Chapter 10 #2
‘Not sure,’ he mumbled, panic etched on his face. ‘Sorry, I’ve got homework.’ He bolted upstairs to his room, like a cat fleeing bathtime. In the distance, a door banged.
‘Poor boy, he must be under a lot of stress with you and Craig uncoupling,’ Gabby murmured.
Katrina hid her wince. ‘Uncoupling’ sounded so horribly sexual. ‘He’s doing okay, but it’s an adjustment.’
‘Yes, a big adjustment for a child to make,’ Pauline said. ‘His father has a new girlfriend, and his mother . . . well . . . you know, it’s a big change.’
Katrina raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. What was Pauline getting at?
‘Since we’re here, I thought we could have a little chat about the muddle with the uniform-shop roster.’ Gabby tipped her head to one side, all benevolent understanding. ‘Pauline’s upset and I thought now would be a good time to clear the air.’
‘It wasn’t my fault.’ Pauline sounded hurt. ‘I told Vanessa at drop-off to tell Sarah to tell Gabby before Pilates, but Vanessa forgot to tell Sarah, so you should blame Vanessa.’
‘No one’s blaming anyone, Pauline.’ Gabby raised her hand. ‘But we should loop Vanessa and Sarah in on this, and perhaps add them to the uniform-shop chat group so we’re all on the same page.’
‘Good idea.’ Katrina glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘And thanks for being so supportive over the last few weeks. You’re such great friends.’
Blinking back tears, Gabby reached out for a hug, then recoiled, her nose wrinkling.
(Oh, Lord – Hamish’s T-shirt!) Gingerly, she patted Katrina’s arm instead.
‘By the way, I’ve extended our family trip because I found a lovely chalet in the French Alps.
Bit pricey, but never skimp on luxuries, I always say.
Are you all right to take Rocky for another couple of weeks?
He adores you and I don’t trust him with anyone else. ’
Katrina’s heart sank. Two extra weeks of dog-sitting was a stretch, especially when her life was in such a state, but it wasn’t Rocky the dachshund’s fault. He was a sweet dog once you’d gained his trust. ‘Sure.’
‘He’s gone downhill, I’m afraid – wearing nappies, now. And the biting’s much better, as long as no men come near him, and women approach him from the front or his left – not your left.’
Katrina nodded, accepting her fate. She glanced at the kitchen clock again – she was running out of time. ‘Thanks for all the gifts, ladies, but I’m actually on my way out.’
The three women boggled, taking in her dirty face, her bedraggled hair, the rags she was wearing.
‘You’re not going out looking like that!’ Nicola gave a snort. ‘Are you trying to get rid of us? Hang on – where are your wine glasses?’
‘Sorry, Nicola, I really do have to be somewhere,’ Katrina said.
A series of meaningful looks passed between the other women.
‘Are you meeting Michelle?’ Pauline sounded coy. ‘You’ve been seeing a bit of her lately.’
The blood froze in Katrina’s veins. Oh, Lord, did her friends know about Dreamwives?
Maybe they’d found the website. Maybe Pauline had seen something yesterday, on Michelle’s phone – or Katrina’s – or had heard them discussing ‘Dreamwives’ and googled it, before drawing the wrong conclusion.
Did the words ‘confidential’ and ‘nurturing’ on the website still sound like an escort service?
But it had a bland contact form and an anonymous @dreamwives email address, so how could anyone be sure that she or Michelle were involved?
On the kitchen island, Katrina’s phone pinged. Everyone stared at it. In big black letters on the screen was the name Michelle.
As the other women exchanged glances, Katrina cursed the middle-aged eyesight that had forced her to enlarge her fonts. She snatched up her phone and shoved it in her pants’ pocket, hoping none of them could see her fingers trembling. ‘Michelle and I have an event tonight.’
‘After you’ve changed?’ Pauline asked.
‘They have professional hair and make-up, so they told us not to do it ourselves.’ Katrina tried the line again and it went down about as well as it had with Justin.
‘You don’t have to be brave with us, Kat.’ Gabby squeezed Katrina’s shoulder. ‘We’re all friends here. We can see you’re struggling.’
‘We know you’re not Teflon like Chloe.’ Nicola spat out the name as if it were a wasp – and that was when Katrina made the connection. Nick Jasinski! Nick must have mentioned Dreamwives. In his emotionally fragile state, he’d overshared with someone at Colville.
But then her racing brain skidded to a halt. Nick would be horrified if anyone knew he’d hired a Dreamwife. So maybe Tabitha had spotted Katrina in his flat?
