'But there's always a host, darling. You know that.'

Less than a minute later, I find out who the host is. Rock. Dear Lord, give me strength. This is the first time I've seen him since I left my knickers in his apartment. Shit. I don't need to be reminded of that night, or that he actually laundered them for me.

'Thanks a lot,' I whisper to Gloria while Rock chats to the crew.

'Come on, so you shagged the guy. He's hot property. A coup for the show.'

Rock walks over, takes my hand and kisses it.

Remember your acting mantra, I mutter to myself. Professional at all times. At all times.

'We were so worried about you,' Rock tells me. 'But you made it back. Looking gorgeous as always.'

'Yes, we were all worried,' agrees Gloria, the smarmy snake. She draws my attention to a tiny woman sporting super-short blonde hair and wearing a Japanese-inspired wraparound print dress. 'Lucy, this is Sandy, the producer.'

Sandy and I smile at each other and shake hands.

'Our Lucy's a trouper,' Gloria continues. 'She even visited the hospital in Denpasar in the days after the bombing, offering words of support and encouragement to the victims.'

'Gloria!'

'But she doesn't like talking about it, brings back dreadful memories.' Gloria sighs dramatically and shudders.

For fuck's sake, do I really have to be a part of this charade?

A builder I don't recognise walks by, sending up a cloud of dust. Rock sneezes.

'I'm allergic to dust,' he says, eyes watering. 'How long are we here for?' he snaps at Sandy, raising his voice above the roar of the chainsaw.

Sandy looks up from her clipboard. (What is with these people and their clipboards?) 'Show needs to be in the can two weeks, three, tops.'

'But I can't be in this environment every day,' he bleats. 'I need a mask. And my shoes! These shoes were like fifteen hundred dollars.'

I glance down at his brown leather boots. They're nice enough, but fifteen hundred dollars' worth? And they have a heel.

'I bought them in Milan, Italy,' he says when he notices me looking. He turns back to Sandy. 'So, anyway, I'm thinking I can do my pieces from the studio.'

Sandy laughs. 'I don't think so. There's a schedule, and that schedule states all camera work is to be shot on-site.'

'I didn't read that.'

'Trust me, it's there.'

'This should be interesting,' I say to Gloria, and take a deep breath, quietly suffocating on dust particles.

'Regardless of the schedule, I don't think my nasal cavities can survive this onslaught every day. Not to mention my throat,' wheezes Rock. 'No offence, Lucy, but my voice is my gift and I need to take good care of it.'

Did I really have sex with this man? An image of our night together pops into my mind. Rock's the first man I've been with other than Max for twelve years. Good choice, Lucy. I hope he doesn't blab to anyone, but then again, why would he? It's not like we did anything out of the ordinary. He didn't make me dress up; I didn't demand that he smother me in whipped cream. Besides, I'm ten years older than him. It's not really much of a boast to have seduced a wine-guzzling, middle-aged soon-to-be divorcee.

Gloria gives me the eye. 'Don't be too hard on yourself, Lucy-Lou, he is handsome. Though . . . is he that colour all over?'

The cameras begin to roll.

Sandy gives her young assistant, Zoe (who's obviously giving a nod to nineties Goth, with her blue-black shoulder-length hair, pale white skin and black eyeliner ringing her eyes), a list of fittings that need to be chased. Then she drills Patch about his contractors and their commitment to the job. I smile to myself. She sounds just like me. And I'm so glad it's not me. It wears you down, all that shouting, pleading and cajoling with suppliers and builders.

'What's the story with the kitchen sink, and the new staircase?' Sandy asks Patch, pointing to the ladder.

I feel like chipping in with the background info that the supplier doesn't care whether my butler sink, imported from France, arrives or not. He's got my money and so can stall delivery till next year if he wants to. Last week it was the fault of the terrorists in Bali; this week it's riots in Paris; next week it will be someone else's fault. But I don't want to be on camera so I keep my mouth shut.

'Are wood and nails really that hard to come by at this time of year?' Sandy goes on, glaring at Patch.

'The floors have arrived,' Patch responds, changing the topic.

I go outside to the driveway, where a huge truck is unloading parquetry squares. I want to jump for joy at the sight of my gorgeous floors but Sandy appears and starts directing the camera action.

'Get Rock over here. We need him in this scene,' she tells Digger.

'Yeah, the light's good,' Digger says, peering through his lens and adjusting the frame as Rock walks into the picture. 'Step back,' he directs Rock. 'The light's too harsh - you look a hundred. Quick, come on, the sun's going to disappear in a tick.'

Rock moves into position as the last of the floorboards are taken off the truck.

'Bugger that, the sun's gone.' Digger shakes his head.

'Too much shadow. Can it!'

An hour later, I'm watching the walnut parquetry floors, which my mother calls 'busy', being laid. They are stunning. Simply divine. I'm in love and am floating on air. I count nine contractors, three cameramen, and Sandy. There's so much activity, I'm in awe.

'Ms Springer,' says Patch.

I'm so startled I jump back and hit my head on the wall.

'Are you okay?' he says, taking my arm.

I rub my head. 'Patch, you're freaking me out. Don't ever call me Ms Springer again.'

'Of course, Miss.'

'Or Miss.'

Patch sees the camera and glances at his clipboard. He clears his throat and says, 'Lucy, we'll need the wall lights you've chosen for the new bathroom by Friday.'

