise everyone will believe Max's story. You know how gullible the public are,' Gloria starts.

'Exactly! We have to come up with a solution or we're pulling the plug on this program,' Sandy chips in.

So the three of us sit on the new stairs, drinking coffee and putting our heads together to work out a plan that will see Max humiliated and run out of town. At least, that's my intention. No doubt Gloria would like to see Max dead, while Sandy just wants a successful, high-rating new television program on her resume.

'There's really only one option,' says Gloria. 'You have to do an interview with Today Tonight.'

'No,' says Sandy. 'It has to be A Current Affair.'

'Fine,' Gloria agrees.

'Hang on,' I say. 'What do I tell them?'

'The truth. That Max left you. That you never had a breakdown, and you threw him out of the house because he ran off with your babysitter. The welfare of your children comes first.'

'Which is exactly why I haven't done an interview in the first place.'

'Too bad. You have to,' Sandy says.

'The public will be on your side, Luce,' Gloria assures me.

'They'd better be,' says Sandy.

'I'm onto it.' Gloria picks up her mobile and punches in some numbers.

Max turns up while I'm raking leaves in the garden. 'There you are,' he says. 'I brought you some more roses.'

I glance at him briefly and continue raking.

'I'm sorry about the article, Luce. I only did it to get your attention. I didn't think that Tina bitch would print everything I said. I was only venting, I didn't mean it. I just want you back in my life. I want us to be together again.'

'Fuck off, Max.'

'What? I've brought you flowers!'

'Just get out. Take your flowers with you.'

'Luce, can't you see I'm begging for forgiveness here?'

'You've got a funny way of showing it.'

'Please. I've felt so neglected these past couple of years, what with your career taking off again. I was always last on your list of priorities. There were the kids, then your career and then me - in that order. When the renovation started, I slipped further down the ladder. I've been so lonely. I'm lonely now.'