'Gardener's lawyer said the star was relieved to put a "long and arduous period of her life, which she regrets" behind her and that she urged others in her position to "come clean".'

'Yeah, right.'

Gloria glares at me before continuing. 'Gardener was suffering from depression at the time of the offences, after the recent breakdown of her marriage to theatre critic and sometime celebrity spruiker Edwin Cassidy. The prosecution claimed the only reason Gardener stopped drawing the payments was because she was dobbed in by her former husband after she glued his genitals to his abdomen. The defence argued that Ms Gardener "had an inability to face reality" and had suffered a near breakdown after her fraud was brought to light.'

'Any more?' I ask.

Gloria raises her eyebrows and goes on. 'Gardener, best known for her portrayal of the soapie siren Liv the Lush in the long-running TV series The Young Residents, won a Gold Logie in 1994 for the role, and five Silver Logies for other work.'

'That's it?'

'What more do you want?' Gloria asks.

'I never knew Gracie loved you, Dom,' I say.

'I didn't say she loved me. She harassed me. Once she came around wearing a full-length black fur coat and very little else.'

'Charming. How could you resist?'

'The point is I did resist. I ordered her out of the house, as I remember, and she went crazy.'

'Excuse me, people. According to the evidence,' Gloria waves the newspaper in the air, 'I think you'll find she's still a loon.'

Afternoon arrives far sooner than it should. It almost kills me to pack the car for the drive home.

'Before you go,' says Dom, 'I want to show you something.'

My gaze is instantly drawn to his crotch.

'Not that,' he says, giving me a nudge. 'Though, on second thoughts . . .'

'Okay, okay,' I say, laughing. 'What do you want to show me?'

'My little workshop over here.' He points to a large building close by.

'I assume you keep cars, decrepit tractors in here, that sort of thing,' I say when we arrive at the roller door.

'Not quite.'

He opens the automatic door and turns on the light. Bella and Sam scurry in behind us.

'This is so cool,' Sam says. 'So you make all this stuff, the chairs and everything?'

'Sure do. I'm out here most days, making furniture - like tables.'

'My table,' I say, tears welling in my eyes.

'Afraid so.'

'Wow, I knew you were an amazing sculptor, but these pieces . . .' I run my hand over a recycled hardwood sideboard.

'They're so distinctive. Original. I can't believe it.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Nothing. It's just that when I knew you, you were working with copper wire and making plasticine models.'

'Fair call, but then I decided I'd had enough of copper.

I wanted to work with wood, so I started doing bits and pieces of furniture. I find it incredibly soothing.'

'It's all so beautiful, Dom. I bet you can't keep up with demand.'

'Yeah. What I thought would be a quiet venture is turning out to be huge. Word of mouth in a small town is incredible. I started making tables, but now I'm making every piece of household furniture you can imagine - sideboards, TV cabinets, beds.'

'Where do you find the wood?'

Dom coughs. 'Timber.'

'Timber,' I say, smiling.

'I search demolition sites, go to country yard sales, travel around Australia attending timber auctions. It's fascinating -'

'Because of the history and the mystery?' Gloria interrupts.

'Yes, brat girl, exactly. And I make practical, functional pieces that'll hopefully be around well into next century -'

'Unless there's a fire.'

'Gloria!' I say.

'Joking! Geez. I get it. Timber - it's a living thing, one of a kind, yada, yada.'

Dom and I don't get a chance to talk alone. So when we leave, I feel awkward, sad and confused. I'm torn, and hesitate at the car door while the kids pile in.

'Come on, Mum,' Bella says. 'It'll be dark soon.'

Why is Dom just standing there? Why doesn't he hug me, say something, anything? But he doesn't. He doesn't ask me to stay. He doesn't cry or throw a tantrum. He just calmly watches while I reluctantly get into the driver's seat.

'So, we'll catch up in another twelve or so years?' I say feebly and start the engine.

'Ten's long enough next time,' he says and smiles, then pats the bonnet of my car. 'Hey Luce, if you could take back something you said or did, what would it be?'

I look at him, not quite understanding.

'You know, our game.'

'I'll have to think about it,' I say unsteadily.

As I drive away, I can feel the tears on my cheeks.

Max is waiting at the house when the kids and I arrive home. This is all I need.

'Dad, we had the best weekend!' Sam shouts.

'So good,' says Bella. 'There were horses and everything.'

I busy myself unpacking the car while Max talks to the children. But minutes later, he comes looking for me.

'Unless you let me come home right now, Lucy, I'll put a stop on all the accounts and you'll have to sell the house.'

I look at him, completely shocked.

'I mean it.'

What the hell! I call his bluff.

'Max, as luck would have it, the reality show is forking out for most of the renovation so you're off the hook as far as financing it. And when it's all finished, we can put the place on the market and sell it. It's just a house. You'll get half of what it's worth - I'm not going to claim more than my share.'

