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

and sunscreen the whole time. ‘No excuses,’ I say, looking at Bella and Sam.

‘I’ll find Dad and the four of us will have a really nice lunch,’ I go on. Bella doesn’t look convinced.

After kissing them goodbye, I head up to reception where lots of people are milling around.

‘Bomb no good for Bali,’ says the Indonesian man standing behind the desk. He looks and sounds sad.

‘I know,’ I say, tears welling in my eyes. ‘It’s just that . . . I think . . .’ I start to cry. ‘My husband is missing. We were at Jimbaran last night.’

Of course, I can’t explain why Max isn’t a registered guest at this hotel.

‘It’s okay, madam, we help.’

‘I need a driver,’ I say, and give him my name and room number.

He nods, then turns to answer the phone. He motions for me to go over to the nearby lobby phone. As I reach it, the phone starts vibrating and I pick up.

It’s Trish. She’s crying. ‘My baby, my baby. Please tell me my baby’s okay!’

‘I saw Alana last night,’ I tell her. ‘And I’m going to her hotel room right now.’

I don’t want to upset Trish further but I can feel my own anxiety levels increasing. Imagine having to tell Trish that Alana has died in the blast. There’s no way Trish could cope. She’d kill herself.

‘But she’s not at her hotel,’ Trish wails.

‘She could be.’

‘No, I’ve rung so many times. She’s not there. She’s dead.’ And she hangs up.

The children and I are fine by the way, I say silently to myself. Wayan appears in the reception area. I am so happy to see a familiar face I could kiss him. Luckily for all concerned, I restrain myself.

‘Loo-see, I take you where you need to go,’ he says brightly.

The drive to Nusa Dua takes forever. There are road closures and traffic diversions. The chaotic atmosphere of the last couple of days has been replaced by a sombre feeling of dread. It’s too early for tourists to be out, but even so it’s eerily quiet, except for the military personnel and police walking the roads and riding motorbikes.

‘This very bad. Not good for Bali,’ says Wayan as we drive past another road closure, this one guarded by several police armed with heavy black machine guns.

‘No, it’s not,’ I answer, a lump rising in my throat.

I’m sure Max and Alana are fine. Why wouldn’t they be? They’ll be at the hotel and everything will be okay. It’s got to be.

Finally, we arrive at the Sheraton. Wayan parks his van and tells me he’ll wait while I search for my friends.

I talk to an official-looking man behind the reception counter and explain the situation.

‘One moment,’ he says, and swipes an access card through a machine. ‘This way, please.’

I follow him along a pathway and up a flight of stairs.

We stop at an ocean-facing suite and he knocks. I hope Max answers, but then what? What if Alana’s draped over him wearing a revealing tiger-print negligee? ‘Sorry, I thought you were dead,’ I’d say, only to have him reply,

‘What’s all the fuss about? Lani and I have been making love all night - in the spa, beside the stone buddha, on the beach . . .’

It’s amazing how I can torment myself with lurid images. It takes practically no effort at all.

‘No answer, I’m afraid, ma’am,’ He slides the card into a box above the door handle and the door swings open.

The first thing I notice is that the bed - a huge king-sized bed - hasn’t been slept in. Nor is there any other sign that Max came back last night. I feel sick with anxiety.

I wipe away tears, trying to keep it together but fearing the worst. We were at Jimbaran Bay a couple of hours before the blast. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that Max and Alana were walking past one of the restaurants when the bomb exploded.

On the way back to the hotel foyer, I rack my brain, trying to work out what to do next. The obliging duty manager rings the Australian Consulate helpline and I’m asked for Max’s passport details, flight numbers and last-known whereabouts. But I don’t have those details. I can only tell the consular official where he’s staying and that he didn’t return last night.

I’m told to go straight to Sanglah General Hospital in Denpasar, where I’ll be met by staff and can continue my search. I give the duty manager my number and ask that when, not if, Max returns, could he please phone me.

As Wayan drives me to Denpasar, I stare out the window thinking of all the things I haven’t said to Max. And all the things I wish I had. And I pray - my first time in years (Trish would be horrified). I pray that I’ll find Max at the hospital with only minor injuries. Then I bargain with God, promising that if Max is alive, I’ll never yell at my children again, blaspheme, or make snap judgements about people I’ve only just met. I’ll take the time to be patient and nurturing, the way a kind mother should be. I’ll be the best mother, best friend, best person I can possibly be. I just need Max to be alive. Slightly bruised is fine, but in one piece . . .

I feel like I’m trapped on some out-of-control emotional roller-coaster . . . one minute I’m thinking, even hoping, that Max is off with his girlfriend so he’ll be safe, the next minute, I’m back to thinking he’s dead.

Fuck Max. (Apologies to God. Promise broken.) If he hadn’t left me, we’d still be at home dealing with Patch and thieving cabinet-makers. Now look where I am, heading to a hospital in a foreign country where scores of injured people lay waiting to be treated. What if he never gets to see Bella and Sam grow up? His grandchildren? The grandchildren we helped create?

For a moment, it’s all about me.