Chapter 15
Kirk’s NDA! How had she forgotten it?
She stuck her phone into her jeans pocket and rolled up her sleeves, which were stretched and greyish from being accidentally thrown in the dark wash. She looked – and felt – like hell.
There’s nothing you can do about Kirk or the NDA or the Daily Post right now. Focus on the task at hand.
Donning a slightly frayed smile, Katrina walked back into the uniform shop, then spent the next hour measuring, fetching, totting up purchases.
Pauline was no help. Instead of serving customers, she just stood at the counter eagerly texting.
Katrina wondered who she was talking to.
It couldn’t be a Colville group chat, because Katrina’s phone wasn’t vibrating.
Then Pauline’s phone rang. ‘Gabby, hi!’ She shot Katrina an awkward look. ‘I’d better take this outside,’ she said, and sidled from the shop without waiting for permission. ‘Won’t be a mo . . .’
Could Pauline and Gabby be talking about her? What if someone had recognised her from the Daily Post? Or had her friends spotted that tangerine Aruba Ariba in her wardrobe, at some point?
Katrina wanted to rush out and eavesdrop, but instead she had to paste on a smile and stay put. Fold, hang, swipe, calculate, coo, measure, wave.
After serving her final customer, she emptied the bags of secondhand offerings.
She was inspecting a suspicious brown stain on a jumper when Nicola’s head appeared around the door, making Katrina’s nerves tingle.
Normally, Nicola never came near the uniform shop because she was ‘allergic to secondhand clothes’.
Stop being paranoid. She was probably here for her girls’ tunics.
‘Hi, Nic – have you come for these?’ Katrina pulled out two packages. ‘It’s a hundred for both, with my staff discount.’
Nicola blinked, as if Katrina’s presence had come as a complete surprise. ‘Oh – ah – hi, Kat. Is Pauline around?’
‘She just stepped out, but—’
‘Great. Thanks. Why don’t you drop those at my place on your way home, and I’ll pay you later? Right now, I have to find Pauline.’
‘Why?’ Steeling herself, Katrina looked her friend straight in the eye.
They’d known each other as teenagers, and for years she had driven this woman’s daughters around, organised birthday drinks for her, shared recipes and lent her clothes.
Nicola was her friend. Surely she wouldn’t gossip about Katrina behind her back?
‘I need some of Pauline’s Comfrey Control capsules. They really hit the spot.’ Nicola’s eyes darted about in a shifty kind of way. ‘Do you know where she went?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘’K, thanks,’ Nicola said, then vanished.
Katrina swallowed and a hot flush crept up her chest. So people were talking about her, but what were they saying? That she was involved with Michelle? That they were both involved with Nick?
As long as no one had connected her with that terrible news article . . .
Breathe. Being today’s hot topic was unbearable, but she couldn’t collapse – not at school. She had jobs to finish. Blazers to sort.
When Pauline finally returned, loitering in the doorway to type a final message on her phone, Katrina decided to act as if everything was normal.
‘You okay?’ she asked Pauline, tipping the last bag onto the counter.
Instead of answering, Pauline said, ‘Hey, Kat, do you know that recipe book called Clean? Do you remember which chef wrote it?’
Katrina stopped shaking the bag for an instant, then shook more vigorously.
‘Yes, I know that book,’ she said, her voice flat.
Was Pauline taunting her or was this just a hideous coincidence?
Also, what was in that wretched NDA she’d signed?
Was she allowed even to mention Kirk? She had no idea.
‘The chef’s name has slipped my mind, sorry. ’
‘Kirk Keane! That’s it. I was wondering if you ever made his Tunisian prawns. I thought Bailey might like them.’
Pauline knew. Or did she? Could there be a picture floating around of Katrina at Hamish’s Year 7 parents welcome drinks, wearing the tangerine frock?
Staring at a size 12 tunic with green paint stains, unable to form words, Katrina jumped when her phone rang. She grabbed her handbag from under the counter and punched the button. ‘Hello?’
‘Mrs We— uh, Quigley?’ It was the school secretary. She had Justin in the office, she said, and Katrina felt a familiar fear jet through her veins: the fear that one of her boys was sick – hurt – dead.
‘Is he all right?’ she squawked.
Justin was fine, the secretary assured Katrina, but she should come as soon as she could.
‘I will, right now. Thanks.’ Katrina hung up, then turned to Pauline. ‘Will you sort the rest of these and stay until close? Thanks so much.’ Before Pauline could protest, Katrina snatched up her handbag and jogged out.
