Death By Carbs

by Paige Nick

  Maureen considered adding in a small punt for her ENDORSED meal plans, but she decided she’d already made quite a noise about them today, so once she’d posted her comment she logged out, then logged back in as Lydia Steenberg, and got Lydia to ‘like’ Maureen’s post. Then she logged in as Sizwe, then Dolly, and even Herman, giving herself as many ‘likes’ as possible.

  As she’d predicted, business was flying. In the wake of the Prof’s death, interest in Banting had soared to new heights. Maureen had already sold twenty ENDORSED meal plans that day. She hadn’t earned her own money since she’d been in her twenties, working at the hotel in Somerset West, where she did their books and worked behind the bar because her dad knew the owner. That was where she’d met Gus, and the rest was history.

  Maureen replied carefully to each of the meal plan direct messages with her standard copy-and-pasted response, outlining information on her background, her ‘partnership’ with the Professor, as well as what the meal plans entailed, and then of course, the most important part; her banking details so they could make prompt payment if they wanted to move forward, enrich their lives and reach their goals.

  As she typed, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and let out a sharp screech. She dived for her knobkierie, and WHAM! If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was cockroaches. Then she took the weapon into the kitchen and rinsed it off under the tap. She made herself a cup of tea, then went back to work.

  Maureen logged out of her own Facebook account, then logged back in as Lydia Steenberg once again. She no longer even had to check for Lydia’s password on the pinboard, she knew it off by heart, as she should, considering that over the last few days she’d logged in as lydiasteenberg1987@gmail.com more often than she’d logged in as herself. Although only a few hours had passed since their first conversation, Maureen was anxious to see if Benjamin had written to her again.

  She tapped in Lydia’s password, ‘pretty young blonde’, then clicked straight through to her messages and reread the conversation between Benjamin and Lydia for the fifth time. Was he flirting with her? Of course he was. She wasn’t so old and naïve that she couldn’t see that. She flushed and reminded herself it was Lydia he was flirting with: young, firm, imaginary Lydia, not old, baggy, fraudulent Meal Plan Maureen.

  When Benjamin had first struck up the conversation with Lydia, Maureen had decided not to respond. But he seemed pleasant enough, none of that ‘Hello Dear I wanna be yr special friend, write to me and I will send my picture’ stuff, so she had snooped around on his page a bit, checking out the few pictures he’d posted. He’d looked so young and virile and handsome, she couldn’t not respond, could she? That would be rude, considering the time he’d taken to write to her. Anyway, what harm would it do? It was a great opportunity for her to encourage him along the way, even share some tips.

  In fact, she told herself, as the more experienced and successful Banter, she wasn’t lying so much by pretending to be Lydia, as helping. It was obviously the right thing, the humane thing to do. She would also be able to punt her ENDORSED meal plans, which had been the main aim of inventing Lydia in the first place. Reassured, she had typed up her first slightly flirty response to Benjamin on Lydia’s behalf.

  Wait a minute. There was a small fly in the ointment. What if he asked to meet Lydia, or even worse, asked her out on a date? Surely that’s where this whole thing was heading, for him at least? He was half her age, maybe even younger. She was certain he would not take kindly to discovering that he’d inadvertently been flirting with a woman who was old enough to be his mother – possibly even his grandmother. What did the kids on the internet say these days? She was ‘catfishing’ him. He might even call the police. But it was too late to back out now, she thought, as she logged out of Lydia’s account, and then back in as Sizwe.

  THE CO-AUTHORS

  Wednesday 4:10pm

  ‘Oh my goodness, Marco, what happened to your face?’

  Marco winced as his husband touched his cheek.

  ‘It’s nothing. Shaun and I got into it, he hit me.’ Marco dropped his keys on the table by the front door and eased off his jacket.

  ‘That walking steroid, how dare he lay a hand on you!’ yelled Chris. ‘We’ll sue the pants off his tiny wrinkly balls!’

