‘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 screamedLook 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 thirtyyears and had sold millions of albums. As I climbed out of the car, she swish-walked towards me in all her glory. And shewasglorious. 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 withthings; 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 andwhite 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?’
‘Tuscan?’ This was akin to asking me what the square root of ten million and five was. ‘Mmm, sounds lovely.’ I’ve never been a good liar – most likely due to my penchant for the truth – and it was obvious that Sharaz had just seen right through me.
She let out a loud, contemplative sigh. ‘Maybe you’re right. I’ll revisit my Moroccan souk idea.’
I nodded, trying to think of something to say. ‘I like lamb tagine,’ was all I could think of.
‘So let’s get down to business,’ she said, clapping her hands together, another loud bracelet jangle ringing out. ‘Well, you obviously know who I am.’ She gestured behind her, and I stared.
Because covering the entire wall were portraits of Sharaz, all donein various styles. There was the Sharaz in Andy Warhol print style, a huge painting of her as a Botticelli angel, a large moody black and white of her lying on the floor flanked by two black panthers with shiny diamond collars, a soft watercolour of her in a rose garden and an oil painting of her on a giant brown steed, and so it went on. And to make it even more incredible, in between all those paintings were shelves of gold awards and platinum albums.
‘Yes, I know who you are.’ I was struggling to prise my eyes from the bizarre smorgasbord of portraits.
‘So you know who I’m married to?’
‘No, you’ll forgive me, I don’t.’
‘Victor Langdon,CEOof Monarch Luxury Holdings. You’ve obviously heard of the company.’
I nodded. I had heard of it. Monarch Luxury Holdings dealt with high-end luxury goods: art, jewellery, rare wines and antiques. I only knew this because some years back a Picasso had been stolen from their showroom. I’d been fascinated by the case and followed it closely; the Picasso had never been found.
‘Then you know how much my husband is worth?’
I looked around me. One of the paintings on the far wall looked suspiciously like an actual Monet, and in the opposite corner, housed in an antique cabinet that could have been lifted from Versailles itself, sat a line of Fabergé eggs. ‘I think I have a pretty good idea.’
‘Well then, you must know where I’m going with all this. A lady of your experience.’
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs. ‘You think he’s cheating, and you want to divorce him. If he’s caught in the act, then half of this goes to you. Am I close?’
‘Spot on,’ she said.