'Hang on, let's not rush things. There's no need to sell the house -'

'I want to.'

It's true, I realise. While I live here I'll be forever tied to Max. I know I'll always be connected to him because of Bella and Sam, but I don't want a financial connection too.

I don't want him or his threats hanging over my head.

'That's not what I want. I just want you to love me again . . . please, Lucy. Take me back,' he pleads. 'I really want to come home. Don't you love me anymore?'

Just a few weeks ago I would have welcomed him back with all my heart, despite the guilt, the shame, the everything. But it's too late now. Way too late.

'You're the father of my children, which means I'll always love you in some way, Max. But it's not enough. So I'm setting you free to live your life with Alana.'

'That's not what I want.'

'Well, live your life with some other teenager then. But not me. I'm sorry, Max, I really am.'

'After all this time, it's over, just like that?' Max snaps his fingers.

'I wouldn't have said it's happened just like that. You made your choice months ago, and now I'm living with it. But, yes, it's over. End of story.'

'But where will I live? What will I do?'

As if that's my problem. I walk away, refusing to be drawn into Max's circle of guilt. Max is the one who forced this situation, he's the one who needs to deal with it. Moments later, I hear the door slam. He's gone. It's high time I changed the locks on the front door.

I go to bed confused. I'm desperate to see Dom again, but worried that it is all too complicated. After all, I do come with a lot of baggage - and two kids.

At least I feel confident about my decision about Max. I'm no longer willing to accept how he's treated me - first the affair with Poppy; now Alana. The Max part of my life is over. But still I toss and turn in bed all night and think what if ?

Day 64.

The phone wakes me at 6.36 am. It's Mum.

'Have you got the TV on?' she asks breathlessly. he 'I'm not even awake -'

'Hurry up, hurry up,' she babbles, then slams the phone down in my ear.

What fresh hell awaits? I drag myself out of bed.

While we were away over the weekend the builders positioned the TV in the new family room - and look at that, I think as I switch it on, it works!

My red leather lounge has also reappeared. Bliss. As well as my favourite coffee table, which is offset beautifully by Dom's dining table and chairs at the other end of the room. There are even rugs on my beautiful parquetry floor. And primed bi-fold doors opening onto the sandstone terrace. Magic! It's really coming together. The doors just need a couple of coats of paint . . . There are even knobs - beautiful, mother-of-pearl knobs - on the kitchen cupboards!

I turn the sound up, flip through several channels - Bob the Builder; Greek News; Snooker, Premier League - then stop. I can't quite believe what I am seeing. It's the footage of me pretending to be David Attenborough. In the background, the house looks a complete wreck.

'. . . creatures we call television presenters,' I'm saying as the camera pans to Rock sulking in the backyard. 'When startled or mocked, they can turn ugly, very ugly.'

I can hardly bear to watch. Though the piece doesn't come across as mean-spirited, I'm horrified. Rock will be furious with me.

The footage ends and the female presenter laughs. 'Lucy's got that right, hasn't she, Matt?'

'She sure has. Who knew Lucy Springer was such a natural talent?'

'Come on,' says the female presenter. 'She was very amusing in the broccoli commercial -'

'True. Viewers will recall Lucy's husband doing a tell-all interview in a women's magazine last week. Well, have a look at this.'

I close my eyes and jump up and down on the spot screaming. What are they going to show now? I imagine footage of me and Rock in bed together, or me sneaking around with bottles of Grange, guzzling wine at all hours of the day and night. I'll be ruined. Forever. I'll have to leave the country.

Tentatively, I watch as the screen lights up with . . . Max! More correctly, Max going berserk.

The footage starts with him berating me about the renovation. 'I'm not fond of this dirty grey colour you've chosen for the walls' . . . 'Where's the bloody staircase?' . . . 'Get rid of these bloody cameras!' he shouts. 'I want to see progress reports and the cost projections immediately' . . . 'I'm coming home. For the sake of our family I'm giving up my personal freedom and happiness with Alana . . . I'm in charge now.'

The camera pans to me. 'I'm sorry, Max, you had your chance,' I say. I look sad, small and tired. But not mad. I come across as completely normal. Even the red poncho looks good on TV.

Max isn't doing himself any favours on screen. 'So you're still angry, is that it? Is it that time of the month? Have you got PMS?' . . . 'Is this about the dead people?' He puffs out his chest. 'You'll pay for this, Lucy', followed by 'You're not fit to be a mother', and finally, 'You don't have MY permission to film in MY house'. The footage ends with him driving off erratically down the street.

'Well, there you have it, folks,' Matt says cheerily.

'Not only has this woman had the public humiliation of her husband leaving her for their teenage babysitter,' his co-presenter adds, 'she's also seen first-hand the carnage in Bali and has been living through a renovation.'