‘We know you’re under a lot of stress at this stage of your divorce journey,’ Gabby said in a soothing voice. ‘But you can’t go out in that state. You need to ask yourself: is Michelle someone you need in your life right now? Is she a real friend?’
‘Well, she’s helping me stay employed. I’ve got a lot of expenses, so I’m grateful.’ Katrina instantly felt guilty for snapping back. After all, she did look as if she was losing her mind.
‘What’s it called?’ Nicola asked. Peering around, she spotted a wine glass and pounced on it. ‘Your business with Michelle, I mean?’
Oh, God. Playing for time, Katrina picked up Pauline’s casserole, walked it to the fridge and slid it inside. No one was going to eat it and it would stink up the kitchen, but it was the thought that counted.
‘Kat and Michellabrations!’ she cried, closing the fridge door. Ouch. So, so bad. Her phone pinged again; she had to get moving or she’d be late for Shane Worsley.
Scooping up her handbag, she tucked the pizza boxes under her arm and was just reaching for the bag of dirt when she became uncomfortably aware that the plastic bag was transparent, and that her friends were staring at it.
‘Is that a . . . bag of dirt?’ asked Nicola.
‘Yes, I’m about to put it in the bin. On my way out.’
Exchanging troubled looks, Katrina’s visitors had no choice but to pick up their bags and follow her to the front door, Nicola casting sad backward glances at the prosecco.
‘Speaking of bins,’ Pauline said, pausing on the doormat, ‘Bailey and I are going to Japan for three weeks after Christmas. I assume you’ll be sticking around, Kat, if you’re taking Rocky?
Because Philippa’s staying home with her Year Eleven friends, so I need someone to keep an eye on the place, take the bins in and out each week, and check on the kids.
A couple of them are anaphylactic and I told their parents you’d be on call. Is that okay?’
Wearily, Katrina nodded. ‘Sure.’ A pang went through her as she thought of her last holiday, which seemed like decades ago.
Only when the women were safely beyond the gate and she had shut the door behind them, did she let herself wilt.
She had a sinking feeling that as soon as they were out of earshot, her friends would dissect this visit, fretting and fussing.
Even if they didn’t know about Dreamwives, they knew something was up, but Katrina couldn’t do a thing about that right now.
She had money to make, and if she left immediately, she’d reach her client’s house with just enough time to set up.
‘Bye, Jus! I’ll be back by eleven!’ she called, as she retraced her steps.
Plunging through the door that connected the games room to the garage, she dropped the pizza boxes and bag of dirt onto the back seat of her car.
Then she climbed in, set down her handbag, adjusted the mirror, waved the remote.
As she rolled out of the garage, she spotted Hamish walking up the front path. Their eyes locked, and he goggled.
Dear Lord. She must look even worse than she’d thought, if Hamish had noticed.
* * *
Michelle was washing dishes and feeling guilty.
Beside her, on the kitchen benchtop, her phone displayed an email that confirmed she had a job interview on Tuesday with Stott and Speyer – not for an account management job but for a humble sales rep post in the Medical Equipment Division.
Michelle had applied for the position before the gala, out of sheer despair, even though she didn’t know much about tumour ablation or wound stapling.
She’d hoped that her long history with the company might somehow help, despite her age, and she’d been right.
The salary wouldn’t be great, but at least it would be regular.
She’d nursed the hope that Dreamwives would be more than a side-hustle, but that wasn’t going to happen if she couldn’t pull off the customer-facing role.
Her first attempt had been pretty lacklustre.
But if she had a regular job, she could always fit in the Dreamwives billing and scheduling at night.
Stott and Speyer wouldn’t mean the end of Dreamwives.
It would simply mean Michelle was revising her business plan.
That’s what you always did when you misjudged your abilities – in this case, the ability to inhabit a part.
Michelle sighed. Going back to Stott and Speyer was possibly the most humiliating thing she would ever have to do in her life.
And what would happen to her father, if she had to fly off to the Gold Coast every few weeks, as mentioned in the job description?
Home carers cost a mint. What she needed was some kind of cheap place she could stash him for the day.
Respite care might work, but was there a time limit on that?
Could she access it five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year?
Wrestling with her mother’s gigantic old crockpot, which was much too big for the dish rack, Michelle saw the fight as a symbol of her own inability to fit in.
Katrina was a born Dreamwife, but Michelle didn’t have the same skills.
She hadn’t exactly distinguished herself at Filippo’s place – and even though he’d booked another session on Friday, she was pretty sure he wanted to grill her about his feedback form.