Dreamwives

Chapter 17 #2

Looking up, she caught Michelle’s eye and held it. Then she fished in the pocket of her robe and pulled out the orange boxing-glove card, before keying the number into her phone.

After two rings, Shane picked up. ‘Worsley,’ he said. Katrina could hear grunts and shuffling noises in the background. He must be at the gym.

‘Shane, it’s – uh – Samantha. Of the roundhouse kick?’ Without giving him time to respond, she added, ‘I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I’m ringing to ask you to come on TV with me, to tell the world what Dreamwives really is. After that, I’m happy to be The Grey Rock.’

A long silence followed, broken only by the background slap of boxing gloves on pads.

‘The grey rock?’ Shane finally asked.

‘Oh, sorry.’ It showed how het up she was. ‘I mean, I’m happy to come and work for you if you’re still interested. But first I need you to do this for us. It will be excellent exposure for your gym.’

Another long silence. Then: ‘Are you taking the piss?’

Katrina winced.

‘Worsley’s World doesn’t need that kind of exposure.’ A snort. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I saw you on the news and figured you’d call me because you need a real job instead of that escort bullshit. And you have.’

Katrina blinked. Escort bullshit?

‘But with the kinda crap you’ve got sticking to you, you’re a liability now.

That’s why you can take any salary expectations off the table.

I’m thinking maybe an unpaid internship for three months, starting Monday, five am?

Just while you brush up your skills, since you’ve been a goddamn housewife.

You need to prove yourself, ’cause Worsley’s World is about commitment and grit.

Our motto is “Commit with Grit! Get Fit!” Say it with me, Sam! “Commit with Grit! Get Fit!”’

Katrina could take no more. ‘Shane,’ she said, her pulse hammering in her ears. ‘I’ve considered your proposition, and I’d rather live in my car and eat tinned lentils for the rest of my life than work for you.’

She hung up, then turned to Michelle. She hated pressing her friend when she was down, but what choice was there?

‘Michelle, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to ask Filippo for help. We need him to come on The Drift with me and tell everyone how wonderful Dreamwives is.’

* * *

Michelle had been feeling dazed and depleted since her meltdown.

She hadn’t cracked up like that for decades, so it was taking her a while to recover.

She’d let Katrina assume command, gratefully watching her friend formulate strategies, call contacts, make decisions.

It was typical of Katrina – at a moment of profound despair, when all seemed lost, she had rallied and found her inner goddess.

Katrina was amazing, and Michelle had agreed to everything she’d proposed so far.

But not this.

‘I can’t,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘Ask him to come on TV? For Dreamwives? No!’ The horror of hearing his voice grow icy.

The bitterness of a rejection. It didn’t bear thinking of.

‘He’ll turn us down. There’s no point. He’s getting back together with Bianca and she hates me – look at this!

’ She flashed Bianca’s text at Katrina, who took a deep breath, gazing steadily – sympathetically – into Michelle’s face.

‘I know it’ll be hard, but this is our one and only chance to resurrect ourselves,’ Katrina said. ‘We need someone to vouch for us. Please?’

Oh, God. How could Michelle refuse, when Katrina was going on live TV?

Pulling out her phone, Michelle felt a spark of fearful anticipation. She was going to talk to Filippo. She was going to hear his voice, even if it was just a voicemail greeting. Unless he used one of those automated things?

‘I knew you could do it! You’re Wonder Woman.

’ Katrina squeezed Michelle’s shoulder, then sprang up.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to do a full overhaul, and that’s going to take time.

I’ll be in the bathroom if you need me.’ She scooped up some of her clothes and was halfway to her walk-in wardrobe when she stopped and turned.

‘You don’t need to grovel,’ she said stoutly.

‘Try to take the personal out of it. This is business.’

Michelle nodded. Filippo was a client, and she was a trained client whisperer.

‘Good luck,’ Katrina added, before disappearing into her Aladdin’s cave of designer outfits.

