Chapter 12 #3
Tuesday’s Dreamwives gig would involve lots of discussion about a family with five kids and numerous in-laws.
The client questionnaire had been replete with detail: Oliver was anaphylactic to cashews; Charlotte was failing maths and might need a tutor; Willow wanted a puppy; Nonna needed a lift to the hospital to see Gugs (who’d had a hernia operation) . . .
‘Have you memorised this guy’s family Bible?’ Michelle asked, referring to the client questionnaire. ‘I’m guessing he’s going to talk about those kids all night, so you’ll need to keep up.’
‘That won’t be a problem. At the uniform shop, I have to remember the allergies and exam results of older brothers and sisters.’ Tying off a garbage bag, Katrina added, ‘Do you think his five kids are real or a fantasy family he’s made up?’
Michelle shrugged.
‘I hope they’re not real,’ Katrina went on. ‘Imagine having a son who can’t eat cashews, refuses to wear green, hates baths and plays beginner trombone! I’d be popping Xanax like breath mints. So who else do we have this week? After Football Fan and Family Guy?’
‘Kirk Keane. He’s your Wednesday night booking.
’ Filippo was a Wednesday night booking too, but Michelle didn’t want to discuss him.
She had to get her emotions under control first. All weekend, she’d been drifting off into visions of Filippo and her at the opera, Filippo and her visiting Venice, Filippo wet-haired and bare-chested – was his chest hair thick or sparse?
– with a towel wrapped around his waist after a shower, Filippo trailing his fingers over her naked shoulder on a sheepskin rug in front of a flickering fire . . .
Stop it.
‘Oh!’ Katrina gasped and straightened. ‘By the way, did you see that news story about Kirk and Pippa?’ When Michelle shook her head, Katrina leaned forward eagerly.
‘The paparazzi took pictures of her getting cosy in Macedonia with a hot young actor I’ve never heard of.
The Drift did a big story about it last night. Poor Kirk!’
Michelle didn’t watch The Drift, which claimed to be a current affairs show, but really wasn’t. ‘Poor Kirk,’ she agreed.
‘Are They Headed For Divorce?’ Katrina drew quote marks in the air. ‘That’s what one headline said. And they had these sad photos of Kirk sitting in his café, drinking coffee all alone.’
‘No wonder he’s hiring a Dreamwife.’
‘I know, it makes total sense.’ Katrina frowned. ‘I feel a little bit protective of him now. He can’t help his hang-ups. Do you think he’ll cancel?’
‘He hasn’t so far.’ And that reminded Michelle of something. ‘By the way, that boxing guy? Shane Worsley? He keeps emailing, asking if you’re going to “come on board”.’ She threw Katrina a questioning look. ‘I mean, you didn’t seem keen . . .’
Katrina rolled her eyes. ‘That’s an understatement. No, thanks.’
‘Okay.’ Michelle ticked Shane off her mental list. ‘We also have yet another new client. Friend of Ilse. An overworked CEO who wants next Monday, in Kirribilli – I’m still waiting for the questionnaire.’
‘Okay.’ Katrina nodded, then raised her eyebrows. ‘Another friend of Ilse, did you say? I wonder if he’s as glam as Filippo . . .’
Michelle tried not to blush. ‘It’s a woman and her name’s Annika.
I’m giving you the booking, because you’re more Kirribilli than I am.
’ She glanced around at Katrina’s pretty cornices and bespoke lighting, then said, ‘Speaking of which, what should I do about Nick? All you’ve told me so far is to call him “babe”. ’
Katrina sighed as she dropped onto the bed. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, hunching her shoulders. ‘The first time he wanted set-dressing and fish tacos but last time it was a disaster, so I can’t say. He’s going to be there when you arrive, is he?’
Michelle checked her phone. ‘That’s what he says. “No cooking required. Just bring your lovely self.”’
Katrina groaned. ‘Of course he means me,’ she said.
‘Poor Nick, he’s not thinking straight. Rough divorces really mess a person up.
Well, maybe you could go hard with the kids and the housework.
Talk to him about a fuse blowing in the dryer, ask him if the new cream is clearing the fungal infection on his feet or pretend to arrange a podiatrist’s appointment? ’
‘Right.’ Michelle made a mental note. ‘What if he breaks down because you didn’t show up?’
‘Be supportive, I think. Tell him he’s too good for me and there are plenty of women who’d love to date him. Help him set up a profile on Bumble or Hinge, then ask him to show you how the TV remote works.’
Michelle nodded. She was about to ask if she should mention Nick’s ex-wife when an alarm beeped somewhere on Katrina, who exclaimed, ‘Oh, Lord, I’m running late.
I need to dress for that football guy. Are you going to be okay?
Do you need a prop? I’ve got an utterly useless fragrance dispenser that’ll keep Nick busy for hours, trying to figure out how the automatic timer works . . .’
‘No, I’m fine.’ It was nearly six, and with Nick’s place at least ten minutes away, Michelle had to get a move on. After rushing around to collect the rest of her clothes, she and Katrina scurried downstairs, where the bolognese sauce was bubbling away untended.
