Chapter 9
Cocktail outfit – she glanced down at her amaranth sheath; at least she was getting some use out of the dress.
Manicure – her elegant blush fingernails were at rest on the steering wheel.
Make-up – she checked her face in the rear-view mirror and rubbed lipstick off her teeth.
Dinner – in the boot were boxes of home-brand frozen chicken nuggets, party pies, potato gems and a packet of Golden Gaytime ice creams, plus a bottle of tomato sauce.
Mr Sengupta had emailed such a bizarre list of requests that Katrina wasn’t sure how she could reconcile them.
‘Samantha’, her alias, would have to be both a trad and a trash wife to fulfil his demands.
‘I’ll have to wing it,’ she said, as the traffic began to move.
She turned off the main road and drove along a winding street shaded by enormous trees, where manicured hedges abounded and mansion roofs peeked above high walls, pinned against a harbour backdrop.
It was all a bit too imposing, and her anxiety got even worse when she arrived at the client’s house: a massive, architect-designed estate with a Fort Knox fence.
She turned into the driveway and lowered her window, expecting to find a buzzer at the gate. But there was only a tiny black box. Before she could get out of the car to search for a keypad, a robotic voice startled her.
‘Please look into the camera.’
‘Of course,’ she said, sticking on her uniform-shop smile. This explained why the client had wanted her to email her photo.
With a purr, the gate slid open.
Rolling through it, Katrina’s unease ballooned.
Her client had serious money and serious technology, like a crime boss or an oligarch’s offsider.
Breathe. She reminded herself that Michelle had done a thorough security scan after that disastrous appointment with Mole Check Guy. Arjun Sengupta seemed legit.
She was pressing the handbrake when her phone pinged.
It was Justin, asking where the TV remote was.
Check behind couch, she texted back. When she thought about her youngest son, a pall settled over her.
Barely an hour earlier, in the kitchen, he’d wrapped her in a quick, awkward hug and said, ‘It’s pretty good how Dad only left a few weeks ago and you’ve got a job already. ’
He was such a sweetheart – and she was such a fraud. Breathing in his piny deodorant, she’d barely been able to croak, ‘Thanks, sweetie.’ She’d told him she was going to a company launch, unsure if he believed it.
As she swung her heels onto the gravel driveway, her low pulse of guilt swelled.
She hated lying to Justin. She’d already lied by omission, since he didn’t know that Craig was threatening to pull him out of Colville; now she was lying about Dreamwives as well.
But she couldn’t tell him the truth. Justin would think that what she and Michelle were doing was seedy, not social work.
How could she explain to him that his mother’s alter ego, in this case sympathetic Samantha, was helping sad and lonely people find comfort of the strictly domestic kind? He wouldn’t believe it.
When Katrina reached the front door, loaded with bags, it silently swung open, revealing a young man in black-rimmed glasses, a white button-down shirt and Japanese raw denim jeans.
Arjun Sengupta didn’t look much older than Justin.
Could he be one of those tech bros who’d made billions right out of high school?
Maybe. In his job profile, he’d been calling himself a ‘logistics expert’ – that could be computer-related.
But why would someone barely old enough to drink want a fake middle-aged wife? Perhaps he had mummy issues.
Katrina pulled herself up short. It wasn’t her place to judge Arjun Sengupta or his issues – everyone was human, everyone was muddling through as best they could, including her. ‘Darling, I didn’t think you’d be home already!’ she said, shooting the young man a warm smile.
He raised one beautifully groomed eyebrow.
‘I’m not your client,’ he said dryly. ‘I’m Arjun, his assistant.
I’ll explain what you’re required to do, but first there are some documents I need you to sign.
’ He turned and stalked across a two-storeyed, ice-palace vestibule, leaving an embarrassed Katrina to lug the shopping bags inside herself.
She glimpsed a media room with a plush sofa before arriving in an open-plan kitchen/living room, which had a back wall made entirely of glass.
As she staggered into the kitchen, she was smacked in the face by the Opera House and Harbour Bridge.
She goggled, drinking in the $40 million view.
