Chapter 9 #2
Katrina stopped to look at his wedding photo, which showed him in a field at sunset.
His second wife, Pippa Peters, was a Hollywood actress; clad in a gauzy, ivory gown, she stared adoringly at Kirk, who flashed a crinkly-eyed smile at the camera, all rumpled linen and stubble.
Pippa was a raw vegan, and Kirk Keane had built his empire on organic, free-range, nose-to-tail eating.
He raved endlessly about that stuff on social media and TV talk shows, yet Katrina was serving him home-brand party pies and potato gems.
Was he a hypocrite, or was he hurting inside?
Buster was hissing at her now and sharpening his claws on the sofa, so Katrina retreated to the kitchen.
She tied on an apron and consulted the instruction booklet for the slick and streamlined oven, which had only one button bristling with alien symbols.
She finally managed to turn it on, and after popping in the frozen nuggets, party pies and potato gems, she had a little snoop in the kitchen cupboards.
Kirk Keane’s flatware was mass-produced stuff that didn’t look entirely clean.
The drawers were grimy, too. Unable to help herself, Katrina emptied the cutlery compartments and gave each a hasty wipe down.
Then she heard a car crunching on the gravel outside.
Kirk Keane! As Buster leapt off the sofa, Katrina reminded herself: no eye contact. She wished she could tell Kirk how much she admired his octopus paté and ask him how important nigella seeds really were, but she’d been warned. Passive aggression only.
With shaking hands, she dug in a bottom cupboard for a tray. She heard footsteps, a sigh, the door slamming.
‘Bugger off, Buster,’ a familiar voice growled.
Then Kirk Keane lumbered into view, passing the entrance to the living area without a glance as he headed upstairs.
Buster padded back to the sofa and resumed his position, tail flicking.
After ten minutes or so, a toilet flushed overhead.
Katrina was busily wiping kitchen benchtops when she heard, rather than saw, Kirk trudge back downstairs and vanish into the media room.
Her cue! Impatiently, she watched the kitchen clock for two minutes, then shovelled the warmed-up stodge onto the crappiest plate she could find.
She filled a bowl with tomato sauce and added a can of Coke for good measure.
As she carried the food across the vestibule, tottering in her heels, she racked her brains for a good, humiliating insult.
Katrina’s mother was a humiliation pro, but Katrina was more the sympathetic, cheerleading type. How was she going to pull this off?
The clatter of gunfire and the throb of deep bass music reached her as she paused in the doorway of the media room.
Kirk was stretched out on a plump recliner, playing a video game on the enormous TV screen.
He was dressed in boxer shorts and a ratty singlet, and his filthy bare feet were propped on a velvet ottoman.
With a tiny shudder, Katrina was reminded of Hamish at fourteen, welded to his PlayStation in the games room – except that no fourteen-year-old had ever looked like Kirk.
His face was bloated, his eyes were rimmed with red and his skin had a greyish tinge.
He certainly wasn’t the chiselled, bright-eyed Kirk who graced the covers of his cookbooks.
And come to think of it, hadn’t Pippa and Kirk talked about not having a TV in their house?
Katrina was sure she’d read an article about how they lived without screens and pesticides and sugar, yet here was Kirk, shooting aliens on his wall-sized screen, taking for granted his exquisite mansion while honest, hard-working Katrina was about to lose her house through no fault of her own. It was sheer hypocrisy!
Channelling a flash of anger, Katrina slapped her tray on the table beside him. ‘Working hard, I see,’ she said, using her mother’s snippiest tone.
Kirk grunted. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he grabbed a nugget and dipped it in sauce, scattering crumbs.
‘It’s like having a pig in the house.’ Katrina unleashed her disdain. ‘And wash those feet, will you? They’re disgusting!’
No response. Heading back into the kitchen, Katrina congratulated herself.
Her sniping had been top notch, she thought; even her mother would have been impressed.
She banged a few cupboard doors, then pulled out a stand mixer and set it on low, until the whirring sound filled every corner of the place and drove Buster from his perch.
The cat slunk away, spitting like an egg in hot fat, as Katrina started to vacuum the spotless Isfahan.
She found herself glancing up, now and then, at the winking harbour lights, but for the most part she ignored the view because there was only one thought in her head.
She couldn’t wait to tell Michelle that she’d been hobnobbing with a star!
* * *
Michelle hadn’t been to the top floor of the Queen Victoria Building in years.
