by Paige Nick
‘Seriously, that wasn’t me, Matthew. Remember, I couldn’t go to Durban with you because my uncle died and I had to go to his funeral, so you went alone. But good to know you were faithful while we were together.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah, shit.’
‘I hope you rot in hell.’
‘Take a number, stand in line, darling,’ I say, but she’s already hung up on me.
‘Kassie?’ I say, when she answers on the third ring.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me, Matty Stone.’
‘Matty! Long time no hear. I didn’t recognise your number.’
‘Yeah, new phone. How are you, love, still so sexy?’
‘I like to think so. What’s up, Matty, everything alright?’
‘Sure, why?’
‘I don’t think you’ve ever actually called me during the day before. In fact I don’t think you’ve ever called me before midnight. Are you in jail or something?’
‘No, I can’t only ever have called you at night?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m doing the twelve steps. I’ve been clean for thirty-seven days.’
‘Oh. Congrats.’
‘Yeah, and I’ve been journalling, so a lot of stuff has come up for me. Like you only calling at night. Did you know that we’ve never actually seen each other in daylight? You always came late and left before dawn.’
‘That can’t be right, can it?’
‘Yup. Anyway, I’ve got to go, I’ve got art class, we’re making dream-board collages. Visiting hours are on Sunday. If you want to come by, we could talk. And maybe you could bring me some smokes?’
‘Sure hon, I’ll be there. Take care.’
I delete her number too. It’s a shame she’s clean, she was always a lot of fun. I keep scrolling until I come to Lindie.
‘Hi love,’ I say, when she answers. ‘It’s Matthew Stone, I’ve been thinking about you, so I thought I’d call. Blast from the past and all that.’
‘Matthew, what a surprise. I read about you in the news.’
‘Yeah? Well, you shouldn’t always believe everything you read. They really blew that whole thing out of proportion. You know what it’s like, nobody wants to read good news, they have to make it all as clickbait-y as possible these days.’
‘Is that so?’
‘It wasn’t even my fault.’
‘Oh? Whose fault was it? The magazine who published it, or the guy dying of cancer you wrote lies about?’
‘Well, nothing’s ever really that black and white, is it? It’s a complicated situation. Do you mind if we don’t talk about it, it’s a bit of a downer? What have you been up to?’
‘My aunt was diagnosed with stage three cancer a month ago.’
‘Oh, shit! Sorry.’
‘You know Matthew, I always suspected you were vermin, so I wasn’t that surprised to read about what you did. I hope you get run over by a bus.’
Another hang up. At least I didn’t have to come up with an excuse to end the call. I delete her number as well, and keep scrolling. It can’t be that hard to find a sympathetic ear, can it? These women all dug me at some point. I’m a catch, what’s wrong with them?
Ah, Sue, she was always crazy about me, and I’m sure her family is loaded. I should have called her first.
‘Suzie! It’s Matthew Stone. How the hell are you, gorgeous?’
‘Matty, wow, cool to hear from you.’
I breathe a sigh of relief; so far so good. ‘You sound great Suzie Q, what’ve you been up to?’
‘Oh you know, the usual, this and that. Work is good, life is good. I just got a new Audi.’
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately, so I thought I’d give you a call. We should hook up again. I’m staying a bit out of town, but maybe if you want to put your new car through its paces, you could come hang out here for a bit?’
‘I thought you and Michelle were serious?’
‘We were until I found out she was cheating on me. It’s been brutal to be honest, Suze, I’m not sure how I’ll ever be able to trust again.’
‘That’s funny, I do Pilates with her, and that’s not the story she told us at all.’
I jab at the red button. Bugger! I stare at the thatch, the only kind I’ll be seeing at this rate. Don’t worry, I think, there are plenty more fish in the sea. Sea … that reminds me of Terry, she could rock a bikini. Terry, Terry, Terry … I scroll through my contacts until I find her.
‘Terry, guess who?’
‘Give me a hint.’
‘I’m tall, dark, and handsome, you and I have had some great times together, and my name starts with an “M”.’
