Chapter 8 #2
Michelle pulled a face at herself in the mirror. ‘It feels all wrong to be going to a business appointment in clothes like this,’ she said, adjusting her waistband. ‘Are these too tight? They seem too tight.’
Poor Michelle. She just didn’t have the fashion gene. She couldn’t see that her very essence had been distilled and translated into fabric form, so that the whole world could admire her inner elegance.
‘You don’t want to feel businessy, you have to get into the role.
’ She yanked at Michelle’s back pockets.
Definitely the right size – Michelle’s rear looked amazing, like the bottom of a woman twenty years younger.
‘You can do almost anything in this outfit. Lunch, a movie, shopping, meeting friends – it even has day-to-night possibilities!’
As Katrina crouched to check that the pants hem hit Michelle’s ankle at exactly the right spot, she saw her business partner suck in her cheeks, pulling a ‘mirror face’ at herself. Ha! Michelle knew how hot she looked. She just didn’t want to admit it.
Hiding her smile, Katrina stood behind Michelle and adjusted the top. Perfect.
‘Yes,’ she said, meeting Michelle’s eye in the mirror. ‘You’re a Dreamwife, all right.’
* * *
Sitting in her parked car, Michelle switched off the Lakmé ‘Flower Duet’. It wasn’t going to calm her down. Nothing would. The minutes were ticking by and she felt nauseous with fear because, despite what Katrina had said, she wasn’t really a Dreamwife. She was nothing but a fraud.
She glanced down at her pearly top, tight jeans, new shoes.
Did she even look the part? Filippo Balducci had asked for ‘casual and comfortable’, but these jeans weren’t comfortable.
They were practically cutting off her circulation; she was afraid her legs would go numb, and that didn’t fill her with confidence.
Neither did the neighbourhood, which was terrifying – not because it was disadvantaged, but because it was the opposite.
Balducci lived on the north-western tip of Millers Point, in a little knot of back streets perched high above Walsh Bay.
The houses here were old and worth many millions each.
‘Okay,’ said Michelle, taking a deep breath.
But she still lacked the courage to get out.
Around her, everything looked scrubbed and sterile.
All the parked cars were luxury models, the footpaths were empty, not a leaf stirred.
A few lamps glowed behind drawn curtains, but at six thirty on a Wednesday evening, there wasn’t a soul in sight.
How could it be so deathly quiet when the theatres were only a ten-minute walk away?
As if to answer her question, an elderly couple climbed out of a blue BMW just down the street, stiff and white-haired but all dressed up: the woman wore a sequinned top, the man a bow tie.
Typical, Michelle thought, as they shuffled away.
They’ve got a Beemer but still don’t want to pay for parking.
Something about the combination of white hair and bow tie made Michelle think of Rolf.
For a fleeting instant, she felt vaguely comforted.
Then a flash of irritation energised her enough to push her out of the car.
She grabbed her handbag and plunged into the rarefied hush of this exclusive little enclave.
Crossing the street, she texted Katrina: In position.
Filippo Balducci’s place was one half of a three-storeyed, double-fronted stone terrace with wooden shutters, harbour glimpses and an elegant little yard.
His front door was painted black, with a shiny brass knocker that might have been purely ornamental, since there was also a doorbell.
Michelle dithered. Which one would a wife use? Neither – a wife would let herself in.
‘Hello!’ Tapping at the door, she tried for a melodious yodel and ended up with a squawk. ‘I, um, forgot my key!’
She heard creaking inside and a jet of panic shot through her. What if she was stepping off a cliff into oblivion?
But it was fine. Not only had she done her security checks, Ilse had vouched for Filippo and Katrina knew where she was.
‘Megan! My darling!’
The light hit her first, then the music, then the warm, eager voice. She saw dark walls and carved frames. A face swooped towards her: gleaming white teeth, strong jaw, a woody, spicy scent.
‘Welcome home!’
Before she could do more than smile inanely, she was being swept down a hallway into a high-ceilinged room full of urns, mirrors, busts, tribal prints, inlaid wood, Chinese lacquer and rococo chairs, all of which blended together beautifully thanks to a subtle and soothing colour scheme.
A set of folding doors stood open, framing another jaw-dropping room that contained an eight-seater dining suite laid with a cloth, cutlery, crystal, flowers.
