Chapter 19
Katrina felt as if Rod had landed a roundhouse kick to her ovaries. For a few seconds she was frozen, her eyelid twitching. Finally, she found her voice.
‘Rod, it’s not what you think.’ She tried to tamp down her rising panic. ‘The gentleman was asking if I could check his moles—’
Rod smirked. ‘But you seem to be stroking his chest, Katrina . . .’
The CCTV footage returned, very briefly, and showed Katrina touching her client’s chest, just below the shoulder.
Dry-mouthed, heart hammering, Katrina fought the urge to bolt.
Who could help her? No one. She was about to be stitched up on live TV, her reputation, Michelle’s reputation, permanently destroyed, and her mind was blank.
She hated the way Rod’s patronising voice reduced her to something silly and small.
It was the same feeling she’d had when Craig had told her she was dull and suburban; the same feeling she’d got reading Dr Mayhew’s frosty email.
As if she was a malfunctioning appliance or a wayward servant.
But she was neither of those things. A bolt of anger shot through her and she reminded herself that she was a fighter – a grown woman with valuable skills that people were willing to pay for.
Why shouldn’t she be proud of her eight-hour lamb shoulder?
That recipe had fed a hell of a lot of people over the years!
Why was liking shopping centres a shameful thing, subject to ridicule?
Shopping centres were extremely convenient, especially when you had limited time between dropping off and picking up kids.
And yes, Katrina liked fashion, and emojis, and had strong opinions about how often towels should be washed, but those things didn’t make her an idiot, and she would not be treated like one by this man or anyone else.
As her vision cleared, she took a deep breath and jabbed her finger at the CCTV footage.
‘Zoom in if you want the truth!’ she cried. ‘Zoom right in! On my hand, Rod! You’ll see I’m not stroking anything!’
‘Well, I don’t know if—’ Rod began, exactly like one of her teenage sons backpedalling in an argument.
She would not brook it. ‘I was telling that gentleman to go to the doctor, like a decent wife would,’ she continued, as if Rod hadn’t spoken. ‘I was pointing at a mole. Zoom in and you’ll see it. Where’s the control room?’ She squinted into the darkness.
Rod looked taken aback. ‘I don’t think—’
But Katrina was past caring. ‘Please, if you don’t mind, zoom in!’
Rod glanced off camera with a tiny shrug. Then the CCTV footage filled the closest screen again, slightly fuzzier, but still clear enough to make out a polished, blush-coloured fingernail, and just next to the fingernail, a blurry dark spot on the man’s pale skin.
‘This client asked for a mole check, I told him I wasn’t a doctor but one of them did have an irregular border and he ought to get it checked. Then I left. A perfect wife moment – despite this client breaking the terms of our Dreamwives contract.’
‘Hmm.’ Rod sniffed. ‘I suppose that’s one explanation.’
Katrina shot him a fierce glance. ‘Yes, Rod, the correct one.’
After tilting his chin in a speculative manner, Rod pushed back. ‘In this case, sure, but if it’s always the case, why no testimonials on your website? Why are all your clients so . . . erm . . . shy?’
Katrina floundered. Dear God, she’d known lack of client support would sink them.
‘Or perhaps some of them aren’t so shy!’ Rod abruptly changed gears.
‘We do have someone else in the studio tonight – a Dreamwives client who’s not afraid to speak up.
Here to discuss Dreamwives is Filippo Balducci, Chief General Manager of Torcello Asia-Pacific Holdings.
Filippo, thanks so much for joining us.’
A man walked onto the set: dark, forty-something, shortish and muscular, wearing the most exquisitely cut Italian suit – Brioni or perhaps Zegna – and mouth-watering oxblood brogues, probably also Italian.
Katrina nearly melted with relief but masked her gratitude with a welcoming nod as Filippo settled into the chair beside her.
‘Would you say you were a brave man to come on and talk about how you hired a wife?’ Rod asked him.
Filippo shook his head, his expression calm. Unreadable. ‘No, not at all. As a hospitality professional at Torcello, I understand the need to create a nurturing and comfortable environment for my customers, so I feel uniquely qualified to speak about what Dreamwives does.’
Filippo was such a natural onscreen that Katrina thought he made Rod look stilted and poorly dressed. It was as if Filippo had emerged from the womb camera-ready. But would he come through for Dreamwives, or was he here to promote his own company?
‘What Dreamwives does is provide extreme customer service,’ Filippo went on. ‘Ultra-personalised service is the new frontier in hospitality. At Torcello, we try to provide a similar level of client relations.’
Torcello. Again.
