Chapter 4 #3
Somewhere in the audience, someone roared, ‘Take it all off!’ and someone else gasped in horror.
‘I’ve taken it off because I’m not exactly married, right now,’ Katrina continued. ‘In the future I might be, but just at the moment, I’m no longer Mrs Craig Webb. I’m an abandoned wife and I’m not ashamed of that. I’m not going to hide anymore!’
‘Oh, my God.’
A soft murmur reached Michelle’s ear. Glancing around, she gave a start. Bianca Vargo was looming behind her, shaking her head and smirking.
‘Because I’m still the same person!’ Katrina cried. ‘I can still run the uniform shop and the swim squad and the parents’ committee in this wonderful community, since I’m not defined by my husband.’
Michelle had to hand it to Katrina – she was all moxie. Michelle could never have stood up and dominated a room like this, sober or drunk.
‘I haven’t lost my skills just because Craig left me.’ Katrina’s voice grew louder and more exultant, echoing around the hall. ‘I’m even better without Craig, now that I don’t have to iron his shirts. And that’s all I wanted to say: that I’m free and happy right now! Thank you.’
From two or three clumps of younger Old Boys came an explosion of drunken cheers.
Older alumni grimaced and muttered as Katrina waved cheerfully at the orchestra.
‘You can keep going,’ she said, then tottered off the stage into a gathering crowd of friends.
Hanging around on the outskirts, Michelle watched her being consoled, patted, hugged.
‘God, she’s brave,’ a voice mumbled. Turning, Michelle saw a squat, bald man with a swelling paunch and a desperate glint in his eyes. Despite the enormous bags underneath them, the eyes looked vaguely familiar – aquamarine, with inky lashes.
‘It’s Michelle, isn’t it? Michelle Redlin?’ He stuck out a stubby paw. ‘Nick Jasinski. I don’t know if you remember me . . .’
God, he’d changed; Michelle nearly choked at the sight of him. What had happened to his wavy hair, his sculpted pecs, his gleaming smile, his nimble grace?
‘Uh – hi, Nick.’ She shook his hand, which was damp.
‘I was hoping to speak to Katrina and tell her I’m rooting for her.’ Nick’s gaze drifted over to where Katrina was fighting her way through a swarm of well-wishers. ‘I know what it feels like. I’m getting divorced too.’
‘Yeah, sorry about that. I heard.’ Was Chloe at the gala? Maybe not. Maybe they couldn’t stand the sight of each other.
‘It’s been a nightmare. Chloe’s being an absolute bitch and her lawyers are vampires. I’ve been exiled from my own family like a leper.’ Nick’s tears welled up as Katrina came staggering towards them. ‘Katrina! I just wanted to—’
‘Nick! I’ve joined the club!’ She threw an arm around his shoulders, then extricated herself before he could do more than goggle at her. ‘Michelle! Did you see me?’ she demanded, retrieving her clutch.
‘Yes.’ Michelle was watching Katrina’s retinue. They’d fallen back a bit and were chatting in low voices, heads together, jewellery glittering. Michelle recalled the very same bunch at school. Golden goddesses, every one. Except the woman with the blotchy face.
‘I wanted to tell you I know how you feel,’ Nick was saying, squinting at Katrina as if she’d dazzled him.
‘I try to be strong like you, but it’s the evenings that destroy me, when I come home from work and no one’s there.
It’s so fucking lonely. No one to cook with.
No one to chat with. God, even the air smells stale—’ His voice cracked.
Katrina patted his arm, beaming. ‘Oh, we’ve got a business for that! Don’t we, Michelle? You can hire your own wife and make your house a home!’
Horrified, Michelle put out a hand. ‘Uh – Katrina . . .?’
But Katrina ignored her, swept up in a vision of sparkling domesticity.
‘For just a few hours, you can be married again. No sex, of course.’ She wagged a coy finger at Nick, who looked stunned.
‘We all know wives aren’t for sex. They’re for making you feel like the most important person in the world.
And that’s what we do, Nick! For a fee.’
Nick swallowed as he stared at her, mesmerised. ‘Can – can I book?’ he stammered.
‘Of course!’
Michelle winced. ‘Katrina—’
‘Monday?’ Nick interrupted.
‘Why not? Michelle?’ Katrina was leaning towards Michelle when Nicola scooted up and grabbed her arm.
‘Kat! Gabby just heard! Vanessa’s husband saw them at the beach!
’ Nicola was also clutching a woman who wore a sweeping silver caftan and silver platform heels, a look best described as Biblical chic.