Michelle took a deep breath. She could do this. She was a grown professional, not a lovesick teenager.

Please God, let him pick up, she thought, tapping his number with bated breath. The phone rang once. Twice.

‘Hello?’

‘Filippo?’ Michelle squeaked, fighting a wave of dizziness.

She’d stumbled out into the hallway for a bit of privacy, but the first open door she came to framed a bedroom so malodorous – so strewn with clothes and food and basketball equipment – that she immediately recoiled. ‘It’s . . . it’s Michelle.’

‘Ah!’ There was a lot of echoey noise behind him – clangs, roars, voices. Was he on the street? In a commercial kitchen? ‘Give me a moment while I find somewhere quiet.’

Michelle tried the next open door, but it led to a bathroom full of squishy towels and dirty tissues. She took one look and withdrew, grimacing. She would have to go back to Katrina’s bedroom.

At the end of the line, the noise level dropped and Filippo spoke again. ‘That’s better. Now, I thought you said we were done? No more contact?’

Was there an accusatory note in his voice? It almost deprived Michelle of the power of speech.

Almost.

‘Yes, but you must have seen the news stories.’ She launched into her pitch, afraid that if she didn’t, she’d lose the courage to go on.

‘They’re all lies and we need to discredit them.

Publicly. We need to make it clear we’re not an escort service – that we’re providing much-needed therapeutic assistance to people at home.

But to do that, we need your help. Otherwise, the company will fold.

Please – I know you don’t owe us a thing and I shouldn’t even be calling.

I wouldn’t have done it if we didn’t need you. ’

She swallowed, overwhelmed by memories of his laughter, warmth, intensity. What if this was the last time she ever spoke to him and the conversation finished with a short, sharp refusal? ‘I need you. You’re the only one. Please, Filippo?’

He was going to get mad. Sneer. Hang up. And if he did any of those things, she would never recover. As the seconds ticked by, she realised she’d been holding her breath and let it out in a forceful gust.

Then, through the blood pounding in her ears, she heard him say, ‘I need to talk to someone first, but I suppose that’s not out of the question.’

Michelle thought she must have misunderstood. ‘Wait, you – you will help?’ She sank onto Katrina’s bed, unsure whether to laugh hysterically or burst into tears. ‘Can you go on The Drift with Katrina? It’s a TV show—’

‘When?’

‘Um – tonight? We need to get there by four . . .’

A long silence. Michelle thought the tension was going to give her a heart attack. She wanted so much to ask Filippo if he was annoyed or shocked, or if he’d even heard of The Drift.

‘I know where it is. I’ve been there before,’ he said at last.

Michelle couldn’t read his tone. Was it a little stern?

‘I have some media experience,’ he went on.

‘Oh, I didn’t – I mean, I know you’ll be great – thank you so much,’ she croaked. ‘This is so kind of you.’

‘Not at all. I’ll see you at four, then.’ He was suddenly brisk, as if someone was tapping on his shoulder. ‘At the studio. Be sure they have my name at the gate, because I know what the security is like there. Ciao, Michelle.’ And then he was gone.

Michelle peeled the phone off her cheek and sat for a moment, recovering. She’d finally talked to Filippo – and this wouldn’t be the last time. In a few hours, she might talk to him again. Even if Dreamwives crashed and burned, she had one thing to be thankful for.

Seeing him again would be agony, though, especially if Bianca had turned him against her. Come to think of it, Bianca wouldn’t try to stage-manage his appearance, would she? To get back at Michelle?

‘He’s going to do it!’ she yelled, wondering if Katrina would hear her through the sound of running water.

Instantly, the shower shut off. ‘What?’

‘He’s going to do it! He’ll meet us there!’

A pause. When Katrina finally yanked the bathroom door open, she was wrapped in a couple of towels, and smelled like magnolia and apple blossom.

‘You did it!’ She poked Michelle in the shoulder. ‘I knew you would. How will he come across on screen?’

‘Oh, fantastic.’ Michelle had no doubt about that. Filippo was a performer.

