Chapter 7
Half an hour before Nick was due home, Katrina bustled into his bathroom wearing her flamingo-pink tracksuit and clutching a loaded shopping bag. She dumped the bag and squinted around, conjuring up a mental image of her boys’ bathroom. What was missing?
Oh, yes. Of course.
Slipping a towel from the rack, she ran it under the shower and wrung it out over the toilet, leaving water on the seat. Then she took two steps back and dropped the towel on the tiles, nudging it with her foot to get the crumple just so. Better.
Next, she turned to the spotless vanity, where a forlorn toothbrush sat in a cup.
That didn’t seem right. She crouched and rummaged through her bag, took out a handful of old toothbrushes, jammed them in with the singleton, then plonked the bristling cup by the edge of the sink, where it threatened to topple. Much better.
Gazing at the vanity, Katrina knew something was still wrong.
Then it came to her in a flash, but . . .
did she dare? As a child, she’d wanted to break this sacred rule of housekeeping a million times; only fear of her mother’s vengeance had held her back.
Now, squaring her shoulders, Katrina reminded herself that she was a professional, with duties to perform.
This was her job. Customer satisfaction was an integral part of the Family Comfort Experience that Nick had ticked on his questionnaire, and if Katrina was going to give his bleak serviced apartment an air of homeliness, then lines would have to be crossed.
First, she squeezed some toothpaste onto her finger.
Next, she smeared it over her teeth, took a sip of water and swished the lot around her mouth.
Then, with a delicious little thrill, she spat the foamy toothpaste at the mirror so that white dribbles slid down the glass and flecks coated the tap and sink.
Oh, that was fun! Unbidden, her mother’s glowering face floated into the splattered mirror and Katrina had to suppress the impulse to locate a squeegee and erase what she’d done.
Let go, she told herself, echoing the Dhyana Dude. Release your chakra tensions. Her mother’s chakra tensions could have filled a warehouse.
Katrina had had a gruelling week. Days had been consumed by Dreamwives business; she and Michelle had exchanged a volley of texts, adjusting their questionnaire, bickering about client contracts, setting up a bank account, brainstorming marketing ideas, sorting out security measures.
Though stressful, it had at least distracted Katrina from the fallout of her impromptu speech at the gala.
Justin had been the first casualty, because word had spread at school – she’d spent a lot of time reassuring him, over the past week.
Then there was the constant strain of watching uniform-shop customers blink and recalibrate when they realised who she was.
The Colville gossip mill was in overdrive, so much so that she would have ducked Nicola’s fiftieth-birthday lunch on Sunday, if she could have.
But Nicola was one of her best friends, plus Katrina had agreed to be the designated driver.
When wasn’t she? #Designateddriver was practically her Instagram tag.
Anyway, she’d learned some useful things about Nick at that lunch, to complement the emotional outpourings in his questionnaire: how Chloe hadn’t allowed him to have his own house key (a startling detail unknown to Katrina because she and Chloe had barely spoken since high school); how he missed Chloe’s fish taco recipe (the one with coriander aioli and slaw on the side); how he was on a self-care kick – something confirmed by the book of inspiring quotes that Katrina had discovered on his coffee table.
As she entered the kitchen to pepper the fridge door with merit certificates and children’s artwork, Katrina even found a handwritten list: 100 push ups, 100 sit ups, practise guitar, do affirmations.
‘You have to admire it,’ she remarked aloud.
As a final touch, she found a Bluetooth speaker and set it up to stream angsty pop in the second bedroom, as if a sulky teenager was in residence, though it didn’t look as if anyone had used that bedroom for a while.
Fizzing with nerves, she returned to the kitchen and leaned against the island, not sure she could pull this off.
Buck up, she told herself. She’d known Nick most of her life; he was a sweet guy struggling through a divorce with a controlling woman who’d had him under her thumb for decades. Nick was fragile and a bit broken, and if anyone could empathise with that, it was Katrina.
But when she heard a key in the lock, her shaky sense of confidence collapsed like a sponge cake pulled from the oven too soon.
She wanted to crouch behind the island and cover her head.
It was the same primitive urge she’d felt as a teenager when her mother came home – or, more recently, when Craig’s car pulled into the driveway after she’d bought herself new jeans.
But before she could act on this impulse, the door swung open and there stood Nick in his chinos and rumpled white shirt, staring at her.
