CHAPTER 1
Trouble.
I was in such trouble.
Not “little trouble,” like when you use a plastic straw in public these days, despite all those pics of the suffering seahorses. Or like when you swipe right instead of left and a man with a serial-killer moustache starts messaging you. Or like when you cut your own bangs because you watched a YouTube tutorial. No, I’m talking about the kind of trouble that forces you awake in the middle of the night, drenched in a layer of cold sweat and gasping from the stabbing pains in your chest.
I’d been trying to take a very spiritual approach to the “trouble” of late. This approach had me repeating phrases like,This too shall pass, and,The universe will provide the answers, blah, blah, blah! But after two months of walking around breathing into my heart chakra (which I still wasn’t sure I even had) and drinking thick goopy green smoothies for so-called mental clarity, I was still Fucked. Capital F. Several exclamation marks. Screaming ghost face emoji.
Opening my heart and mind to the universe had not helped my writer’s block one little bit. Neither had all that “free writing” I’d done, not to mention all that guided meditation, exercising, listening to classical music, doing a total social-media purge and, my last resort, Marie bloody Kondo-ing my entire office. Nothing had helped, and nothing changed the fact that I had exactly one month to submit my new novel to my agent and publisher, and I had exactly zero words written.
Due to the success of my first book, my publisher had signed a deal for my second one without even asking for a concept. They’d also given me a big, fat advance, which I had officially spent without thinking. So, if I didn’t produce a book, I would be paying that money back until the end of my days, which, by the way, I was currently hoping would come sooner rather than later. I was so desperate that, the other night, I’d prayed that some massive, global catastrophe—like the eruption of Yellowstone Park, or an alien invasion—would wipe us all out.
I admit, I’d gotten somewhat cocky after the success of my last book. Perhaps it had all gone to my head a bit. Because, let’s be honest, I don’t really need the Porsche I now drive. I don’t even think I like Porsches. I also don’t need to be living in this huge apartment, and I certainly didn’t need to fly business class on a flight that had taken all of two hours, especially since I learned that men still pee on toilet seats there. I’d become one ofthosepeople that my poorer self used to mock: the kind who spent R300 more for pale blue salt harvested from a babbling brook in the foothills of the Himalayas by Zen monks, for heaven’s sake. But I had such a point to prove to a certain someone, that I guess I’d gotten carried away. What’s new? I’m always carrying myself away, never really thinking too deeply about the consequences of such “away carrying.”
It’s really rather amazing how much money you can spend, and in such a short amount of time, when you’re not paying attention. And then one day you go to swipe your card, and the manager of the restaurant comes over and utters those dreaded words: “I’m sorry, but your card has been declined.” And they always do it inthatvoice—soft, whispered tones that somehow manage to convey both an air of sympathy and sarcasm at the same time.
I’d thought writing the second book would come easily; after all, I’d managed to write the first one in a matter of weeks. It had poured out of me like an open tap. My story had flooded the pages and filled them up until one day I’d looked up from my computer and seen that I had a full-blown novel on my hands. Sure, it had been inspired by some very painful personal experiences I’d recently had, which might have made it easier to write. I’d secured an agent very quickly and a week later had a publishing deal. “Unheard of, for a debut author,” my agent had said. My book had come out, sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and had even put me on some rather prestigious bestseller lists.
Becca Thorne has written the most heartbreaking story of the year. Sad and brittle and unputdownable, theNew York Timeshad said.A truly remarkable and relatable story of love lost that had me reaching for a box of tissues more than once,USA Todayhad said.I can’t wait to see what this author has in store for us next.
Talk about pressure! What if there wasn’t going to be a next? What if the first one had been a fluke, and there would never be a number two? I felt sick thinking about it. I looked down at my watch and felt that familiar punch in my belly again. I had a meeting with my agent in precisely forty minutes. She knew I didn’t have a book. She’d already asked my publisher for three extensions and was now threatening to fire me. In fact, I think she was over threatening and today was the day I was going to be axed, and my very short-lived career as a once-bestselling author was over. My whole body constricted at the thought. I couldn’t lose this. I needed this. I needed to be an author, a someone who’d done something, or else who was I? Anothing? Amaybe, sort-of, almost-something-once-upon-a-time, but-not-really-anythingthing.
I rummaged through my wardrobe; what does one wear for such an occasion? For one’s firing? And what is the right soundtrack for it? I’m always looking for the perfect song for the moments in my life; it’s something I’ve done since I was a little girl. I especially look for them in those quiet, anxious moments that desperately need filling. And this was one of them. I took out an old, scraggly dress and wondered, if I wore this, didn’t brush my hair or remove my smudged eyeliner, and played a melancholic bluegrass song, whether she would take pity on me. Or maybe if I dressed up in an eighties power suit with shoulder pads and those pleated things called “slacks” she would find it harder to fire me. An anthemic song could be playing in the background as I stride into her office confidently . . .
“Let The River Run!”
