by Jo Watson
Great! As if this moment needed any more highlighting—now, I was flooded in lights, as if on the stage. Behold the woman who did not have sex, the lights seemed to say, in a mocking tone. The walk back to my hotel was a quick one, and soon I found myself sitting on the purple velvet duvet on the bed. I had laid my junk food out in front of me in a semicircle, to give me good and equal access to all of it.
“What does one eat when one is stood up in a parking lot with condoms in one’s hand?” I muttered to myself. And what the hell was the song for a moment like this?
“I Hate You So Much Right Now” by Kelis came to mind.
I reached for the Mars Bar and ripped it open with my teeth. I took a bite and chewed as fast as I could, not even tasting the food. My phone beeped and I looked down at it. It was a message from my author page on Facebook. I opened the app and looked at the message.
I can’t wait for your next book!
Just seven little words, and yet they had the power to strike terror into me. And they were really the last thing I needed to read, right now. I started scrolling through my other messages. I hadn’t responded to any of them; seeing messages from readers asking for my next book usually struck terror into my heart and I found it was always better to ignore them. Denial can be a very powerful weapon against the harsh glare of reality. Denial is like sticking your finger into the dyke. It will help momentarily, it will keep the water back, but soon it will blow. And blow it always does. It had certainly all blown up on me. I mean, look at me—in a strange town, plagiarizing some letters, in a hotel room, alone, not having sex . . .
I took another bite of the tasteless lump of chocolaty sugar and chewed.
There was another reason I ignored these messages, too. I still couldn’t get used to total strangers reaching out to me, wanting to know me and hear from me. I hadn’t had many friends, growing up; I’d never stayed in one place long enough to make any, I suppose. And now, as an adult, I guess I’d never really honed the skills needed to make any . . . and so I hadn’t. I had acquaintances, sure. But not that one “ride or die” that everyone seems to have, that everyone rubs in your face on social media.
I continued to scroll through the messages on my page. They were making the knot in my stomach tangle even more, each one telling me why they loved my book and how much they were looking forward to my next one and . . .
HATED IT!
“What?” I sat up and read the message.
I usually never write to authors, but I had to write to you to tell you THAT I HATED YOUR BOOK!! WORST BOOK EVER WRITTEN. DON’T QUIT YOUR DAY JOB!!!
“Wow, wow, wow!” I whispered to myself. What on earth had I done to warrant so many capital letters, not to mention all those exclamation marks? I continued this self-destructive scroll. God, I had no idea there were so many messages. So many expectant readers. My insides started to crawl as I thought about my looming deadline, my agent’s smug face, her total belief that I was going to fail, and I also wondered if everyone would hate my next book. What if I was just another one-hit wonder? A “Ninety-Nine Red Balloons,” an “Ice Ice Baby,” an “I’m Too Sexy For My Shirt” . . . You know who else was too sexy for his shirt? No. Stop, Becca. Just stop this! Stop, calibrate and listen!
“Shit!” I climbed off the bed. I was here to write and save my sinking career, not have almost-sex with people who clearly didn’t want to have almost-sex with me and get lost down the rabbit hole of bad reviews and . . . I just couldn’t get distracted right now.
I walked over to my computer with a renewed sense of (panicky) purpose. Screw Mike! Well, not screw him, screw him. That hadn’t happened. Clearly! Or I wouldn’t be alone, stuffing my face with calories and plagiarizing on a pink beanbag. Screw him and screw that naysayer with all his exclamation marks.
I put my fingers on my keyboard and forced myself to type.
CHAPTER 19
Having a good sleep in a surprisingly comfortable bed had made me feel a lot better about the almost-but-definitely-not-laid-last-night thing, as well as the I-hate-your-book-double-exclamation-mark thing, and not forgetting the I-can’t-wait-for-your-new-book palaver, too. So had that huge greasy breakfast I’d eaten at my hotel, followed by the two cups of strong black coffee that I’d almost inhaled. And, with all that fueling my system I was ready for a better and more productive day of criminal espionage, or whatever else you might want to call it. And so that is how I now found myself crouched in my car, parked outside the entrance to the Willow’s Eco Estate, like a real spy, trying to figure out how the hell to get in. I’d also downloaded Techno Tannie’s song and was listening to it. It was actually, strangely enough, the perfect soundtrack to this mad moment. The repetitive sound of cymbals and the hard hammer of the drum, along with those strange synthesizer sounds that reminded me of a UFO’s door being opened, really added to the atmosphere.
