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They fall into what looks like a tense discussion, but they’re not ripping each other’s heads off. How long is the princess going to wait before making her grand entry? As soon as the introductions are out of the way, we can get the fuck out of here. I won’t see her for more than a couple of days per year until we move her to Corsica. I’m a devil, but I’m not a creep. I’ve never been into underaged girls. The getting-to-know-each-other is my father’s bright idea. If it was up to me, I’d just go into the whole thing cold turkey.
I plunge a hand into my pocket and fold my fingers around the joint the hotel bellboy slipped me. The over-dressed women with their lace, silk, and ostrich feathers bug me. Margaret’s snobbish air of superiority where she’s mingling with the guests is as irritating as hell. The pretentiousness of the whole lot gathered on the lawn, smiling and kissing Edwards’s ass, grates on my nerves.
Fuck, I need to get away.
Making an impulsive decision, I walk down the length of the veranda and turn the corner.
I need to get stoned before I lose my shit and rip someone to pieces.
CHAPTER
TWO
Sabella
Just one more minute.
I let a little air from my lungs and sink deeper into the cool water. The salt no longer burns my open eyes. A wedge of sun rays pierces the surface and fans out to the bottom. Bubbles catch the light. Like tiny beads of fragile glass, they stick to my arms and legs. Life under the water is muted, the sounds dispersed. The rhythmic ebb and flow of the break is a distant lullaby. The tide gently rocks me to that beat. Forward and backward. Push and pull.
If I could, I’d stay here forever, but I can only hold my breath for so long.
I swim up and gulp in air when I break the surface. Treading water, I catch my breath. It’s warmer in the water than outside. The late afternoon sky already glows with a champagne-colored tint. The whining of a violin drifts down from our garden. It must be the string quartet Mom hired for the party.
I’d rather make the most of the last hour of daylight and swim until my muscles cramp than listen to Aunt Judith’s critique of the latest performing arts drama or pretend Uncle Fred hasn’t told the story about how he walked into a bank robbery for the trillionth time. I’d give all my pocket money to sit on the sand and watch the bioluminescence in the water instead of telling Aunt Mary that no, I’m not too thin, and yes, I’m eating enough. But this is my party, and I’m already in trouble for being late as it is.
Unable to put the inevitable off longer, I swim to the shore and surf the waves to prevent myself from being tumbled and crushed in the roaring mass of foam. Once my feet touch ground, I waddle out of the water. The fine sand is dusted with flecks of gold. The shallow water is like a magnifying glass on the shiny particles that, once upon a time, were majestic shells and pearly abalone.
I dig my toes into the wet sand, enjoying the tickle as the water pulls back and the sand sucks my feet deeper. A breeze picks up from the sea. Goosebumps run over my arms. A woman’s shrill laughter pierces the music coming from the hill, reminding me the guests are waiting.
Pulling my feet from the soft suction of the sand with a sigh, I run to the cave at the foot of the cliff where I left my clothes. Hurriedly, I pull my denim cutoffs and shirt on over my bikini. The thin linen doesn’t do much to warm me. In the darkness of the cave, the sand is cold, and the musty air is humid. I should’ve brought a sweater, but I wasn’t planning on staying so late.
The tide has come in. The river that feeds the lagoon flows too strongly now to swim across. On the other side of the river, a bridge spans over the lagoon to connect the beach with the island. Another bridge at the back of the island leads to the main road that runs to town. A ninety-degree bend on the right diverts to the beachfront. Our mansion stands on the highest hill at the end of that road, right on the edge, overlooking the massive dunes and a stretch of sand so long you can see Glentana in the north and Mossel Bay in the south.
Instead of going via the road, I climb straight up the steep side of the biggest dune. It’s high, and by the time I’m three-quarters up, I’m panting from the exertion. The vegetation that caps the top is dense. I have to crawl down the secret footpath I’ve walked out over the years. The fynbos forms a tunnel around me until I exit on the other side. From here, I veer left and jog around the edge of the outcrop until I reach the tar road.
