Chapter 10
Katrina felt buoyant as she buzzed around the house that evening.
Dreamwives was going so well – tonight’s client would be their fifth, and there were more to come!
Michelle had called it from the start: wives had value, there was a gap in the market, and it might prove to be the saving of them both.
Katrina was just thinking what a terrific team they made when Michelle phoned.
‘You’ll never believe it – Filippo wants another meeting,’ Michelle said. ‘As soon as I left you this morning, he emailed.’
‘Ooooh!’ Katrina gave her risotto a final stir, switched off the heat and popped on the lid. Then she rifled through the cupboard under the sink for a plastic bag. ‘You must have made a big impression.’
‘Maybe the wrong kind of impression. I think he’s angry with what I wrote on the feedback form and wants to get mad in person. Were we too blunt?’
‘You’re probably overreacting.’ Katrina could practically see Michelle frowning down the phone.
She headed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Making a beeline for the linen cupboard, she dropped to her knees to wrestle out the vacuum cleaner.
‘He probably just wants an explanation in person.’
‘That’s true.’ As Michelle pondered, Katrina unclipped the vacuum-cleaner barrel and tipped its contents into her plastic bag.
Most of the dirt fell into the bag with a soft, powdery thud and a cloud of grey dust wafted up around her.
She shook the barrel, but the gunk at the bottom was stuck fast, held there by mats of heaven-knew-what.
It was tragic how far her domestic standards had fallen recently.
‘Anyway, he sent me the feedback form,’ Michelle mused. ‘He can’t be angry with me for filling it in, can he? Why would he have sent it if he didn’t want me to— Are you all right?’
Katrina was coughing up dust. ‘Sorry, I’m just emptying my vacuum cleaner.
’ With a soft slither, the rest of the dirt relented and dropped into the bag.
Katrina snapped the barrel back onto its base and shoved the vacuum away.
‘Have you read my client’s questionnaire?
He asked me to scatter dirt around his living room, so I’m getting some.
’ She stepped into the bathroom and scrubbed her hands.
‘Oh, yes, I saw that.’ Michelle spoke vaguely, as if her mind was elsewhere. ‘Weird, but he checks out, safety wise. Stick with the usual protocol and I’ll be waiting for your text. Now, what should I do about Filippo?’
‘Take the appointment! And remember – you’re a professional Dreamwife. You’ve got this.’
Michelle made an ambiguous noise. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m a professional.’ She didn’t sound as if she believed it, but Katrina was short on time.
‘Exactly. I’m sorry, I’d better go. This client wants me to pick up pizza on the way.’
Katrina’s newest client, Shane Worsley, had made some strange requests.
He wanted his house strewn with dirt and takeaway rubbish.
He also wanted his Dreamwife to arrive looking grubby, in ‘slovenly clothing’ – a problem for Katrina, since she prided herself on owning nothing that could be described as ‘slovenly’, ‘shabby’, or even ‘a smidgen dishevelled’.
Curating her wardrobe had been a long and painstaking process and none of it, including her loungewear, was below par.
Still, she was a professional, so she raided the boys’ closets and pulled on Justin’s baggy grey tracksuit pants, then fished from the rag bag an ancient black T-shirt that Hamish had last used to wax his surfboard.
The combo made her scared to look in the mirror.
Even worse, Shane Worsley had specified Crocs for shoes. Her leather slides would have to do.
But the hardest things to satisfy were his requests for grubbiness and greasy hair.
Katrina had left those until last, since they made her squeamish.
Hurrying back to the kitchen, she dropped the bag of dirt on the island benchtop – along with the old pizza boxes she’d sourced from a neighbour’s bin – and unearthed from her pantry the jar of coconut oil bought during her brief flirtation with Indian cooking.
She slathered a cold spoonful onto her head, her skin crawling at the clammy feel of it.
Then, shuddering with horror, she gingerly dipped her fingers into the bag of dirt and daubed a little grey muck onto her arms, neck and cheeks.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the dark glass of the oven door. If this was what ‘home’ felt like to Shane Worsley, no wonder his wife had left him.
‘Extreme customer service,’ she recited firmly. ‘We aim to please.’ Then, hearing a key in the lock, she quickly gathered up her bag of dirt and her pizza boxes, doing her best to make them look like an armful of rubbish.
Justin slouched into the kitchen, dropped his backpack and stared at her. ‘Mum, why are you wearing my old track pants?’
Oh God. Her outfit.
‘I never realised how comfortable casual clothes could be!’ she chirruped, wincing a little at her fake cheeriness. ‘Now, I’ve left a risotto on the stovetop. It’s the lemony chicken one you love, but make sure you use the plastic serving spoon or you’ll scratch the Creuset.’