What was up with Justin? Was it a uniform violation, a misguided prank, an angry outburst?
He’d always been such a good kid, but he’d been acting out at home; maybe it was happening at school too.
Or maybe he didn’t want to be at school right now.
Katrina didn’t blame him, because she didn’t want to be here herself, surrounded by all these stares and whispers . . .
Did they know? Did they know? The words beat a tattoo in her brain as she power-walked across the lush grounds of Colville Grammar.
She was halfway to the office when the lunch bell rang.
In seconds, the grounds were filled with the jostle and calls and laughter of students.
Usually, this flurry lifted Katrina, but not today.
She raised her hand as the school secretary bustled past, but the secretary dropped her head and hurried on. Did she know, or was Katrina losing it?
Katrina found Justin slouched in a black plastic chair outside Dr Mayhew’s office, tie missing, shoulders hunched. He looked so unhappy, it took her breath away. She yearned to wrap her arms around her baby boy, but Justin wouldn’t take kindly to that, so she slipped into the chair beside him.
‘What happened, sweetheart?’
Justin shrugged and wouldn’t meet her eye.
Gently, she said, ‘I’m going to hear all about it from Dr Mayhew, anyway.’
He hunched lower, picking at his fingernails.
At last, he muttered, ‘We were in the lab, preparing a leaf peel slide for the microscope, and Tabitha said—’ He stopped, then forced himself to go on.
‘Tabitha said it was amazing you could work in the uniform shop all day when you’d spent all night seeing .
. . men.’ Dropping his head into his hands, he writhed with embarrassment.
Katrina couldn’t breathe. Nick must have let something slip and his daughter had used it to humiliate Justin.
‘I said to her, she could talk – her dad was hiding in our garden like a weird stalker a few nights ago, until my dad scared him off because he’s such a pussy.’
Katrina tried to suppress a whimper. ‘Oh, Jus . . .’
‘And then Tabitha lost it and chucked a pair of forceps at my face, which I caught. But then I picked up a marker and chucked it back at her. It was only a marker!’ Justin looked up, eyes bright with tears. ‘Those metal forceps are sharp!’
Her darling boy had been defending her honour and now he was in trouble for it. Katrina took his hand, swallowing hard as she tried to find the right words.
The office door opened and, to Katrina’s astonishment, Chloe Dalton strode out, wearing a harried expression and slightly rumpled suit.
Braced for hostility, Katrina was even more surprised when Chloe shot her a look that was .
. . could it be apologetic? No. Surely not.
Katrina was watching Chloe race down the hall when a sulky Tabitha appeared, followed by her father.
A word to Nick might be the best way of settling things between the two kids. Nick was a decent guy, even if he’d got a little confused over boundaries.
‘Nick?’ Katrina rose from her seat. ‘Do you mind if we have a chat . . .?’
She trailed off as he shot her a look of such hatred, such malevolence, that the air seemed to crackle around them.
‘Leave us alone!’ he snapped, in a voice that made Justin shrink back against the wall. Then, still glaring, Nick slung a protective arm around Tabitha and hustled her away as if Katrina and Justin were radioactive.
Numbly, Katrina fell back into her chair. She’d always thought of Nick as sweet and a little passive; angry Nick was a big surprise. What had she done to deserve such hostility? Reject his advances?
‘Why did you send me to Colville, Mum?’ Justin’s voice was clogged with tears. ‘It’s horrible.’
As Katrina rubbed his shoulder, she wondered if Craig had been right. Perhaps Justin would be better off at Killeen High after all, despite the public school’s bomb threats, car pranks, vape rackets . . .
But would he survive without his chess-club friends?
* * *
Michelle lay curled up under her doona, wondering what time it was. She’d been awake since 4am, when a particularly bad dream had flung her into full, wide-eyed consciousness. Now all she could do was toss and turn, picturing Filippo at dinner, then stargazing, then under his linen sheets.
All with Bianca.
Grimacing, Michelle rubbed her face and glanced at the window. A faint flush of light was seeping into the room, gilding the edges of her blind. Surely that meant she could get up? Big day today – medical assessment in Alexandria at 9am.
She checked her phone and frowned. Six fifteen – who was sending emails this early? Then she saw Ilse’s name and stopped being surprised. Ilse was probably in Iceland or Bora Bora, attending a coronation or a total eclipse or a volcano litigation conference.
Michelle opened the email, which had an attachment. Herewith, requested NDA, Ilse had written. You need to see this, because it will make things tricky.
Confused, Michelle emailed back, What do you mean?
A pause. Then: Google Kirk Keane and call me.