‘Matthew Stone!’
‘That’s me.’
‘What a surprise. How are you?’
‘Oh you know, I’ve been better.’
‘I heard, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened to you. It sounds like it’s been an awful time.’
‘It really has been, you have no idea what I’ve been through.’
‘Shame Matty, I’m glad you called.’
‘I’m glad I called too. You know none of it was actually my fault, and I’m just gutted at how everything went down. The press totally blew everything out of proportion.’
‘Course, they always do. You poor thing.’
‘You have no idea how good it is to hear a sympathetic voice. You wouldn’t believe how much flack I’ve been getting from every angle.’
‘Matthew, can I ask you something?’
‘Sure thing, babe, anything.’
‘Have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart as your Saviour?’
‘What?’
‘Because if you have Christ in your heart, there’s no challenge you can’t overcome. A group of us are having a prayer meeting in Illovo tonight, why don’t you join us? Jesus will forgive you your sins, Matthew. You even have a Gospel named after you. “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” Matthew chapter seven, verse one.’
‘It was nice chatting to you, Terry, but I’d better go.’
‘Okay, but if you change your mind, you know where to find me. Oh, and Matthew?’
‘Yes?’
‘We’ll pray for you.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I say as I delete her number from my rapidly dwindling contacts.
My phone dings a bunch of times, and for a moment I think that one of these women might have had a change of heart. But it’s only a series of texts from my mom.
Matty, what happened?
I think we got cut off.
The llines here are terrible, it's from all the copper theft they do.
Too awful.
Matty, are you there?
Are you okay?
Are you taking your vitamins?
Matty?
I turn the phone to silent. There are likely to be several more texts – she can never send just one.
It’s exactly the kind of attention and pity I was after. Shame it’s from the wrong woman.
THE EX-PRESIDENT
‘How about an ice cream?’ Muza asks, as he drops his last clean bone into the box and licks his fingers.
‘No thanks, I don’t eat milk after meat.’
‘Why not?’
‘I keep kosher,’ Elijah says.
‘Oh, well I don’t, so maybe I’ll have one,’ Muza says, holding out his palm.
‘Oh, of course,’ Elijah says, peeling a hundred off his roll and laying it in Muza’s hand.
‘Thanks again,’ Muza says.
‘Don’t mention it.’
Muza returns to the table, cone in hand, and the change, two sachets of tomato sauce, a chilli salt packet, and a fluffy toy he nicked out of a child’s pram, safely in his pockets. He sits gingerly and takes long licks from his ice cream.
‘Right, you’ve kept me sitting on shpilkes long enough. What’s your big plan?’ Elijah asks.
‘Alright, comrade, listen carefull
y,’ Muza says. He stands the flat end of the cone on the table, shuffles the empty food containers away from them, wipes his palms up and down his thighs, and shifts as far forward in his seat as his girth will allow. He looks over both shoulders, to ensure nobody is listening, and then whispers at Elijah, ‘This is the plan of the century.’
‘I’m listening,’ Elijah says.
‘You will make your money back in bucket-loads, and soon, guaranteed. It’s completely foolproof, or my name’s not Jeremiah Gejeyishwebisa Muza.’
‘Okay, you have me intrigued,’ Elijah says.
‘Showerheads,’ Muza says, then leans back with a massive grin on his face. ‘Get it?’
‘Because you’re the guy with the shower on your head in that cartoon?’ Elijah says.
‘Yes. It’s brilliant, hey? I’ll be the spokesman, and we’ll make television commercials with me as the star and everything. There won’t be a human alive who won’t want to own one of Muza’s quality showerheads.’
‘Where will you get them from?’ Elijah asks.
‘The logistics haven’t been smoothed out yet,’ Muza says.
They sit in silence for a moment, and Elijah strokes his beard. ‘It’s a good idea. But here’s a quick thought off the top of my head. What if you imported cheap ones from China and repackaged them here, and then sold them as those excessively expensive Italian ones, to the who’s-who glitterati of South Africa. You know those people; if they think the showerheads come from Italy, and with you as the spokesman, they’ll be willing to pay through the nose for them. We could make a two, three hundred per cent profit on every sale.’