Behind the vast kitchen island, Arjun shifted and cleared his throat, then pushed a manila folder towards her. Katrina quickly dropped her bags to flip open the folder, which contained a paperclipped document with thick black letters along the top that read non-disclosure agreement.
Oh, my gosh. Who was Arjun Sengupta working for? Surely an oligarch would have hired a goon, not elegant Arjun. Maybe the client was a famous fashion designer?
Internally, Katrina clapped her hands and squealed.
‘Sign where indicated.’ He set a pen on the benchtop. ‘It’s a prerequisite to all my employer’s dealings.’
Katrina hesitated; she and Michelle hadn’t discussed non-disclosure agreements.
Then again, they’d never imagined attracting celebrity clients – and of course celebrities needed to protect themselves.
She began to read, acutely conscious of Arjun radiating a subtle aura of impatience like the burning smell from a short circuit.
Notwithstanding the forgoing provisions .
. . in violation of the terms hereof . .
. as a representative of Dreamwives . . .
As she turned to the final page, Arjun gave the pen a nudge. It flustered her. Though she couldn’t truthfully say she’d taken everything in, she’d got the general gist, and it seemed fine. She saw a line where she was supposed to print her name and a line underneath that for her signature.
But which name should she use – her real one or the alias she’d used for this booking?
Wasn’t it illegal to sign a fake name on a legal document?
Deciding on a compromise, she took up Arjun’s pen and printed Katrina Quigley (aka ‘Samantha’) over a genuine signature, hesitating before she spelled out her maiden name, which still felt unnatural.
Then she turned to the front and began signing again and again, until she was back at the end.
Arjun immediately picked up the document with a crisp flick and bestowed a polite smile on her.
‘The oven manual is in the drawer under the cutlery and the air conditioner is on a timer, so don’t touch it.
Please use the bathroom near the front door and refrain from going upstairs.
The vacuum cleaner is in the cupboard over there .
. .’ He gestured. ‘And the laundry is through that door. The dryer can be turned on without anything being put inside.’
Katrina nodded. Her mysterious client had requested domestic background noise.
‘Oh, and don’t let Buster out – he has a nasty habit of hunting birds.’ Arjun jerked his chin at an orange cat that Katrina hadn’t noticed. Reclining on the back of a sofa, Buster lifted his head and glared at her.
‘Little shit caught a rainbow lorikeet last week and by the time we found him, there were just a couple of bloody wings floating in the pool.’ Ignoring Katrina’s shudder, Arjun went on smoothly, ‘Please avoid my boss when he enters and don’t make eye contact.
Any interactions after that should involve humiliation. ’
Katrina stared at him in alarm. ‘There was nothing in the questionnaire about that,’ she said, images of whips and black leather codpieces dancing through her head.
If other people wanted to participate in such activities, that was their business, but she didn’t want to be involved. ‘What kind of humiliation?’
‘Direct criticisms from you are acceptable, but passive aggression is better. Only speak to him if you’re going to do either of those things, please. Lines could include, “I guess you haven’t done your chores?” or “Putting in the hard work there on the sofa, are you?”’
Katrina relaxed. Dreamwives were happy to provide that kind of humiliation. ‘I see.’
‘He’s having trouble sleeping, so this is an attempt to reenact his night-time rituals as a child.
When he enters the front room, allow him a few minutes and then serve his meal.
Apart from occasional critical comments, please remain in the kitchen, making noise.
Perhaps clatter dishes and pans, or run the vacuum cleaner.
As soon as he falls asleep, feel free to leave quietly.
You don’t have to clean the kitchen or the media room, the housekeeper will see to all that.
Good luck.’ Arjun turned and headed for the front door.
‘Wait, who’s my client?’ Katrina called after him.
‘Mr Kirk Keane.’ Arjun didn’t look back.
Katrina darted around the living room, admiring the enormous rug – it looked like a real Isfahan – the golden-brown leather armchairs and the teak table on the balcony above the infinity pool.
She was fizzing with excitement. Was she really going to meet Kirk Keane?
Kirk Keane, celebrity chef and star of international cooking show Kirk’s Kitchen?
Kirk Keane, who had single-handedly created the Australian market for nigella seeds?