Lisa Heidke by Lucy (mobi) (rosie project .TXT) 📕

‘This?’ he says, picking up several small bags of plastic cutlery.

Bella squeaks, ‘Don’t let him take them, Mummy.’ She’s on the verge of tears.

‘For eating,’ I explain, putting my hand to my mouth and making biting actions. ‘For my daughter.’

He smiles and waves us through.

Outside the terminal is a thick sea of people, pacing, sitting, standing and smoking. It’s hot and sticky and I immediately regret the pants I’m wearing. Even though they’re made from light cotton, they cling to me. My hair sticks to my head, and my palms, the backs of my knees and my forehead are all soaking with sweat.

Sam spots a piece of cardboard sporting the word ‘SprinGer’. I grab the kids and push through the milling throng towards the smiling man holding the sign.

‘Selamat Datang di Bali, welcome to Bali,’ he says with an enormous grin. ‘My name, Wayan.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Wayan,’ I say. ‘I’m Lucy and these are my children, Bella and Sam.’

The four of us nod and smile at each other.

Wayan’s hand reaches for my head and I take a step back before realising he’s only trying to place a yellow hibiscus flower behind my ear. Very pretty, but I’m nervous and overwhelmed and protective of my personal space. Bella and Sam are given frangipani necklaces to wear.

I keep telling myself everything will be okay and it will be - once we’ve booked into the hotel.

A hot breeze blows through the car as we drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic through the crowded streets of Kuta, narrowly avoiding dogs, small children and tourists. It’s loud and vibrant. The children stare out the window, trying to take in the colour of the market stalls and the DVD shops and the garbled clashing sounds of music, scooters and blaring horns. Many of the buildings we pass are new or half-completed (just like home), but there are also plenty of traditional Balinese-style homes and family temples.

‘Look. Four people on a motorbike and none of them are wearing helmets!’ Sam squeals.

‘You like?’ Wayan says, beaming.

‘Imagine the bacteria in that food,’ Bella says, pointing to a roadside stall where meat is roasting on an open fire over coconut husks.

After a thirty-five-minute journey, Wayan drives into lush gardens dominated by towering coconut palms. Not the Sheraton Nusa Dua, where Max is staying. I do listen to Gloria sometimes. Instead, I’ve book us into a hotel at Legian Beach, several kilometres from my husband and his new lover.

‘Selamat Datang, welcome,’ says the hotel concierge. He leads us into a huge open reception area with beautiful wicker lounges and marble coffee tables. A sandstone terrace overlooks a winding lotus pond. Who would have thought that less than fifty metres away was a noisy world of colour, chaos, crowds and dust. The only sound I can hear now is the trickling water of the hotel’s many ponds and fountains.

A smiling, well-groomed Balinese man takes our luggage and escorts us to our traditional bungalow via meandering stone paths dotted with huge stone buddhas, fish ponds and hibiscus and frangipani trees. Our lovely air-conditioned bungalow has a bathroom overflowing with flowers. We also have a private balcony overlooking a serene garden courtyard. Bliss. I’ve only been here ten minutes but already I feel peaceful and light.

The kids demand to go swimming immediately so we quickly change into our swimmers. Even though my practical side tells me I should unpack our bags and get organised before heading to the pool, I don’t give in to it. We’re on holidays and the three of us almost trip over ourselves to get out the door.

I watch the kids dive into the pool and, minutes later, am ensconced under a palm tree with a strawberry-coloured cocktail, a novel and a smile on my face. Bella and Sam are laughing and playing together. While this might not be a cause for celebration in other households, after the chaos of the past few months it fills me with happiness. No wonder Max chose to escape to this island. It’s heaven on earth.

‘Mum,’ Sam calls to me from the edge of the pool. ‘When are we seeing Dad?’

‘Soon,’ I say vaguely. ‘Soon.’

‘How soon? Where is he?’

‘On the other side of the island.’ Not true, but geography isn’t Sam’s strong point.

‘Can we go see him?’

‘Soon.’

‘That’s what you always say.’

Sam dives back into the pool and swims underwater to the other side without taking a breath.

‘See that?’ he shouts over to me.

I smile and nod.

‘Come for a swim, Mum,’ Bella calls.

I briefly resist, then do a loud belly-flop into the deep end. The water is perfect and the three of us chase each other underwater, splashing and laughing. All of a sudden I’m a normal mother having holiday fun with her two kids. I love it.

Bella taps me on the shoulder. ‘We’re hungry.’ The line isn’t delivered in the whingy tone she’d use at home. It’s presented more as fact. ‘Are you hungry too, Mum?’ she asks.

‘You know what, I think I am.’

An hour later, we’re walking up the main street of Legian. The noise is mind-blowing, what with radios, music videos and live bands competing to be heard over traffic and the general hum of pedestrians laughing and talking loudly in various languages.

‘Come on, hurry up,’ Sam calls, keen to explore. There are endless market stalls selling everything from fresh fruit to T-shirts, children’s clothing, DVDs and beaded jewellery.

Hawkers whisper conspiratorially ‘Chanel’, ‘Billabong’.

‘Can we buy this?’ Bella asks, clutching a pale pink Von Dutch cap.

‘Hey, cool,’ Sam says, picking up a miniature wooden surfboard. ‘Can I have this?’

Every two steps it’s the same questions. The kids are mesmerised by the latest DVDs, toys, Playstation games and branded hats. I’m momentarily taken aback by several T-shirts emblazoned with the words ‘Fuck Terrorists’, but the children don’t notice and we pass briskly by.

The air is heavy and still and there’s a thick layer of dust everywhere. As we wander past brightly coloured restaurants, spruikers implore us