It is. Once I’ve parked the car in a bay right outside the entrance, we get out and I run an appraising eye over Logan. He looks dishevelled in his damp and wrinkled tux. His bow tie is askew, his hair sticks up messily, and his feet, of course, are bare. Unfortunately, he still looks unmistakably like his very famous self.
“Here,” I say, fishing a pair of sunglasses out of my handbag. “Put these on.”
“And? How do I look?” He holds his hands up in a voila! gesture as if presenting me with an excellent disguise.
“You look a little less like Logan Rush.”
Maybe one half of one percent less.
“What about your disguise?” he asks.
“I don’t need a disguise — I’m not famous.”
“I don’t want to be the only one who looks dumb — wearing sunglasses at night.”
“Fine.” I snag a faded baseball cap from my tog bag in the car and pull it on. “Happy now?”
He turns the cap sideways and nods. I have never in my life worn a cap sideways, like some lame wannabee rapper. But we need to get him inside quickly, so I don’t waste time arguing.
“Come on, this way. Once you’re in the hotel, you should be safe.”
“Let’s hold hands,” Logan suggests. “We can pretend to be a honeymoonin’ couple. Or” — he taps the dark glasses — “I could be a blind man, and you my Seeing Eye … guide.”
I sneak a suspicious glance at him and see one end of his mouth is hitched in a grin. Even though he’s treating this as a joke, I don’t object. In another few minutes, we’ll go our separate ways and I’ll never see him again, except at the movies. Future me will cherish the memory that Logan Rush once asked to hold my hand.
“Okay.” I put my hand in his — so big and warm — and my heart gives a fidgety sort of hiccup. “Here we go.”
Chapter 8
Hogs and bunnies
We head straight through the entrance to the mall, past a lone smoker getting his nicotine fix, and walk along the short row of stores — closed at this hour — that lead to the hotel’s other entrance. We pass a few people, but perhaps the cemetery angel is protecting us, because none of them is a female under thirty and the only glances Logan attracts are disapproving ones directed at his unkempt appearance and bare feet.
A minute later we reach the glass doors of the hotel, but here the doorman steps forward to block our way.
“He’s a guest, okay? He got mugged, and I’m taking him back to his room,” I say quickly, before the doorman can point to the right of admission reserved sign on the wall behind him, or mention dress codes.
I probably didn’t meet their standards either, in my scruffy jeans and T-shirt, my old sneakers, and the tatty cap perched on top of my messy bun. No one would buy me as the date of the hot guy by my side — better to pretend to be his Seeing Eye dog.
“Plus, he’s blind, and he needs me to guide him,” I say, but the doorman still looks unconvinced.
Logan sticks out his hands, lays them on the man’s shoulders, pats them up to his surprised face, and begins feeling his features.
“Is it my father, Miss Morgan? Is it my long-lost father?” he says, in a piteous tone.
“No, Mr Falconer, it’s not. It’s a hotel employee who is discriminating against a disabled man — a blind, handicapped guest of the hotel. What is your name?” I demand of the doorman.
He looks from me to Logan and back again, then shrugs and steps aside.
“This way, Mr Falconer, this way.” Holding Logan by both hand and elbow, I escort him into the hotel.
I want to giggle and so, judging from his shaking shoulders, does Logan. But we sober up immediately because the lobby just ahead of us is filled with more than the silver, water-spouting dolphin. The crowd of tourists from the bus outside the main entrance now throngs the reception area, cell phones out and cameras slung around their necks. It’s too much to hope that Logan could walk unnoticed through the midst of them.
I look around wildly. Ahead of us are the tourists, behind us is the doubting doorman, to our left is a massive ficus plant which maybe has some potential as a temporary hiding place, and to our right is the hotel’s all-night coffee shop.
“Right — change of plan,” I announce.
I tug Logan into the café and steer him to one of the private booths with high banquette seats. As soon as we’re seated — me facing the door and him with his back to it — a waitress ambles over and hands us two oversized menus.