I’d been sitting there for over an hour, observing how people drove in and out. The residents seemed to scan their fingers on the way in, and all visitors punched a code into the keypad. And, since there was no way of getting someone’s finger without risking spending time in a maximum-security prison for grievous bodily harm, I wondered how one would go about getting a code for this place.
God, all I needed now was a bloody cloak and a dagger to complete this criminal look. I imagined I was some awesome P.I. chick. Some leopard-crawling, police-dodging, fence-climbing, plane-parachuting P.I. that was undercover on some important mission to catch the head of the Russian mafia or something—not that I am trying to stereotype, here, but . . . well, you know!
I was in full police stake-out mode. My seat was pulled back and I was reclining in it, surreptitiously peeping through my window in the manner of a cat hunting a mouse. But, after another hour like this, my back was sore, my neck had a crick in it, I needed to pee and I still had no idea how to infiltrate the enemy lair! And, honestly, did I even want to? The effects of the caffeine were diminishing, as was my sense of reckless bravado. I sighed and hung my head. This was just so ridiculous. What was I doing here, parked outside, waiting and watching like a stalker? This wasn’t me. I reached for the steering wheel and squeezed it—I’m not sure why, but I felt like I needed to do something physical, to let out this building tension inside.
Maybe I should just give up. This was madness, after all.
Maybe I should turn around, head back to Jo’burg without a book and face whatever consequences were waiting for me. So what if I became another taxidermy casualty on my agent’s desk? So what if I became another has-been, a once-was-someone no one?
My phone beeped and I almost jumped out of my skin, I was on such high alert. I looked down at the screen and immediately felt like I’d been punched in the throat. It was a picture from Daphne “the second esquire” Kingsley-Hawthorne. A picture of an article. I swallowed as I read the article.
A release date has been set for the highly anticipated second book from Becca Thorne. She burst on to the literary scene three years ago with her dazzling debut, but, according to her publishing house, Lighthouse Books, this book will be even better than her first. We’re calling it the “Most Anticipated Read of the Summer.”
“Fu . . . uuu . . . ck!” I lowered my forehead to my phone and tapped it against my head a few times. The pressure felt like it was crushing down on me like an anvil. I felt like I was about to drown in my car. Another message pinged on my phone and I looked down again.
Daphne (the second esquire): I hope you’re writing. Wordsmith Books just put an order in for 50,000 copies and I’ve just sold Russian and German foreign rights and have a phone call with Netflix this afternoon.
“Fuuuu . . . uuuuuu . . . ckkkkk!” I looked back at the estate. I had no choice, now. I had to go in. I had to find a way to get in there and read that engraving on the tree; it was imperative to this story.
And then I saw it. I sat up in my seat and watched the car drive in after punching some numbers into the keypad . . .
“Yes!
” I scrambled for a pen and paper, writing down the name and number on the side of the car. I pulled my phone out and started dialing.
“Hello, Emerald Realty, Zintle speaking,” the voice answered immediately, in that sweet tone that estate agents usually had, estate agents and second-hand car dealers and people trying to sell you death and disability insurance.
“Uh, yes. Hi, my name is . . .” Shit, what was my name? I didn’t want to give a real one. I glanced around the car quickly. “Porsha,” I blurted out stupidly. “And I’m really interested in the home you’re selling at the Willow’s Eco Estate.” I held my breath. It was a guess, a good one, but still I didn’t actually know if anything was for sale there.
“Hi, Porsha,” she said happily. “Which house are you interested in?”