Justin had vanished.
‘Where’s he gone?’ Katrina fretted. ‘I wanted to help you load up, but someone needs to stir the sauce. Justin? You’re needed here!
’ ‘It’s okay. I can load up myself.’ Michelle didn’t want to cause Katrina any more trouble.
The poor woman was under a lot of stress and Michelle felt guilty enough about her job interview the next day.
She didn’t want to shoulder the blame for making Katrina burn her sauce as well.
Lugging the clothes back to her car, Michelle thought about the job interview with a sense of dread.
She hadn’t done enough prep work. Instead of spending her weekend boning up on uterine manipulators, she’d wasted hours googling Bianca Vargo, who was all over the internet, looking cool and groomed.
Bianca employed a hundred and twelve people in three cities.
Her elegant mansion had appeared in Belle Design, without any mention of Filippo – though the three-page spread fairly bristled with his furniture.
Bianca seemed utterly self-absorbed, and her frigid egotism was bound to snuff out Filippo’s warmth and light.
Yet he’d hired Michelle to help win back this ice princess. It was heartbreaking.
As she turned off the ignition, Michelle realised she’d driven all the way to Nick’s place on autopilot.
She must have followed the Google map instructions unconsciously, while daydreaming about Filippo.
But she’d obviously kept to the speed limit, because when she checked the clock, she saw she was six minutes late.
‘Damn.’ She checked her make-up, pocketed her phone and grabbed her handbag.
Out on the footpath, she surveyed Nick’s apartment block, which was eight storeys high and screened by a thick plantation of rainforest trees.
Stone gateposts led to a shallow flight of steps with a bank of glass doors on top of it.
Michelle pressed the button for number 19 and waited.
When the door buzzed, she pushed her way into the foyer, feeling anxious and jumpy.
Another wait for the lift, a quick trip in the mirrored box and finally she was stepping out onto Nick’s floor, which was as grey as her old office at Stott and Speyer.
Michelle didn’t have to find Nick’s apartment.
He must have heard the chime of the lift, because a door immediately opened about halfway down the hall.
Then Nick appeared, strumming a guitar and wearing a white linen shirt unbuttoned too low, a tweedy waistcoat worn open and a rakish trilby hat.
His face was wreathed in smiles, which vanished the moment he spotted Michelle walking towards him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, much too loudly. ‘Where’s Katrina?’
‘Katrina’s not coming.’ Michelle wanted to get him inside, away from the lifts.
‘Why not? Is she sick?’
‘She’s taking a break.’ Michelle and Katrina had agreed on this elliptical phrase, but it didn’t seem to impress Nick. He scowled.
‘What do you mean? Is she on holiday? Why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Let’s go in.’ Having reached him, Michelle tried to slide past. She was hoping to avoid a public scene.
Nick blocked her. ‘Oh, no, you don’t. I didn’t invite you.
I want to see Katrina. I was going to sing her a song I wrote.
’ Plucking and twanging, he closed his eyes, and with an expression of pain, crooned, ‘The canyon of my heart/Aches for you, Katrina/Babe, you’re my redeemer/Wash away my pains/Like holy water through my veins/Tenderly we’ll maaaake love . . .’
Michelle blanched. ‘Well, Katrina can’t be here.’
‘But I made a booking!’
‘With Dreamwives, yes. And if you look at our contract, we reserve the right to replace any Dreamwife who, for personal or professional reasons—’
‘I booked Katrina!’ Nick’s face was red. The guitar was trembling in his hand. ‘I’m not paying for you. Get out of here.’
Michelle took a deep breath and stepped back. ‘All right,’ she said evenly, ‘but we’ll have to charge a cancellation fee.’
‘Fuck that! I didn’t cancel, Katrina did!’ Nick’s voice rang out, high and hoarse. Michelle could only wonder what the neighbours were thinking. ‘When can I book her again? Tomorrow? Wednesday?’
‘She’s busy.’
‘Thursday? What about Friday?’ Nick sounded desperate. His eyes bulged. His spittle was flying everywhere.
Looking at him, Michelle decided: We don’t need this.
No amount of money was worth tidying up after Nick’s issues.
‘Mr Jasinski,’ she said, using her account-manager voice, ‘all our Dreamwives are equally well trained and can provide a competent, reliable service. If your needs can only be met by a single staff member, then I suggest those needs are more personal than professional, and you’d be better placed turning to a different kind of company. Like Hinge, for instance.’
Nick gaped as if he’d been slapped.
‘So you have a choice,’ Michelle went on. ‘We can go in and have a pleasant evening together or you can terminate your relationship with Dreamwives. What’s it to be?’
Nick stood there, mouth working. Then he retreated a step – and slammed the door in Michelle’s face.
It took her a few seconds to recover from the shock. She had to take some deep breaths and loosen her tight shoulders, which were up around her ears. Finally, she headed back to the lifts. Only when she’d reached the ground floor did she unlock her phone and text Katrina.
For the first time, she sent a stuffed-olive emoji.