“Here.” I hand Logan my cell phone. “You’d better call your director and let her know where you are. And please tell me you know her number, because I don’t think you’re going to be able to get it off your phone.”
“No, I don’t. But” — he holds up a finger and retrieves his wallet out from an inner pocket in his jacket — “I do have this.” He carefully extracts a sodden business card. “It’s from the first audition. I hang on to it for luck.”
“Good thing. I’m going to order something to eat — I’m ravenous. Do you want something?”
“Sure, whatever looks good.”
“You’re not a vegetarian or a vegan or something equally … Hollywoodish, are you?”
“Me? I’m from Alabama. We’re not scared of meat. We eat hogs whole there.”
Logan squints at the card, trying to decipher the smudged ink of the number scrawled on the back, and taps numbers on my phone’s touchpad.
“Hi, Cilla, it’s Logan … Hello? Is that Cilla?” He pulls a mystified face and hands the phone over to me.
I listen for a moment then say, “Jammer, verkeerde nommer,” into the mouthpiece. “You dialled the wrong number,” I say.
“What was that she was speaking?”
“Afrikaans.”
“Sounds like gargling.”
He tries again, being careful to enter the right codes, and this time he gets through to his director. While he speaks, I pretend to read the menu, but my ears are ‘flapping’— as Zeb would say.
“Cilla? Yeah, it’s me … I know, I know — I’m sorry. I just had to get away, y’know … No, I’m fine … Yes, but I didn’t die. I got rescued by a sea siren.” He grins at me and my stomach flips over. “A girl, okay? A very lovely local lady … What?” He looks at me again, this time a little warily. “No, no, I’m sure she’s legit … Wait, I’ll ask her.” Then to me, he says, “You’re not a reporter, are you?”
“No!” I say, as though offended. Secretly I’m flattered he thinks I might be old enough.
“She says no … Well, I guess so … What’s that? I have no recollection, but y’all hold on, I’ll ask her — she knows everything.” He looks at me and says, “The captain of the yacht wants to know where we left the dinghy.”
“On the sandy inlet, to the south of the main causeway, in Simon’s Town.”
He repeats my directions word for word and then listens for a while before answering. “I am so sorry, Cilla. I wouldn’t have put you out for the world, you know that. We’re hiding out in the coffee shop at the hotel … No, I’ll sit tight, promise … Okay, see you soon.”
He hangs up and hands me back my phone.
“Well?” I ask.
“She’s already on her way over.” He doesn’t sound too thrilled about this. “She’s in full damage-control mode because she thinks you’re a tabloid journo in disguise.”
“Really?”
“Say, what colour are your eyes?” he says, leaning forward and staring into them.
I find just enough breath to reply, “Uh, brown?”
I seize the moment to look deeply into his gaze, and examine his irises. They’re the cobalt blue of the eye of a peacock feather, and they are edged by a purplish-black rim. Sucks to Zeb and his CGI theory.
“Ready to order?” The waitress has returned and is tapping her pen on her notepad.
I look down at the menu, but everything’s blurry — I’m still wearing my driving glasses. I perch them on top of the baseball cap and try again.<
br />
“Since you should never mix your drinks,” Logan says, “we’ll have a bottle of —”
“A pot of strong coffee, please,” I say sternly. “And a large bottle of mineral water.”
“You’re so bossy,” he grumbles.
“And two lamb bunny-chows,” I tell the waitress. “Make one hot and one,” — I eye Logan speculatively — “medium.”
“We’re going to eat rabbits?” he asks as the waitress leaves.
“It’s a local delicacy. Besides, I thought you were from Alabama, and not scared of meat?”
“Yeah, but … bunnies?”
“Phff! It’s made from lamb, and it’s the best thing for hangovers.”
“I’m not hungover.”
“Not yet, but sure as they eat hogs in Alabama, you will be.”
“Did I drink a lot?” Logan asks wryly, toying with a few paper tubes of sugar from the dispenser on the table. He has what my Nana calls ‘piano hands,’ with long, slender fingers.