Jackpot! “Um . . .” Crap! “The one with the . . . uh . . . You can see the river from it?” I guessed.
“That’s all of them. In fact, all my listings are riverfront properties. Very elite. Most desirable in the estate. Which one were you most drawn to?”
“The one with the great, big, uh, the large . . .” I was stumbling, grasping at recyclable straws.
“The one with the big basement?”
“YES! Exactly. I like to store things . . . in a basement.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “When do you think I could come and see it? I’m available now, but, I mean, if you’re not there, or—”
“Porsha, it’s your lucky day,” she cut me off. “As a matter of fact, I am heading to that property now.”
“Oh, WOW! Wow, what a coincidence—it must be a sign.”
“Yes, maybe even a sign on the dotted line,” the estate agent said.
I played along and fake-laughed. “You never know, Zintle. You never know!” I shook my head as I said it, though. I wasn’t going to be buying a house today, or ever. I could barely afford to keep my apartment, let alone buy a luxury house in an uptight eco estate.
“Is this your mobile number?” she asked.
“It is indeed, Zintle.” Why was I saying her name so much?
“I’ll message you a code that you can use to get in. Security is excellent at the Willows. Real grade-A stuff. In fact, in all the years since it opened, there has never been a single security incident. We are very proud of that.”
“Great, thanks. And when I’m inside?” I asked.
“Follow the road that takes you parallel to the river and it’s the house at the end—198.”
“Great, I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes, would that be okay?” I asked. I needed to wait a little so it didn’t seem like I was parked outside, which I was.
“Perfect. Blessings.” She hung up.
I looked at my phone. “Blessings?” I repeated thoughtfully. Blessings for what?
“Please, please take your shoes off,” Zintle said, as I stood there by the front door to the massive house.
“Uh, sure.” I took my shoes off somewhat reluctantly. I didn’t really like walking around barefooted.
“Is that your car?” she asked suddenly. The tone she used when asking this question was very judgemental, and from that I gauged that I was driving the wrong kind of car. “It’s not very eco-friendly, is it?” She looked at me. “I’m not sure your neighbors will be happy with—”
“It’s powered with biofuel,” I quickly said.
“Oh, really?” She perked up. “Well, that is a good sign. Before buying a house here, you have to be approved for residency by the eco committee.”
“The . . . ?” I asked.
“There are very strict rules, here, and the Willows only likes to open its gates to those who share in the same sustainable ideals. Like-minded individuals only. That’s why this development chose me as their official estate agent; I share their ideals.”
I nodded. I barely recycled. “Of course. I agree wholeheartedly. I mean, it is just terrible what’s happening to the seahorses,” I added.
Zintle gasped. “I know! Did you see that photo of the poor seahorse holding a cotton bud in its tail?”
I put my hand to my heart. “Tragic. Truly, it kept me awake at night.”
Zintle lay her hand on my shoulder in commiseration. “So sad,” she said. “Come, let’s go inside.”
I could see by the look of seriousness on her face that this was going to be a very thorough tour, and I wasn’t going to be let off the hook very easily.
Before letting me inside, she stopped me once more. “Do you mind taking your cell phone out and placing it in that box, there?” She pointed to a box on the wall.
“Why?” I asked.
“They don’t allow electronics in the house. To protect against microwaves and radiation,” she said. “That box traps all the harmful rays inside.”
I nodded. “Of course. What an . . . an . . . excellent idea. I really must start doing that.” I tried not to roll my eyes as I put my phone into the small box that seemed encased in some strange black-looking rocks.
“Shungite crystals,” she said. “Very powerful stones.”
“Mmmm,” I mumbled. Like my useless rose quartz table that was supposed to have brought calm and harmony into my home. Well, if that thing had brought me even an iota of that, I wouldn’t find myself here now, would I? I’d have written a damn book, and, right now, I would be leisurely sipping on cappuccinos while editing my manuscript before sending it in. So much for rocks!
We walked into the hallway and I looked around. This house appeared perfectly normal inside—that is, until she started talking about it. Very soon, I realized that there was nothing normal about this house.
