Chapter 13 #2
Stung, Katrina rounded on Craig. What right did he have to pass judgement on her personal life when he’d betrayed her with Roxane? ‘Do you think I’d ask someone I was seeing to hide in the bushes? Not that I am seeing Nick, but even if I was, what business is it of yours? I wouldn’t be cheating.’
Katrina wielded the word ‘cheating’ like a knife; Craig couldn’t bear to be called a cheat, especially in front of the boys, believing as he did that what he had with Roxane was ‘true love’ on the back of a ‘dead marriage’.
With a sidelong glance at Justin, followed by a muttered curse, Craig stomped off and slid into his low-slung BMW. Then he yanked the door shut and reversed out of the driveway at speed, scraping his exhaust pipe on the kerb.
As the roar of his engine faded, Katrina realised she was practically hyperventilating – the opposite of a Grey Rock. Her face burned and her whole body shook. Silently, she chided herself for needling Craig in front of her son. That wasn’t being a role model.
‘Mum, what’s going on?’ Justin asked.
Unable to answer, she retreated inside and he followed her. He wore the anguished expression of someone having their appendix removed without pain relief.
‘Mum, why was Tabitha’s dad in the bushes and why are you wearing that outfit?’ he pleaded. ‘Your job isn’t, um . . . a fantasy event management thing, is it? For men? Is that what’s going on?’
Oh, dear Lord.
‘Sweetheart! Of course not!’ She struggled to dredge up a smile. ‘I was at an, ah, avant-garde retro party and the client wanted us to blend in with the crowd.’
Katrina’s lie sounded so feeble that even she winced. What was an avant-garde retro party, exactly? Why would anyone hold such a party on a weeknight? And who asked event planners to dress up?
Justin must have shared these doubts, because he managed to convey them in one reproachful, withering look. Then he shambled off to his room, leaving Katrina to wonder if it would be better to tell him the truth.
It was getting to the point where she’d have to decide.
* * *
Michelle was glad she’d arrived at Filippo’s place an hour early.
It had given her time to rearrange some of his possessions, scatter a few of her own books and clothes around, and prep her kung pao prawns.
She needed to do all this before Filippo showed up because once he did, all her carefully laid plans would probably fly out of her head – which had been much too full of him over the past week.
That was one reason why yesterday’s job interview had gone so badly.
Another was the fact that Candless Consulting had been handling her application.
The giant photo of Bianca Vargo in the waiting room had blindsided Michelle, making her feel as if she was being warned off.
The Bianca doppelgangers on the interview panel, all beautifully groomed and brutally condescending, had shaken her up even more.
Michelle knew she wouldn’t be hired – and that was a good thing, she told herself.
It meant she wouldn’t have to slink back into Ryde HQ or get that stupid health check the Candless people kept talking about.
‘You’ll be moving heavy boxes in and out of cars,’ someone had explained, ‘and since you’re over a certain age, we have to make sure .
. .’ The health check was a mandatory requirement before Stott and Speyer could offer her the job.
But Michelle would never make it that far, and she found herself blaming Bianca, though it really wasn’t Bianca’s fault. It was her own stupid fault for indulging in fantasies about Filippo, who was already taken.
As she chopped spring onions, it occurred to Michelle that this might very well be her last appointment with him.
And though she wondered, fleetingly, if she might drag out the process by nitpicking (about his tendency to rearrange the dishwasher, for instance), she knew she didn’t have the guts.
She was a professional and determined to behave like one – even though the thought of not seeing him again made her life seem flat and bleak.
She was toasting peanuts in her mother’s wok when he let himself in, wiping his feet on the mat and pushing the door shut.
Michelle felt sick with nerves. Fingers trembling, she texted Katrina a champagne-bottle emoji, though she knew Katrina was with Kirk Keane tonight and probably making too much noise with various household appliances to notice her phone.
But Katrina seemed to be doing okay. She’d already sent Michelle her own emoji, complete with the message: Home-brand fish fingers with instant mashed potatoes! Yum!
Michelle took a deep breath and called out, ‘Hi, honey, how was your day?’
‘Cara mia, buona sera. My day was mixed. Very mixed.’
She heard his footsteps pause and wondered if he’d clocked the scarf she’d draped over his chiffonier or the little pile of books she’d left on a side table. Jane Eyre, Sense and Sensibility – some of her childhood favourites.
