Chapter 1 #2
‘Pauline, I know you wanted to look good for the gala, but a full chemical peel is an extreme procedure.’ Katrina would be tidying the uniform shop alone tomorrow, for sure.
‘I’m sorry you’re bright red. Can you and Bailey still make it tonight?
. . . We’re all friends, we don’t care how you look . . .’
She tried to keep her voice light because she didn’t blame Pauline. Occasionally, efforts needed to look good could backfire; she herself had been traumatised by last year’s supervillain eyebrows, after a gung-ho injectables nurse had gone to town on her face.
‘Fantastic. What, your bins? Of course.’
Every time Bailey went away for work, Katrina helped by driving over to Pauline’s and wheeling out her bins for collection.
Poor Pauline had a herniated disc and her teenage daughter was a germaphobe who refused to touch the bins.
‘Now – one more thing. Did you hear back about the balloon garland for the entrance? School colours, amaranth and French navy . . .’ She steered her car towards the exit, trying to be polite, nodding at the Head of Music, letting the ancient-history teacher pull his battered Toyota in front of her.
‘I know the salespeople can be pushy. Yes, I’m sure she was toxic.
I know, being highly sensitive must be both a gift and a curse.
Yes, you’ve been a terrific help. A key player.
I’ll give the balloon people a call myself. ’
Really, it would be simpler for Katrina to do everything, since Pauline had a way of working herself into a flap.
But who among them was perfect? Katrina certainly wasn’t; she remembered with a wince that she’d forgotten to clean her skirting boards again.
She’d better do that before her mother visited, or she’d never hear the end of it.
Steering the car with one hand, Katrina ripped the buds from her ears and added the balloon garland and skirting boards to her enormous mental list. Justin was slouched in the seat beside her, tapping his phone.
With a pang, she saw his nails were still chewed to the quick.
That bitter-nail stuff wasn’t doing the job.
A silver Porsche Cayenne cut in front of them. As Katrina slammed on the brakes, Justin lurched forward, dropping his phone. ‘Mum!’
Katrina restrained herself from punching the horn, because that was rude and Chloe Dalton was going through a rough divorce. But did a rough divorce give Chloe the right to act like a total you-know-what?
Stop it, Katrina told herself. Good Colville citizens were not impatient or unkind, even with challenging people like Chloe Dalton. Patience was even in the school motto.
Taking a deep breath, Katrina smiled brightly and waved at the red-headed woman in the silver Porsche.
Two hours later, Katrina stood in her kitchen, frowning at a cookbook.
Arranged on her benchtop were diced onion and minced garlic, a jar of preserved lemons, a bowl of sliced potatoes, two tins of chickpeas and a glass dish of prawns marinating in rose chermoula sauce.
The prawns had been expensive, but poor Pauline couldn’t eat most things, except (oddly enough) seafood.
And buckwheat. And nightshade vegetables.
The salads were snug in the fridge, their dressings in jars beside them.
At the rear of the induction stovetop bubbled a pot of bolognese for Hamish and Justin, neither of whom liked fussy food.
Everything was under control – except that Katrina didn’t have any nigella seeds.
She’d found fenugreek, sumac and even asafoetida tucked away in the pantry behind Craig’s oat milk, but no nigella seeds.
‘I hate you, Kirk.’ She flipped shut her cookbook to gaze at the cover.
Celebrity chef Kirk Keane smiled back at her, all rumpled linen, calculated stubble and bright blue eyes.
Kirk famously ate organic, never drank alcohol and wrote bestsellers printed on recycled paper.
This third book of his, Clean, was the follow-up to Fresh and Green, and it was all about allergy-friendly foods.
According to Keane, nigella seeds were used in traditional African medicine and were supposed to have a range of health benefits. But would they be missed? Katrina had no idea, though you couldn’t go to a dinner party these days without seeing nigella seeds caught in your hostess’s teeth.
Katrina was deciding whether to dash to the ruinously expensive local grocer or do without the nigella seeds when she heard lumbering footsteps on the stairs.
Hamish, her eldest son, had his dad’s heavy tread, as well as Craig’s thick neck and lobster tan from year-round surfing.
Hearing keys jingle, Katrina felt a flash of alarm.
Oh, no. She’d forgotten Jock’s birthday. Half the bolognese wasted!
By the time she’d glanced up, Hamish had disappeared into the front room. ‘Are you wearing your white linen button-down?’ she called. ‘And did you get a present for Jock? Hamish? Look in the present drawer!’
The front door slammed.
