'Kidding,' I say. 'But seriously, the wee is killing my hydrangeas. According to the builder, we've got rising damp, drainage problems, a non-flushing toilet . . . but it'll all work out eventually, I guess.'

'I thought Trish was coming tonight?' says Wendy.

Nadia glares at her. 'No, I don't think so.'

'Is Trish okay?' I ask Nadia. 'I've seen her a couple of times lately and she's stared straight through me.'

The other women look sheepishly into their wineglasses. 'What with Alana -' Wendy begins.

'The concert was great the other day, wasn't it?' Nadia interrupts.

'Very good,' agrees Emma.

Am I missing something here?

The conversation drifts towards predictable talk about private schools versus public, selective versus non-selective, streaming as opposed to not . . . Thank God Max insisted on paying Isabella's and Sam's school fees up-front. At least I won't have that financial burden to worry about. At the time, I didn't think it made sense but Max insisted. Said that school fees would keep increasing every year so it made financial sense to pay them outright at today's rates. For a brief moment, that little memory makes me wonder if Max has been planning his getaway for a long time.

'What the hell are you doing here?' bellows a voice, causing everyone to turn around in surprise. It's Trish and she's glaring at me.

At first I think she's joking. 'Occasionally, they let me out for good behaviour,' I reply.

But she starts screaming and now the whole restaurant's turning our way. 'You think it's funny, your mongrel husband running off with Alana?' she shrieks.

'Alana?' I say, shocked. 'Max doesn't even -' I stop, horrified at the knowledge that's dawning on me. Max and Alana? Max said he needed space . . . with Alana? The same Alana who started babysitting for us two years ago when she was studying for her HSC? Bookish, freckles on the nose, Justin-Timberlake-lovingAlana? The women around the table shift uncomfortably in their seats. It's blindingly clear they know exactly what Trish is talking about.

'My God, why didn't anyone tell me?' I say, feeling utterly humiliated. Tears start rolling down my cheeks. 'I didn't know he was with Alana,' I sob.

'It's okay,' says Nadia.

'How could you have known,' says Emma, putting an arm around me.

'Thanks to your husband,' Trish continues, undaunted, 'Alana's given up university. She says she's in love with him and isn't coming back.'

I feel faint and short of breath, in the grip of what seems like a panic attack. I want to die. I push my chair back violently and rush to the bathroom. I desperately need to be alone. Except there are a couple of people in the cubicle next to me, doing . . . well, I'm not quite sure what they're doing now. The noise seemed to stop when they realised another person was present.

Finally, the cubicle door opens and I'm drawn to the keyhole, watching as the couple leave. It's Lizzie and Dee. Well, there you go. That explains the rostered-sex thing Lizzie's got going with her husband.

I wash my face and then wait a few more minutes before walking back out to the restaurant. I need to go home. I don't know what I'll do when I get there, but I just know I need to go.

'You all right?' Nadia asks.

'No,' I say, wiping away new tears. 'My husband's fucking the babysitter. Everyone knew he was and nobody told me. And now he and Alana have disappeared to Bali.'

'Come on, it's not that bad.'

I snort.

'All right,' says Nadia, 'it is that bad, but it's not your fault. I wanted to tell you, really I did. But then I thought you might think I was butting in. Sorry.'

'Trish hates me.'

'Fuck Trish. She's a pain in the arse,' Nadia says. 'But seriously, she's crazy with grief. It's really going to fuck with the Prozac she's taking.'

'Prozac?'

'Yeah, Trish is depressed.'

'Shit.'

'See. We're all fucked up in our own way,' Nadia says and drives me home.

The house is dark and cold. I open the drinks cabinet and pour myself two nips of vodka, down them in one gulp. How long ago did it start? When was the moment when he/she/they decided they'd take the next step? Did Max try and stop himself? At any point did he think, 'I can't do this. I have a wife and two children. I have a family and they come first?' What a cliche - taking off with the babysitter. Couldn't Max think of anything more original?

Day 21.

I have a very bad night's sleep punctuated by haunting memories of all the things Max did that show me now how inattentive he was.

1. His eyes would glaze over when I spoke to him. He rarely wanted to talk about anything but the kids.

2. On the very rare occasions we made love recently, he didn't want to kiss me - because he had a cold; I had a sniffle; he thought he was getting a cold sore . . .

3. He'd even stopped kissing me goodbye in the morning and hello in the evening.

Clearly Max had checked out of our marriage long before he actually walked out. Why hadn't I noticed? You'd think I'd have learnt my lesson after his affair with Poppy; that Max running off with Alana wouldn't come as a huge surprise. But it does. I truly thought Max loved me, but no, he had sweet, young and pretty Alana picked out, all ready to replace me.

After Poppy, Max begged my forgiveness, saying the affair was a one-off, reckless lapse (lasting nineteen months) and would never happen again. I believed him, more fool me. Perhaps because we sought counselling.

Max hated going; said it made him feel inadequate. (Honey, try coping with the knowledge that your spouse is cheating on you. Talk about self-esteem issues!) But I insisted. And we worked through our problems - or so I stupidly believed. We renewed our commitment to stick with each other through good times and bad. Not just because of the children, but because we loved each other and wanted to see out our days together. I should have realised he didn't mean a word of it when he refused to budge on the vasectomy issue. One in four married men gets the snip, but not Max. Clearly because he wanted to save his sperm for Alana.