Michelle realised this must be Gabby Goodes, though it was hard to believe. As a teen, she’d favoured grunge.
‘He saw Craig with a really young girl in a bikini and harem pants, wearing an ankle bracelet,’ Nicola continued. ‘And they were drinking green smoothies!’
‘That’s Roxane,’ Katrina said, sagging a little.
‘He’s afraid of death,’ Gabby intoned. ‘The younger partner, the green smoothie . . . this is a classic mid-life crisis. I’ve seen it a million times. But it’s his journey, and you can’t go to that dark place with him. You have to save yourself.’
Katrina brightened. ‘You’re right! And I am going to save myself!’ Then Gabby embraced her and next thing Michelle knew, Katrina had been swept away by an eager tide of middle-aged women, leaving Nick and Michelle standing together like beached driftwood.
‘So – I get home from work around six,’ Nick said, turning to Michelle. ‘I’d love to be greeted when I walk in. How much do you charge?’
The next three seconds seemed to last an hour.
Michelle’s brain sputtered as she remembered Katrina wailing, ‘I really was a dream wife!’ Then something clicked into place.
‘Just so we’re clear,’ she said, ‘at Dreamwives, our staff aren’t nannies, sex workers, housekeepers or cleaners.
They’re homemakers. They turn soulless spaces into homes. That’s their job.’
Nick frowned. He seemed to be struggling with the concept. ‘Like decorators?’
‘No.’ Michelle took a deep breath and decided to wing it.
‘They arrive early at your address to cook, arrange flowers and maybe do some ironing or drying, for that fresh laundry smell. They leave the bathroom looking perfectly clean, but also a little bit used. They join you for dinner. Discuss your day. Complain about your colleagues or family members, if you wish.’ She was on a roll.
‘After helping you stack the dishwasher, they might share a glass of wine with you on the patio. Or watch TV on the couch. Or wave you off to your hobby or your emails or your treadmill. And for an extra charge, they can stay busy in the bathroom while you fall asleep.’
Seeing Nick raise his eyebrows, Michelle added sternly, ‘This is not about sex, remember. This is about comfort. Care. Companionship.’
Nick was nodding furiously. ‘Sounds perfect. Can you book me in now?’
Michelle hesitated. Were they really going to do this?
‘Please.’ Nick’s face crumpled. ‘I’m desperate. I need help.’
Michelle noticed his fly was undone. Screw it, she thought, and was flung straight into presentation mode.
In marketing, you had to have an answer.
A strategy. With an air of nonchalance, she took out her phone and tapped her calendar.
‘I could book you in for Monday week.’ Nick Jasinski, she wrote in an empty box.
‘Email and phone number? We’ll need to send you a questionnaire.
About your preferences.’ That was the first thing that popped into her head: if you want to succeed, do your market research. ‘We always offer a tailored service.’
Nick recited his details and she added him to her contacts. ‘There’s a key safe at the front door,’ he explained, ‘because there are so many serviced apartments in that building.’ His face fell. ‘Like mine.’
‘What’s the code?’ Michelle asked. She couldn’t believe it when he actually gave it to her.
She could have robbed him blind. ‘Your Dreamwife will have to arrive an hour early in order to transform your home. It’s a minimum four-hour booking.
’ She’d plucked this requirement out of thin air, but it seemed right.
‘How much will it cost?’ Nick asked in an undertone.
‘That will depend on your specific needs, as outlined in the questionnaire. If we have to buy anything, there’ll be an additional fee.
And a cancellation fee, of course.’ Michelle’s mental calculator was working furiously, numbers spinning in her head like reels on a slot machine.
‘We’ll invoice you. Pre-booking. But I’m expecting something in the region of four hundred dollars an hour. ’
She watched Nick’s face carefully as she spoke; would he swallow that?
He looked dismayed. Then his gaze slipped towards Katrina, who was lecturing a group of spellbound partygoers, and his expression relaxed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Katrina will be worth it. I feel like she’d understand.’
Michelle’s inner alarm chirped. She had a sudden flashback to that time so many years ago, after the final performance of Grease, when Chloe and Katrina had fought over Nick. Chloe had won. Surely Nick wasn’t trying to revive his long-dead fling with the runner-up?
On the other hand, it was Katrina who’d mentioned the idea to Nick. In fairness, she should be the one who followed through.
‘Of course,’ said Michelle, with a reassuring, professional smile. ‘I’ll have to check Katrina’s schedule, but I’m sure we can work something out.’