Katrina sighed and went to find her tagine. She barely used it – who did, except Berbers in the High Atlas mountains? – so it would need a wash. She was drying the awkwardly shaped thing with a tea towel when her phone rang. Pauline, of course.
Katrina shoved in an earbud and pressed the button, only to be bombarded with bad news: swollen lips, broken capillaries, inflamed mucous membranes.
‘Oh, dear,’ she kept saying. ‘Oh, dear, that does sound bad. A reaction to the chemical peel? Of course hospital’s the best place.
Oh, dear.’ She slung the tea towel back on the oven handle, trying not to sigh.
‘I hope Bailey’s looking after you. He’s still coming tonight?
By himself? Of course that’s fine. We’d love to see him. But don’t you want him there with you?’
No, Pauline didn’t. Katrina suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Last time Bailey had come to dinner, he’d brought his new drone, which he’d crashed on the roof.
‘I’m sorry . . . of course . . . get well .
. .’ Katrina hung up and put her phone on silent, because she really needed to focus on the prawns.
While she lined the bottom of the tagine with potato slices and scattered on the garlic and onion, she ran through her mental list – pasta, towels, shower, dress . . .
She felt a rush of relief when Craig’s car pulled into the driveway. He was half an hour late, but she could work with that. Justin could take over the bolognese bubbling on the stove and Craig could keep an eye on the prawns while she jumped in the shower. It was fine; she would easily catch up.
As soon as Craig appeared, tie askew, he headed for the fridge.
After a long day’s work, he never looked his best, and Katrina found herself noticing his jowls, bald spot, love handles and crow’s feet.
But really, he hadn’t changed that much.
Same tall frame, same tanned surfer’s face she’d fallen in love with all those years ago at the beach, though now it was more lined and sunken.
Same muscular neck, sunburned above the collar.
Same meaty hands, thick fingers and rolling, bulldog walk.
‘Hi darling,’ she said. ‘Where’s Justin?’
He paused.
Oh, no. ‘You forgot to pick him up?’ Katrina checked her phone – yes, Justin had messaged her.
Sensibly, he’d given up and gone to the bus stop to embark on a trip which would take him at least an hour.
Katrina felt the familiar tug of guilt. How long had her son been standing outside the hall, waiting for a parent to arrive?
Swiftly, she texted: So sorry, sweetheart!
‘Craig, the Gala Parents Committee’s coming tonight, remember?’
His face darkened. ‘Shit.’ He peered into the fridge, scowling. ‘Forget it. Tell them I’m busy.’
Sometimes Craig got belligerent about Colville.
Katrina couldn’t understand why, since he’d gone to an exclusive private school in Melbourne.
But then again, he’d rejected all that when he’d come to Sydney to surf, party and upset his poor parents by not studying much.
She was making a mental note to buy her father-in-law a birthday card when she caught a whiff of something.
Alcohol. Craig had been out at the pub – was that why he’d forgotten to pick up Justin?
‘I know you’ve had a day, but would you mind giving me a hand by choosing some really nice wines after you get changed? We need good vibes to outmanoeuvre the staff committee and their woeful ideas.’
‘For God’s sake, I don’t even want to do this!’ He slammed the fridge door shut; whatever he’d been looking for wasn’t in there. ‘I’m not on your boring committee. If I have to talk to Pauline one more time, I’ll shoot myself.’
Katrina suppressed a sigh. Breathe, she told herself. Calm blue ocean. ‘Well, Pauline’s not coming. Luckily for you.’
‘Her idiot husband, then. I don’t care if Bailey’s high up in tech, I’m not going onto the roof again for his drone.’
‘Gabby’s coming, and Nicola and Alex, too. You like them. And poor Pauline can’t help her allergies.’
‘Pauline’s a bore, Nicola’s an alcoholic and Gabby’s a pushy bitch.’
Katrina was shocked. How could Craig be so intolerant?
Gabby, Nicola and Pauline had been Katrina’s best friends at high school and they had reconnected when their kids started there.
Yes, Gabby had a strong personality, but she was fiercely loyal.
Sure, Nicola liked a drink, but she was supportive and upbeat.
Calling her an alcoholic was a stretch. Not to mention ironic.
‘Don’t be mean. Anyway, I’d like you to be here. I miss you – you’re always out surfing.’
‘Out surfing? I’m out working. So you can fritter away my money on fancy dinner parties, while I plug away managing bank assets . . .’
With the bolognese cooking, the toilet still to scrub and the red hand sweeping closer to her guests’ arrival time, Katrina resented such gross injustice.