Chapter 2 #2
‘Now you’re talking my language,’ I said, making a beeline for the kitchen.
Philly was always baking for me. She and Lou never had kids, despite being married for over forty years.
We’d never spoken about it, but I got the feeling there were some fertility issues.
Over the last few years, I knew she’d come to think of me as a daughter, and honestly, I viewed her as a surrogate mom – since I barely spoke to my own.
I don’t think my mom ever fully forgave me for discovering that Dad was cheating – with my Year 3 teacher, no less.
She’d spent years pretending not to see what was right in front of her, and for her, that was okay.
She was married, with a child, a house with a picket fence and rose bushes, and even a golden retriever – all the things that made it look like she had a perfect marriage.
She was being taken care of, and if he wanted a little fun on the side, that was just one of those things; it was just what guys did.
Well, that was what her own mother had told her anyway.
I thought I’d done the right thing by telling her, but actually I’d just forced her to face something she would never have chosen to face. And worse than that, in her mind anyway, was that my dad only confessed to the affair because I’d caught him having it.
So in my mom’s mind, it wasn’t his affair that blew the marriage up – it was me.
If I hadn’t followed them that day, pedalling frantically on my brand-new pink bike, shiny tassels flapping in the wind, to the sleazy motel on the outskirts of town with the flea-infested mattress, none of it would have happened.
If I hadn’t stolen my dad’s camera and sat behind a dustbin for hours, waiting in the rain just to take a photo of him emerging from the room, cheeks red and tie undone, none of it would have happened.
If I hadn’t done a three-week investigation into my dad because I’d seen a note in Miss Woolnough’s drawer that looked suspiciously like his handwriting, none of it would have happened.
And if none of it had happened, then my mom could have kept pretending that she was happy ever after and everything was perfect.
Even though I could see, even at my age, that no one in my house was happy and that everyone was just lying, to themselves and others.
A human lie detector, that was what Philly called me.
I could spot a liar from miles away, blindfolded.
All I needed to do was listen to their voice – the way the pitch changed, the long pauses, the over-the-top details that no one had asked for.
They might as well hang a neon flashing sign above their head simply saying Liar!
Sometimes I didn’t even have to hear them speak. Sometimes the body did all the confessing on its own. Cue excessive blinking, delayed smiles, self-soothing gestures, not to mention that overdramatic I’m totally chilled posture that always gave it away.
I could even look at someone’s handwriting and tell if they were lying!
Just one peep at the unusual punctuation, the crossing-out and rewriting, the uneven spacing or the peculiar slant of their letters, and I’d got them pegged.
It was a gift. Or a curse, I suppose, depending on who you asked.
My inbuilt lie detector had never failed me .
. . okay, maybe once. But Cam had been a very good liar.
‘So?’ I said, shovelling down my second slice of cheesecake. ‘What’s the plan for today?’
Philly eyed me up and down. ‘Do all those calories go straight to your muscles?’
I shrugged my shoulders, large and muscular as she’d pointed out.
She reached down and gave her stomach a slight squeeze. ‘Mine goes here, but I blame it all on the menopause. Mind you, Lou never complained about it. He liked a little something to grab hold of.’
A look washed over her face. I’d seen it before – that slightly mischievous, girlie look. No Lou topic was ever off limits with her; even their bedroom escapades made regular appearances in our conversations.
I glanced down at my own stomach. I’d never had anything to pinch in that area.
In fact, starting ju-jitsu in my early teens had given me a six-pack to rival most men’s.
Some found it intimidating. Not many women stood six foot, looked men directly in the eye and leg-pressed more than they could.
I shovelled another spoonful of cheesecake into my mouth and asked again about the day’s schedule.
‘You have a meeting at ten o’clock with a potential new client,’ Philly replied.
‘Where is it?’
‘Peacock Drive, Sandhurst.’ She sat back in her chair and eyed me. ‘Fancy!’
I nodded in agreement. Fancy was an understatement; Sandhurst was the most expensive address in Johannesburg.
Houses there went for a hundred million upwards.
Ordinary people didn’t live there either.
It was the home of celebrities, politicians, dignitaries and CEOs.
This was going to be interesting. I could feel it.