I sighed and abandoned myWorking Girlfantasy and grabbed a pair of jeans that were feeling rather tight around the middle, thanks to all those late-night,verynon-keto binges, and pulled on a shirt with a smiley emoji on it—oh, the irony—but, honestly, it was one of the only clean things in my wardrobe. I swung my handbag over my shoulder and headed for the door, kneecaps shaking like two pathetic chihuahuas.
The strap of my handbag slipped down and I pulled it back up again. It was one of my favorite bags. I’d found it a year ago, stuffed into the corner of an old, dusty antique store in downtown Johannesburg. It was covered in a delicate, intricate beadwork that, when I felt nervous, I liked to run my fingertips over. There was something so soothing about the action, and, right now, I needed soothing.
I closed my apartment door and headed for the elevator. I lived in one of those newly refurbished downtown buildings (very cool and trendy). The kind that was part residential, part hotel, part office, part shop, part restaurant and part modern art gallery. I’d been to the art gallery once. I’d stood there sipping on a flowery, artisanal gin while pretending to understand the significance of the spray-painted iPhone hanging from the ceiling. It was on sale for R100,000.
“An expression of rebellion against our social-media obsessed society,” the man with thePirates of the Caribbeanmoustache had said to me. I’d nodded, even though I had no idea what he was talking about. Like I said, the whole place was very fancy and arty, and Ireallydidn’t need to live here. It was all for show, if I was truly honest with myself. The question was,whowas I showing?
The elevator was empty when I climbed in; I liked it that way. I fiddled with the beads on my bag as the elevator started to descend. I watched the numbers lighting up, getting smaller and smaller and smaller . . .
14 . . .
13 . . .
12 . . .
I was dreading the moment that it said “1” and I had to climb out and face my fire-breathing agent. My agent was intimidating at the best of times, what with her piercing green eyes and her uber-fancy name,Daphne Kingsley-Hawthorne. Every time I heard her say it out loud, I automatically mumbled, “The second esquire,” in my head. The elevator gave a sudden jerk and then came to an abrupt stop. I looked up. We were on floor nine, one of the office floors.
“I’m leaving now, I’m leaving now, okay?” An agitated-looking woman walked in. “I’m walking into the elevator. I’m in the elevator. I’m pressing the button. I’ve pressed the button. I will be there on time.” She narrated her way in and stood on the opposite side to me. I ran my eyes over her quickly before looking away. She was the kind of woman that had presence. You know the kind I’m talking about? The kind that, if she walked into a room, everyone would look up at her. She oozed professionalism with her neatly scraped-back hair, dark maroon lipstick, high-heel shoes with red soles, AND she was wearing a power suit!Ha!I knew I should have worn one. This woman exuded such strength and power, there was no way someone wearingthatwas getting fired today, or ever.
“Elevator doors are closing now. They’ve closed. I’ll be there soon . . . uh, hellooooo? Losing reception, sorry . . . uh . . . See you soon.” She hung up hard, as if she was pissed off, and I couldn’t help but wonder who she was speaking to. I made eye contact briefly and gave a tiny smile. She didn’t smile back and her eyes drifted down to my T-shirt. I crossed my arms; I could see she was silently judging my unfashionable apparel.Wench!
The elevator started moving and then suddenly stopped again. Power Suit looked up and gave a long, slow sigh. As if she had no time to spare. She probably didn’t; women like her were always rushing off to important things like business meetings and Pilates—see, two can play at the judging game.The elevator doors opened, and an even more agitated-looking woman stepped in. She pressed the ground-floor button angrily, and, when the doors didn’t close immediately, she pushed the button another five times in quick succession.
“It’s not going to work faster if you push it more than once,” Power Suit said sarcastically.
The other woman whipped around and gave Power Suit one hell of a death stare. God, her eyebrows really were on fleek. Suddenly, the air was thick with pheromone-filled tension. Narrow-eyed stares were coupled with tight, matt-lipped scowls. I felt transported into an episode ofThe Real Housewivesand wondered what was going to happen next. I was ever so grateful when the doors finally did close and the elevator started moving again. But that didn’t mean the atmosphere in the elevator was any better. In fact, you could have cut the tension in that little metal box with a blunt utensil. Power Suit was tapping her phone against her palm, Fleek Brow was tapping her foot and I was fiddling with my bag. I briefly wondered why these two looked as anxious as I felt. What were their stories? Like me, did they also now find themselves standing at some great fork in the road, wondering which one they should take? Wondering who they were, why they were here and what the hell they were going to do? My mind started racing, but it quickly stopped when . . .
Disaster struck.
A loud grinding sound ripped through the silence and forced me to cover my ears. A sudden drop thrust my stomach into my mouth and made all the blood rush to my head so quickly that I saw stars behind my eyes. I grabbed on to the railing as gravity disappeared and my feet lifted off the ground. Everyone screamed as the elevator started to plummet faster and faster and faster and . . .
“I didn’t mean it about Yellowstone Park!” I wailed loudly as the thing continued to fall at what felt like the speed of light. I really hoped dying in an elevator wasn’t going to be painful. What the hell was I thinking? Of course it was going to be painful! I closed my eyes tightly and waited for the inevitable big bang, which would no doubt be followed by a never-ending blackness. I was going to die . . .
Now, what the hell was the right soundtrack for that?