  ‘Oh sweetheart,’ Marco laughed, then winced again.

  ‘I’ll get you an ice pack,’ said Chris, heading for the kitchen, Marco following him.

  ‘I got in a few good shots too, babe, you would have been proud of me. He’s going to be just as sore. But Xolisa tried to stop us, and she got pushed by accident. I feel terrible about it. She fell onto that horrible eighties glass coffee table of Shaun’s and broke it. There were shards of glass everywhere.’

  ‘Oh shit, is she okay?’ Chris asked.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Don’t worry, she’s tough as Zuma, that one. But what on earth were you two fighting about?’

  Marco sucked in air as Chris placed an icy bag of frozen peas against his bruised cheek. ‘He’s just such a monumental dick!’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ said Chris. He paused before asking, ‘Do you think they suspect anything?’

  ‘What? About the Prof and me? No, I don’t think so. Well, nothing they could make stick.’

  ‘You’re definitely sure they don’t know about the new book you were doing with him?’ Chris asked.

  ‘There’s no way they could know. I seriously doubt the Prof would have told them. And he and I were the only ones who knew about it at this stage.’

  ‘What about the publishers?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Absolutely not. The Prof and I had agreed to wait till it was finished and good to go before we pitched it. No leaks until it was one hundred per cent ready. There are just so many copycats out there right now.’

  ‘And what about the arguments you were having with the Prof?’ Chris asked. ‘Do any of them know about those?’

  ‘Nobody could have known, unless he told his wife.’

  ‘Any sign of her yet?’

  ‘Not that I know of. I hope she’s okay.’

  ‘So now what?’ Chris asked, pouring a glass of wine and handing it to Marco, then pouring himself one.

  ‘We go on as planned, nothing changes. Why would it?’ Marco snapped.

  ‘Are you going to get the new book published under your name?’

  ‘Yup,’ said Marco. ‘We get the book published under my name. It will all be very sad and unfortunate, but the timing is perfect. I’ll say that the Prof would have wanted me to go ahead and share his – our – my vision with the world. I’ll dedicate it to him, make it a tribute. The media will lap it up, and I think the punters will go ape-shit for it.’

  ‘Not to mention the fans,’ Chris said.

  ‘Not to mention the fans,’ Marco agreed.

  ‘And we won’t have to share the royalties with anyone this time.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear. Cheers! Here’s to you.’ Chris clinked his glass against Marco’s.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Marco, gingerly taking a sip. ‘Oh, wait, you won’t believe this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re fucking each other.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Shaun and Xolisa.’

  ‘No way!

  ‘Way!’

  ‘How long has that been going on?’

  ‘I don’t know, they say they were together last night and that she slept over at his place,’ Marco explained.

  ‘Wow. I mean, I knew Xolisa and Cyril were having problems, but I didn’t realise . . . I didn’t see that coming.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Marco said.

  ‘She’s so bony and full of angles, I can’t picture her having sex with anyone.’

  ‘I know, right?’

  ‘What did Shireen say?’ Chris
asked.

  ‘She was on Skype, I’m not even sure she heard. She cried through the whole conversation.’

  ‘Typical.’

  Marco nodded.

  ‘The press is already having a field day with the murder. If you

  were to tell them about Shaun and Xolisa’s affair, that would really make their heads explode. Honey, maybe you can get an exclusive in You magazine with the story. They’d definitely pay for it.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Absolutely, but we’d better move on it, and call your agent straight away, in case Shireen has the same idea.’

  ‘You’re a genius.’

  ‘How’s your face feeling?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Better now,’ smiled Marco, holding out his glass for a refill. ‘And hopefully better than that wanker’s.’

  THE FANS

  Wednesday 4:19pm

  THE BANTING FOR LIFE FACEBOOK PAGE

  Sizwe Madonda

  Molweni everybody in Banting land. I wanted to update all you kind supportive people on my journey. Things have been going very well for me. Despite being a man who always loved his pap, eish how I miss it. But I have managed to lose thirty-two kilograms in total.

