Mexican Kimono (11 page)

Was there a memo sent around town about the sudden use of the word
heed
?

‘I’ll
heed
the advice of the detective I hire, who’ll bust this bad guy as quick as look at him. Then they can
heed
the sentence the judge imposes on them, for attempting to ruin the life of a poor, defenceless young girl in the prime of her life!’

And when I say poor, I’m not talking financially. OK, I am, but keep that to yourself.

‘Well, ring me in the morning, so I know you’re OK.’

He shut the door quietly and was gone. I don’t mind telling you I was kind of falling in love with him all over again. I needed a drink and a cigarette only because I was super-stressed-out. For the record, I hate smokers. The occasional cigarette was fine though, like a French woman. Sophisticated. Kylie told me about a diet that all French women do. They eat only three forkfuls of anything. That’s it. They can eat croissants, chocolate cake, pastries, all that beautiful calorie-laden French food, but they stop at three forkfuls. They even have wine with lunch during work, but can only have three sips. Or is it three glasses? Same with cigarettes, there is a three-drag limit. That’s why all French women are so thin. They have major discipline. However, it’s also why they are so temperamental; they’re friggin’ hungry all day and stuck in a fantasy about what happened to the rest of the croquembouche. Sad, really. There are easier ways to stay trim, if you know how.

I found my secret stash of cigarettes, this time glued under the dining room table and decided to light a candle off the stove then the cigarette off the candle this time. With extreme caution, I can tell you.

***

I booted up my laptop to do some research on this so-called Brujeria, but was distracted when my email pinged. I opened it up to find a response from Alexander McCall Smith. In the hubbub I’d completely forgotten Mme was on her way. Maybe I’d just fill her in on the Mexican witches and let her research it.

Dear Samantha,

Thank you so much for your constant emails. Your friend Charlize is correct, Mme Precious Ramotswe is a fictional character. I’m sorry if this comes as a shock to you, and I can understand how disheartening it may be in your time of need.

As for your comments about watching Mme on catch-up TV while you were at work, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it is in fact a fictional series based on my books, not a documentary on female detectives.

After scrolling through the fifteen emails you sent, one does wonder if you perhaps need someone other than a detective to solve the puzzle of your life. On a recent book tour I met a delightful woman who helped my wife and I with our chakras. All those plane flights were really taking their toll. She lives in Perth, too, and may be able to help you. Her name is Valerie Bevilaqua and she’s a healer of sorts. I’m sure she has the perfect therapy to help with your psychosomatic tendencies…

That fraud! I shut the laptop in a fit of rage. Psychosomatic tendencies – what the hell did that mean? It sounded like some kind of vacuum cleaner. I was almost in tears. Mme and I had been through some exciting times together, and now she was gone, all on the whim of an ungracious scribbler, who was somehow silly enough to be warped by my mother’s ‘healing’ abilities. Ruing the day I bought the kimono, I sat on the lounge and burst into tears properly this time. All this drama was no good for my complexion.

Now, what was I supposed to do? No help was on the way. My friends were scared to be close to me and the kimono. It was nearly midnight. If anything was going to happen it would surely happen then, there was no way I’d ever feel safe enough to fall asleep.

I grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge and wrapped myself in a big blanket and settled in the lounge. I’d keep watch all night like some kind of sentry if I had to. Every light in the apartment was blazing, and I had my pepper spray and baseball bat beside me just in case. Not that I was scared or anything, just taking precautions because I’m a young, good-looking girl.

Chapter 10

The Strip

Stress has an uncanny ability to send me right to sleep. All that worry and the next thing I knew sunlight was streaming in.

I dragged myself up to make coffee. The kitchen was a mess, the cupboards were bare. No Nespresso pods! I couldn’t think under these circumstances. Caffeine, bacon, eggs, and some space between me and the lavish piece of material would be the best course of action. Food would solve my problems in the interim and there was safety in numbers, so I decided to continue my search for a new BFF. I wondered who to call? I needed someone with street smarts.

I searched through my contacts and decided to text Leila, the law student. She was always free for coffee; she really didn’t seem to apply herself to her study all that much. Though she can be quite dense for a future legal eagle. We were watching the news one day at Toffany’s (if you’re there at six everything stops for the news, including your order, no matter who you are), anyway, something came on about the Gaza Strip and she said, ‘Wow, that’s a bit personal for the six o’clock news, don’t you think?’ I was just as lost as you are and said, ‘Huh?’

She replied, ‘I get the Gaza, you know, downstairs!’

Still flummoxed? Me too. ‘Sorry, Leila, I still have no idea what you’re talking about.’

She laughed at my apparent stupidity. ‘God! What planet are you from? You can get a Brazilian or, if you’re like me and have a little false modesty, you can get a Gaza … you know, the strip? The Gaza strip?’

Oh my God. I’ll be honest I’m not all that interested in current affairs and the news and stuff, it doesn’t pertain to me so I don’t see the point in watching it, but even I knew what the bloody Gaza strip was. It wasn’t a type of bikini waxing!

‘Hey, Leila. Look, I’m flat strap today but wondered if you’re free for brunch?’

