Chapter 14 #2
Katrina wanted to say, ‘I do!’, but restrained herself. Michelle couldn’t help her style blindness. ‘You really think no one will know it’s me?’
‘Those photos could be a lot of women,’ Michelle assured her. ‘I really think this story’s going to die – it’s only a sidebar to a main scoop about Kirk’s marriage. It’ll be gone by tomorrow. How about I call Kirk and find out what his response is going to be, if any? Unless you want to . . .?’
Katrina was too stressed. ‘Can you do it? Please?’
‘I’ll get back to you the second I hear,’ Michelle agreed, and hung up.
* * *
Randwick Seniors Centre was a little old house surrounded by shops, with an exterior covered by so many ramps, signs, railings, noticeboards, security screens and air conditioners that the original house was hard to see.
Just inside the front door, Michelle found a reception desk groaning with pamphlets and staffed by a white-haired woman who greeted her father with a cheery question. ‘Are you here for Senior Scrabble?’
Rolf muttered something. He’d decided to be curmudgeonly, because Michelle had forced him to come.
‘I’m not putting up with any more of your nonsense,’ she’d said, weary beyond words of his selfishness and refusal to face reality.
‘If you don’t like the Scrabble, just eat the scones.
And afterwards, there’s a candle-making class.
You’ll be the only man there, so you can hit on all the poor ladies messing around with essential oils. You’ll like that.’
‘No, I won’t,’ he’d growled, but he must have sensed that Michelle was at the end of her tether, because apart from spilling his tea, he hadn’t put too many obstacles in her way – not after she’d told him he could damn well go out covered in tea stains.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ he’d asked. ‘Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?’
In fact, Michelle had hardly slept at all.
She’d spent a hideous night googling Filippo and getting mad at herself for being so pathetic.
By the time she’d heard Rolf wake up, knock over a tooth glass and bump into a door frame, she was already beginning to think that Dreamwives was based on a flawed premise.
Who on earth could spend time at home with someone for an extended period without developing unprofessional feelings? Just look at Nick! Just look at her!
And now there was this business with Kirk Keane. Michelle feared their fledgling business was in a death spiral, but she owed it to Katrina to try and arrest that fall – even if it meant marching around in a corporate pantsuit when all she wanted to do was crawl under a doona and cry.
At least she didn’t have to worry about her father. Some frantic research had uncovered a local respite day centre, where he could spend five hours for only $15. If Michelle got the sales rep job, she might be able to extend those hours by offering him up as a volunteer or something.
‘Dad’s here for Senior Scrabble,’ she declared. ‘And for the candle-making class afterwards. Which includes lunch, right?’
‘A light lunch, yes,’ the white-haired lady agreed.
‘Hear that, Dad? I’ll pick you up after lunch.’
He sniffed. ‘Unless I decide to catch a cab home first.’
‘If you do, I’ll bring you right back here for qigong.’ Michelle wasn’t mucking around. ‘Today and tomorrow.’
‘Oh, but I’m afraid that group is fully booked.’ The white-haired lady glanced at Rolf’s walking frame. ‘Also, there are certain . . . um . . . physical requirements that have to be discussed . . .’
‘That’s okay. He can sit and watch.’ Michelle sensed she hadn’t made a very good impression on the white-haired lady, who was now regarding Rolf with deep concern, perhaps wondering if he was the victim of elder abuse.
Michelle didn’t care. She had more important things to worry about.
‘Right! I’m off,’ she said. ‘Play nice, Dad. And remember – SUSFU isn’t a Scrabble word. ’
‘But it’s military slang! Like SNAFU! “Situation Unchanged, Still F—”’
‘Bye, Dad. See you in a couple of hours.’
Thanks to the traffic, it took Michelle nearly twenty minutes to reach Kirk’s.
Since her talk with Katrina, she’d repeatedly called the number he’d provided – which seemed to belong to his assistant – but the assistant, Arjun, had refused to pick up or even answer Michelle’s voicemails.
Her one remaining option was to confront the two of them on their home turf.
She didn’t want to, and when she spotted the journalists massing outside Kirk’s high garden walls, she felt even less keen.
But what choice did she have? If Kirk didn’t like it, he had only himself to blame.
Michelle parked up the street a bit, wedging her car between a Mercedes and a Rolls-Royce.
Then she strode towards the busy scene in front of Kirk’s place, where the nature strip was already scattered with plastic coffee-cup lids.
At first, the journalists glued to their phones didn’t pay much attention to her.
