Sidekick Read online

  Like Finn.

  So, once I’m sure that Ruth is comfortable and happy enough behind a computer in one of the spare rooms on the guest floor, I call a taxi to take me to Sea Point.

  The Blue Oceans Hotel may have a pretty stupid name, but when I get there I see that it’s actually one of those new champagne-and-caviar places they’ve built on what used to be the prostitute strip in Sea Point. Now I don’t know what this says about me, but I always feel like giggling out loud when I walk into one of these places. You know the kind of inappropriate laughter I mean – that horrible kind you get at funerals or yoga classes or any place where you’re expected to be all serious.

  The Blue Oceans Hotel is exactly one of those places.

  I mean, the place is stuffed so full with chandeliers, you’re reminded of an insecure woman wearing too much jewellery in an attempt to look sophisticated. And all that marble and all those lilies and mirrors and double-volume ceilings … I mean, this is Sea Point, for Pete’s sake. Lighten up, people – you’re practically living on the beach!

  Anyway, as I walk in, the woman at reception looks me up and down like something the cat dragged in. Which is totally unfair, seeing that I’m pretty sure fancy schmancy rich people get to wear cut-offs and T-shirts whenever they feel like it. I decide to be brazen, not wanting her to think I’m intimidated by her poisonous stare.

  Although I am. Obviously.

  “Hi.” I give my brightest smile. “I wonder if you can help me?”

  The receptionist looks like Africa’s answer to Hollywood glamour. (You know: we’ll see you a Paris Hilton and we’ll raise you a Khanyi Mbau.) Everything about her shines: her lips, her eyes, her jewellery, her hair … If I wasn’t standing right here, I’d have sworn she’d been photoshopped.

  She gives me that scary smile that all the popular girls seem to learn in some top-secret extracurricular class before they go to high school. “Yes?”

  “Uh … I’m … uh. Looking for Ms Kunene?”

  She narrows her eyes. “With regards to what, may I ask?”

  Okay, so this is the part I didn’t really think through – snooping around is a lot easier in untime when the people involved don’t know I’m there. Also, they can’t move, they can’t see, and – very importantly – they can’t ask questions.

  “Uhm. It’s kind of private. I just need to speak to her about something …”

  Lame, I know. And there’s certainly no way on earth that Barracuda Barbie here is going to fall for it. She gives me one of those you’re-less-important-than-the-dirt-under-my-shoe looks. And although I hate myself for being such a wimp, she makes me feel like I’m less important than the dirt under her shoe. So, naturally, I overcompensate.

  “Look,” I say seriously. “This is important.” I try to look both serious and important. “I need to speak to her right away.” Then I drum my fingers impatiently on the counter to show that I have far better things to do than waste my time talking to a mere receptionist.

  But it’s like attacking an elephant with a fly swat. The woman simply turns her back on me, picks up a file and begins to page through it leisurely. Like I don’t even exist.

  “Excuse me.”

  She ignores me flat.

  “Excuse me.”

  It’s like talking to a wall.

  “EXCUSE ME!”

  As everybody in the lobby turns their heads to see what’s going on, the receptionist puts the file down with an exaggerated sigh. She then turns around slo-o-owly, and waits at least a minute before she deigns to speak to me.

  “It’s against company policy to release the contact information of ex-employees.” Her voice is icy enough to make me shiver.

  “But I really need to … What do you mean ex-employees?” It takes me that long to process her words.

  She lifts one eyebrow, bored. “Ms Kunene doesn’t work for this company any more.”

  She doesn’t?

  “Oh. [Didn’t see that one coming.] Well, uh … Can you pass on a message to her?”

  The receptionist shakes her head. “No. We have no contact with Ms Kunene any longer.” But she allows her eyes to stray blatantly to the BlackBerry lying in front of her, letting me know in no uncertain terms that she’s lying.

  “I really need to speak to her.”

  “Why?”

