Chapter 11 #3
Her phone pinged as a text from Craig appeared on her car screen: Obviously you’re overwrought. I’ll bring Justin home myself.
Katrina pulled over to the side of the road, switched off the engine and gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles went white.
All the nasty things Craig had said rang in her ears, but there was one niggling fact she kept returning to: Craig had said her engagement ring was shared property.
Was he right? Katrina didn’t know, and if she didn’t know that, what else didn’t she know?
Craig was playing hardball and if Katrina didn’t protect herself, her morbid fantasy of losing her boys might come true.
Ignoring the messages from the Colville crew flooding the group chat, Katrina tapped out a text to Michelle.
Just saw Craig. Know a good divorce lawyer?
Remembering how Craig had called her use of emojis ‘juvenile’, Katrina almost deleted the string but stopped herself. Those emojis were necessary to express the emotional turmoil she’d gone through. She pressed send, then slumped in her seat, taking shaky breaths.
A few seconds later, Michelle replied. Ilse will. Leave it with me.
Thank God for Michelle! Katrina sent back: For good measure, she added a gif of a koala doing a namaste bow. Craig might believe Katrina’s gifs were even cornier than her emojis, but Michelle deserved all the thanks that Katrina could give.
* * *
Michelle braced herself as she knocked on Filippo’s front door, early on Friday evening.
She had no idea what to expect. His welcome might range from chilly to ebullient, so she’d spent an hour getting ready, trying to work out what she should wear.
Something businesslike? Casual? Sober and apologetic?
In the end, she’d settled for the jeans that Katrina had helped her to buy, teamed with her emerald silk shirt – the one she’d worn to the Colville gala.
That shirt always gave her courage. Katrina had been very firm about the importance of clothes when you were inhabiting a role and Michelle was taking this advice to heart.
If Filippo decided to get passive-aggressive, Michelle would need armour.
The emerald silk shirt would be her chain mail.
But when he opened the door, Filippo seemed subdued, as though the blazing energy of their previous appointment had been dialled down a few notches. He even looked a little nervous as he invited her in.
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked, ushering her over to the wine fridge in his dining room. His dark eyes searched her face intently, as if gauging her response. ‘I just opened a pinot grigio from Friuli – it’s a 2011 Schiopetto – but take your pick. Chardonnay? Tempranillo?’
‘Um . . .’ Michelle wanted to keep her wits about her, at least until she worked out what Filippo wanted. ‘To be honest, I’d prefer water.’
He blinked, then quickly masked his look of surprise. ‘Sparkling? Still? Mineral? I have Galvanina lime, or—’
‘Tap’s fine. I’ll get it.’ Michelle had come to a decision. She was there as a Dreamwife and her job was to help Filippo learn to live with a long-term partner. Formality wouldn’t teach him anything. ‘Just relax. Don’t worry about me. I can sort myself out because we share this space, remember?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He dipped his head, his expression rueful. ‘I must learn to remember.’
Heading for the kitchen, Michelle was buoyed by a sense of relief. He wasn’t mad at her! He wanted to learn! She spotted four wine glasses arrayed on a benchtop and grabbed the stemless one. Then she filled it with tap water.
Behind her, Filippo kept his distance. He sipped from his own glass and said, ‘You told me I was stage-managing. That I didn’t listen. Is it because I gave you no choice when it came to the food, or . . .?’
‘Not exactly.’ Michelle turned to face him, drawing on all her presentation experience.
It couldn’t matter that he was gazing at her with puppy-dog eyes; she had to be clear and persuasive.
‘You seemed to be performing and you shouldn’t need to.
Not at home. If you do, I feel like you don’t trust me as a partner.
’ Seeing him smile, she coloured slightly, suppressing a sudden vision of what life would be like as Filippo’s partner.
To experience that prodigious energy, that sparkling charm, focused entirely on you .
. . It would be like walking around in your own, slightly exhausting, tropical paradise.
‘Obviously, I’m not your partner,’ she hastened to add, ‘but if I were.’
He was nodding, though she wondered if he really understood.
‘Maybe it’s a hazard of working in hospitality,’ she continued.
