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’djust 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 sayingLiar!
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 overdramaticI’m totally chilledposture 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.Fancywas 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 andCEOs. This was going to be interesting. I could feel it.
CHAPTER 3
I slid into my car, and when I say car, I mean (drum roll, please, people) my 1978 Mustang Cobra. The ultimate muscle car.
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 wasthatbadass.
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 unapologeticScrew 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 thingfucks 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 singingABBAon 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 withAK-47s began approaching my car.
