Chapter 10 #3
Her phone pinged. Shaking the suds off her rubber gloves, she peered at the screen and saw that Katrina had sent a text: Just arrived.
The message was followed by a crossed-fingers emoji that made Michelle feel bad.
Here she was, sneaking around behind Katrina’s back, looking for another job without telling her.
She’d been meaning to mention her interview during their last phone call but hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it.
‘I’m not giving up,’ Michelle said to no one in particular.
‘I’m just being adaptive. Reactive.’ Speaking of which, she was worried about her next session with Filippo.
She didn’t know what he wanted from her.
Was he angry? Upset? Should she not have used the word ‘overpowering’ in his feedback form?
She’d sent him another questionnaire ahead of tomorrow’s appointment, but he’d provided very little information.
His only request, once again, was that Michelle ‘provide feedback to help me be a better long-term partner in relationships’.
She peeled off her gloves, picked up her phone and called Ilse.
‘Michelle! I was about to ring you. What perfect timing.’ Ilse’s voice sounded odd – snuffly, as if from a cold or a nose job.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m more than all right. I’m having a massage. Hawaiian lomi lomi – so relaxing. But it’s hard to talk through the face crest.’ A squeaky noise. ‘There. That’s better. Now, did you ever make that appointment with Filippo Balducci?’
‘Last night. That’s what I wanted to talk about.’
‘Oh, good. Fire away. He’s a dish, isn’t he? Gorgeous voice. Such a charmer.’
‘Yes.’ What else was there to say? With his gleaming smile, luminous eyes and buckets of positive energy, Filippo Balducci was the closest thing Michelle had ever seen to an old-fashioned Hollywood heartthrob.
He was even quite short – and Michelle had heard that a lot of the big stars were quite short.
‘What was his house like?’ Ilse demanded. ‘Stunning, I’ll bet.’
‘Beautiful. I mean – perfect.’
‘Thought so. A man with a Manduka yoga mat would know how to look after himself.’ Ilse made a satisfied sound. ‘He’s a foodie, too. Did he cook?’
‘Yes.’
‘I bet that was good.’
‘Too good.’
‘Michelle, there’s no such thing.’
‘There is, though.’ Before Ilse could object, Michelle said quickly, ‘He was putting on a show. It was dazzling, but it was all about the impression he made. If you were living with the guy, it would wear you out. And he had all these rules.’ She paused, but Ilse didn’t respond.
‘I kind of told him that on the feedback form he sent me. And now he wants to—’
‘Wait.’ Ilse’s voice trembled beneath an onslaught of invisible pounding. ‘He sent you a feedback form?’
‘I guess he wanted to know how I felt.’
‘Read me the questions,’ Ilse said greedily.
Michelle hesitated. Was that ethical? But then again, Filippo hadn’t told her not to discuss things with Ilse. Clicking on his email, she began to read aloud. ‘“Did you feel (a) cherished, (b) appreciated, (c) accepted, (d) taken for granted, (e) controlled—”’
‘Controlled? Hah! I know what that’s all about,’ Ilse interrupted. ‘His ex. She told him he was “controlling” before she walked out on him and he’s never gotten over it. Ow!’ Her voice became muffled. ‘Not there.’
‘Ilse?’
‘Sorry. My brachialis is giving me trouble. Personally, I didn’t think the ex was very nice. She came from money and everything was always about her – but he was so besotted he couldn’t see it, of course. With a mother like his, what would you expect?’
‘A mother like what?’
‘Oh, you know. Twelve kids, so she’s a sergeant major.
No time to spare. Why do you think he ended up over the other side of the world?
But he still fancies ice-queen girl bosses.
I believe his ex runs her own company.’ A grunt, then a sigh.
‘If he’s performing, it’ll probably be for her.
You just need to shock some sense into him.
Tell him you eat pasta with chicken, then force him to treat you like a functional human being. ’
Michelle couldn’t see how that would help. ‘But—’
‘If he wants to learn, he needs to put in the effort. Practice, practice and more practice. You should be able to get a dozen appointments out of him, if you handle this right.’ A beeping sound cut across her list of suggestions. ‘Is that my phone or yours?’
‘Mine.’ Michelle checked; it was Katrina trying to get through. ‘I need to answer this. Can we talk later?’
‘Whenever you like. I want a blow-by-blow.’
As Ilse cut the connection, Michelle’s phone rang. She jabbed at the screen. ‘Katrina?’
‘Michelle?’ Katrina was whispering. This couldn’t be good.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I kicked him in the guts.’
‘What?’
