Chapter 1 #3
‘Are you saying this isn’t work?’ Her hand swept across the counter and connected with the glass baking dish of marinating prawns.
There was an odd, thrilling moment where she caught one of the handles and thought she’d saved it, but then the other handle slipped and the dish dropped onto her smoked-oak floorboards, smashing into big, jagged pieces.
She dropped to her knees, avoiding shards of glass. ‘Grab the Creuset!’ she cried.
But Craig didn’t grab the Creuset. He didn’t move a whisker, so Katrina yanked open the bottom drawer and pulled out her prized enamelled casserole pot – a wedding present from her mother.
She glanced up to see Craig frowning over his phone. Oh, God. Was he checking the dreaded banking app?
‘Jesus, Katrina, you spend eighty-five dollars on prawns, then drop them all over the floor?’ His voice sounded tight.
‘I can save them!’ Katrina crawled around, trying to scoop up the seafood slush, while Craig pocketed his phone, grim-faced. Stupid prawn tails were pricking her fingers and the chermoula stung.
‘Stop being hysterical,’ he said. ‘You can’t serve those prawns, the glass might have gotten into them.’
He was right, she knew he was, but she didn’t want to admit it. Shovelling the last prawn into the pot, she set it on the kitchen island. Then a great wave of exhaustion washed over her. She had run out of time and needed a new plan.
‘You’ll have to greet the guests,’ she said dully, ‘while I dash to the shops to find something else.’
‘Will you listen? For once?’ Craig gripped the edge of the kitchen island, white-knuckled. ‘I’m not staying to greet the guests. I’m not coming at all. I don’t want to be here.’
She sighed, gesturing at the mess. ‘I don’t want to be here either, right now. Couldn’t you help clean up? Just this once? I do so much work around here—’
‘What you do isn’t work, it’s bullshit!’ Craig turned brick red as he waved his phone at her. ‘All you do is drain my bank account! Last week you wasted a hundred dollars on the gardener and you got the groceries delivered again when I told you not to!’
Oh, for— ‘Stop!’ She couldn’t take any more.
‘This is work! Yes, we have a gardener for the heavy jobs and yes, I got a big shop with cleaning products delivered this week because I destroyed the tendon in my elbow carrying bags, remember? You have no idea about the work I do around here, because you’re not interested!
I’m like Dobby the House Elf, like some sort of .
. . domestic appliance! A human blender! And I’m sick of it!’
Craig leaned back, suddenly calm. The colour had drained from his face. It was almost eerie. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Fine. I’m out. I’m going.’
‘Going where? To the pub?’ Katrina slapped the sink mixer, which blasted water onto her sticky hands. ‘We can’t afford prawns, but we can afford that?’
‘No, I mean I’m out of this marriage.’
As the tap hissed, Katrina stared at her husband. Slowly, almost tauntingly, he took off his wedding ring and laid it on the Carrara Crema marble, and Katrina felt her first twinge of fear.
She brushed it off. ‘Craig, I’m sorry I snapped and I’m sorry the prawns cost so much, but I don’t need to spend any more money. I’ll just bulk up the bolognese.’ She could dress it up and call it a ‘ragu’ – she had basil in the fridge.
He ignored her, striding out of the room. She turned off the tap and, in the silence, heard him stomping upstairs.
‘Craig? What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to pack,’ he said loudly.
She trailed after him, her mind churning through scenarios. Did he have a fever? A brain tumour? When she arrived in the master bedroom, he’d already grabbed the duffel bag she’d got him last Christmas and thrown it onto the bed.
‘What’s going on?’ She went to him, but he turned his back on her. ‘Have you lost your job? Has something happened to your mother?’ She tried to touch his shoulder, but he shrugged her off.
As she watched him dump a drawerful of underwear into his bag, something clicked in her head. He couldn’t take care of himself. He never had. He couldn’t cook a decent meal and just look at the way he was packing!
‘Hang on, you can’t survive without someone else. Who is it?’
‘Not important,’ Craig said flatly.
Katrina was starting to shake. Who did Craig even know? His secretary? His personal trainer? ‘Is it Ainsley? Wait – no – Olivia?’
Then, in gut-wrenching flashes, she saw it. That French girl, Roxane, at the bank dinner a few months ago. Beachy, intense, late twenties, with masses of dark hair, chunky silver jewellery and a shoulder tattoo that said ‘je m’élève’, which Katrina had googled later. It meant ‘I rise’ in French.
Craig taking up surfing again at Manly six months ago, leaving at 5am every day and going straight to work afterwards. Katrina had encouraged it because it was great exercise.
