If someone like Erin Patterson could do this, how well do we really know anyone?

3 hours ago 3

The Vienna hostel room was heaving with gals when I showed up in 1991. Mostly blonde, all eyeing off the newcomer. And, it turned out, all from Melbourne.

Being barely into adulthood meant where we went to school was still a valid navigation signpost in the getting-to-know-you process. Turned out these girls went to the same bayside place where my brother’s then-girlfriend (now a mum of two AFL young guns – love you, Ange) had gone.

The bizarre uniqueness of the Erin Patterson trial kept us transfixed.

I told them her name. There were two, then three beats of silence.

“Wait. Is your brother Craig Halfpenny?” said one, speaking for all. “But … he’s so good looking.”

Sure, I was trekking around Europe in practical shoes and a bad fringe. I’d eaten a lot of Milka chocolate on trains. But I was hardly Quasimodo. Had good ankles and small ears. Yet how I saw myself was clearly out of whack with the new homies.

Apologies if I’ve told that story before, but its disconnect between how we see others – or what we let others see – came back to me with the death of Peter Russell-Clarke late last week.

This masthead ran a prominent obituary; social media was awash with tributes to the man who made “Where’s the cheese?” a catchcry for anyone who grew up in Australia the 1970s and ’80s. He was as famous for his outbursts and use of colourful language as he was his recipes.

I met Russell-Clarke only once, for a magazine interview over lunch at his place, but it was enough to convince me he was a vile man. With a short fuse. Who bullied his wife in front of me. When you experience the outbursts close up, they’re not all that funny. I left terrified of this household-name dairy spruiker.

Another Melbourne radio and TV star coerced a friend into sex after they met at a media dinner. She felt humiliated, confused. His obits talked endlessly about what a great family man he was.

And a third bloke used to deal drugs at a Richmond pub to a mate and lash out verbally at her. He was a loved and lauded actor you’d all know and, based on his roles, would assume was a salt-of-the-earth Aussie legend.

Then there’s one of the biggest rug-pulls of all. Erin Patterson.

Mum of two. Church-goer. Editor of a local newspaper. The sort of woman you’d assume could lend you a cardigan and pick up your kids.

That’s what fascinates me most about the mushroom murders case: nobody saw it coming.

Not neighbours. Not her congregation. Patterson wasn’t living in a lair stroking a hairless cat and muttering about toadstools. She was blending in. Maybe not perfectly, more than a few locals are now admitting to finding her a bit off, but enough that nobody could have predicted the tragedy that befell Gail and Don Patterson or Heather Wilkinson.

Which makes me question how well we actually know anyone. Are we just nodding along to the performance they choose to show us?

Think about your own secrets. Not the salacious ones. The small, strange thoughts. Mine are petty resentments, irrational fears, moments when I’ve imagined scenarios that would horrify the book club.

We all have inner lives that would surprise even our besties. Unlike Patterson, most of us don’t act on our worst impulses. But like her, we’re taken on appearances.

I wonder about this a lot in midlife. By now, we’ve become experts in running parallel lives.

We breeze into meetings looking like we’ve got it together thanks to a good blazer and subtle eye, then go home and weep at dog food ads. We host parties for 80 people while going through a divorce, a kid’s addiction or an identity crisis.

I once had a friend who simultaneously ran a five-year affair and a side hustle selling counterfeit handbags. No one suspected a thing. She had great chat and impeccable taste in cheese. That was enough to pass the vibe check.

I’m mostly down with that. Going deep takes commitment. Face value is less punishing and more fun than unearthing layers of real stuff. But the mushroom saga has given me pause.

Maybe we need to pay more attention. Look past looks.

But first on my list: a campaign to restore home cooking’s reputation. Make it less Agatha Christie, more Maggie Beer. Less laced beef Wellingtons, more casseroles that at most put you in a food coma.

Kate Halfpenny is founder of Bad Mother Media. Her new book, Boogie Wonderland, is out now. Subscribers can buy a copy from Booktopia for the discounted price of $24.26 plus postage with the code WONDERLAND10. This offer is available until August 31.