‘But, Filippo,’ Rod said, ‘why would a successful man like you need a service like this? You’re not married?’
Filippo smiled ruefully. ‘I discovered I didn’t have the skills for a commitment like that, which is why I became interested in Dreamwives. You see, I’m not a man who is good at compromise. I have the same problem at work. I’m a perfectionist, even at Torcello.’
Katrina’s smile was so tight, she thought her jaw muscles might snap. Filippo’s appearance was a disaster. Torcello, Torcello, Torcello. It was all a marketing ploy!
‘So how did Dreamwives fix that?’ Rod asked.
‘For me, it was therapeutic,’ Filippo said smoothly.
‘My Dreamwife listened to me, watched how I interacted and helped me unlearn a lot of rigid habits that have held me back when it comes to domestic harmony. I have learned about give-and-take. I have learned to relax.’ He shrugged in a very Italian kind of way and sat back in his seat, hands clasped.
Katrina’s joints seemed to melt with relief. She had a hard time staying upright in her chair. He wasn’t just plugging Torcello!
‘So is there anything either of you would like to say to current or future clients of Dreamwives?’ Rod asked.
‘I’m a satisfied Dreamwives client,’ Filippo replied, ‘and I’m happy to endorse the company, which provides a valuable service. My Dreamwife made me a better man.’
Katrina was desperate to grasp his arm and whisper, ‘Do you mean a better man for Bianca or Michelle?’ But she was being filmed, so she fixed him with her most gracious smile.
In response, he dipped his chin as if to say, ‘Your turn.’
She swivelled to face the camera, imagining her audience.
Hundreds of thousands of people watched The Drift, but it wasn’t only prospective Dreamwives clients she wanted to address.
She wanted to send a message to the Colville community, to her mother, to Craig, to her boys, but most of all, to those millions of women in the shadows, the ones who washed the world’s towels.
‘I want to tell everyone out there who does this kind of work to never forget that you are making a major contribution,’ she said, her voice full of emotion.
‘No one gives you a promotion, or a pay rise, or annual leave – in fact, no one really notices you at all – but the truth is, the global economy would collapse without the unpaid cooking, cleaning, caring and supporting you do. That work matters. You matter. And at Dreamwives, we value that work, and we’re extremely proud of the difference we make. ’
Then the show’s jingle cut in and the director cued a commercial.
Katrina sat for a moment, panting. Though drained and slightly stunned, she felt a deep swell of satisfaction. They’d done it. She’d done it. She had nothing to hide anymore – the truth had been laid out in the sunlight for everyone to see.
It was a moment before she realised that Rod was leaning over, touching her arm.
‘Katrina? We’re done,’ he told her. ‘We have to clear the set.’
‘Oh! Right.’ She looked around for Filippo, wanting to thank him, but he’d already gone, so she thanked Rod instead.
‘No, thank you. Um . . .’ He glanced around furtively, then muttered a quick request.
But before she could do more than blink, someone called to him and he hurried away.
Katrina groped around for her bag, then remembered the production assistant taking it off her with promises to .
. . that’s right, leave it with Michelle in the green room.
Riding a wave of excitement, Katrina rushed off the set and into a grimy corridor, where a young man balancing a tray of coffees pointed her in the right direction.
Her head teemed with urgent demands. Had her boys seen the interview?
Had they heard what she’d said? Bursting through the green room door, she spotted Michelle and Rolf on the sofa, surrounded by half-eaten snacks and empty bottles.
Michelle leapt up, almost overturning the plate of biscuits Rolf was cradling.
‘Steady on!’ he said, and put another biscuit in his mouth.
‘How was it? Did I talk too fast?’ Katrina babbled. ‘Did I hit all our points? Oh God, was I okay?’
‘You were so great, and we’re already getting new bookings!’ Michelle’s phone pinged, then pinged again. ‘And someone’s already made an animated gif of you – look!’ She held up the phone to display a short clip of Katrina twinkling and saying, ‘Wives don’t, do they? Not after the honeymoon phase!’
On the sofa, Rolf brushed crumbs off his lap. ‘You were magnificent, m’dear,’ he said, and offered Katrina his plate. ‘Biscoff?’
But she barely heard him; her attention was trained on Michelle. ‘Rod just asked for a booking,’ she said, her voice low and conspiratorial.
‘Really?’ Michelle shook her head in amazement ‘Who would have believed that this would be the best Dreamwives advertisement ever?’
‘Did you notice I didn’t mention Kirk Keane once?’ Katrina was very proud of that.
‘I know.’ Michelle’s eyes were misty and her lips trembled. ‘You’re amazing. Awesome. Thank you so, so much . . .’