“You did.”
“Did I do anything stupid?”
“You did.” I give a sad nod.
“Did I do anything … offensive?” He looks a little worried now.
“You mean, like, did you rip open my shirt, throw me onto the beach, and grope me?”
He stares at me, horrified. “Did I? I didn’t! I wouldn’t! Would I?”
“No.” I laugh at his expression, and he pelts me with sugar tubes.
The waitress brings our coffee, gazes impassively at the sugar tubes for a moment, then walks off again. I pour the coffee. He takes a few sips, sighs appreciatively, and gives me a long look before speaking again.
“But I did do something really stupid?”
“Logan, you set out to sea without knowing how to sail. Or swim.”
“I told you that?”
“And lots more,” I tease.
Something like real concern crosses his features.
“Relax! Nothing incriminating,” I add, letting him off the hook. “Here, be kind to your liver — drink some water.”
He chugs down half the glass I pour for him.
“I guess I should have stayed on the yacht — it was my party and all. I just needed a break, you know? I needed …”
“To get away. Yeah, I know. I saw.”
“But that’s the part I don’t understand,” he says, pouncing on my words. “How did you see? Where were you? Where did you come from at night on the ocean? Were you —”
“Hey, our food has arrived.” Saved by the bunny. “This, Logan,” I say, pointing at the hollowed-out, half-loaf of crusty bread filled with steaming-hot, fragrant lamb curry, “is a bunny chow.”
“It looks real good, but how …”
“It’s okay to use your fingers. This,” I say, picking up the small dome of bread which acts as the lid, “is the virgin. And you dip it into the gravy, like so, and then you eat it.” I pop the delicious morsel into my mouth.
He looks me straight in the eye and gives a slow, sexy grin. “Hmm, so I start with eating a saucy virgin, and then move on to the hotter stuff?”
My face flames, and I’m glad my mouth is full, because I have no idea what to say. I take a sip of cool water, swallow hard, then show him how to eat the bunny, tearing off chunks of bread and using them to scoop up the spicy filling.
Logan follows my lead and eats with relish, his awkward questions about what I was doing out near the yacht apparently forgotten. We’re just finishing our meal, with me urging Logan to drink more water, when I hear a strident, nasal voice, with a distinct American accent, coming from the doorway.
I recognise the woman from the yacht — the tall one with the long nose and the streak of white in her bob of black hair. This must be Cilla. The waitress she’s interrogating points in our direction, and the director stalks over.
“Logan! Oh, Logan — look at you!” she says, as soon as she gets to our table. “I was so worried. You might have died! How did you get away from your security detail? Their asses are so fired! Budge up there,” she orders, sliding into the seat beside him. Then she turns her attention to me.
“What have you done to him?” she asks fiercely.
“Nothing!”
“She made me drink water! Nearly drowned me in the stuff.” Logan’s voice is accusing, but his eyes are laughing.
“I saved him from drowning.”
“Oh, wait — I remember now — she did! But she pulled my hair, and ruined my champagne. And she took my shoes and hid them — or worse.”
“I did not! I saved him from a horde of screaming girls and the paparazzi. You ought to be grateful, you rat,” I tell him severely. He winks back. My stomach gives a little whirl.
“Who have you told about this?” Cilla demands, all business.
“No one.”
“Then you won’t mind me checking your phone, and your purse for a camera.”
“Knock yourself out,” I say, handing my bag over. She rummages through it thoroughly, emerges with my iPhone in her red-taloned hands, and proceeds to check my call list, photographs, tweets, texts, emails, and Facebook posts.
“Satisfied?” I ask.
“Hmm.” Cilla studies me critically. “A young lady who can hold her tongue. That’s a first.”
Logan, who’s been quiet for a few minutes, now starts telling tales again. “And she drove me to a graveyard, where she scared the shit out of me!”
“Logan, what have I told you about swearing in public? Remember your image — sizzling hot but squeaky clean!” Cilla reprimands him.