I torment myself with images of Max and Alana playing happy families in a perfectly renovated country cottage with a white picket fence and adorable, impeccably behaved twins. (Don't ask me why they have twins. They just do!) Then I think about how all those times I was cooking dinner for Max, he was busy fucking Alana. All those late nights at work, or when his mobile was switched off or 'out of range', he was fucking Alana. While I was at home being the good wife, listening to our children read or recite their six times table, he was fucking Alana. I feel sick. Furious. I want to kill that no-good babysitter-fucker!

I finish what I started two days ago - that is, throwing every piece of clothing Max owns into plastic bags. When I'm finished, there are thirteen garbage bags. I toss them all into the boot of the car and drive to the nearest charity bin. I heave in the first bag, then the second. And suddenly feel guilty. Max will be furious . . .

I pull down on the handle to open the bin. The only way to retrieve them is to . . . climb in? I jump up on the side of the bin and cling to the handle of the chute, my feet centimetres off the ground.

'Are you quite finished?' Something, a walking stick, I think, is poking me in the back.

'Pardon?' I say, turning around to an elderly woman who must be pushing a hundred.

'Are you finished?' she asks.

'Sort of,' I say, falling down beside her. 'Just trying to figure out how to get a couple of bags out,' I explain sheepishly.

'Well, you can't. That's stealing.'

'I'm not stealing. I'm trying to get the bags back because they're mine. I threw them out by mistake.'

A flash of recognition crosses her face. 'I know who you are - Sophia! You've always been stuck-up. You, with your high and mighty ways. Well, girlie, you can't give to charity and then change your mind. Now, if you'll excuse me, Indian giver,' she says, stepping in front of me, opening the chute and sending three Woolworths' bags to their destiny.

'Excuse me,' I say, after chewing my bottom lip for several moments, 'but Sophia's a character I played a long time ago. My name is Lucy. And we don't use the term "Indian giver" these days.'

'Who says? Besides,' she pokes me again with her walking stick, 'you, Sophia, are an Indian giver, as in a person who gives something and then demands it back.'

The clothes are gone. It's too late to recover them. I return the other bags the boot of the car, leave the old woman and drive home. The only place I can think of to store Max's clothes is on top of the bedroom cupboard. I run out of room and hurl several bags on top of Sam's cupboard as well. If I throw out Max's clothes, it will well and truly mean the end of our marriage, and even after what he's done I can't quite bear the thought. Yet. But our marriage is over. It has to be. I'm worth more than this. So are Bella and Sam.

After two hours of crying, I call Gloria. 'She called me an Indian giver! Me!'

'Get over it. It's like calling you a Puerto Rican blonde or white trash. Sure it's offensive, but people say it. Besides, she called you Sophia; she's obviously a nutter.'

'Yeah, she really didn't like me or Sophia. I guess I was a bit of a diva in that show.'

'Was?'

'Yes, was. Now, about Max and Alana -'

'Enough. How do you feel about Celebrity Makeovers?'

'Will you concentrate on what I'm telling you for one minute? Who else knew about Max and Alana? Obviously the three hundred and fifty parents at school, but who else?'

Gloria explodes. 'Fuck Max! Why you trusted him in the first place is beyond me. I mean, the guy dyes his hair, has oxygen facials and gets his eyelashes tinted. Please!'

'He's never had his eyelashes tinted.'

'Has so. I've seen him at Buff 'n' Polish.'

'He's only ever had one facial,' I say.

'What about his hair then?'

'So? He doesn't like being grey.'

'Exactly. Doesn't want to grow up. Why are you defending him anyway? He's screwing your babysitter, for Christ's sake.'

'Because it doesn't seem real. The whole night was surreal.'

When Mum brings the children home in the afternoon, she demands to know what's going on. 'Max has never been away for work this long before, and I have to say, Lucy, you've been acting peculiar ever since he left.'

I give her the abridged version, ending with, 'So that's when I found out about him and Alana.'

'Alana?' Mum says, gasping for air. 'Little Alana?'

'She's nineteen, old enough -'

'What? To be running away with a man more than twice her age? Her mother must be horrified.'

She hands me a cup of tea. There's dust in it. 'Do you think he'll come back?' she asks.

'I really don't know. We haven't spoken.'

'More to the point, do you want him back?'

'I did at first but now . . . the stuff with Alana . . . I don't see how we can work everything out. How could I ever trust him again? Besides, he doesn't want me or the children, he wants her.'

'What do Bella and Sam know?'

'Not much.'

'Don't you think it's time you sat down and told them?'

'Told them what exactly? Sorry, darlings, Daddy's humping the babysitter - you know, sweet, adorable Alana who you play SingStar with and love so much? They're going to live together and Alana's going to be your second mummy.'

I bury my head in my hands and cry.

'How would you like to live by the ocean?' I ask Bella and Sam after Mum leaves. 'Or maybe the country?'

Bella looks at me in disbelief. 'Is this because Dad's left?'

'No, why would you say that? Dad hasn't left, he's just . . .'

Bella looks at me sadly and starts to cry. 'When's he coming home then? Some of the kids at school are saying he's left us and we're going to have to live on the street like poor people.'

'We're not going to be living anywhere but here.'

'You said the beach,' says Sam.

'Except the beach, or the country,' I say without conviction.

'Where's Bali?' Sam asks.

'Indonesia,' Bella answers. 'Very hot, dirty water, doubtful hygiene.'

Sam is holding the postcard his father sent. I must have left it on the bedside table last night when I was reading it again, for the hundredth time.

'Is that where Dad is?' Bella asks.

I nod. 'Yes.'

'Can't we go and see him?' Sam says. 'We could surprise him.'

I almost laugh and whip the card out of Sam's hand.

'He'd certainly be surprised.'