‘Shane. I gave him this massive roundhouse kick to the stomach and I don’t know what to do.’ Katrina’s voice cracked. ‘What if he calls the police? They’ll charge me with assault!’
‘Shit, Katrina.’ Michelle yanked the plug from the sink. ‘Where are you now? Are you okay?’
‘I’m in the bathroom. His whole slob scenario was a set-up.
It wasn’t about being comfortable, it was about unloading on a wife substitute.
As soon as he walked in, he started shouting at me for not doing the housework, not getting dressed, not cooking dinner, using his hard-earned money to buy takeaway while I sat around on my arse all day—’
‘Do you need help? Do you need the police?’ Michelle was already kicking off her slippers. How could this be? Nick knew Shane from his divorced dads group. Michelle had done a security check and it had come back clean.
‘And get charged? God, no!’ Katrina began to sniff as Michelle snatched up her handbag. ‘I didn’t mean to do it, but he got right up in my face – it was automatic!’
‘Where is Shane?’
‘On the kitchen floor, rolling around.’
‘I’m coming. Hang on.’ Keys. Shoes.
‘If he was standing over me like that, can I say I kicked him in self-defence?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Somewhere between the kitchen and the front door, Michelle lost Katrina’s signal.
Rolf was snoozing in front of the television; Michelle decided not to wake him, because she didn’t have time for a five-minute interrogation.
Instead, she scribbled on a post-it note, which she stuck on the TV.
Shane lived in Paddington, an eight-minute drive away, so Michelle was hoping she’d be able to get there and back before Rolf even knew she was gone.
She closed her front door quietly and headed down to the garage. Her hands shook as she unlocked her car and wrestled with the seatbelt. When she tried to reconnect with Katrina, her call went through to voicemail. That was bad. Should she call the police? Katrina had said not to.
As long as Michelle could get there in time . . .
Shane Worsley’s multimillion-dollar terrace house practically screamed divorced dad.
The plants in every window box were dead.
The little pink gumboots sitting beneath the electrical box were draped in cobwebs.
On the upstairs veranda, a lacy outdoor bistro setting had been shoved aside to make way for not one but three exercise bikes.
Michelle wasn’t about to knock on the front door.
After nosing into the laneway behind the house, she decided to park in front of his garage door.
Though it wasn’t strictly legal, this was an emergency.
Right now, her main concerns were Katrina and what she herself could use as a weapon if things got ugly.
Unlike Katrina, she didn’t have any combat skills to fall back on. Maybe she should ask for some tips.
Michelle rummaged around in her boot, grabbing the ratchet wrench from her car jack. Then she made for the keypad mounted beside Shane’s garage door and tapped in the code he’d supplied.
It worked. The door clanked open, so stiffly and reluctantly that Michelle was reminded of her dad when he had to get out of his recliner.
Inside, Shane’s garage was no more than a carport, open at one end.
Two vehicles stood between Michelle and a small brick courtyard.
One was Katrina’s black four-wheel drive, the other a low, sporty, silver convertible – what Ilse would have called a male menopause mobile.
Beyond the cars, Michelle could see a bank of glass doors, lit from within.
Concerned about being seen, she bent double and scampered from barbecue to stone pagoda to rusty gym power tower, her ratchet wrench clutched in her hand.
On finally reaching the glass doors, she peered into a spacious kitchen-dining area.
The general impression was shiny and white, but Michelle soon noticed traces of Katrina’s painstaking work: dust bunnies, dirty dishes, pizza cartons, coffee rings, discarded clothes.
There were even greasy finger marks on the doors – one of which stood ajar.
Slipping through it, Michelle heard a breathless cry coming from the room beyond, followed by something that sounded like a steak being repeatedly smacked against a bench. Three short, sharp, brutal grunts segued into a thump that shook the house, as a man roared, ‘Harder! Take ’em down!’
Oh, Christ, Michelle thought, is he attacking her?
She raised her wrench and charged, skidding to a halt as she burst through the doorway.
What she saw made her gasp. Katrina, whose hair hung lank and greasy, wasn’t being attacked – she was strapped into a pair of boxing gloves and was kicking and punching, weaving and ducking, launching an all-out assault on a huge man with a head like a boulder and a military buzz cut, who was meeting her every punch and kick with hand pads.
He wore tight shorts and a tank top, and his bulging, tattooed muscles were on full display.
Could this living, breathing action figure be Shane Worsley?
Katrina spied Michelle and stopped, chest heaving.
‘Hands at home!’ the man bawled at Katrina, before he noticed the direction of her gaze.