Worst of all, Roxane sitting in Katrina’s kitchen, draped over Katrina’s marble counter, while Craig leaned in a little too close to refill her wine glass.
‘That French girl with the tattoo. Who works in risk management.’ Katrina was gulping like a fish.
‘You couldn’t even begin to understand someone like Roxane.’ Craig’s tone was lofty. ‘You’re so narrow and suburban and stuck. She’s done more for me in the last six months than you’ve done in the last twenty years.’
It was like being stabbed in the heart. Katrina crumpled, sliding slowly to the floor.
‘But . . . but . . .’ Her head was spinning; this didn’t make sense.
Then her attention was caught by a stain on the Heriz rug.
She thought dazedly: That needs to be fixed.
‘But haven’t I been a good wife?’ she whimpered. ‘Craig? What happened?’
He was packing his T-shirts, now – the same ones she’d washed and folded for him. ‘What does that even mean, a good wife?’
He pronounced the word ‘wife’ with a disdain she couldn’t bear. Then he disappeared into the ensuite.
‘What didn’t I do?’ Katrina began reciting the list in a low voice, more for her own sake than his: ‘I’ve been your lover, your friend, your therapist and social secretary.
I’ve collected your suits from the dry cleaners, I’ve been a tutor, a coach and a chauffeur to our kids, I do all the shopping and cooking and cleaning, I’ve made medical appointments for all of us, I’ve paid bills, taken you for your heart scans, filled your prescriptions, renovated the house so it’s gorgeous, walked and wormed poor Bella, nursed her through her cancer – and this is how it ends?
’ No, that couldn’t be true. She’d done everything right.
Everything. Unless she hadn’t, somehow? ‘Craig, I spend my life trying to make everything smooth and easy for you and the boys . . .’
He was banging around in his medicine cabinet and didn’t respond.
‘I try to stay fit.’ She was racking her brain. ‘I’ve listened to your surfing stories. I even give you blow jobs on birthdays and significant holidays. We still have sex every two weeks.’
Craig emerged from the ensuite with his toiletries bag. ‘You hardly enjoy it.’
He wasn’t wrong, but he didn’t appreciate how hard Katrina worked to get herself in the mood each fortnight.
The truth was, her libido wasn’t what it used to be.
She’d put off telling Craig out of sheer embarrassment, hoping it would bounce back when she had more time.
Currently, the only bedroom activity she craved after 9pm was sleep.
‘We’re busy people!’ she cried, sitting up. ‘And we’re not in our twenties anymore. What can I do to fix this?’
‘Nothing.’ He stuffed his gym gear into his bag – gym gear that wasn’t even clean. The zip whizzed shut. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’
There had to be. Experience told her she should back off and not look needy. Give him space. Ride the rapids, as she always had in the past.
On the other hand, this was different. This was another woman.
‘What about the boys?’ She felt dizzy as she imagined telling her sons. ‘Justin isn’t fifteen yet. Hamish is just finding his feet at uni.’
‘They’ll be fine. Justin’s always done well and Hamish is never around.’ Craig slung his bag over his shoulder. ‘I’ll talk to them tomorrow.’
Katrina watched, dumbfounded, as he headed for the bedroom door. He was doing it. He was actually doing it.
A torrent of fear ripped through her. ‘We can talk this through! Craig? Please. Don’t give up.
You’re not a quitter.’ What else could she say?
Nothing judgemental. Leave the lines open, just in case .
. . ‘I’ll be waiting, sweetheart, if you need to figure things out.
’ She’d been trying to sound measured, but her voice was wrong, all querulous and desperate.
As she watched his retreating back, she was hit by another wave of panic. Oh God, what about Christmas? All the family were coming. Katrina had found outdoor lights on sale. She’d already ordered the ham!
‘You have to be home for Christmas!’ she cried. ‘We’re hosting this year. Craig! Why are you doing this?’
Craig turned at the top of the stairs. ‘You really need me to spell it out for you?’
‘Yes!’
‘Roxane is a serious person.’ He gazed at her, as if from an enormous distance.
‘She’s interested in politics and ideas, and she earns her own living like a grown-up.
All you talk about are the boys and the house and those dimwits at Colville, and whether those bullshit shoes go with that bullshit dress, and you tear around spending my money like a drunk.
I mean, you think your cushions and casserole pots are the height of sophistication .
. . And you keep bombarding me with childish bloody emojis!
’ He took a deep breath, then said in a withering tone, ‘Face it, Kat, you’re just a dull, suburban housewife. ’
Katrina was still gasping, choking, as the front door slammed.