'Bummer about Today Tonight,' says Patch. 'Can't believe people buy into that shit. Doesn't anyone think the little tart had it coming?'

I give him the thumbs up. 'I like your take on the situation.'

'She's nineteen,' he goes on. 'You can't tell me she didn't know what she was getting into with the old bugger.'

'Too right,' says Twin One.

'Yeah,' says Twin Two.

'Still, I'd do her,' says Joel as he walks by.

A burly overweight guy with a shabby beard interrupts. 'You Lucy Springer?'

I nod.

'Got a delivery for you.'

'Just pop it over there,' I say, pointing to the kitchen bench. It's about bloody time the knobs for the cupboards turned up. I ordered them several weeks ago. Finally, my nagging and name-calling has paid off.

The delivery guy looks at me strangely. Obviously he watches bad TV and reads the weekly trash magazines.

'It's a bit large to go there, love.'

'Why? What is it?'

'Dining table, eight chairs.'

'But I haven't ordered -'

'Says here it's from a Dominic Delahunty. You know 'im?'

I nod again, bewildered. 'I guess here then, in front of the kitchen.'

'I'll round up the boys,' he says.

Several minutes later, a beautiful recycled hardwood timber dining table and eight hand-carved hardwood chairs are sitting in the room in front of my kitchen, which will henceforth be known as the dining room. How posh!

'Dominic, they're truly gorgeous,' I tell him on the phone later. 'But I can't accept them. They must have cost you a fortune. They're beautiful, original, unique.'

'I'm glad you like them.'

'Like them? I love them. They're exquisite.'

'Well, you said you didn't have a dining suite. I saw that piece of wood and thought it'd be perfect. It reminded me of you.'

'Really? Which part? Recycled? Aged? Hardwood?'

'I was thinking more about its natural character and charm. So, you like?'

'I love.'

'Then it's my gift to you.'

'I don't know what to say.'

'Thank you would be a good start.'

'Of course, Dom. Thank you. It's the most beautiful piece of furniture -'

'Then it deserves to belong to you.'

'Don't . . . I insist on paying for it. At least for the divine chairs, something.'

'I vill not accept zee payment.'

'Are you doing a really bad German accent?'

'I guess . . . just trying to lighten the mood. Terrible?'

'Dreadful.'

'Just for that, I insist you do pay.'

'Good, I'll write you a cheque.'

'I don't want your money. I want you and your children to hop in your car - you still have a car, don't you?'

'Yes, of course, a little beaten up but it works.'

'Okay then. Get in your car and drive down to the country for a couple of days as my guests, this weekend.'

'This weekend! I couldn't possibly -'

'You need some time out from all the shitty people crawling out of the woodwork giving shitty interviews and saying shitty untruths about you.'

'So you saw the interview?'

'Afraid so. In fact, I'd like your permission to join the parade, go on TV and tell even more outrageous tales about you - like how you used to hide spliffs under your bed, and prance around nude doing unspeakable tricks with ping-pong balls and bananas at all hours of the day and night. Come on, Luce. Throw a few clothes in a bag and come down.'

'I'll have to think about it.'

'Seriously? What's to think about? And bring that old duck with you.'

'Gloria?'

'That's the one.'

As I'm making fried rice for dinner (I've given up on the idea of a roast), I become increasingly panicked. What's it going to be like meeting up with a man I haven't seen for thirteen years? Sure, I've spoken to him and he sounds like the same old Dom, but thirteen years can change a person. Look at me. Two kids, a failed marriage, a lame career, not to mention a few extra kilos and laugh lines.

When I knew Dom, we were both young and vibrant, had the world at our feet, and Sheryl Crow's 'All I Wanna Do' was the number one song. We spent many a night propped up against a bar, singing along and dreaming that one day we'd go to Santa Monica Boulevard. Since then, Sheryl's won several Grammy Awards, dated Owen Wilson, got her hair cut, acted in movies, been engaged to Lance Armstrong, beat breast cancer, adopted a child, Wyatt, and is currently one of Revlon's famous faces. She's also grown her hair again.

What I'm saying is, a lot's happened since the last time I saw Dom. Times have changed. I should be moving forward with my life, not trying to recapture the past.