  This Banting is really for me. If my ex-wife had to see me now! I used to get such bad indigestion I would be crying, Aikona! But now this is much better. Also my aches and pains are less than before. This week I can proudly say that I have lost another two kilograms. But I have a secret Banting weapon. I couldn’t have done any of this without Maureen Ewehout’s Marvellous Noakes ENDORSED Meal Plans. They are amazing. I learnt about cauli-rice and cauli-mash when I first started out, but now she has introduced me to cauli-pap! It’s so nca!

  One day someone must just invent cauli-umqombothi and then I’ll bring out my vuvuzela! Go Chiefs!

  Like 209

  Tina Nortje You are inspiring1

  Like 17

  Neil Kleynhans So impressed and pleased for you. I love the idea of cauli-pap. Well done.

  Like 14

  Maureen Ewehout I’m so pleased it’s working for you Sizwe Madonda, I’m proud of you. I’ll get to work on creating a Marvellous ENDORSED Meal Plan with cauli-umqombothi immediately. J

  Like 27

  Thandi Malibongwe That sounds nca, share the recipe.

  Like 13

  Zwelethu Magona Cauli-pap? Are you sure you’re black? Abelungu bayaphambana.

  Like 7

  THE EX-PUBLISHER

  Wednesday 4:59pm

  ‘That’s it, you’ve had enough! I’m cutting you off,’ the barman said, swiping his cloth along the counter. Frank had managed to get more of his most recent drink on the bar than into his mouth.

  ‘You’re damn right, I’ve had enough!’ Frank shouted, slamming his left fist on the bar counter. He was slurring even worse, and he kept sliding off his barstool. There was clearly something wrong with it.

  Frank turned to speak to his new friend, the man sitting two barstools down from him. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve had enough of, that fucking Tim Noakesh, that’sh who. Hashn’t he had enough? Enough fame, enough money, enough ruining other people’sh lives. . .’

  Dimly Frank realised the man two stools down from him wasn’t

  there anymore. So he heaved himself up and onto the foot rungs of his barstool, and shouted out to everyone in the bar: ‘I losht everything thanksh to that fraud Noakesh and his hair-brained money-making shcheme. I had to go work at a fucking chain bookshtore, for fuck’sh shake! Two yearsh ago I was one of thish country’sh greatesht publishers. I had a corner office and my own PA. And then I turned down one manushcript. One! I thought it was just another diet fad, and a crazy one, too. How wash I to know it would make millionsh? Sho I punched him in the face, I punched him and I punched him and I punched him, I punched that professhor until he fell over. Then I shtood on him,

  and I kicked him and kicked him.’

  By now Frank was staggering around trying to demonstrate his ninja kicking technique, but he couldn’t get his legs to co-operate.

  ‘Wait, are you saying you attacked Tim Noakes?’ asked the barman.

  ‘Yesh! In the fashe!’ Frank roared. ‘Ha, he killed my career and now he’sh dead! Good riddansh!’

  ‘My wife lost thirty-three kilos on that diet,’ the barman said. ‘That man is a national hero. They should have put him in parliament. He would have shut down the gravy train one time. You sit down over there and don’t move a muscle, I’m calling the cops.’

  ‘Call them!’ Frank shouted, ‘I’m glad I did it. I’d do it again!’ Then he tried to sit on his barstool, missed, and collapsed in a cursing heap on the floor.

  THE HIJACKERS

  Wednesday 5:32pm

  ‘So is this the Rondebosch Common?’ Papsak asked.

  ‘Ewe,’ Thabo said.

  ‘Okay, so then why are you driving around and around, you’re mos wasting petrol and making my head spin. Let’s dump him already.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot your whole life, Papsak. I’m looking for a more private place. Look at these people coming past all the time. See, they’re all running around and around, they keep coming back, the same ones. I need to find somewhere we can stop and get Uncle Mlungu out of the car so that none of these people will see us.’

