Chapter 6
Katrina had successfully shut out the world with her doona. What she couldn’t do was shut off her mind.
Curled up in the darkness, she had the dizzying sense of vertigo.
It was as if she’d spent the last twenty-five years of her life on a cruise ship, believing she was on solid land.
Now the ship had hit a storm and all the deckchairs had been swept away, the manicure kits upended, the tropical buffet breakfast smeared across the ceiling.
Her grief was painful enough, but there were also the sheer practicalities.
What would become of her and the boys? Where the hell were they going to live?
She stuck her arm out of the doona and dragged her phone back into her gloomy nest, flooding the space with light from the screen.
Ignoring dozens of messages, she tapped out a few sums, using a property website to value their house.
Since Craig managed the family finances, she wasn’t sure exactly what their mortgage was, but by Katrina’s rough calculations, she’d be left with a frighteningly small amount.
Barely enough for a one-bedroom flat in their local area.
She could move to the outskirts of the city, of course, but she’d still need a mortgage – and how was she going to get one of those? The brutal fact was that she had no earning potential – no future – because she’d given up her job to raise the boys.
For a long time she lay in the darkness, buffeted by morbid fantasies.
She saw Craig taking their sons to live with him and Roxane, full-time.
She saw herself couch-surfing or share-housing or – even worse – staying with her mother.
The boys wouldn’t visit her if that happened; her mother would soon drive them away with her obsessive-compulsive coasters and shoe racks and no-sitting-on-the-bedspread instructions.
Anyway, they’d be too caught up in their shiny new lives.
Stop, Katrina told herself. Flinging off her doona, she threw herself into a whirlwind of activity and finally ended up down in the games room, lying on the rug with her eyes closed as a world-renowned meditation guru with a syrupy voice unblocked her chakras.
A bottle of St John’s Wort pills sat on the coffee table next to her, beside a mug of Pauline’s Tranquerb turmeric tea that tasted so hideous she figured it must be doing her good.
Gabby had recommended a Tibetan singing bowl ‘bath’, so Katrina tried that too, but it wasn’t nearly as nice as a real bath – it was just another kind of sound meditation.
All the gongs and bells and hums were supposed to relax Katrina’s brain waves, but they seemed to be doing the opposite.
She’d even started to hear a shrill ringing that set her nerves on edge.
She sighed. Once again, she was failing at meditation.
A loud rapping interrupted the gongs and bells. Her eyes snapped open; surely that wasn’t part of the cleansing ritual? Lifting her head, she heard the rapping repeat.
Then she saw a face peering through the glass patio doors.
Adrenalin shot through her veins. She lurched to her knees and snatched up her phone. She was about to call the police when she recognised Michelle Redlin.
‘Michelle?’
If Michelle was embarrassed, she didn’t look it. Instead of miming an apology, she gave Katrina a brisk wave and pointed at the door handle.
Katrina jabbed at her phone to stop the gong that was still vibrating solemnly through the room. What kind of person appeared in your back garden unannounced? What if Katrina had been doing naked yoga or waxing her bikini line? Not that she would do either of those things, but still!
Again, Michelle pointed at the door handle.
Katrina scrambled to her feet. Perhaps she’d invited Michelle over when she was drunk? Katrina twisted the lock and opened the door. ‘Did I give you my address . . .?’
‘No, I asked Nicola last night.’ Michelle swept in and dumped her faded black handbag on the coffee table.
‘I wouldn’t have come around the back, but nobody answered the doorbell and then I heard the strangest noises .
. . By the way, I’ve only got an hour or so till I pick up Dad, and we need to get this thing rolling. Let’s start with the questionnaire.’
Michelle seemed wired and weird. She paced past the television, her face tense but animated, her appearance more ruffled than it had been at the gala.
Her hair was coming out of its clip. Her shirt hadn’t been properly ironed.
Katrina wondered uneasily if Michelle had mental health problems. ‘What questionnaire?’ she asked.
‘For our clients. We need to send it to Nick asap or we won’t have time to prepare.’
Katrina couldn’t keep up. ‘I’m sorry, Michelle, but I have a terrible hangover. I’m not sure what you’re talking about and I’m not capable of anything right now.’
Michelle wheeled around. ‘What did you take? For the hangover?’
When Katrina pointed at the St John’s Wort, Michelle snorted, then picked up Katrina’s mug, sniffed it and recoiled. ‘What’s that?’
