Chapter 18
Katrina steadied herself as the garage door clanked and whirred, her hands slippery on the steering wheel.
She heard shouts, then saw the crowd outside, slowly unveiled.
There was a general setting-down of coffees and gathering of cameras and microphones.
When Katrina’s car rolled out of the garage, nearly a dozen journalists clustered around, filming her.
A young woman with a tight ponytail began to hammer on her window, shrieking, ‘Mrs Webb, what’s your relationship with Kirk Keane?’
Instead of answering, Katrina stared straight ahead, edging her vehicle towards the street.
She wore a pleasant expression, as if she were listening to a particularly boring Colville flute recital, hiding her nerves under a thick layer of bravado.
Though the journalists might be irritating, she didn’t want any nastiness.
‘Katrina, what about your children?’ someone yelled. ‘How are they holding up?’
Katrina felt a terrible pang of guilt. She had to remind herself that her interview would be a way of speaking directly to her boys.
‘Look serene,’ Katrina told Michelle, lifting her chin. ‘We have nothing to be ashamed of.’ Opening the driver’s window, she stuck out her hand and gave the journalists a merry wave as she turned onto the street. She wasn’t embarrassed to be a Dreamwife and she wanted them all to know it.
Her next challenge was the highway, which was full of school traffic.
Plunging into the melee, she spent the rest of the trip reciting to herself the phrases she and Michelle had workshopped, while Michelle bit her nails and Rolf complained about people breaking the road rules.
Finally, they drove up to the security gate outside a long, nondescript building that could have been a warehouse, if not for the zippy Hemisphere Productions logo on a tall sign out the front.
The man at the gate glanced up from his phone, checked Katrina’s number plate against his list, and handed her a piece of paper to set on her dashboard. ‘Lower level,’ he said, gesturing to the car park entrance.
Down Katrina went, into the concrete bowels of the studio, where she expertly reversed her car into a narrow spot.
Her chest felt tight whenever she thought about the interview ahead of her, but instead of fretting, she focused on helping Michelle extract Rolf’s walking frame without scratching any duco.
She was sweating by the time they all stepped out of a battered lift into a reception area, but she didn’t want Michelle to see.
This was like a meeting with the Colville staff committee, best faced with a warm smile and a brisk, positive attitude.
To calm herself, she examined the room: dark walls, big sofas and an enormous flatscreen TV playing a game show.
‘Katrina Quigley for The Drift,’ she told the woman at the front desk, who immediately picked up her phone. After about a minute, another woman appeared, friendly and harried, wearing jeans and sneakers and a slightly forced smile. It was Gina. Katrina remembered her from the state swimming meet.
‘Katrina, thanks for doing this,’ Gina said, shaking her hand. ‘We’re really pleased you decided to trust us with your story and Rod can’t wait to meet you.’
‘I can’t wait to meet him.’ Katrina inclined her head in Michelle’s direction. ‘This is my business partner, Michelle Redlin-Wu, and her father, Rolf. Is there somewhere they can watch the show?’
‘Sure.’ Gina didn’t seem fazed. ‘They’re welcome to use the green room. Let me organise some passes.’
They had to wait, smiling inanely, as the receptionist printed out stickers. Michelle slapped hers on her bag then turned to help Rolf.
‘Kelli! Over here!’ Gina waved down a small, owlish production assistant, who absorbed Gina’s instructions, gave a nod that somehow conveyed she was ludicrously busy but never too busy for Gina, and led Michelle and Rolf away.
Michelle looked back. ‘Good luck!’ she called, and Katrina, a lump in her throat, gave a little wave. Breaking into a smile, Michelle waved back, then disappeared after the assistant.
Katrina was on her own.
Gina ushered her into an ugly corridor full of grey lino, turning left, then right, then left again until Katrina was dizzy. At last they stopped outside a door that looked exactly like all the others. It didn’t even have a sign on it.
‘Hair and make-up,’ Gina announced, examining Katrina’s face. ‘Not that you’ll need much. There’s water in there, but want a coffee or tea?’
Katrina shook her head.
‘Rightio, I’ll be back fifteen minutes before your segment to prep you and take you on set.’ Gina pushed open the door, unleashing a tide of delicate, cosmetic smells. ‘Astrid? This is Katrina. I’ll leave her in your capable hands.’
