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

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