Sure enough, when he appeared in the kitchen doorway, he was carrying her copy of I Capture the Castle. Waving it, eyes twinkling, he said, ‘I see you’ve made yourself at home. But then, you are at home!’
Michelle couldn’t answer immediately – she had to recover from the impact of his physical presence after so many hours spent conjuring up his image in her head.
He was dressed in one of his sleek, expensive suits, hair slicked back, fancy watch gleaming.
He smelled good; no doubt his cologne was the best that money could buy, but there was also the smell of him underneath, something musky and male that made her dizzy.
His eyebags were a little heavier than usual, and his jaw was scrubby, but somehow, this only increased his appeal.
She wanted him so much she could barely look at him. How had that happened?
‘Hah.’ He made no secret of studying her outfit: sheepskin slippers, knit shirt, grey trackpants. ‘Not going out tonight? Perhaps I should change.’
She had to swallow and lick her dry lips. What was she, a teenager drooling over some unattainable senior boy? Make eye contact, you idiot, she told herself. Act normally. With a forced smile, she met his gaze, cleared her throat and said, ‘Whatever feels comfortable.’
His eyes danced as he bit back a grin; the Dreamwives scenario never failed to amuse him. Holding up I Capture the Castle, he said, ‘I don’t know this one. What’s it about?’
‘An old castle. Unrequited love. Clothes.’ She shrugged. ‘All your basic food groups.’
He laughed, then disappeared upstairs. Listening to the floor creak overhead, Michelle let out a long, shaky breath and wondered what it was like up there.
She’d resisted the urge to explore the house when she’d first arrived, though it hadn’t been easy.
Now, as she started frying up the garlic, ginger, dried chilli and Sichuan pepper, she thought about Filippo’s bedroom.
It probably had an ensuite, and maybe a walk-in wardrobe like Katrina’s, with lots of beautiful outfits in it: fine wool suits and soft shirts.
She imagined running a hand across them.
It occurred to her that right now, upstairs, Filippo was taking off his clothes.
Unbuttoning his shirt. Kicking off his shoes.
Unzipping his trousers. Michelle experienced something that was either a hot flush or a full-body tingle, and had to lean against the counter for support.
Oh, for God’s sake! She was suddenly furious with herself.
Adults didn’t behave like this, and she had a job to do.
Be professional, she thought angrily, dumping spring onions into her wok.
By the time Filippo returned, she was a bit more composed, though still flustered. He was wearing the most elegant loungewear Michelle had ever seen: jersey pants, a Henley top, suede slippers that looked like something out of a fashion magazine. The man couldn’t even veg out unstylishly.
Watching him inspect the prawns and soy sauce, then select a wine to complement them, Michelle said, ‘I thought we’d have a nice, domestic evening. Enjoy the routine.’
‘Good idea.’ He nodded, his expression so serious that it made her laugh. ‘You think I need to practise “hanging out”?’ His overdramatic use of air quotes was also funny.
‘That’s my prescription,’ Michelle retorted, then winced inside. Oh, God, was she flirting? She had to stop before she made a fool of herself.
‘You could be right.’ He leaned against a benchtop, sipping his wine. ‘Bianca and I used to go out every evening. We were festaioli, you know? We didn’t spend enough time learning each other’s rites and rhythms.’
Rhythms? Jesus. As Michelle tossed the sizzling prawns, she thanked God for the cloud of steam that enveloped her, masking her brick-red blush.
‘Since she left,’ Filippo added sheepishly, ‘I hate to be alone at the end of the day. There’s always a dinner or an event I can go to.’ He looked around and admitted, ‘This never felt like home to me.’
Was he trying to make her want to stroke his hair? No. Stop.
She was on the home stretch with her kung pao prawns. Adding sauce, she asked, ‘What do you do after work when you’re not going out? For fun, I mean.’
‘For fun?’ Surprise and embarrassment chased each other across Filippo’s face. At last, he said, ‘I like to watch renovation shows. Grand Designs. We Bought a French Chateau. Tuscan Farmhouse Transformation.’
‘Then that’s what we’ll do.’ Michelle was vigorously stirring her ingredients, waiting for the sauce to thicken. ‘Would you rather use a fork or chopsticks? I brought chopsticks.’
‘A fork? Madonna mia! I would never insult your food in that way. Chopsticks, of course. I have some we can use . . .’