Chapter 6 #2
Michelle shrugged. ‘I think so. Nick agreed to.’
Katrina stared at her. The idea was insane, but that number was immense. Her calculations under the doona came back to her. ‘How many evenings could we work?’
‘Let’s say Mondays to Thursdays. That’s peak wife time. I figure Friday and Saturday nights are for dates, and Sunday night everyone wants to recover, but by Monday, people want to be looked after. Wifed.’
Katrina wasn’t sure if it was the pretty pills or the cold hard numbers, but her head was clearing.
She opened her phone calculator again and tapped away.
Three evenings a week wouldn’t take much time away from Justin and she could leave dinner plates for the boys to warm up.
Three evenings a week, at $1600 a pop, meant she could earn at least $200K a year.
Probably more. Was that enough to remortgage the house? She didn’t have a clue.
A feeling like a hot flush (but nicer) made Katrina’s chest and neck tingle.
She looked up at Michelle, who no longer seemed wired and weird, just keen and hungry.
Maybe Katrina was in the presence of a business genius.
Brilliant people could often seem insane – they saw an idea that seemed obvious to everyone else in hindsight.
Katrina opened the games cupboard and picked out a notepad once used by the family to record their Scrabble scores. With a little pang, she tore off the sheet on top, which had names and a few faded numbers written on it. Then she settled onto the sofa, reaching for a pen.
‘What were you thinking for the questionnaire?’ she asked.
* * *
Michelle had been shocked to see Katrina in morning-after mode: wan, bleary-eyed, hair a mess, no make-up.
The décor in the room made her look even worse, because everything was so pale and perfect.
Against a background of white paint, blond wood, natural linen and discreet touches of eau-de-Nil chintz, Katrina’s parched face stood out like a dead pot-plant.
But now she seemed perkier – more in tune with her surroundings – and Michelle knew why. Nothing worked like money.
‘Before we tackle the questionnaire, just remember: the Dreamwife scores the big bucks in this arrangement, but they don’t get the whole fee,’ she said.
‘Twenty per cent goes to the partner, five to the business. It’s all outlined in the partnership agreement, which you should sign before we get started.
I brought a printout, just in case my emails were going astray.
’ She yanked a crumpled envelope from her handbag and thrust it at Katrina, aware of how jittery she must look.
The espressos hadn’t worn off yet. ‘Here. Have a read. Then we can get stuck into the questionnaire. I’ve roughed one out, but I’d like your input. ’
Not that the questionnaire needed much input. Michelle had felt a twinge of pride as she sent it off as an email attachment. Katrina, meanwhile, was flicking through the partnership agreement, looking confused. ‘So you’re going to be a Dreamwife too?’ Katrina seemed taken aback.
‘Of course! Especially if we’re double-booked.’ Michelle had thought it all through. ‘But mostly I’ll be doing admin and marketing, reaching out to men’s sheds, divorce lawyers, meal-kit companies . . . Let’s see what happens, going forward.’
Katrina’s nod was hesitant, but Michelle had prepared an entire strategy to persuade her.
The main thrust of Michelle’s argument would be Katrina’s own words from the previous night: ‘We could start a business and make millions! It would solve our money problems!’ Michelle had a highly trained memory when it came to quoting clients’ remarks back to them.
‘I can’t really understand all of this, but I guess it might work,’ Katrina said doubtfully. ‘Have you signed it? Oh, yes.’
‘And I’ve sent you the questionnaire.’ Michelle waited until Katrina had scribbled her lavish, loopy signature on the partnership agreement before adding, ‘Obviously we start with client name, address, email, phone numbers. Then the first question is: “What makes a home to you?” And the client can tick any of those boxes underneath: a delicious dinner, scented candles, clean rooms, the smell of baking, family photos, freshly ironed clothes, a half-finished puzzle . . .’
Sitting at her desk the night before, digging deep into her own constricted life, Michelle had made a mental list of all the things she did for her dad: laundry, cooking, bill-paying, medical appointments, trips to the dry cleaner, remembering garbage nights.
Then she’d moved on to intangibles like ego massage, discussing bunions and skin tags, finding lost glasses, putting up with a ‘Colonel Bogey’ ringtone.
‘I’ve given them a choice of beds – made or unmade, depending on what feels homier,’ she explained, feeling pleased with herself.
