Day 55.

This morning we're filming. My concession to glamour? Black six-centimetre-high slingbacks and a killer black skirt that sits just above the knee. Oh, and a tight black V-neck showing just a hint of cleavage.

Rock's pieces to camera are woeful, and not only because he speaks with a ridiculous smirk. Since nine o'clock this morning we've been shooting a spontaneous (read, heavily scripted and staged) scene where I walk down my new Oregon stairs. It's now after eleven and most people, including myself, are snappy.

Rock is supposed to ask me what I think of the stairs. In response I'm required to cup my hands to my face and tell him that I never imagined stairs could make me so giddy with excitement. 'I love them, Rock, I truly do.' (And yes, I do rather like them. But love them? That's going slightly overboard. But I'm not going to quibble because, well, the network's paying for this. Yippee!) By the sixth take Rock's still having trouble putting one foot on the bottom stair and turning his face to the camera.

Patch and I look at each other and giggle.

'You try doing it then,' Rock says, and he rips the small microphone from his polo collar and stomps outside to the dirt pit.

'Go and talk to him,' I tell Patch. 'I'll fix him a scotch.' We're so close to finishing, I don't want any hiccups.

But before I can get his drink, the camera catches my eye and suddenly I'm feeling confident and perky. I point outside to where Rock's huffing at Patch and say in my best David Attenborough voice, 'These are the creatures we call television presenters. When you catch them in the wild, without their autocues or managers, it's best to leave them well alone. When startled or mocked, they can turn ugly, very ugly. Managers are like lion tamers - their job is to smooth the television presenter's ruffled feathers, to stroke his ego and keep the general public - that is, you and I, the riffraff - away.'

'Keep going,' says Digger.

'Follow me,' I say, motioning to the camera. 'Here we go into the presenter's inner sanctum. See how he's forced to live while on location? In this filthy laundry-cum-kitchen-cum-TV room - very primitive. Note the dust, the grubby dishes on the floor, the rotten apple core lying by the fridge -'

Rock interrupts. 'Very funny, Lucy. Can we get on with it? I do have other commitments today.'

'Of course,' I say, and follow him back to the new staircase, pretending to claw at his back and silently growling like a lion.

'I know what you're doing and it's not funny,' he snaps.

Patch winks at me and then rolls his eyes towards Rock. Chuckling, I think this reality television gig might be fun after all.

Good news: the kitchen is mostly finished. It's amazing how much can be accomplished when there's a camera crew hanging around. The cupboards have been fixed to the walls - they still don't have knobs so I can't actually use them, but knobs are only a day away I'm told - and the sink, the one from France, is due in a couple of days. Joel has put the oven in place and, I must say, the Ilve Majestic lives up to its name. It really is a stunning piece of equipment. Not connected to power yet, but I can imagine a not-too-distant future where I'll be Queen of the Kitchen and baking chocolate fudge cakes. When I learn how to use the oven . . . and how to bake.

The only niggle is the hassle with the bi-fold doors that lead outside to the terrace. They weren't measured properly - the fault of the people who laid the sandstone pavers, apparently - so when the guys come to install them, they discover the doors are too long and have to take them back to the factory. I always get slightly anxious when fixtures need to be taken off-site to be corrected, or 'refined' as Patch likes to call it.

'They'll be back in a couple of days, Luce, three at the most,' he says, dismissing my concern. 'Good news, though. The kitchen benchtops are arriving early next week.'

Ah, the benches!

My first choice, when I had a loving husband and this was to be our family home for the next fifteen years: Carrara marble, white.

Second choice, when I still had a loving husband and this was to be our family home for five years: Caesar stone, a lovely sand colour.

Third choice, the one where I'm a single mother, don't have a loving husband but still have access to his bank account: granite, black.

And fourth choice? The one where I have no husband and no money? Laminex. Who cares about the colour.

Thanks to Celebrity Renovation Rescue, I ended up with black granite, third choice. But hey! Better than chipboard. And it'll never wear out - unlike my marriage.

Day 56.

It's Sunday and I'm feeling somewhat housebound. The kids and I haven't done anything fun since Bali so when I suggest a day at the zoo, they jump at the chance. Being on neutral ground, it's a good opportunity for me to check, without being too obvious, how they're coping. I've noticed Bella, in particular, has become increasingly twitchy about her room and belongings. She keeps asking how things will work if she's spending a few nights at her dad's and a few nights with me every week. Her anxiety's understandable as I can't tell her where Max will be living. I'm pretty sure he hasn't even thought about organising permanent accommodation.

'But I want to stay at our house,' she says, as we're riding the cable car up from the harbour, over the elephant enclosure. 'Why can't Sam and I stay at home and you leave when it's Dad's turn to visit?'

