Chapter 3
I loved my car and I’d spent a fortune completely customising it.
The exterior was a dark midnight blue, with a silver metallic stripe down the bonnet.
The sleek black leather interior with red trim gave it that extra sporty kick, and the glass was tinted and bulletproof (I’d been shot at before).
Not to mention that the thing rolls around on black seventeen-inch mags.
If this car had an attitude, it would be bad. It was the kind of car that got you arrested just for driving it . . . it was that badass.
But it had also met with mixed reactions, especially from men. Some guys liked the fact I drove a car like this, but it had the complete opposite effect on others; they ran for the hills.
I’d learned over the years that some men had very distinct ideas about what it meant to be a woman, and clearly my car didn’t fit that mould.
In fact, it practically screamed a loud, very unapologetic Screw you!
to that rather outdated stereotype. Threw it the middle finger while spinning its wheels, leaving you choking on the smoke it spat out of its double exhaust pipe.
That was another thing I loved about this baby.
It was fast. And when I say fast, I mean the thing fucks off!
The way my adrenaline spiked when taking a corner at 180 kilometres an hour – nothing beat that.
But speeding fines could be a bit of a problem.
Luckily I had a contact at the Metro cops; she was quite the magician really.
Because with a flick of her magic wand, fines seemed to vaporise into thin air.
Captain Thuli Dlamini had been a client of mine a couple of years back, and she’d now become a very valuable connection and, I guess, a friend too. She’d got hold of me when she suspected her partner, Lodi, was cheating. And she was so right.
But what I loved about her was that the bad news didn’t crush her.
She didn’t just sit there and mope and cry.
That was definitely not her style. Oh no, she took action.
She packed up every single one of Lodi’s belongings and threw them out of their apartment window onto one of Johannesburg’s busiest streets.
The sheer drama of it was something to behold.
She clapped as taxis raced over Lodi’s clothes, cheered as ornaments went flying.
Practically fell off the balcony laughing when pedestrians dived in head-first, grabbing at books and cosmetics like this was an impromptu sidewalk sale, except it wasn’t on the sidewalk.
And once all of Lodi’s precious possessions had been mashed into the tarmac, shattered into a million pieces or snatched up by random strangers, Thuli took me out to one of the most popular lesbian nightclubs to celebrate.
We danced and toasted new beginnings, and somewhere between us singing ABBA on the bar and laughing so hard in the bathroom we couldn’t stand, I knew we would become friends – well, my kind of friends anyway, because I never really allowed people to get too close. And thankfully Thuli understood that.
Twenty minutes later, I’d turned in to the lavish Peacock Drive in Sandhurst, which might as well have been paved in gold and diamonds.
The houses here were massive, and you could tell right away that they were occupied by the upper echelons of society.
People who drank Dom Perignon like water in their landscaped gardens.
Whose credit cards were so black they absorbed all visible light and whose dental work shone as brightly as their meticulously polished Bentleys.
The security measures here hinted at rooms full of antiques, walls of Picassos and safes bursting with priceless coins.
All the houses had electric fencing, perimeter beams and armed security guards patrolling the gates.
I pulled up outside the house in question, its wall so high I couldn’t see the building behind it.
Around here, everyone knew that the size of your wall was directly proportionate to the size of your bank account – the bigger the wall, the more zeros.
I pressed the intercom, and as if by magic, the enormous gates slid open.
Even the sound was rich; the gates didn’t grind and clank, they glided like a bow across a violin.
I immediately spotted three Dobermanns prowling the grounds.
They turned when they saw me and growled, showing off an impressive array of teeth.
It was clear that they had immediately decided to hate me, which most dogs usually did.
I didn’t exactly have the best history with our canine companions; well, to be fair, every time I met one, I was either breaking into their territory or about to break into their territory.
And as if that wasn’t intimidating enough, two security guards with AK-47s began approaching my car.
‘Lizzy Brown?’ one of them asked, looking at me suspiciously.