‘Hi Katrina,’ he mumbled, colouring.
Katrina swallowed. What the hell was she supposed to do?
They gazed at each other in silence before she remembered she was on the clock and offered him the kind of reassuring smile she would have given a Year 7 boy in the uniform shop.
Her mind raced. Set-dressing was one thing, but creating a believable character was another entirely.
From the questionnaire, and from what she’d gleaned at the lunch, Katrina believed that Nick’s ideal wife was Chloe as she used to be, when she was a stay-at-home mum and Nick was the breadwinner.
What had Chloe always called Nick back in high school . . .?
‘Babe? I was thinking, um, you might like a glass of wine?’ Though Katrina tried to imitate Chloe’s sass, she sounded tentative and strained. ‘Or something stronger?’
God, she was blathering, but Nick didn’t seem to hear.
He took a few awkward steps into the living room and looked at Hamish’s busted game controllers on the coffee table, at the box of Lego Katrina had dumped over the floor with childish abandon, at the crumbs on the kitchen floor she’d created by jumping up and down on a handful of Doritos, at the sofa with Justin’s old Spiderman throw and the crumpled Doritos wrapper half-tucked under the colourful new cushions she’d added.
‘You bought cushions,’ he said, as if in a daze. ‘So many cushions . . .’
Did he like the effect or did he think she was a lunatic?
A nasty prickling sensation was spreading across Katrina’s chest – a hot flush.
This was a disaster. Nick would hit the roof when he realised he’d actually paid someone to trash his flat.
If Craig ever found out, he’d think she was mentally ill. And as for Katrina’s mother . . .
‘I didn’t get a chance to clean up because I was really busy today and I’m so sorry, but I can get it sorted really quickly, you know I’m not usually such a slob . . .’ Katrina fluttered around, her mind a blank. Where was the broom cupboard? Surely she’d noticed a vacuum cleaner somewhere?
Then Nick spotted Katrina’s pièce de résistance, the platter of tortillas, slaw and sauce on the dining table.
‘Fish tacos?’ he whispered, gaping.
She froze and studied his expression, her heart thumping in her ears. Yes? No? He seemed to be in a state of shock, though he soon snapped out of it.
‘I have to go to the toilet,’ he said, and stumbled into the bathroom. The door clicked shut.
Katrina dropped to a crouch and balled her fists, silently screaming.
How had she ever thought she could pull this off?
Right now, in the bathroom, Nick must be realising he’d just wasted $1600.
It took everything she had not to rush straight out the door, leaving the hushed, sterile Balmont Residences behind her forever.
Then she heard a distant flush. As she sprang to her feet, her past life flashed before her eyes: swimming coach, committee chair, Chatty Katty, class mum.
Come on, you can do this. You’re playing a role.
Just focus on his needs. She flung open the fridge and pulled out a bottle of unoaked chardonnay, which her friends had mentioned was Chloe’s favourite drink.
When Nick returned, his eyes were wide. ‘My God, Katrina, it feels just like the kids are here! The bathroom! The music!’
Katrina couldn’t tell if he appreciated the effect or if it was freaking him out. She could feel her left eyelid twitching as she plastered on a smile. ‘Yes, the other kids are at soccer but they’ll be home soon. Do you want wine? Beer? Gin and tonic?’
Nick’s eyes darted about nervously. ‘Wine’s okay. So . . . are they going to be late for dinner? The, um, kids?’ He flicked her a look, to see if he’d got it right.
Hooray! He was going along with it!
She took out two wine glasses with shaking hands, accidentally dinging them together as she considered her reply. ‘I could . . . leave them a plate to warm up? Our kids, I mean.’ Our kids. Bizarre. Outrageous and disgusting. But as long as she was being paid . . .
Her phone pinged; Michelle was sending her a ?
. ‘Oh darn, I’ve been, um, outbid on those barstools you wanted.
Hang on.’ Shaking her head, Katrina swiftly texted Michelle a champagne-bottle-with-popping-cork emoji, which was their agreed ‘Everything’s OK’ signal.
(Their red alert was a stuffed olive.) Then she poured a glass of wine and handed it to Nick, searching for a safe question.
‘So, how was work?’
He dragged a chair from the dining table and sat down heavily. ‘Derek was being a dick, as usual. Today he checked everyone’s desk drawers to make sure none of us were hoarding rubber bands. The guy’s a complete joke . . .’