  ‘What if we carry him between us and pretend we’re going for a walk, like we did earlier to take the taxi to Lefty’s place? Then we can just drop him when nobody is looking and run back to the car quickly?’ Papsak suggested.

  ‘You see all these people coming past us all the time?’ Thabo asked.

  ‘Ja-aaa?’

  ‘They’re runners, Papsak.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I read on the internet on my new Samsung that Uncle Mlungu is a professor of running, so I’m worried that if we take him out of gusheshe here, these people will all recognise him for sure. What if someone comes to ask him for his autograph? Then what, ne?’

  ‘No man, we’d better get the hell out of here,’ said Papsak. ‘Is he a professor of surfing too?’

  ‘No, I didn’t see that on the phone.’

  ‘Good, then maybe we can dump him in the sea and nobody will recognise him there.’

  The phone in Thabo’s pocket bleeped.

  Papsak jumped. The runners were making him nervous. ‘Who is it?’

  Thabo took out the phone and smiled. ‘It’s a “please call me” from Cynthia. I left her a message.’ He leaned back in his seat and dialled her number.

  Papsak rolled his eyes and turned on the radio. Thabo slapped Papsak’s hand away from the dial and clicked his tongue at him.

  ‘Hi baby,’ Thabo growled into the phone, making his voice sound as deep and sexy as possible.

  . . .

  ‘No, it’s me, Thabo.’ His voice rose back to normal pitch.

  . . .

  ‘Yes, me, Thabo, from the shebeen the other night, remember? I’m calling you from my new phone. I got it this morning, it’s a Samsung. It’s got unlimited airtime.’

  . . .

  ‘Yes, brand-new. It was on special.’

  . . .

  ‘It’s almost as cool as my new gusheshe!’

  . . .

  ‘Yes, a car too.’

  . . .

  ‘So baby, I thought maybe we can go out together some time?’

  . . .

  ‘Yes, I can pick you up later, I’m just working now.’

  . . .

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a job.’

  . . .

  ‘No, it’s a real job, Cynthia. Serious business. That’s where I got the money for the car and the phone.’

  . . .

  ‘Umm . . . my job? I’ve got my own business, baby, I’m a BEE.’

  . . .

 
Papsak pointed theatrically at the clock on the dashboard.

  ‘My friend Papsak says hi, my baby,’ Thabo said, ignoring his buddy.

  . . .

  ‘Yes, he’s here with me, we’re working together.’

  . . .

  ‘No, we’re not at the shebeen, I told you, we’re at work. Why don’t you believe me?’

  . . .

  ‘We’re making money, I told you.’

  . . .

  ‘Where do you think the money for all this airtime comes from?’

  . . .

  ‘Okay, I’d better go back to work. I’ll call you later.’

  . . .

  ‘Okay, I love you.’

  . . .

  ‘Don’t you love me?’

  . . .

  ‘Fine then, I’ll call you later, you can tell me you love me then. Bye.’ Thabo hung up at last.

  THE EX-PUBLISHER

  Wednesday 5:47pm

  ‘Can you open the window, pleashe,’ Frank slurred, ‘I think I’m going to be . . . BLEURGGHHHH. . .’

  ‘Great, just great!’ sighed the cop in the passenger seat.

  ‘Is he dead or did he just pass out back there? You’d better check. They’re going to want this guy in one piece back at the station for questioning on the Noakes murder,’ said the other cop, tapping down on the indicator.

  The first cop craned his neck to check through the window into the back of the police van. ‘I can see him breathing. But I think he may have pissed himself.’

  ‘Sis man! It’s your turn to hose out the van when we get back to the station.’

  ‘I thought it was your turn.’

  ‘I did it last time, when we picked up those bergies who’d been riding the blue train on Long Street.’