  And you know what? Suddenly, under the critical stare of this woman, I realise that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing here.

  So I turn around and walk away.

  Like a coward.

  Outside the hotel I get into a minibus heading my way. As we start winding our way towards Clifton, I make a mental list of everything I’ve learnt from this visit.

  Things I’ve learnt from this visit:

  1. My interview technique is just plain pathetic.

  2. I’m a sad excuse for an investigator. And a coward.

  3. Nothing.

  When I get home, Mom and Ruth are about to start watching a DVD together. Ruth (like just about everyone else on this planet) seems to have fallen hook, line and sinker for Mom’s House & Garden brand of charm, and Mom has obviously decided to take Ruth under her wing.

  It hurts my head to think how all this is going to turn out.

  * * *

  I spend most of Sunday doing homework and studying for my next maths test. Ruth offers to help, and I humour her for a while, just because the whole situation is so awkward and I’m hoping to distract her from her problems.

  Only, holy mackerel!!! It turns out Ruth is like this maths genius! Seriously, I think there must be some direct genetic link between her and Albert Einstein or something. I mean, the girl is more than a year younger than me and only in grade 11, but all she has to do is read through my textbook to understand exactly what’s going on. And that’s not all! Not only does she understand it, she also gets why I don’t understand, and she can explain it to me!

  It’s a miracle.

  After a full day of studying I go to bed all happy and kind of righteous, convinced that I’m being rewarded by a higher power for my good work.

  * * *

  The maths test on Tuesday turns out okay, much better than any other test I’ve written so far this year. I’m so buoyed up by this small success that I decide to continue my private investigation, in spite of the fact that I’m beginning to suspect that, unlike my famous namesake, [31] I might not be the best investigator in the world. (Actually, I’ve come to realise that my live investigative skills are based almost entirely on what I’ve seen on Veronica Mars.)

  Still.

  Trying to convince myself that finding Ruth had more to do with brilliant investigative techniques than plain dumb luck, I return to those files. It’s not like I’ve got that much else on in any case; there’s only so much studying I can do before my brain demands a mini-break.

  (Unlike Mandi, who can study for days on end without coming to any physical or mental harm. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen my best friend in ages. They’re having exams at her school, and Ms Brainiac is obviously planning to shatter all previous records for sheer nerdiness.)

  Anyway, on Wednesday afternoon I decide to go for a jog around the streets of Camps Bay, right past Macy Bowers’s house. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to find, to be honest. But I mean, barring the proverbial cat, curiosity hasn’t killed anyone yet, has it?

  I find the house easily (thank you, Google), and by that time I’m so tired that I’m walking in any case.

  Macy Bowers’s house is enormous – a mansion situated on the Bakoven side of Camps Bay. These people obviously have money, and buckets of it.

  Now I’m no architect or anything, but there’s something about the house that’s weird, ridiculous even. My guess is that it used to be one of those huge but normal, old-fashioned family homes before someone decided to turn it into an “authentic” Mediterranean villa. And in this case they just plain tried too hard.

  You know what I mean. The walls are treated to look aged, there’s
lavender everywhere, fountains and gravel, ivy and angels, roses and terracotta pots. Everything is just too perfect, like they’re expecting the team from Top Billing to jump out from behind a topiary any minute. The name says it all: Chalet des Bowers. (If pretentiousness could be measured on a scale of zero to Pink Floyd fans, I’d say that was worth about a seven, easily.)

  So I’m standing around, right, just kind of taking it all in, when suddenly a small face pops out over the wall.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh.” I give the boy my brightest smile, hoping that it’ll work on a five-year-old at least. “Nothing. Just resting a bit.”

  He looks me up and down. “Why are you so sweaty?” he finally asks.

  Great. Everyone’s a fricken critic.

  “I’ve been jogging. Really far. And it’s really hot.” Little twit.

  He frowns at me, like I’ve said something ridiculous. “But you don’t look that fat …”

  “What do you mean that fat?”