Will I even recognise him when I see him? And what on earth will we have to talk about? We've missed out on so many significant events in each other's lives. How can we possibly build a bridge across such a huge gap?

When I dump all this on Gloria after dinner, she simply says, 'Let's not get ahead of ourselves, hey? He's invited you down for the weekend, not to spend the rest of your lives together. It's only one night.'

'That's what scares me.'

'You're right. Maybe I shouldn't tag along.'

'Yes, you bloody well should. I'm not going by myself.'

'You have Bella and Sam to keep you company.'

'I need you there as well. Anyway, you're his friend, the one who's been talking to him. I wonder . . .' I stop.

'What? How long he's been divorced? Whether he has children?'

'Exactly.'

'Then why didn't you bloody well ask him?'

'Because he didn't offer and I didn't want to pry.'

'You're an idiot. I liked you better as a redhead.'

'Yeah, I'm over this stripy hair business as well.'

'Hey, I've got some news that'll cheer you up,' Gloria says, changing the subject. 'You know how Gracie Gardener's being sued by Edwin for supergluing his dick to his belly?'

'Go on.'

'Well, now Gracie's being investigated for tax fraud. Apparently she's been charged with fifteen offences against the Commonwealth for continuing to claim disability support pension payments while working as an actor between 2005 and 2007.'

'She's not disabled.'

'She fell off a horse while filming a remake of The Man from Snowy River in 2004 and got an actor's disability pension that was only payable while she wasn't working.'

'So now Edwin's blown the whistle?'

'Sure has.'

I get to thinking my life's not so bad. I'm not under threat of being sent to jail. I've never been caught not wearing underwear in public; I've never even been slightly tempted to get a tattoo after a couple of drinks - and my house is almost completed. I guess I have a lot in my life to be happy about.

Day 61.

When I clomp down my beautiful Oregon stairs at seven in the morning and see Sandy and Rock waiting for me, I know from their faces they mean trouble.

'We need to go into damage control - again,' Sandy says coldly. 'First it was print but then Alana and her goddamn mother go and do a blab fest on TV - it's getting out of hand.'

'I really don't -'

'That combined with the fact that you and Rock are . . . Well, what exactly are you doing with Lucy, Rock?' Sandy glares at him instead of me.

'Yeah, I like you and everything,' Rock tells me. 'But I can't risk my career -'

'Rock, there's really nothing to explain,' I say, looking around for a pit to fall into. This can't be happening. I'm not standing in my brand-new kitchen discussing my one-night stand with Rock. It's ancient history. And that kiss a week ago? So not going to happen again.

'I know you're into me and everything,' Rock goes on, 'and I dig you, but I've got to think about my future. If I don't have my television career, I've got nothing.'

'What he's trying to say, Lucy,' says Sandy, 'is that from now on you two need to keep it professional. I don't know if the program will go ahead in its current format given everything that's happened in the last week, but if it does, all of us have to remain professional.' She nods to Rock to speak.

'Sandy's right,' he says. 'We need to lie low for a while, Lucy, then, when this blows over, we can, you know, be together again.'

I look away, willing myself not to laugh.

'Hey, don't cry, babe,' Rock says.

It's too much to bear. I run up the stairs to Bella's room at the other end of the house, lie on her bed and give in to hysterics. I haven't laughed this hard for a very long time. It feels fantastic.

'Lucy-Lou, I'm glad I found you,' Gloria says when she tracks me down in the bathroom, where I'm plucking my eyebrows.

'Where else would I be? I'm a prisoner in my own home, just waiting for the next instalment of my public humiliation.'

'Nonsense. That's what I'm here to talk about. You'll never believe -'

'Gloria, I'm not in the mood.'

'You will be, girlfriend, you will be!' Gloria squeals.

'I've been inundated with calls of support for you - women saying they'll boycott New Idea and the current affairs shows because of how badly you've been treated.'

'You're joking?'

'No way. I've got it all written down. There are pages and pages of the stuff. I've also fielded a call from Centre Management at Westfield asking if you'll be their official ambassador.'

'Get out!'

'True! And get this, Foxtel are launching a nineties month in two weeks and they want you to host the whole shebang, kicking off with - drum roll, please - the very first episode of The Young Residents.'

'Really?'