‘Yes! That’s exactly what I was thinking, I was about to say that,’ Muza says, slamming his hand on the table. ‘You see, we think alike. I knew you were going to make a brilliant partner.’
‘So, do you have any ideas about how we would get the Chinese showerheads here?’ Elijah asks.
‘I have some thoughts, but I would be curious to hear your ideas. I’ve always been a leader who allows his people space and time to grow and catch up with my thinking,’ Muza says.
Elijah draws circles on the table with his finger while he thinks. Muza watches him closely.
‘What if we got a plane?’ Elijah says.
‘That is exactly what I was thinking! I was testing you. But now I see that it’s not necessary. It’s meant to be that we work together on this project, we are already of the same mind. We will make fantastic partners,’ Muza says.
‘Do you still have your connections at Waterval Airport?’
‘Of course! I remember the day I got the director’s grandson the tender to upgrade four Gautrain stations, it was a cause for great celebration. That kid made millions. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, customs can be so expensive and time-consuming. It’s a long shot, and I’m really just thinking with my mouth open. But I might know some people who know some people who might like to be able to bring a plane with, er, showerheads into the country. And what I was thinking is that if we could source the showerheads, and organise a plane, then land it at Waterval, and ensure there are no eyes on it, we’d avoid customs, get our goods in quickly, quietly, and on the cheap, and then we’d be good to go. All in theory of course,’ Elijah says.
‘Do you think it could work?’ Muza asks.
‘I don’t know, you tell me,’ Elijah says.
‘I don’t see why not. Waterval worked really well for the Guppies last time, I see no reason we couldn’t do it again. But are you sure you can get us a plane and the showerheads?’
‘I’d have to make some calls, speak to my people, have them speak to their people, you know how it goes. How much did it cost to smooth the wheels at Waterval last time?’
‘Three hundred thousand?’ Muza whispers.
Elijah lets out a long, slow whistle. ‘For that kind of investment, I’d have to insist on a sixty–forty partnership in our showerhead business.’
‘But I am the famous face of this company. It is I who will draw in the clients,’ Muza says.
‘Yes, but without me you won’t have anything to sell these clients.’
‘I knew the second I met you that you were a shrewd businessman. We will both make our money back a million times,’ Muza purrs.
‘Why don’t we go talk about the finer details over a coffee somewhere air-conditioned, I’m shvitzing like a pig at a picnic in here. Then maybe you can speak to your man at Waterval, and I can speak to my people, and maybe, just maybe…’
THE WRITER
Chicks, who needs them anyway?
I scroll through the numbers in my phone again. The Panados haven’t really touched sides and my head pulses. I scroll through Belinda and Brenda and Bridgette, then past Caitlin, Candi Mavericks, Candi Teazers, Cara ... ah, here it is: Carlos.
The phone rings five times and I’m about to hang up when he answers.
‘Carlos, it’s Matt Stone,’ I say, trying to sound casual.
‘Matt, how’s it going? I read about everything that happened. What a bitch.’
‘Thanks man, I’m not going to lie, it’s been hell.’
‘So what’s up, guy? I’m heading into an editorial meeting in a minute, so I don’t have long.’
‘Oh okay, cool, that’s good timing then, I have a story I want to pitch to you for the Lifestyle supplement.’
‘Okaaaay, but I have to tell you we’re pretty booked for the next few months, Matt. We’re facing massive budget cuts, an advertising crisis, job cuts, the works. We’ve had to cut that supplement by millions.’
‘I know, I know, but this is no ordinary piece. You’re going to jizz yourself, Carlos. It’s a piece about where the ex-President likes to hang out in Joburg, now that he’s out of prison and back home, and his toe is almost healed.’
Carlos snorts: ‘What, like at the Saxonwold shebeen?’