Katrina stepped into a small room crammed with three black swivel chairs that faced a wall of beautifully lit mirrors.
Several metric tonnes of pots, jars, palettes and brushes were crowded onto the vanity.
A young woman with thick false eyelashes and filled lips aimed a mechanical smile at Katrina and said, ‘Hi.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Astrid.’ Normally Katrina would have been in her element, but now she wasn’t sure if she could sit still. As the soft brush fluttered over her skin, she took a deep breath, picked up her phone and composed a series of messages.
To: Jus
Sweetheart, I’m sorry for lying to you, and I know you’re furious with me, but if you care about the facts, watch The Drift at 6.30pm at Love you always.
To: Craig
Please do us both a favour and watch The Drift at 6.30pm before you waste any more of our money on lawyers.
To: Mum
Hi Mum, I’m so sorry I missed your calls. If you want to know what the bridge ladies will be talking about tomorrow, you should watch The Drift tonight at 6.30pm because I’ll be on it. x K
To: Gabby
is an excellent high-end kennel that specialises in infirm dogs and has vacancies for after Christmas since I won’t be taking Rocky. The Drift 6.30pm.
To: Pauline
Attached is your garbage schedule. Manage your own bins. The Drift 6.30pm.
To: Nicola
Here is the Colville Shop link, please use it. The Drift 6.30pm.
Katrina itched to write more to those women, but restrained herself.
To: Cameron Mayhew
Dear Dr Mayhew, I read your email this morning with surprise and consternation, deeply disappointed that you would act upon scurrilous rumours without asking a long-standing member of your community for her side of the story.
I had supposed that the ‘justice’ portion of the school’s motto – fortitudo, patientia, iustitia – was still part of the Colville creed, but perhaps I was wrong.
If you, as the principal of Colville, have any interest in the truth, you should watch The Drift tonight at 6. 30pm.
Katrina dispatched the final text, then switched her phone to silent because her mother was bound to start calling and she couldn’t deal with that right now.
‘Soften, soothe and allow,’ she recited to herself, remembering her app.
She had to ignore Astrid’s sloppy technique with the blush brush and focus on her performance as Katrina, businesswoman extraordinaire.
It was so hard, though. She was frantic about her hair – perhaps a French roll would have been better than the chignon?
– her twitching eye, her dry mouth . . .
And where the hell was Filippo? Had he arrived yet?
* * *
Rolf loved the green room at Hemisphere Productions.
He loved the plush sofas and espresso machine.
He loved the food laid out for guests: pretzels and protein balls, wraps, sushi rolls and, best of all, mini quiches.
He was less impressed by the industry-related magazines piled up everywhere, but with so many TVs around, who had time to read anyway?
There were four TVs, every one of them tuned to The Drift.
Perched next to Rolf, Michelle watched a segment about luxurious retirement communities.
A glittering, grey-haired, ‘third-age consultant’ named Celeste went on and on about a place called Gordon Gardens, where the residents played golf and croquet, learned cordon bleu cookery, had access to an on-site medical clinic, hairdresser and nail salon, and enjoyed a shuttle service to the local shops and train station.
‘Some of our residents surf every morning,’ Celeste said in a voice like tinkling silver bells.
‘And we have a program of guest lecturers, as well as talks by residents, drawing on their decades of wisdom and experience, which are so often ignored. Sometimes I call it the “third rage”, because of the way our elders are shunted off into geriatric ghettos when they have so much to offer the community.’
‘Yes, now, that’s true,’ Rolf said through a mouthful of chicken wrap. ‘She’s talking a lot of sense. I like the cut of her jib.’ After a moment, he added, ‘I wonder if they need any military history lecturers?’
Michelle was barely listening. She was nervous about Katrina, who’d just sent her an anxious text: Is Filippo in the green room?
With a sinking feeling, Michelle replied, No, then buried her face in her hands.
Oh, God, was he going to show? He’d said he would have to talk to some people – maybe he’d meant Bianca.
Maybe Bianca was setting them up, so that Filippo could take them down.
But would he really yield to her pressure?
Of course he would. They were practically engaged.
When Celeste’s segment ended and an ad break began, Michelle found it difficult to tolerate her father’s rambling commentary about Gordon Gardens and how it was the one aged-care home he could tolerate.
‘We can’t afford it, Dad,’ was all she could choke out.