'Because it's my home, Bella.'

'It's my home, too, and I don't want to leave,' she says, tears forming in her eyes.

She has a good point. This is going to be so much harder than those American sitcoms like Two and a Half Men make it appear.

'Does it mean we get to have two of everything?' Sam asks, eyes wide. 'Two Playstations, two iPods, two -'

'Your dad and I haven't worked out all the details,' I say, feeling a tad tired. 'But we'll look at all that.'

'What about Oscar?' Bella asks half an hour later, as we're walking past the giraffes and eating soft-serve vanilla ice-creams. 'Will he come with us when we're at Dad's?'

'Where will Dad be anyway? Are we going to have another mum, like Zac does?' Sam asks. 'Zac's real mum lives in Brisbane, but he has another one here.'

'I really don't have all the answers yet,' I say truthfully, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the decision I've made.

Despite ongoing talk of housing arrangements, it's a great day. Sam gets to hold a boa constrictor and Bella pats a koala. Still, their questions hit hard. It's bloody tough. But at least Max hasn't shown up at the house again. In fact, the last conversation we had - yesterday, regarding him seeing the kids next week - went rather well. I think the message is finally sinking in. He knows I don't want to see him, but that he can pick the kids up from school and see them whenever he likes, just so long as he calls first.

The main thing is getting the renovation finished so all of us can move forward with our lives - that's the rational Lucy talking. And, gee, I like it when my balanced side emerges from time to time. It gets me thinking that maybe I can ease off the antidepressants because all is moving along nicely in my little world.

Nadia's right though. I really need to talk to her fabulous lawyer.

Day 57.

Between our house and the kids' school, there's one set of traffic lights. And just before those traffic lights is a newsagency. Outside, plastered on huge one-metre-high newsstands are the latest women's magazines' title covers for the week. The new covers come out on a Monday and I always find them highly amusing. Last week's was: 'I did not glue my ex-husband's genitals to his stomach' - exclusive interview with Gracie Gardener. That made me laugh and laugh. Because Gloria knows for a fact that Gracie did glue Edwin's dick to his tummy. Apparently, Marcus took photos as proof.

This morning I slow down at the lights to have a good gawk at this week's headlines.

It can't be.

Blaring out from the New Idea newsstand is a Max Springer exclusive: 'I survived the Bali bombs AND my wife's betrayal'. My gut churns with horror. This can't be happening. It really can't.

I slam on my brakes and swerve, narrowly missing a shaggy cream spoodle sauntering across the road. In the back seat, the kids scream, 'Mum, you almost killed him!'

Three minutes later, I offload the kids at the kiss-and-drop zone and zip back to the newsagent's. I slip on my oversized dark glasses and buy the offensive magazine, leaving a six-dollar tip because I can't bear to wait for the change. Then I drive as calmly as I can to a nearby cul-de-sac and pull over. I open the magazine and read. There are four pages of Max's wrath. Who would have thought anyone would be interested enough in Max to fill one page, let alone four?

The gist of the article, written by Tina Stump, is that poor hard-done-by Max 'loves Lucy very much', but it's been 'incredibly difficult living with a temperamental star all these years'.

Really? Do tell.

'My affair was a cry for help,' says Max. 'A wake-up call to Lucy in the hope she'd settle down and not carry on looking at life through rose-coloured glasses. When I saw Lucy last week, I could tell she wasn't well. She was wearing what looked like a dead rabbit over her shoulders - and her spending is out of control. She spent three thousand dollars on a toilet! I mean, come on. Three thousand dollars for a new toilet? Clearly, the woman's crazy. She's unhinged and possibly on medication. She even threw out my clothes. Though what can you expect when she got through three cases of Grange in four days.'

'Liar!' I scream out loud and hit my hand on the car steering wheel, causing the horn to blare and two startled joggers to trip over their feet as they pass. I gave several of those cases of wine to Patch.

I don't want to read on but I force myself. It's like a train wreck; I can't help but stop and view the carnage even though it sickens me.

There's an aside where the old fossil who attacked me with her walking stick at the charity bin comes to Max's defence. 'So that was the crazy woman hanging from the local clothing disposal,' she says. 'She was trying to steal from poor people.' Bloody hell. I read further. It turns out the old woman is a Christian and - hold the phone - belongs to the same church as Trish. What are the chances!

There's another box where the teenagers who ran into my car with their Land Cruiser talk about the bingle. 'I can't be sure,' says Tiffany, 'but I think she might have been drinking.'

Meanwhile, in the main article, Max's vitriol continues. 'Lucy booked a holiday at an expensive resort in Bali on a whim with no notion of how she'd pay for it. She's living in a fantasy world. She spends her days auditioning for reality television programs and failing. It's so sad. She needs help.'