‘Turmeric. It’s supposed to be anti-inflammatory.’ Or was it an antioxidant? Katrina couldn’t remember, but it was something good.
‘Useless.’ Discarding the mug, Michelle grabbed her dumpy handbag. She fished around inside, produced three pill bottles and shook out a bunch of tablets, which she gave to Katrina as she tossed her bag aside. ‘These should do the trick.’
The pills looked like lollies: two white, two baby pink and a capsule that was half-blue and half-green. Katrina stared at them.
‘Go on, or we won’t be able to work.’ Michelle sounded snappy. ‘It’s okay – they’re over-the-counter.’
Obediently, Katrina washed the tablets down with turmeric tea, grimacing at the taste.
Only after she’d swallowed did she wonder if pills were behind Michelle’s odd behaviour.
Was Michelle Redlin a drug addict? It seemed unlikely, but addicts weren’t always easy to spot.
And Michelle had worked in pharmaceuticals.
Surely you’d pick up terrible habits with all those samples floating around?
‘Now,’ Michelle said, ‘what did you think of our business plan?’
Katrina regarded her blankly.
‘Didn’t you check your emails? I messaged you about it.’ Michelle seemed so impatient that Katrina started fumbling with her phone, scrolling through her emails until she found one titled ‘Dreamwives’ with three pdf attachments.
‘That’s our questionnaire, our business plan, and a pro forma partnership agreement. I’m waiting for our lawyer to get back about our client contracts.’
Michelle seemed to expect some kind of response. When Katrina remained silent, she added, ‘We’ll have low overheads. And I’ll put out feelers for insurance next week, in case you were wondering.’
Katrina hadn’t been wondering, but she never liked to disappoint, so she clicked an attachment and began to skim read.
Phrases like ‘partnership dissolution’ and ‘termination for cause’ popped out at her, making her feel queasy.
As she read, she kept hearing her own rants from last night’s change-room session.
Wives aren’t defined by their husbands! Wives are worthy of respect!
She remembered a transforming sense of empowerment – how she’d felt so strong and capable, for once, ready to take on the world . . .
Then she gasped as her brain caught up. Dream wives. Clients. It all made sense. ‘You actually want to do this? The wife business? For real?’ She started to panic. It had been a drunken pipe dream, for heaven’s sake!
‘We are doing this. As of now.’ Michelle yanked her phone out of her jeans and brandished it at Katrina, who had to squint to read an email from Nick Jasinski, confirming a five-to-nine slot in just over a week’s time.
‘You’re the one who offered Nick an appointment,’ Michelle reminded her. ‘He took it, so this is a done deal.’
Katrina suddenly recalled throwing her arm around Nick, all gooey goodwill and hollow confidence. She sat down heavily on the sofa. What had she been thinking? They needed to cancel Nick immediately! If Chloe ever heard about this, Katrina’s name would be mud.
‘Michelle.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘I’m sorry, but this was just a silly, drunken idea. How would we get enough clients? Apart from Nick.’ Even saying his name made her stomach heave.
Michelle tapped her phone and passed it over.
Splashed across the screen was a white web page with elegant black writing that said Dreamwives in big letters, followed by the much smaller question: Are you looking for a discreet and supportive homemaker?
Along the bottom were two links: an ‘Our Services’ page and a ‘Contact us’ form.
Katrina nearly dropped the phone. ‘You’ve made a website?!’ What pills had Michelle been taking to get this done overnight? And what pills made her think it was a business worth pursuing?
‘Just a basic one, using a template. Don’t you like it?’ Michelle frowned at the screen. ‘I thought it was pretty good. You know, “discreet and supportive”.’
‘It sounds like an escort service.’
But Katrina saw Michelle wasn’t listening – she was still assessing the website, head cocked, eyes narrowed.
It was time to nip things in the bud before they spiralled out of control.
Wondering how to rephrase, ‘you’re off your head’, Katrina looked back down at her own phone and kept scrolling through the business plan.
She needed to let Michelle down maturely.
Kindly. ‘Listen, it was lovely reconnecting with you last night and I’m sorry I got drunk, but I don’t think this is a good—’
Katrina’s thumb froze. She’d reached the fee schedule, and ‘$400 an hour’ sprang at her out of a black swarm of text. Wait. If Michelle had given Nick a 5–9pm appointment, that meant Katrina would earn . . .
Sixteen hundred? For a single evening of doing what Katrina usually did for free? She had to clear her throat before asking, ‘People would pay that?’