  “Mommy says only fat people sweat.”

  “Nonsense.” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. “It’s perfectly normal to sweat.”

  “Mommy says it’s disgusting. She says it shows you’re either poor or you’re fat. That’s why Mommy told Macy to eat less.”

  I’m not sure I’m following the argument here, but as far as I can gather Mommy sounds like a total nightmare.

  “Do you miss her? Macy, I mean?” Smooth intro there, Katie. Really slick.

  “I’m not supposed to talk about Macy.”

  “That’s okay.” Surely I can get some answers from a five-year-old? “I used to go to school with her.”

  His little lip starts trembling. “Mommy says that the past is over. She doesn’t want us to talk about Macy any more.”

  “Oh, but …” Before I can finish my sentence a voice rings out from somewhere in the garden.

  “Adam!”

  “Yes, Mommy?”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  For a moment Adam looks guilty, and then his little head disappears behind the wall. The next moment the garden gate is opened from inside, and I’m looking at possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.

  Holy guacamole.

  Macy’s mother personifies that perfect mix of international genes that’s like an advert for globalisation: there’s something of Europe in the blue-green of her eyes, something of India in her long silky black hair, something of the East in her tiny build, and something of Africa in the colour of her skin. She’s absolutely spectacular.

  “Can I help you?” The woman’s voice is all honey and modulated vowels.

  “No, no …” I give her my widest smile, hoping it will work on her too. “I was just passing by, you know. And then I kind of started talking to your son.”

  She returns my smile, and I don’t know, it’s like I feel … honoured. Like I’m important, just because this stunningly beautiful woman is smiling at me.

  “That’s fine, then. Enjoy the rest of your jog.”

  As she begins to close the gate again, I realise it’s now or never.

  “Excuse me, Mrs Bowers. I … uh … I know your daughter. From school.”

  Her face is suddenly the picture of sadness. (With the emphasis on the word “picture”. She looks like a fricken poster child for sadness.)

  “Please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But …”

  “This family has suffered enough.” Her eyes are pools of liquid hurt. Like Bambi’s eyes after his mom was shot by the evil hunters. “Please leave now.”

  She closes the door in my face.

  “Uh … okay,” I stammer, feeling guilty as anything. “Sorry.”

  And then I jog back home, wondering if Veronica Mars ever felt like an interfering old cow. Or like the evil hunter in Bambi.

  Chapter 14

  You know that song that goes something like “You’ll always find me in the kitchen at parties”?

  Well, that song was written for me. Sadly, I am exactly that loser. It’s so predictable, it’s almost uncanny – for some or other inexplicable reason, whenever I make the mistake of going to a party, that is where I end up. Alone. In the kitchen. Near the fridge, the back door and the edge of my sanity.

  I can’t believe I let Ruth talk me into this.

  (Thing is, I’m not used to sharing my space with another person, and after a whole week Ruth was starting to get on my nerves a bit. I thought it might be nice to get out. See some people. Pretend to have a life.)

  Ironically enough, it’s actually a pretty good party. Even I can see that. If I had any friends I might even have enjoyed it. The parents of the guy who lives here (Higgovale, very classy) have gone overseas, leaving him on his own for a whole month. I mean, can you even imagine having parents that cool? With the money they left him he has organised a real DJ, and the place is all lit up with fairy lights. There’s party food made by an actual caterer (as opposed to the usual packets of Cheese Curls and Lays), loads of booze and a swimming pool full of people. Everyone seems to be dancing or laughing and having fun.

  Well. Almost everyone.

  “Katie Holmes!”

  I hate the way certain people always have to say my full name like that, like it’s a joke.

  I turn around. Two of Daniel’s creepy friends, Willem and Jamal, are sneering at me.

  “Hi Willem. Hi Jamal.”