The article ends with Max saying that he's confident 'my family can get back on track now that Lucy has had a real-life wake-up call. Our children are still young and vulnerable and we need to make sure we do all we can to set them on the right path to adulthood. It's up to me to get Lucy the help she needs so that our children aren't affected by her erratic moods.'

Thank you so much, my darling husband - soon to be ex-husband. At least there's no mention of Rock. I suppose I should be thankful for very small mercies.

In his bleeding-heart story, Max doesn't apologise to me or our children for the affair or for the distress he's caused us - and Alana and her family. Instead, he big-notes himself by saying, 'Of course, I'll pick up the tab for the renovation.'

I scan the pages again. Is Lucy out of control? the magazine screams. From car crashes to crashing into elderly ladies - it appears this fading starlet is determined to live life on the edge.

There are several photos of me looking tired and unkempt.

Photo one: me putting out the garbage.

Photo two: me walking at six in the morning. (Yes, I walk . . . sometimes.) I look about eighty-five.

Photo three: an ancient picture of me smoking, with what appear to be tomato sauce stains down the front of my shirt. Charming. I bet they really had to search the archives for that beauty.

In all of them I look like an old, fat, dishevelled red setter dog. There's none of me with my new hair colour.

Of course, there's also a picture of Max - looking every bit the responsible doting father. He's playing on the beach at Jimbaran with Bella and Sam - the three of them are laughing and glowing with health and vitality. Bloody Alana! She must have snapped it.

Then I see the little red box with the huge yellow question mark painted inside it and the words: Who is Lucy's new man? Could it be the gorgeous Rock Hardy? Will he be able to keep up with her reckless ways? We'll keep you posted.

The good news? New Idea only has a readership of two million. Barely a drop in the ocean! To think that only yesterday I was gloating over Gracie's career setback. Now I figure gluing an adulterous husband's dick to his tummy is actually quite clever.

Mum's waiting for me with a strong vat of coffee when I arrive home.

'So you've read it?' she says.

'Of course I have.' I bang my elbows on the table and allow my head to slump into my hands. 'This is going to destroy me.'

'It's not that bad.'

'Not that bad? Which planet are you living on?'

'Gloria called. She's coming straight over. Wants to know if you're okay.'

'I'm just dandy. Friggin' dandy.'

'You don't have any more wine in the cellar do you?' Mum asks.

'As much as I'd love to guzzle a bottle of wine or ten, Mother, I can't. I still have a film crew here. Besides, I'm not giving Max any more ammunition against me.'

'Just checking,' replies Mum, relieved. 'I see the renovation's coming along nicely.'

Shaking my head, I stare at the ceiling.

Minutes later, the phone rings. 'Take a message,' I tell Mum.

It's the Daily Telegraph wanting to know if I have any comment on the magazine article. They want to do a 'he says, she says' piece for their social pages.

The phone rings again. I let the answering machine take it.

'Hey Luce, it's Dom. I know you're there. Where else would you be? I bet you're huddled over the answering machine as I speak. Pick up. One, two, three . . . So you're not picking up? Okay. Call me when you can.'

The phone rings barely three minutes later. It's Dom again.

'Lucy, no matter what anyone says, I'm sure you're still as gorgeous as the last time I saw you. Those photos in New Idea don't do you justice. Do they? No, of course they don't. They're hideous. Absolutely bloody atrocious. Okay, so I'm totally out of line saying the photos are atrocious. Understandably, it's been a difficult time for you. Besides, I don't care what you look like -'

'Excuse me,' I say, picking up the phone. 'The photos are atrocious, and no, I don't look anything like them.'

'So you were huddled over the answering machine!'

'I told you - you should have got in first and written your autobiography,' Gloria says when she arrives with chocolate muffins and super-strength coffee in hand. 'The public love a scandal. Love. It.'

'You don't say. My life's over, isn't it? I can never show my face in public again.'

'You can and you will,' says Gloria.

I don't mention Dom phoning. He's just being a supportive friend, but Gloria will make a bigger deal out of it than is warranted and I can't be bothered humouring her. My heart's not in it.

'Hey,' Gloria says in a surprisingly cheery tone, 'I've got some news that'll make you feel better. The first reviews are in about Gracie Gardener in Seasons.'

'The role she stole from me!'

'Exactly. Want to hear?'

I nod.

'Gracie Gardener's new role as a flaming redhead femme fatale is a cinematic train wreck,' Gloria quotes. 'Hopelessly miscast, says another. That's got to give you some hope, Lucy-Lou. And I've saved the best for last.' Gloria clears her throat. 'Is Gracie Gardener the world's worst living actress? Evidence continues to mount.'