‘On the one hand, you have to make absolutely sure your customers feel comfortable and cared for. On the other hand, they aren’t really at home, so they can’t be allowed to move the TV, or let their dogs chew the cushions.
’ She pondered for a moment. ‘I guess it’s an illusion of home.
Maybe that’s what you bring home with you.
Maybe that’s why you feel you have to put on a show. ’
Once again, he was studying her face. ‘You could be right. Though I tend to be a little . . . what’s the word, flamboyant? Flashy?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘My family used to think I was gay. They’re very traditional.’
A laugh escaped Michelle. ‘Same with my family. Very traditional. They thought I was gay because I focused on my job, hardly wore make-up and didn’t tell them about my boyfriends.’
‘è vero?’ Filippo cocked his head, eyes gleaming. ‘Or is that part of tonight’s script?’
‘No, no. It’s true.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m being honest. We need to be honest if this is going to work.’ Then, throwing caution to the winds, she did something that was probably very, very stupid. ‘Which means I have to tell you – my name isn’t really Megan. It’s Michelle.’
He blinked, absorbing this, before his gaze softened. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Do you want to sit down and talk? In the front room? We can take the antipasti with us.’
‘Sure.’
‘I have provolone, soppressata, some beautiful organic artichoke hearts . . .’ He trailed off as she fixed him with a stern look.
‘You don’t need to cater,’ she reminded him.
‘Yes. You’re right.’ He raised his hands in defeat, his wine sloshing.
‘I’m not a guest in your hotel.’ On her way out of the kitchen, Michelle grabbed the tray of cheese, olives and cured meats.
When she reached the living room, which enfolded her in an artistically lit, artfully arranged blur of soothing colours and textures, she glanced around for somewhere to put the tray – and was instantly relieved of it.
‘Shall we use this?’ Filippo picked up a side table one-handed, plopping it down in front of a Chesterfield sofa. ‘Of course, my interior designer would say it blocks the flow of the room, but . . .’
‘Who cares? It’s your house.’ Lowering herself onto the Chesterfield, Michelle thought, Interior designer. Figures. ‘Why follow rules laid down by someone who doesn’t even live here?’
He shrugged and surveyed his surroundings.
‘It’s not my house. Torcello Holdings owns it.
The interior-design company we hired for the hotel decorated this place as well.
But a lot of the furniture is mine.’ He pointed.
‘The escritoire, the armchair, the chinoiserie cabinet – that cabinet was bought with my former partner. But she had no interest, so I took it with me.’ By this time, he was sitting at the other end of the couch and turned to Michelle so abruptly that he almost spilled his wine.
‘I want to talk to you about this. About what went wrong and how I can fix it.’
‘Okay.’ Sensing she was in for a long, bumpy ride, Michelle fortified herself with a handful of olives.
‘We were happy,’ Filippo began. ‘My ex is smart, beautiful, confident. Decisive, you know? A successful businesswoman, but stylish.’
Stylish, smart, beautiful, successful . . . dear God.
‘And she admired the way I lived,’ Filippo continued. ‘When we bought a house together, she gave me . . .’ He searched for the word, snapping his fingers. ‘Carta bianca. With the decorating.’
‘Free rein?’ Michelle suggested.
‘Yes! She loved what I did. Said it was alla moda. Chic. But as soon as we started to share the place, she said I was trying to control her because I didn’t want the TV in the bedroom.
Because I told her to use coasters. She had to get every new kitchen gadget that came along, because .
. . I don’t know, because her friends had them?
Air fryers and instant pots and spiralizers.
I hate the stuff, and I did all the cooking, but she wanted it everywhere, cluttering up the workspace.
What she didn’t want was my heirloom silver goblet that she accidentally knocked off a shelf, or the cassone – the wedding chest – that she tripped over at night.
So I came home from work one day and she’d sold them. Without telling me.’
Michelle frowned. Filippo might have his hang-ups, but you couldn’t just get rid of your partner’s stuff like that – especially a family heirloom. Ugly family heirlooms could easily be hidden. Michelle had done just that with her great-great-grandmother’s lotus shoes and betel-nut shears.