Chapter 7 #2
As Nick leaned back, drinking and talking, Katrina filled her own glass with water and set about grilling the fish.
She felt steadier as she worked, because she was used to having conversations while she chopped onions and whisked sauces.
As long as she listened and made interested ‘uh-huh’ sounds, Nick seemed happy to talk.
Katrina let it flow over her, like Craig’s surfboard lectures.
At least Nick didn’t keep one eye on his banking app the whole time.
The most awkward moment came after dinner, when Katrina was clearing away the scraps of fish taco – they were really very good; she’d make them for Justin and Hamish this week – and Nick said: ‘Back in the day, when Dickhead was my junior, Chloe always complained that I was being too . . .’
He trailed off, staring at Katrina like a kid who’d accidentally cursed in front of his teacher. He obviously wasn’t sure if he should mention Chloe.
‘She can be a bit challenging,’ Katrina agreed, desperately winging it as she scraped plates into the bin. ‘Mind you, first marriages are hard to navigate and we all make mistakes, especially when we’re young. Second marriages are much easier, I think.’
Nick visibly relaxed. ‘That’s true. I’m glad it’s over, to be honest. I much prefer being married to you.’
Katrina smiled brightly, trying to disguise her relief. The moment seemed to call for a hair rumple or a doting pat on the cheek, but she wasn’t going to do that. No physical contact was a stipulation of the Dreamwives contract. ‘Right back atcha,’ she said, by way of compromise.
‘Chloe’s being so negative with the divorce, you know?’ Nick went on. ‘She’s poisoning the kids against me. I really miss them.’
Katrina remembered her own dark fantasy: the boys moving in with Roxane and Craig, starting a new life without her. ‘I’m so sorry. That’s really hard.’ She meant it. Being alone and unmoored in middle age was tough.
‘I never hear from the boys, and Tabitha won’t come and stay . . .’ Nick wandered into the living room while Katrina stacked the dishwasher. He talked about his ex-wife – loudly, so Katrina could hear – describing Chloe’s greed and petty paybacks. None of it surprised Katrina.
‘My divorced dads group says I need to work on not overreacting when Chloe triggers me,’ he confessed, ‘but I struggle when it comes to the kids.’ It soon became clear that the divorced dads group, which met on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, was helping Nick to make healthy changes.
‘Wow, babe. You’re so good.’ Packing away the Lego, Katrina wondered if she should find a group like that for herself, then dismissed the idea. When would she find the time?
A few minutes before 9pm, she picked up her handbag and moved towards the sofa, planning her exit line, which would be accompanied by a gentle cushion pat. (No kiss, of course.) But just before she reached him, Nick’s phone burbled.
He picked it up and accepted a video call.
‘Dad?’ A sullen voice, leaking contempt. Katrina caught a glimpse of a surly girl with blue-streaked hair on his screen and recognised his youngest child, Tabitha.
Panicking, she dropped behind the sofa, one knee hitting a stray piece of Lego. She yelped as the pain shot down her leg.
‘Is someone there with you?’ Tabitha asked.
‘No, it’s just me.’ Nick sounded too squeaky. ‘I think the upstairs neighbour slammed a window.’
Heart thudding, Katrina crawled towards the door.
She’d just reached the hallway console when she remembered Justin’s old Spiderman throw, which Nick was sitting on.
She didn’t care about the Lego – it was destined for a charity bin – but the throw had been Justin’s favourite blanky. She couldn’t leave it behind.
‘I understand, Tabs, but you can’t just not go to school,’ Nick said, as Katrina slithered back to the sofa and tugged at the throw, forcing Nick to wiggle and shift so she could slide it out from under him.
She dragged it slowly towards her, bit by careful bit.
At last it slipped over the headrest and dropped onto her face.
‘I know what your mother says, Tabby, but—’
‘Don’t call me Tabby! God! I hate that!’
Katrina crawled off again, wearing the throw like a cape. Tabitha’s voice receded behind her.
‘I want to be a normal person, not some Colville robot. You guys are all like rah rah rah Colville, but body piercers don’t need an HSC anyway so what does it matter?’
When Katrina reached the front doorway, she stood up, still wearing the blanket on her shoulders, and gave Nick a tiny wave. His eyes swerved to meet hers.
‘I have to go,’ she mouthed, and mimed teeth-brushing. Nick flashed his eyebrows to show he understood and Katrina slid out, gently closing the door behind her.
Three minutes later, she reached the safety of her car.
After relinquishing the Spiderman throw, she slid her pink-clad bottom into the driver’s seat and sagged against the steering wheel, gasping for breath.
This had to be the weirdest night of her life, hands down.
She only hoped she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself.