“The whole house is made from green bricks.” She ran her hand over the wall.
“Green?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Yes—made from hemp, lime and water.”
“Mmmm, I see.” I nodded, trying to look impressed. But I wasn’t. In fact, I was more concerned about whether something so flimsy-sounding could really hold up a house. Some bloody marijuana seeds did not seem like a good addition to any part of a house, let alone the walls. What was next, chia-seed cement?
“And this paint—feel how smooth it is.” She rubbed the wall and I placed my hand on it too. “Soap, berries and cornstarch. Makes a totally natural paint. Completely non-toxic.” She smiled at me and I smiled back.
“Fabulous,” I said, patting the wall.
“And the floor.” She dropped her bag suddenly and got down on all fours. She looked up at me. “Come, come,” she beckoned.
“Uh . . .” I kneeled next to her.
“Smell it,” she said, lowering her nose to the floor. “Go on,” she urged again, when she saw I hadn’t jumped.
I leaned in and put my nose to the floor, taking a small sniff.
“No—a big sniff. Inhale.” She squished her nose to the floor and took it all in. “Do you smell that?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I smell nothing.”
“Exactly. You would never know this is made with cow dung, just like my Xhosa ancestors used.”
“Sorry. WHAT?!” I sat up.
“I know. It’s very exciting.” She stood up and we continued our tour of the house. I was told things I had never heard about before: crystals in the geysers to neutralize chemicals in the water, moss carpets, bamboo water pipes . . .
Zintle finished showing me the house and we stood by the door again. “So, what do you think?” she asked.
“Gorgeous,” I said. “I really must get my husband here to see the place.”
“Well, this is my card.” She handed me her business card and I looked down at it. “Hemp-seed paper,” she said quickly. “As this estate’s official realtor, I think it’s essential that I represent its unique selling points.” She smiled. She’d already said that to me. It made me wonder if she didn’t really believe in all this stuff and was actually just going along with it. I smiled at her. I could relate to going along with something you didn’t necessarily believe in, or like. Like me pretending I enjoyed watching sports
on Sundays, because my cousins did and I was just trying to fit into the strange family I’d been thrust upon.
“Couldn’t agree more,” I said, meaning it. “So . . . tell me—” I was trying to act casual—“I heard there was a really large, old willow tree here. I would love to see it.”
“Yes, it’s over 200 years old. Unfortunately, it’s on a neighbor’s property, and, until you buy here, I’m not sure they would be comfortable with you going there.” She smiled at me again.
“I understand.” My stomach dropped. How the hell was I going to get to that willow tree?
“I’m sorry, I have to run; will you be okay getting out?” she asked.
I jumped. “Do you mind if I use the loo first?” I asked.
She looked reticent for a moment, but then leaned in and whispered, “I won’t tell if you don’t.” She gave me a quick wink and I ran into the guest toilet.
I was so desperate to get my pants off and pee, it rushed out like the Niagara Falls the second I sat down. Private investigators must really train their bladders in some special way. If I was a P.I., I would completely blow my cover when I went looking for a toilet every few hours.
I reached for the toilet paper and stopped. What the hell? It was brown. I pulled a sheet off and it was as rough as sandpaper, and were those . . . ? I examined the fibrous-looking paper and I swear I saw a small twig in it. I wiped and it felt like I’d just run a grater over my lady parts.
“Don’t you love the handmade toilet paper?” I heard Zintle say from behind the door.
“Mmmm,” I muttered. “Divine!”
“It’s amazing how versatile cow dung is!”
“Cow . . . ?” I dropped the paper in the bowl and tried not to gag! This place was not for me.
CHAPTER 20
I hadn’t left the estate. Instead, I had parked my car behind a huge bush and was waiting for the cover of darkness so I could sneak out and look at the willow tree, up close. I could see it from where I was sitting. It was huge and impressive, and watching its leaves blowing back and forth in the breeze was really quite mesmerizing. But I was fucking bored, too, and so, to pass the time, I started typing up one of the letters.