‘But, Mum, you’re all dirty,’ Justin persisted, his eyes on Katrina’s track pants. ‘Don’t you have an event tonight?’
‘Ye-e-es, but they have professional hair and make-up so they asked us not to do it ourselves. To arrive au naturel.’
Justin grunted; Katrina could see his boy brain struggling with these concepts. Finally, he said, ‘You never look like this, though. Not even at home.’ He squinted. ‘When did you last wash your hair?’
Oh, good, she thought, I’ve nailed the hair. But how she hated lying to Justin!
‘The wet look is back, sweetie,’ she said.
‘Anyway, I’m trying to be more open-minded and see what it feels like to let go of society’s expectations of women.
’ In fact, she was struggling not to run upstairs, take a long shower and apply mascara and lipstick, not to mention bucketloads of deodorant, because Hamish’s T-shirt reeked like a fish plant.
Then the doorbell pealed.
Katrina looked at Justin and said, ‘Whoever it is, tell them I’m on my way out.
’ He shrugged and went to answer the door as she tried to slip out the back.
She was heading towards the garage when Justin reappeared, ahead of Gabby, Nicola and Pauline.
The women’s eager faces brightened when they spotted Katrina, then morphed into confusion and embarrassment as they clocked her appearance.
Katrina quickly set her armful of rubbish on the kitchen island, beside her handbag and phone.
‘Kaaaat!’ Gabby was the first to recover.
She had dressed up for the visit in a dramatic grass-green caftan.
‘We know you’re going through a tough time, so us girls are here to hold space for you.
’ She withdrew a box of bath bombs from her enormous French market basket, filling the air with the scent of lavender and citrus.
‘To help you destress,’ she added, setting the box reverently on the Carrara marble. ‘They’re vegan and cruelty free.’
Pauline – whose rumpled, sludge-coloured jacket looked like the stuff Katrina had just scraped out of the vacuum cleaner – shuffled to the kitchen island and laid down a glass dish covered with foil. Katrina had to suppress a cough at the smell.
‘Asparagus, Spanish sardines and prune,’ Pauline said. ‘A little unusual, I know, but Bailey says it’s my best yet. And check your email – I’ve sent you the Tranquerb free hormonal assessment, which zones in on which of our supplements will best support you.’
Nicola, in her swankiest black gym gear and baseball cap, plonked a bottle of prosecco on the kitchen island. ‘And I brought the booze!’
Katrina had to blink away tears. As ever, her friends were showing up for her.
They were on her side. She was catapulted back to that night after Grease, thirty-three years ago; she could still see Michelle balling up the gaffer tape as Katrina wriggled into her jeans, sobbing about Chloe’s afterparty and how she couldn’t possibly go because Chloe and Nick would be there.
She could still hear Michelle inviting her out for a hot chocolate with the stagehands, still feel the flash of warmth she’d experienced as she was about to say, ‘I’d love to! ’
But then a voice had rung out – ‘We’re here for you, Kat!
’ – and her friends had swooped in to save her, Gabby flinging an arm around her shoulders, steering her away from Michelle; Nicola making a slicing gesture across her throat and saying, ‘She’s gone!
Chloe’s out of the group!’; Pauline passing Katrina a folded tissue, along with a piece of advice: ‘Vanessa told Sarah who told me that Blake wants to get back with you, Kat, so you can still come to the party with Blake.’
The way Gabby had put her hand on her heart and said they were on Team Kat made Katrina teary, even now.
She recalled glancing over at Michelle, who was picking up abandoned scripts, to bail out of the hot-chocolate invitation.
But Michelle’s bent head and dogged paper-gathering had foiled Katrina, who’d let herself be swept off to Chloe’s party by her friends – the same friends now huddled around her, clucking and cooing and making a fuss, showing up the way they had in their group chat with all those kind and supportive messages.
‘So what’s going on?’ Nicola demanded. ‘You look like you jumped into a rubbish skip.’
Gabby and Pauline both glared at Nicola, who shrugged as she said, ‘I’m just saying. By the way, Kat, did you get those tunics for the girls yet?’
‘Oh!’ Katrina felt a twinge of guilt. ‘Sorry, I’ll do it on Monday.’
‘Make sure to use your staff discount, they’re already ripping us off with the fees.’ Winking, Nicola wobbled a bit. Then her gaze snagged on Justin. ‘Hi, Jus. Are you swimming at the carnival tomorrow or will you be sick again, like last year?’