‘They can calibrate the degree of mess in the bathroom – sparkling, lived in, or teenage children. They can have a schedule on the fridge or not. Music playing or not; you can see there’s space for a playlist. But I thought we might have tiered packages, so your basic package could be dinner, chat and TV, your premium could be dinner, chat, TV, optional pet and maybe a choice of three extras like laundry on a clothes horse or shared teeth-cleaning, and then premium plus could include subject research, like discussing the client’s job or family.
Stuff that requires more back-and-forth before the appointment . . .’
As Michelle chattered away with caffeine-fuelled enthusiasm, Katrina scrolled through the questionnaire on her phone, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, fingernails sleek and well cared for. She seemed more alert; perhaps the vitamin B pills were kicking in.
‘Our fee doesn’t include extras, by the way.
’ Michelle checked the time and sped up even more.
‘At the very least, they’ll have to pay for dinner ingredients and fresh flowers.
I didn’t know whether to let them specify a particular meal or give them a menu.
Or both. Maybe if they want something special, that’ll be part of the premium plus package. ’
‘This is all terrific, Michelle,’ Katrina said, ‘but what about the wife? Who’s she meant to be?’
‘A homemaker. She’s there to make the client feel at home and cared for.’
‘Yes, but how?’
Wasn’t it obvious? ‘The usual ways, I guess.’
Katrina set down her phone and asked, ‘Have you been married, Michelle?’
‘No.’ Surely they’d discussed this? Michelle couldn’t recall.
‘You’ve lived with someone, though? Apart from your father.’
‘Not really.’ There had been one debacle in her late twenties with a laidback geologist whose live-and-let-live attitude had provided the perfect antidote to Michelle’s dictatorial mum – until Michelle realised that she herself was being cast as a dictatorial mother, forever asking the geologist to pick up his dirty socks and pizza boxes.
In a way, he’d controlled her behaviour by being absolutely useless.
Prising him out of her life had been so hard that she’d been wary about repeating the experiment.
Then, nearly nine years later, she’d met her soulmate – a CEO wrestling with a toxic marriage, who hadn’t been able to move in with her.
Once or twice he’d sought refuge with her after a particularly nasty marital spat, but in the end he’d always returned to his family.
His indecision had kept her in a state of constant stress.
Finally, after five years and a broken heart, she’d dumped him.
Since then, her closest intimate relationship had been with her vibrator.
‘That was smart. I envy you.’ Katrina’s voice quavered as tears sprang to her eyes. ‘At least you haven’t been derailed by someone you trusted completely . . .’
Michelle could sense a meltdown speeding towards her like a runaway road train. And she sympathised, but she couldn’t spare the time for a heart-to-heart. She had to leave in less than an hour and there was a lot to do.
‘Why do you want to know about me being married?’ she asked quickly. ‘Is there something I’ve missed about being a wife?’
Katrina sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she’d dug out of her pink track pants. Michelle was no expert, but even she could tell that the pants were designer label.
‘Well, we’re supposed to be wives, not housekeepers, right?’ Katrina took a deep breath, composing herself. ‘So my question is: what kind of wives are we? Sporty? Stepford? Surrogate mother? Do we stay quiet and let the client unload, or chat and provide a refuge from work?’
‘Ah. I get it. Interactive or unobtrusive.’ Michelle made a note on her phone.
‘Are we cocktail, Country Road, or athleisurewear?’ Seeing Michelle’s mystified look, Katrina elaborated. ‘Dressy, casual or super-casual?’
‘Right. Okay.’ Michelle kept typing.
‘Are we fellow fans of something – like a band or a TV show? Are we independent and keen to hear the latest news, or have we already called to check in four times that day?’ Katrina’s voice was gathering energy.
Her eyes brightened as they focused on a vision of domestic bliss somewhere behind Michelle’s head.
‘Maybe that can be part of the premium plus package? Phone calls and texts at work, asking you to pick up some broccoli on your way home?’
‘Good idea.’
‘This whole thing is role-playing. Our job will be getting into character. Which isn’t so different from marriage, sometimes.’
‘You think?’ Michelle wasn’t so sure about that. She couldn’t see herself jumping from personality to personality. ‘I’m pretty sure our main job will be supportive sharing. Plus housework.’