She was just some professional functionary, bustling along in her Trenery suit with her most businesslike handbag.
But when she stopped at Kirk’s front gate, they immediately perked up.
One of them thrust a microphone at her, saying, ‘Are you a friend of Mr Keane’s? ’
Michelle ignored the question. She’d been warned by Katrina about the little black box by the gate, so she peered into its unblinking eye. ‘Hello?’
No response.
‘Are you a lawyer? A divorce lawyer? Can you tell us something about Kirk’s state of mind?’ some idiot blared.
Michelle remained silent, though she was glad she’d been mistaken for a lawyer. That was the impression she’d been trying to give. She dialled Arjun’s number, then briefly held her screen up to the security camera, to show she had his private details. This time, someone answered her phone call.
‘Who is it?’ The voice didn’t sound like Kirk Keane’s – not the one he normally used on TV, anyway.
Michelle cleared her throat. ‘I’ve come here on a matter pertaining to potato gems and party pies,’ she whispered, desperately hoping someone in Kirk’s household would understand her coded message. Or would she have to mention instant mashed potato, as well?
‘Oh,’ the voice said. ‘I see.’
‘There’s media out here.’
‘I know. Be careful.’
The gate clicked and Michelle pushed her way inside, batting off yet more intrusive questions. The journalists didn’t follow her, because they knew enough not to get arrested for trespassing. But they kept shouting as the gate slid shut.
‘Is Kirk in there? Will he be flying to Macedonia, to see Pippa? Has separation put a strain on his marriage?’
Feeling flustered, Michelle smoothed her hair and adjusted her outfit. Then she marched towards the impressive front door, which was opened by a bespectacled young man who had to be Arjun Sengupta, since he certainly wasn’t Kirk Keane. He looked extremely well groomed. Rather like Filippo.
Michelle wished she could stop thinking about Filippo. She needed to concentrate.
‘Are you from Dreamwives?’ he asked, hiding his mouth behind his hand.
‘Er – yes.’
‘Come in. Quick. There’s a photographer next door somewhere, probably in the Airbnb. Those shots of Mr Keane couldn’t have been taken from a boat on the harbour.’ He stepped back to admit Michelle, then stuck out a foot, barring her way. ‘No!’ he snapped.
It took her a moment to realise he was talking to an orange cat, which spat and snarled and slunk back inside. The famous Buster, she concluded.
‘Sorry,’ said Arjun. ‘Come in.’ This time he let Michelle pass and followed her into a vestibule that reminded her of a luxury boutique spa hotel she’d once booked for a client-relationship-management event.
Through the door into the living area, she spied a view that most tech billionaires would have killed for.
‘What do you want?’ Arjun sounded a bit rattled. ‘Is this about what happened last night?’
‘Yes.’ Michelle squinted up the flight of stairs that swooped down into the vestibule. ‘Is Mr Keane here?’
‘No.’
Michelle doubted that. She wondered if he was hiding upstairs, afraid to come out. ‘Will he be making some kind of statement?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ Arjun said flatly.
‘It is, though, because my colleague is involved – though she hasn’t yet been identified.
Hopefully she never will be.’ Michelle took a deep breath, trying to organise her thoughts.
‘I need to know what Mr Keane intends to do, so we can follow up accordingly. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s to everyone’s advantage if Mr Keane corrects the impression that my colleague is a sex worker, since it happens to be untrue.
I assume he’ll be calling her a “friend”?
You couldn’t claim she was a yoga instructor or a massage therapist, not in that cocktail dress—’
‘I’m not privy to Mr Keane’s thoughts on the matter,’ Arjun interrupted.
‘He’s getting legal advice and will go public when it’s appropriate.
But until he makes his decision, remember: your representative signed an NDA.
That agreement is still in force, so she can’t say one word about what happened here last night or Mr Keane will take action. ’
Blindsided, Michelle tried to collect herself.
Katrina hadn’t mentioned signing a non-disclosure agreement.
But Michelle didn’t want to appear at a disadvantage, so she said calmly, ‘Oh, yes, Mr Keane’s NDA.
I’m afraid I never received a copy of that.
Do you have one here or would you prefer to forward it to my email address? ’
‘You’ll have to consult Mr Keane’s lawyer. He handles all of Mr Keane’s legal matters.’
‘Do you have his details?’
Arjun recited a name, an email address and a contact number, all of which Michelle entered into her phone. Then he said, ‘Is there anything else?’