  Willem does his usual panting-like-a-dog thing – I mean, phul-leeze – but Jamal gives me a friendly smile. Only then he has to blow it by opening his mouth. “So, I see Her Highness has finally decided to grace us with her presence.”

  I roll my eyes at him, genuinely irritated. “Don’t you think that whole thing is getting a bit old?”

  For a moment he looks taken aback, like he’s surprised I’m taking him on directly. But he backs off, plays dumb instead. “What you talking about, girl?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.” I make the inverted comma sign with my fingers, although I hate myself for doing it. “The whole ‘Katie-is-a-stuck-up-bitch thing’. Honestly, can’t you people find someone else to pick on for a while?”

  The two look at each other, and something I can’t quite understand passes between them. Then Jamal pastes another smile on his face, and raises his hands in fake surrender.

  “Hey, shawty, don’t trip, all right? I’m not dissin’ you here, you feel me?”

  “I feel you, Jamal,” I sigh, trying not to sound too obviously sarcastic. I wonder if he knows just how retarded he sounds when he talks like that. There’s an uncomfortable moment of silence when we all just stare at one another.

  Then, not knowing what else to say, I fall back on the line I always tend to go for when sitting next to the fridge at a party.

  “Anyone want a beer?”

  * * *

  Now usually, I don’t drink.

  This, I should stress, is not because I’m trying to win some award for healthy living or anything, but because of my mind-blowingly dismal record when it comes to handling the hard stuff.

  When we were thirteen years old, for example, Mandi and I once shared a whole bottle of Old Brown Sherry, just to see what it was like. Yes, well. You can imagine how that turned out. To this day I get an involuntary shiver whenever I get as much as a whiff of that vile drink.

  Then, one time in grade 10, I got a bit mellow, only to have Finn call untime. He needed my assistance to drag a car full of people out of a river (I had to drive the tractor) and I couldn’t help him, because, well, you know, I … just couldn’t. I felt really bad about that, let me tell you. (Also, you don’t want to be drunk in untime. Trust me.)

  After that I stayed away from alcohol at parties. “Be prepared” and all that.

  But last year, after Simon died, I discovered the joys of drinking again.

  What can I say? It was wonderful. Suddenly, out of the blue, I had all this confidence, and I was funny, and cool, and everybod
y liked me. (Well, that’s what it felt like to me. While I was drunk.)

  Then one night at some random party someone offered me a joint, and because I was already a bit tipsy at the time I took a few drags. And then one thing led to another (read: I went ape-shit bananas), and what happened later led me to being expelled from my old school and grounded for the rest of my life. [32]

  (I’m sorry, but even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you more about that night. Truth is, I can’t even bear to think of it, it’s that humiliating. Suffice to say it involved a late night break-in to the principal’s office, an accidental abduction, a minor incident of arson, a huge mud fight and two donkeys.)

  Anyway. The point I’m trying to make here is that I don’t really drink, not if I can help it.

  But. You know.

  It’s not like Finn and I do the untime thing any more. And that horrible night when I did all that stupid stuff happened almost a year ago now … And surely one little cider wouldn’t hurt?

  So, when I get the guys their beers, I grab a Savanna for myself.

  It tastes good. The slice of lemon stuffed in the neck of the bottle gives it a bit of a zing. I take another careful sip, and then another.

  One Savanna later I hear them playing my favourite song, and I leave the kitchen to go join the dancing crowd.

  * * *

  I’m sitting on a high wooden bench. Outside, somewhere. A balcony? Not entirely sure how I got here.

  Willem is standing in front of me. Too close. He comes even closer. The lights of the city below are rotating in long, lazy circles.

  He puts his hands on my knees. I slap them away.

  “You think you’re so fucking hard, don’t you?” He laughs nastily.

  “Leave me alone.” I feel weird. I think I’m going to be sick.

  “You know you want this,” he says. Then he forces my knees apart and leans into the bench, so that his body is between my legs. He is way too close and his breath stinks.

  “Go away.”