‘Depends who wants to know,’ I quipped, which was clearly a bad idea. Don’t make jokes to security guards in possession of guns and bad attitudes. ‘Yes, that’s me,’ I said, pulling out my driver’s licence.
He took it and examined it as if he was trying to solve an unsolvable mathematical equation written in Latin. He finally looked up and shot some daggers at me from his menacing eyeballs, before indicating that I was free to proceed up the driveway.
The house finally came into view, and enormous was an understatement.
I didn’t much like the style – too flashy for my taste – but I had to admit it was definitely impressive.
It was one of those avant-garde, modern-looking structures that screamed Look at me!
Boxy, triple-storeyed and made mostly of glass and pillars.
In fact, as I took it all in, a saying popped into my mind: Old money whispers and new money shouts.
And when I saw who came to greet me, I realised just how true that statement was.
Because there in front of me, in all her glory, was none other than South Africa’s very own Dolly Parton.
Sharaz Venter. This woman was an institution.
An icon. She’d been singing for at least thirty years and had sold millions of albums. As I climbed out of the car, she swish-walked towards me in all her glory.
And she was glorious. Impressive breasts, massive bleach-blonde hair, skin so smooth it looked like alabaster.
She wore a skin-tight white leather number that was bedazzled with rainbow rhinestones, and just in case that wasn’t enough embellishment, it had also been tasselled and feathered too.
She blinded me with a dazzling smile, the kind that said she was born to be in the spotlight, and I felt instantly drawn to her. Maybe this was what people referred to as star quality.
‘Love the outfit,’ I said, although I could see she didn’t share the same sentiment about mine.
She couldn’t hide her air of obvious judgement as she gazed at my faded jeans, men’s small-collared white shirt – I always had to buy men’s on account of my broad shoulders – and faithful, well-worn blazer that I only donned when I was trying to look smart.
‘I’ve been rehearsing for my show. Come inside, dahling. Take a load off those, uh . . .’ As she looked down at my shoes – size ten sneakers, very practical, perfect for chasing down cheaters and jumping over fences – her nose crinkled in what looked like . . . disgust?
I followed her into what can only be described as a replica of the Parthenon, that’s if someone had decided to give the Parthenon an African twist, which apparently they had.
I’d also never seen a place so filled with things; it even outdid Philly’s apartment.
I turned a corner and startled when I suddenly found myself gazing into the glazed, lifeless eyes of a poor taxidermy zebra.
And what was worse – and so undignified, I might add – was that this poor creature was wearing a crown and pink wellington boots.
‘It’s a Blaque Tswala.’
‘Huh?’ I looked at Sharaz as she indicated the zebra.
‘An artist my husband loves. It’s supposed to represent consumerism, or is it communism, or existentialism .
. .’ She tapered off and stared at the creature for a while.
‘It’s so ugly,’ she said, and set off again, leading me through the enormous entrance hall, stepping over black and white Nguni cow-skin rugs, very trendy.
In my humble opinion, not that I was an interior designer, they seemed to clash rather spectacularly with the gleaming Italian marble beneath them.
‘Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, sparkling mineral water, champagne?’ She waved her hand at me, and I noticed her nails for the first time; or rather, her pink talons.
The gold bracelets on her wrists made a loud jangling sound that actually reverberated through the room, and I looked around as the sound bounced back and forth above my head.
God, this place was so huge, it generated its own echoes.
‘Follow me.’ She gestured with her pink claw, and I followed her into the lounge. But I wasn’t prepared for what I saw next.
It was like walking through an intergalactic portal to another dimension.
The room I entered can only be described as the Palace of Versailles.
Antique chaises longues, velvet curtains and oversized chandeliers assaulted me, while the fleur-de-lis wallpaper made my eyes squint.
Big gold mirrors reflected every inch of the opulence right back at me as if to say, Are you impressed yet?
‘This is my French room,’ she said, stating the obvious, lowering herself onto a chaise. ‘Each room has a different theme. I’m just about to remodel my bedroom; I’m thinking of going Tuscan. What do you think?’