It is exactly 11.10 am on a glorious, sunny summer day, in a glorious house. Well, a glorious pool house in the same compound as a glorious main house. But what is important here is that I have a glorious bottle of perfectly chilled Shaw & Smith sauvignon blanc in my hand. It is not my first for the day and it certainly will not be my last. Who knew a $50 bottle of wine could taste so good?
I will admit I am slightly mortified that I have been wearing the same pair of mismatched silk boxers and camisole for at least four days. And I have officially run out of clean knickers.
I am also not super thrilled that I am not in my own home, a recently completed penthouse in Sydney’s Double Bay, because, well, it burnt down.
And yes, I am drinking cheap wine and living in my mother’s pool house, because I am completely devastated that last week—I think it was last week, it might have been the week before, I am not one hundred per cent sure what day it is—I blew up my husband, Dr Richard Bombberg MBBS FRACS.
Not on purpose, you understand. Absolutely by accident. I did not set fire to the penthouse on purpose either. Both things: Absolutely. By. Accident.
I mean, after all, no one educated at Sacred Heart St Ignatius Ladies College (SILC), the most exclusive private girl’s school in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs, would kill their husband on purpose if he were a surgeon, right? Maybe if they had accidentally married an accountant or something. But not a surgeon. And certainly not a plastic surgeon. And absolutely, certainly not a first-class plastic and reconstructive surgeon.
Sadly, judging by the frequency of their visits, I have a feeling the police do not feel the same way…