Chapter 4
‘You didn’t get her autograph?’ Philly was wide-eyed and gaping at me, repeating herself over and over again, the only difference between the lines was her vocal emphasis.
‘You didn’t get her autograph?’
‘You didn’t get her autograph?’
‘It was a business meeting, it would have been very inappropriate to ask for her autograph.’ I tried to reason with her by giving a sensible, logical response, hoping this would penetrate the haze of celebrity-induced hysteria.
But no.
‘Did you know that in 1982 she played Anna in Die Klein Dorpie?’
‘The what now?’ I’d never heard of it. Translated from Afrikaans to English, she’d said The Small Town.
I could see the exasperation on Philly’s face, but I also knew she secretly loved educating me on all things soapie.
‘Dorpie was South Africa’s first ever soap opera, and Sharaz was only twenty years old when she played the pastor’s niece who came to live with her aunt and uncle in the small town. She came from the big city after her mother and father died in a freak avalanche.’
‘Mmm.’ I nodded, trying to figure out where exactly in any of South Africa’s big cities there was a mountain that might cause such a thing. I braced myself for what I knew was about to come.
‘So . . .’ Philly leaned forward conspiratorially, as if she was telling me gossip about a neighbour.
‘Sharaz’s character Anna fell in love with her cousin, who she’d never met before, and they started having a secret affair.
But when she fell pregnant, her aunt and uncle found out, and they were so ashamed that they killed her and buried her in the field behind their farm. ’
‘Wow, real family viewing.’ I blinked at her. This sounded more like a true-crime podcast.
‘But wait, there’s more. The best part was when Anna’s ghost came back to haunt them and drove her aunt insane.
It was brilliant! She was constantly moving stuff around the house, putting things in different places, slamming doors and making weird noises, until her aunt went mad and was locked up in an asylum, where the doctors started using her in these brainwashing experiments. ’
I nodded again. ‘Sounds fascinating.’
‘It was! And Sharaz was amazing. It even launched her career as a singer, because in the special Christmas show, just before she was murdered, she sang in the church, and as luck would have it, a music producer happened to be watching and signed her to his label.’
‘You know a lot about her.’
‘Well, I’ve been following her career for forty years. I just can’t believe that husband of hers is cheating on her. You have to get this guy, Liz.’
I smiled at her. ‘I always do!’
‘But you need to start packing, and you need a cover story. It’s not usual for a woman your age to be staying in a romantic destination alone. It would be so much better if you had a man on your arm.’
‘Rent-A-Gent. I’ll just give them a call and ask them to send one over.’
Philly rolled her eyes at me. ‘So sarcastic.’
‘I thought you said it was endearing?’
‘Only in small doses. And your cover story?’
I sat back in my chair and thought for a while. ‘Jilted bride left at the altar decides to go on her honeymoon alone.’
This elicited another eye-roll from Philly. ‘So cynical. You know one day you’re going to fall head over heels in love with someone.’
‘Head over heels is not my style.’
‘I know. Surrounding your heart with barbed wire and a twenty-foot wall is more your thing.’
‘Exactly.’ I locked eyes with her. ‘But with some of the things I’ve seen, I could argue that motion-activated laser beams and well-trained Dobermanns are also needed.’
‘Deflecting with sarcasm and wit, too.’ Philly sighed long and loud. ‘You know, behind that prickly exterior of yours, there’s a well of love waiting to come out.’
This time I felt a small pang of something inside, but quickly pushed it down. ‘Wells dry up, especially when people take more than they give.’
‘Didn’t Spock fall in love and have a wife?’ she asked.
‘It was an arranged marriage,’ I said, hating it when she tried to school me with references from my favourite TV show.
Yes, I was a Trekkie and not afraid to admit it.
Yes, I regularly went to Star Trek conventions, and yes, I might own one, maybe two uniforms, a Klingon bat’leth and possibly even a tricorder that could be used as a two-way radio.
I looked at Philly and raised my brows. ‘I need to pack.’
She jumped off her chair. ‘Great, I’ll help you. But first, we need to go shopping.’
‘Shopping?’
She scanned me top to bottom. Once, twice .
. . It was not a subtle scan. ‘Not sure about you, but last time I found myself at a tropical resort, black jeans and brown T-shirts weren’t exactly what everyone was wearing.
’ I looked down at my clothes. ‘You’re going to need some sundresses, something casual and tropical, and a bikini. ’
‘I have swimsuits.’
‘They’re black,’ she said flatly.
‘Well, I’m in mourning over my husband leaving me at the altar in front of five hundred wedding guests,’ I teased.
‘If your husband’s just left you at the altar, even more reason to wear the sexiest bikini ever, and take lots of photos of yourself and post them to social media to show him what he’s missing out on.’
‘I don’t have social media!’
‘But Lily Swanson does.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The woman who was jilted at the altar. You’re going to need a name.’
I huffed. She was right about that. In fact, she was right about the clothes too. I just wished Lily had had the foresight to see what an idiot her fiancé was before she’d ordered an ice sculpture and a five-tier cake with sparklers. What a waste of money!
I tried to open my suitcase, but the zipper got stuck.
It was as if the suitcase felt the same way as I did about what was about to go inside it and was protesting.
I turned and looked at the tropical explosion spread across my bed, blinking against the blinding bright colours.
Tight strappy tops, too-short skirts, sandals with fruit on them, those two evening dresses that Philly had insisted I buy, and worst of all, the tiny bits of Lycra fabric masquerading as bikinis.
My nose wrinkled as I dangled one of them from my finger.
I needed a wax if I was going to wear this without scaring people away.
Sharaz had better appreciate my commitment to this job, because this afternoon had been hell.
Philly had dragged me through three shops insisting that I ‘embrace the vacation vibes’, whatever the hell that meant.
I had never embraced a vibe in my life, let alone one that involved floral prints and – what had the woman at the shop called it?
– spaghetti straps. I turned and looked at myself in the mirror.
I wasn’t sure these clothes were going to go with what stared back at me.
I’d always been bigger than every other girl I knew growing up, taller, more muscular, and it was only when I started playing rugby in college that I finally found some peers with the same kind of body as mine.
For a moment there I’d thought I might go professional, but that would have meant only focusing on that, and I wasn’t prepared to give up my ju-jitsu.
I’d always loved sports. But not just any sports.
I loved the sports that required you to throw your body around, put it through its paces and push it as far as it could go.
Sports that left you aching, bruised, breathless but feeling totally alive.
I looked down at the stringy orange thing in my hands once more and sighed.
I’d been so looking forward to this job, until I realised it required dressing like a human pina colada.