The house looked like something out of a magazine.
Realising that her mouth was ajar, Michelle shut it quickly. Thank God she’d listened to Katrina. Imagine if she’d turned up in track pants with no bra!
‘It never fails to have an impact, does it? This place.’ Filippo Balducci thrust a glass of red wine in her direction.
She took it and glanced into his face, which was only a few inches higher than hers.
Having checked him out on social media, she recognised his features, but somehow, in person, Filippo Balducci had an impact that photos couldn’t convey.
There was mischief in his eyes, which were big and brown.
His glossy black hair had a hint of grey at the temples, and though he wasn’t tall, his thick-set, broad-shouldered frame seemed to dominate the room.
He was dressed in a crisp white cotton shirt and chinos, plus suede loafers without socks.
The guy worked out, Michelle felt sure, yet he was light on his feet, and constantly moving.
As he twinkled at her, Michelle wondered what was amusing him: the whole situation or her befuddlement?
He had to be aware of the impression he was making. He was putting enough effort into it.
Michelle scrambled to collect her thoughts. She couldn’t imagine why Filippo Balducci was hiring a Dreamwife. He didn’t need one: he was Mr Charisma.
‘How are you, amore mio?’ he asked, eyes dancing over the rim of his glass. ‘Hard day at the office?’
Michelle grabbed on to that – Filippo’s Dreamwife must work. Why else would she be arriving home so late?
‘Awful. Horrendous.’ Then, because Michelle was used to reading clients’ body language and felt she needed to match this one’s vitality, she added, ‘I quit my job.’
Filippo gave a snort of laughter, nearly choking on his wine. But he recovered quickly. ‘Oh, my darling, was it that bastard Anatole?’
Anatole? Michelle wondered how many people would have plucked a name like that out of thin air. ‘No,’ she said, playing along, ‘it was . . . Lysander, actually.’
‘Lysander the Liar?’
‘No, Lysander the Letch.’ Michelle felt quite pleased with herself when he laughed again. Emboldened, she said, ‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Your favourite, of course – fiori di zucca, gnocchi ai frutti di mare, and a nice scaloppine ai funghi.’
Michelle was still trying to tot up the courses – was that three or four?
– when he launched into a long account of sourcing porcini mushrooms. By the time he’d finished, they were in his luxurious kitchen.
He started apologising for not making his own gnocchi today (big meeting at work) and Michelle realised she was in the presence of a genuine food connoisseur.
Her heart sank. Was she supposed to help?
If so, how? Her idea of haute cuisine was making her own stock. She’d never even watched MasterChef.
None of Katrina’s ideas – wear an apron, ask him to open the wine, tell him you spent the whole day going to the gym and cleaning out cupboards – seemed to apply here, perhaps because Filippo had an iron grip on the dinner, the décor, the atmosphere – everything.
Michelle reminded herself that he was Italian, and every Italian she’d ever met had been a foodie. Maybe he was the sort of guy who preferred educating people (especially women) on things like Spanish versus Italian olive oil. She could only play along.
‘Yum,’ she said. ‘Fantastic. Thanks, hon. What would I do without you?’
That big smile again. ‘The zucchini flowers are almost ready.’
Michelle tried to smile back. ‘Would you like some help?’ Please say no.
‘No, no! Not after your terrible day. Just relax.’
What a relief. Still, as she wriggled onto a bar stool, she puzzled over her role in all this. He’d said on his questionnaire that he wanted to know what he was doing wrong when it came to domestic relationships, but as far as Michelle could see, the answer was: nothing.
‘Is Verdi too much for you, right now?’ He tossed something green into a food processor with one hand while manipulating a frying pan with the other. ‘If you want to change it, the new smart speaker arrived today. You might not be able to make it work . . .’
‘Verdi’s fine. It’s great.’ La Traviata. One of Michelle’s favourites. She noticed the two plates laid out to receive the first course and surreptitiously googled them. They were from the Richard Ginori ‘Catene’ range, at least $200 apiece. Jesus.
‘So how was your day?’ she asked. ‘Are you still having trouble with that guy?’
The line was one of Katrina’s. She’d recommended it, along with a follow-up (‘That guy who was being a pain about invoices?’), in case the response was ‘What guy?’ But Filippo didn’t need the follow-up. He caught on instantly.