‘Yes, exactly, but much more real and in-depth, not jokey at all. Like where the ex-number-one likes to get his hair cut, which doctor saw to his ingrown toenail, where he buys his suits, favourite coffee spot, best sandwich, favourite place to swig a Johnnie Walker Black with his comrades, that kind of thing. It will be killer.’
‘Come on Matt, are you honestly telling me that you have access to Jeremiah Muza? You’re having a laugh, tjom.’
‘I do, I swear, Carlos. Between you and me, I’m writing his autobiography. I’m at the Homestead right now, as we speak. He’s not even a stone’s throw away from me, and I have full access to him for the whole month.’
‘Sure you do, Matt. Are you going to write this piece like you wrote that cancer guy’s story? Because this is a newspaper, you know. We don’t publish fiction.’
‘That’s low, Carlos. Come on, that whole mess wasn’t my fault. How long have you known me? You know I wouldn’t do anything like that on purpose. The sub should have picked up some of those inaccuracies; you of all people know what it’s like out there. They chop your piece up until it’s unrecognisable.’
‘Okay tjom, look, I’ve got to go, thanks for the call, hey. Good luck.’
‘Argh!’ I bellow as the phone goes dead. I scroll through the ‘Ds’ in my address book, until I find ‘Damon – Men’s Health Editor’, then I press ‘call’.
‘Damon, have I got a story for you!’
‘Who is this?’
‘Sorry, mate, it’s me, Matt. I got a new number.’
‘Matt who?’
‘Hilarious, Damon, hilarious. Me, Matt Stone.’
‘Oh Matt, hi. I thought you’d left the country after everything.’
‘Nah, I’m still here, busy working on a really massive book deal. Top secret. So I’m lying low working on the first draft until all this shit blows over.’
‘That’s optimistic of you.’
‘Yeah, well, we could all do with a bit of time off the grid.’
‘No, I mean it’s optimistic of you to think that all this shit will just blow over.’
There’s an awkward silence, and
then Damon clears his throat. It’s a conclusive kind of throat-clearing, so I know I don’t have him on the phone for much longer. I launch in: ‘Listen, mate, I’ve got a story I want to pitch.’
‘I’m sorry, Matt. I’m really not interested.’
‘No, please, just hear me out, this is a big one, it’s any editor’s wet dream.’
‘Look Matt, you’re a good writer and all, but I don’t think the public wants to see your byline anywhere right now. I would be committing editorial suicide.’
‘It doesn’t have to be under my byline, Damon, you can say you wrote it, or Jon Snow wrote it, I don’t care. It’s a piece about Jeremiah Muza, detailing his skincare and workout regime, six things he knows about women, that kind of stuff, your readers will lap it up. The guy had five wives at one point, for fuck’s sake, half the guys out there struggle to manage one at a time. He must know a thing or two about women that your readers would be interested in.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t think it’s for us. The last time Muza worked out was when he lifted a doughnut to his pie-hole. Look after yourself, Matt.’
‘Damon, wait, please…’
I want to hurl the phone across the room, but I can’t afford to break another one, so I just punch my pillow. I have one last ace in the hole. I scroll through my contacts list until I find Nicholas’ number.
‘Nicholas, it’s Matt.’
‘Matt, how’s it going, bro?’
‘Not so great, to be honest.’
‘Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry, man. Shit kind of hit the fan for you since the last time we saw each other.’
‘The last time we saw each other, the last time we saw each other, now when was that, let me think? I remember now, it was that day we went for lunch and you pulled out a gram, remember? I didn’t really want any, I was on deadline. But you convinced me to just have one, remember? Things kind of went for a ball of shit after that.’
‘What are you insinuating, Matt?’
‘Well, if I’m being honest, if you hadn’t pulled out that gram at lunch, I wouldn’t have gone on a two-day bender, and then I wouldn’t have had to pull something out of my ass to meet that stupid fucking deadline, and then maybe none of this would have happened to me. I’m not saying it’s all your fault; I’m simply noting that it was a series of unfortunate events instigated by you.’