Her mother had once dragged her up there to visit an alternative skin clinic that trafficked in hot needles and vigorous massages that made people scream.
But now the place was awash with chi-chi boutiques that sold things like hats, jewellery and $400 children’s coats with Peter Pan collars.
There was also a retailer of model trains, its window displaying a miniature Alpine scene that reminded Michelle of her father’s El Alamein diorama.
She didn’t want to think about her dad. He’d been nursing a hangover that morning, and getting him to his Macquarie Street physio appointment had been like dragging a dead whale out of pounding surf.
Michelle now had about an hour before she was due to collect him, so this meeting would have to be quick.
As she passed the castle-shaped clock that dangled from a beam beneath the glass roof, its mechanical heralds started piping Jeremiah Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntary. Ten o’clock: bang on time. Then she spotted a cluster of café tables spilling out of a shopfront up ahead.
‘Michelle!’ Katrina waved at her from a table set hard up against the swooping balustrade that encircled a multi-storeyed void. Michelle wondered what would happen if you accidentally dropped a fork through a gap in the wrought iron. She hoped the café was insured for flatware-related injuries.
‘I already ordered you a cappuccino,’ said Katrina as Michelle sat down. ‘I know you don’t have much time, what with your dad and everything.’
‘Thanks.’ Michelle yanked out her phone and tapped the screen. ‘Did you read that customer feedback form? The one Filippo sent me last night?’
Katrina’s face lit up. ‘It’s so strange! “How would you rate your host’s level of interest in your anecdotes”? At least Kirk Keane ignored me the whole time.’
Michelle glanced up. ‘He must have reacted when you said his feet smelled like his beetroot-and-blue-cheese puree!’
Katrina shook her head. She looked good, Michelle thought.
Bright eyed. Clear skinned. Wearing the kind of crisp, casual, perfectly coordinated outfit that was a testament to her innate fashion flair.
Leaning forward, she enveloped Michelle in her signature scent – but then the waitress arrived with their coffees and Katrina paused until the coast was clear, finally saying, in a hushed voice, ‘He didn’t twitch.
Not even when I vacuumed the sofa he was sitting on.
What kind of hang-ups must he have, if that was his idea of a Dreamwife? ’
‘It makes you wonder about his real wife,’ Michelle agreed, though she had a hard time imagining Pippa doing what Katrina had done. ‘Isn’t she overseas now, filming? Maybe Kirk needs his fix while she’s away.’
‘Maybe. She could be a little unusual. I have to admit, her cat is terrifying. Anyway, his assistant suggested it was some kind of nostalgia trip. Like he was using me as a mother substitute.’ Katrina shuddered.
‘If his mother fed him crap like that, no wonder he became a chef,’ said Michelle.
‘I know. And I was shocked how he treated that beautiful house. His feet were covered in dirt and he just stuck them up on an ottoman!’
‘So what should I do about Filippo’s feedback form?’ Michelle glanced up at the castle clock. ‘Should I fill it in?’
Katrina registered surprise with a slight twitch of the eyebrow. ‘If you don’t, he’s not going to be happy,’ she said. ‘You could charge extra. You could charge by the word.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ Michelle trailed off. Sipping her cappuccino, she struggled to pin down her problem. Filippo Balducci was a client. He had to be placated, indulged, satisfied. Yet he had specifically requested that Michelle tell him what he’d got wrong as a husband. Did he really want to know?
‘Okay. So let’s have a look.’ Phone in one hand, skim flat white in the other, Katrina scrolled down Filippo’s list of questions. ‘“How was the ambience of the home when you entered?”’ She raised her eyes. ‘You told me it was gorgeous.’
‘It was.’
Bemused, Katrina cocked her head. ‘And that’s a bad thing?’
Michelle didn’t want to say it had made her feel inadequate. ‘It wasn’t homey.’
Katrina proceeded to the next question. ‘“Did you feel (a) cherished, (b) appreciated, (c) accepted, (d) taken for granted, (e) controlled, (f ) ignored, (g) other?”’
Michelle didn’t hesitate. ‘Other.’
‘I thought you said he was all over you?’
‘Yes, but in the wrong way.’
‘Handsy, you mean?’ Katrina’s eyes widened.
‘God, no.’ Nothing like that; Filippo had manners.
‘What, then?’
When Michelle didn’t answer, Katrina pressed her. ‘Last night you told me he was charming, good-looking, stylish, funny, intelligent and he cooked you a gourmet meal. How is that not perfect?’