‘Okay, so we don’t have to worry about Filippo. What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Do you really want to front up to the studio in that gear?’

As Michelle glanced down at herself, Katrina added, ‘First I’ll fix me, then we’ll fix you. Then we should go through my talking points. We’ve got plenty of time. One thing, though – will we have to take your dad with us?’

Michelle hadn’t even thought about Rolf. She realised, with growing dismay, that there was nowhere else for him to go. She couldn’t afford a whole day of carer’s fees, and respite care at the Randwick Seniors Centre would finish at 3pm, before they even left for the studio.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She looked at Katrina with beseeching eyes. ‘I’ll stay with him in the green room. I won’t let him out of my sight.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be fine, but you should probably make sure he wants to go, first,’ said Katrina, who had turned away to unwind her head towel.

Of course Rolf wanted to go. His face lit up when Michelle told him about The Drift. ‘You mean you’ll be on the telly?’ he asked, grinning.

‘Not me. Katrina.’

‘Will she be talking to that chap? What’s his name . . . Ted Stoddard?’

‘No, that’s another channel. Rod Tomic will be interviewing Katrina.’

‘Pity. I always like Ted. And what will they give me to eat in this green room thingy? Sausage rolls? Fairy cakes?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Whisky? The good stuff?’

‘Dad – how should I know?’

‘It’ll be past dinnertime. You’d want something hot to eat,’ Rolf pointed out. Then he frowned. ‘They won’t be interviewing me, will they?’

Michelle couldn’t help snorting. ‘No. They won’t.’

‘Good. Because I wouldn’t want to go on telly, they put make-up on you.’

Keeping her dad under control for the next few hours was a full-time job for Michelle.

He was so excited that he kept butting in while Katrina practised her interview techniques and styled Michelle.

Katrina was adamant that Michelle should look her best, because they would both be representing Dreamwives.

Somehow, Katrina managed to pull together a respectable outfit for Michelle using a knit top, a navy skirt (‘Too small for me – keep it’) and a careful selection of jewellery.

As the day dragged on, the countdown to four o’clock began to shred Michelle’s nerves – especially when the journalists returned.

After Katrina spotted them through the living-room window, Michelle shouldered the additional stress of persuading Rolf to stay inside, since he wanted to storm out there and give the assembled throng a good talking-to.

‘No,’ she kept telling him. ‘It’s different now, because you’ll be coming out of Katrina’s house. They’ll make mincemeat of you. Don’t be stupid, Dad.’

She worried about getting through this bulwark of media when the time came to leave, but Katrina seemed determined.

‘I make it out of the Colville car park every day and I haven’t run over a single dozy child staring at their phone yet,’ she said in bracing tones. ‘If those paparazzi know what’s good for them, they’ll get out of my way. Don’t fret, Michelle, I’ve got this.’

Sure enough, at three thirty, it was Katrina who climbed into the driver’s seat of her black four-wheel drive, which was parked in the garage. Michelle slid in beside her, after loading Rolf’s walker into the boot, while Rolf manoeuvred himself onto the back seat.

‘Right,’ said Katrina. ‘Everyone got their sunnies? We need to put them on.’

Michelle replaced her glasses with Wayfarers. Rolf reached into various pockets, muttering, ‘Where are mine?’

‘Here, Dad. I’ve got them.’ As Michelle handed over Rolf’s Cancer Council wraparounds, a shaggy, tousled head popped through the door that led to the games room. Could that possibly be the elusive Hamish? He looked like Craig.

‘Mum? What happened to the last bagel?’

‘This gentleman here ate it.’ Katrina donned her glamorous sunglasses, adjusted the rear-view mirror and leaned out the window.

‘You snooze, you lose, Hamish. Now please wash those disgusting towels, clean up your bathroom and make sure you tune into The Drift at six thirty pm. I’m going to be on it, and it might change your mind about some of the lies your father’s about to tell you. ’

Then she fired the engine and pressed the garage door remote.