I tell him that he'll need to speak with the supplier, something about a wharfies' strike, and walk away to answer the phone.

It's a writer from Woman's Day wanting to do a tie-in with the renovation. 'Something along the lines of "I survived Bali and came home to a brand-new house". Sounds great, hey?' she says in an overly cheery tone.

'You can't say no to an interview with Woman's Day - readership, two point five million,' Gloria tells me five minutes later, after the editor has rung her about my refusal to participate.

'I don't want to talk about Bali or my failed marriage, Gloria.'

'But you've got to. It's what the common people are after. Excitement in their otherwise dull lives.'

'So they want to read about my dull life instead?'

'By comparison, your life is not dull.'

When the kids get home from school, they're amazed at all the activity and the cameras. They follow Digger around all afternoon.

Patch comes to find me again. 'We seem to have a slight hiccup with the gas fire,' he says.

I stare at the hole in the wall where the fire should have been fitted - two weeks ago, but who's counting?

'The one you ordered they don't make any more . . .'

'And?'

'The wait for the new model is three months.'

'No, no, no. I ordered it and paid you for it. This is not my problem,' I bellow, my good mood disappearing. 'I want my bloody fireplace - it's the centrepiece of the living area. Otherwise it's just a bloody big hole.'

'I'll see what I can sort out,' he says and slips outside.

The kids are playing up near Digger, whacking each other with lengths of timber.

'Don't get in the way of anyone,' I bark at them.

'We want to stay and look at all the cameras,' Bella whines.

'Yeah, it's fun,' agrees Sam.

'Are we really going to be on television?' Bella asks, the whining tone gone as she flutters her eyelashes towards Digger.

'Well, not us, but our house and the renovation will be.'

'Even the mess?'

'Even the mess, but not for too much longer. The place will be finished soon.'

'Does this mean you're not going on Australian Idol?' Sam asks.

'She's way too old,' Bella says.

'Hey, I said you weren't allowed to film the kids,' I say when I notice Digger going in for a close-up on Bella. 'They're off limits.'

He gives me a 'for fuck's sake' look and points the camera towards the tiler, who's making a huge mess in the downstairs bathroom.

Day 52.

I keep out of the camera's way as much as possible. I don't want to be caught doing something perverse. Luckily, I'm no longer smuggling Grange into my bedroom at all times of the day and night.

But wherever I go in the house, Rock seems to find me. He kind of sneaks up and wham, he's in my face, like a cold sore that just won't disappear. And as much as he tries to be positive about this new show and tells me he doesn't mind at all that he got pulled off Gateways for it, methinks he doth protest too much.

'Really, I was getting bored flying to Europe every three weeks,' he says. 'Sure, it was first-class all the way, exotic locations and fabulous food. But that's not really who I am. I like getting down and dirty.'

I can see so clearly that Rock absolutely hates getting down and dirty, as he so eloquently puts it.

'I'm having fun. I love renovating,' he lies, and flicks dust from his navy pinstripe jacket.

An hour ago he threw a hissy fit because he got white paint on his navy Ermenegildo Zegna shoes. The whole neighbourhood within a ten-kilometre radius heard his ballistic rant. Now he's wearing socks over the top of his shoes so he won't damage them further. And what about the surgical face mask, a la Michael Jackson, and the gloves? He can't fool me. But perhaps others aren't as observant.

'We're ready for you now, Rock,' Sandy calls out to him.

'Good luck,' I say, and watch him walk over to where Sandy has stuck thick black masking tape in an X on the cement floor just outside where sandstone pavers are about to be laid.

'Are you going to take those socks off?' she says. 'And the mask and gloves?'

'Give me half a chance.' He bends over and starts removing his socks. As he stands back up he glances over his left shoulder. 'Do those flecks of dust look like dandruff to you?' he asks Sandy.

'What? I can't see anything.'

'Are you blind? The white flecks. They're multiplying on my arm as we speak.'

Zoe, who's doubling as the hair and make-up person, attempts to brush him down.

'You need to tone down his tan, as well,' Sandy tells Zoe.

'I don't need you touching my face!' Rock yells as Zoe approaches him with a damp face cloth. 'What I need is a proper studio where there's no dust. I haven't even had my double decaf soy latte this morning. I really don't know how you expect me to work in these Third World conditions.'

'We'll try to keep the dust down to a minimum, mon,' says Joel as he walks past carrying three huge sandstone pavers. Jeez, that guy's strong.

'Thanks,' Rock says. 'That's all I'm asking. We're all professionals here.'

'Rock is so not suited to hosting this show,' I tell Gloria. I'm on my mobile in the new bathroom - I've locked myself in for some peace and quiet. 'And I'm not just saying that because I slept with him. He totally hates this gig.'

'Clearly, Rock has issues,' says Gloria. 'But you can work with him, snigger, snigger.'

'What's that supposed to mean? I'm mortified. I had no idea he was so fastidious. He's an old woman and I hate being unkind to old women.'

Outside I hear someone calling me. 'Are you in there, Lucy?' It sounds like Max, which is impossible because he's still in Bali with his teenage love.

'Gloria, you're not going to believe me but I think I heard Max's voice. I have to go.'

I click the phone off and unlock the door. It is Max. Allowing for the fact that I am in shock: a) because he's in Australia, and b) because he's standing in front of me in my half-finished house.