The fake kids! The ‘babe this’ and ‘babe that’!
She switched on the ignition, then tapped her phone.
‘Katrina?’ Michelle’s voice came through the car speaker, clear and reassuring. ‘How did it go?’
Katrina took a deep breath. ‘Okay? I think?’
* * *
Michelle heaved a sigh of relief. She’d been so worried. So keyed up. But every muscle fibre in her body relaxed as she realised that she and Katrina had actually done it.
And it had gone okay.
‘I’m a mess,’ Katrina was saying. ‘I just hope he thought it was worth the money. When I get home, I’m going to switch on the spa to relax. Do you want to come over?’
‘Uh – no, thanks. Bit late, I think.’ Michelle remembered seeing a hulking, tarpaulin-swaddled shape on Katrina’s back patio. Was that the home spa? ‘Anyway, I can’t leave Dad.’
As if on cue, the door burst open. Michelle was perched at her desk, which she’d wedged into her bedroom four years earlier when Rolf had laid claim to her office. That was after he’d been tossed out by his third de facto.
Now here he was, teetering and red-faced. ‘Michelle, have you seen Monty?’
Michelle sighed. ‘Sorry, Katrina – domestic crisis. Okay if we catch up tomorrow? You’re a legend, by the way. I knew you could do it.’
‘We did it,’ Katrina said, then hung up.
Michelle turned back to her father. ‘I wish you’d knock before you come in. I’ve told you a million times—’
‘Where’s Monty?’
‘Who?’ Michelle’s mind was still elsewhere.
‘General Montgomery! He’s gone!’
‘Oh, right. Monty.’
Rolf had set up a Battle of El Alamein diorama in his bedroom. For a week, he’d been painting pinkie-sized toy soldiers at Michelle’s kitchen table. Now her whole flat stank of turpentine.
‘You cleared the table for dinner.’ Wrapped in a blue tartan robe, Rolf clutched his walking frame, knuckles white, wispy hair on end. ‘Where did you put Monty?’
‘With the rest of your stuff. On the counter.’
‘He’s not there!’
It was like dealing with a four-year-old. Michelle’s email pinged and she glanced at her computer. A completed questionnaire had arrived from a new Dreamwives client – someone called Arjun Sengupta. He seemed legit, though Michelle was still running a security check.
‘Did you check the floor?’ she asked, clicking on the email attachment.
‘Of course I did! And under the sofa.’
‘What about your bedroom?’
Rolf snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Just look, okay?’
‘It was on the table. You must have put it somewhere.’
Michelle dragged her attention away from Arjun Sengupta’s Dreamwife scenario, which was unexpected.
He lived in swanky Darling Point, had stumbled on Michelle’s website by chance and wanted a 1950s trad wife to do housework while he watched TV.
For dinner he specified chicken nuggets, party pies and potato gems with tomato sauce.
He wanted a booking for Wednesday night.
‘Michelle!’
‘Yes, okay. Let me think.’ Michelle quickly reviewed her evening. She’d arrived back with the shopping at four. Put away the groceries. Removed her bra and thrown on her track pants. Run the cordless vacuum cleaner over the crumbs on the carpet . . .
Ah. Of course. ‘Check the vacuum cleaner. I might have sucked it up.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake . . .’ Rolf thumped off without closing the door behind him.
Sighing, Michelle checked her email and noticed something she’d overlooked – a message from Clevic Industries. Dear Ms Redlin-Wu, it said, we regret to inform you that your application for the position of Key Account Manager, Decongestant Division, has unfortunately been unsuccessful . . .
No surprise there. Michelle really wasn’t having any luck finding a proper job.
She informed Arjun that Wednesday would be fine, just as another email hit her inbox.
It was from Nick Jasinski, requesting a second appointment.
I’ll be recommending your services to other members of my divorced dads support group, he’d written.
It’s a fantastic way of easing through the transitional trauma we all face in our journey.
Michelle wondered if she should call Katrina with the good news. Then she wondered if she should request that Nick not pass on Katrina’s real name. She and Katrina had decided to use aliases, but that would never have worked with Nick, obviously.
She was typing out her email to Nick when her phone rang. She picked it up. The connection wasn’t good; through lots of clicks and echoes, she heard a crackly voice pipe, ‘Michelle?’
‘Ilse?’ Michelle flipped through her mental calendar. ‘I thought you were in Japan?’
‘I am! At the opera! Fabulous Puccini.’
The waterfall noise behind Ilse must be a roar of voices – unless there were real waterfalls in Japanese opera houses? ‘Which Puccini?’
‘Madame Butterfly.’
Michelle sighed. ‘Lucky you.’ What she’d give for opera in Japan . . .