His face immediately falls into a chastened expression, but the foot nudging mine under the table tells me it’s an act.
“Why’d you take him to a graveyard?” Cilla asks, pinning me with her sharp gaze.
I tell her how I shook our pursuers by ducking into the cemetery. It comes out sounding like an ingenious and well-thought-out plan, rather than the desperate move it was.
“And how did you get him in here without triggering the fans? They were swarming outside when I came in.”
I explain about avoiding the main door and coming in via the quieter mall entrance.
“She made me pretend to be a blind man,” Logan says.
“Excuse me, but that was your idea!”
“And she threatened to report the doorman for discriminating against a handicapped man. She was scary.”
“I didn’t really threaten him, I just implied —”
“I’m impressed,” Cilla interrupts, still staring at me in a speculative way.
“And then she made me eat a bunny!”
“Oh, cork it, you,” I say, throwing my napkin at him. I give Cilla a shrug. “It was a busy night.”
“And what do you want for your services tonight?”
“What do I want?” I repeat, confused.
“A reward, I suppose.” She takes a fat wad of bills out of her purse and starts counting.
“I don’t want your money.” I’m insulted by the offer.
Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “You must want something.”
“We-ell,” I say slowly.
“Let’s hear it,” she says, her expression one of I-knew-it smugness.
“A ‘thank you’ would be nice.”
Ha! That takes her aback.
“Well, young lady —”
“My name’s Rosemary Morgan.”
“Well, Miss Morgan, you have my sincere thanks, and my admiration. Keeping this one on track” — she jerks her chin at Logan — “is like herding cats.” She writes her cell number on the back of her business card and hands it to me. “Call me if you need a job, Miss Morgan. I could use someone with street smarts and local knowledge, especially one who can keep her mouth shut, and whose brain doesn’t go weak in the presence of beauty.”
She stands up and tosses cash onto the table — more than enough to cover the bill.
“Speaking of beauty, come on, Logan, let’s get you upstairs. My God, you are barefoot!”
“I told you she took my shoes,” Logan says, grinning broadly at me.
“Goodbye, Logan Rush, it was nice meeting you,” I say, stretching out my hand to shake his. Any excuse for a last touch.
“Goodbye.” He encloses my hand in both of his and squeezes gently. “And thank you for saving me. I enjoyed it enormously. Except for the screaming in the cemetery — that freaked me out majorly.”
Cilla spins on her heel and marches out. Logan follows, but not before adding, “And except for spiking my champagne.”
I laugh. He’s incorrigible.
“And pulling my hair,” he says over his shoulder as he reaches the door. “That hurt.”
“Wuss!” I call after him.
He turns, waves, and gets in the last word. “And drowning my shoes!”
Then he walks out the door behind Cilla, and I can’t see him anymore.
Chapter 9
Wish I could be
One week and two exams later, a faint watermark where Logan sat in his wet tuxedo on my passenger seat is the only reminder of everything that happened on that crazy night.
That and the business card with Cilla Swytch’s number on it.
I toy with the card now, turning it over and over in my fingers, reading and rereading it. I must’ve done this a hundred times in the last seven days — holding it in my hands like some magic talisman, while dreaming, wondering, fantasizing, and dismissing. I almost tear it to shreds, but instead I slip it back into my wallet.
Lobster sits beside me on the bed, watching me pack my small black handbag with lip gloss, a tiny hairbrush and my cell phone. And the wallet containing the business card of a big-time Hollywood movie director.
My parents have arranged a special dinner for me tonight, to celebrate the end of my final matric exams — the end of my schooling really — and my entry into what my father calls “the next phase of my life.”
My mom will wish I’d chosen a smarter outfit, but the simple black sundress suits me just fine. She’d also prefer me to wear high heels, but I hate heels, and the strappy, flat sandals look good enough. I’d be way happier in shorts, a T-shirt and bare feet, having a sunset braai on the beach with a couple of my best friends from school. But Dad insisted on throwing this party, and what the head of Poseidon Industries wants, he generally gets.
Hushed Page 5