I got myself all glammed up in the interim, preparing for whatever adventures came my way. I had a long and drawn-out discussion with myself and decided the best thing was for me to have a couple of days off job-hunting. Get my groove back, and then possibly aim a little higher in the workforce. Money was an issue but, you know, I didn’t want to be ruled by it. That’s what caused premature ageing and I certainly didn’t need that on top of everything else this week.

I was putting the finishing touches to my outfit and admiring my reflection when my phone beeped back.

‘Samantha, sure. Meet at Toff’s? Or are you still banned? Ba-ha-ha!’

See what I mean? She just has to mention it.

‘Lei, I’m a mature adult. Had breakfast at Toffany’s yesterday. You should try the Spanish omelette.’

Take that. She had an allergy to straw, but wouldn’t be able to refuse the sombrero once Toff handed it to her. That would teach her for rehashing my painful past.

‘OK, Sammie. Meet you there whenever I get there.’

See? It’s easy to arrange to meet if the other person knows the rules.

‘OK, Lei. Me too. Need to do a few things en route, so if I’m not there start without me.’

I walked into the bathroom and plugged in my hair tongs, lamenting that JJ had left. He used to get my hair so perfectly straight and sharp I worried I’d slice someone’s head off when I turned around. He had a gift for all things hair.

I glanced down at the tongs, but the ON light was clearly not ON. It wasn’t heating up. I unplugged it and took it into the kitchenette to try there instead. Still nothing. Oh, God. This could be a potential disaster. I had frizzy hair at the best of times and after the whole hair-on-fire incident, I had a very high-maintenance style. I looked at the clock on the microwave to see if Kylie would still be home. That wasn’t on either.

I grabbed the remote and tried the TV. Nothing. Argh! My electricity bill! I had totally forgotten the final warning notice I’d received a few weeks ago. I had the option of paying the bill (boring) or flying to Melbourne for the weekend to get my eyebrows waxed by the same woman who does Oprah’s. You can guess which one I chose.

I dialled Kylie and fervently prayed she was still at home. Oh, shit, oh shit, she was staying at her mum’s because of the freaking kimono!

No answer. I tried to hold the panic back. I would be a prisoner in this teeny tiny flat all day if I couldn’t do my hair. The walls seemed to move in. I felt claustrophobic, short of breath. This was an unmitigated disaster. My iPhone needed charging. I would be stranded with bad hair, no phone and no TV. Goddamn those electricity people.

I walked into my bedroom and ransacked my drawers. Surely I had some kind of glamorous hat I could wear until I got to a hair salon and paid someone to fix my hair. I’m not ashamed to admit my searching became maniacal. A little demented. Crazed. I was literally on the edge.

When my phone battery beeped its ‘I’m about to die’ warning I broke down and cried. Why me? Why today? Why, why, WHY? I looked to the heavens and screamed, ‘Why am I effing cursed?’ I had been see-sawing on a slippery slope of acceptance and denial for the last two days but this new challenge plunged me down in the depths of despair. There was no doubt in my mind I was the victim of a sociopathic, twisted mind. But who could hate someone so loveable as me? And why would they hate me enough to curse me? It just didn’t make any sense. I was adored by all, I was the most popular girl in town, a legion of hot guys wanting to date me, job offers were being thrown at me – what’s not to love? And how was I supposed fix something that may not be real?

After a good ten minutes of sobbing and a movie-quality breakdown, I pulled myself together. I get those horrible puffy red eyes that last for days when I cry, and there was only so much MaxFactor could do for a girl.

I weighed up my options while I fixed my make-up. Clearly, step one – fix bed hair, and step two – solve curse. Leila, the law student, must know a bunch of sleazy-looking private detectives with yellowed teeth and bad hair who were experts in their field.

To carry out my plan, I was going to have to commit a major social faux pas. Social suicide here I come. With my head hanging as low as it could go, I picked up my dead iPhone, my charger and my orange (yes, orange) baseball cap and walked out of the apartment that had been my prison for the last fifteen minutes. I put the cap on and tried to pull down the peak to hide as much of my face as possible. That, however, left more of my frizzy bed hair exposed at the back.

I did the unthinkable and actually jogged to the nearest hairdresser. (Jogging is something only desperate people do. You’ll get there when you get there.) I didn’t have time to think about the consequences. I jogged like cheap people do when they see a bargain at the end of financial year sales and landed on the doorstep of The Chop Shop, umm, gulp. I had no choice. I was fairly sure I’d made it this far without being seen.

I ducked into the hair studio and tried to hide behind a screen of bamboo. A tall Rastafarian guy approached me. I looked at him somewhat dubiously. Dreadlocks. Oh, dear. Maybe this wasn’t the right place for a sleek and straight look.

He looked at me in confusion (I presume because of the odd hat) and said, ‘Are you in the right place, bébé?’ He sounded like what I imagine Bob Marley would have.

‘Ah. I just need a blow dry, and the hot tongs put through. Do you do that here?’

He walked over and ran his fingers through my hair. I always found it quite odd that hairdressers got away with doing that. It’s really quite personal someone running their fingers through your hair and giving it a little teasing flick. Like hair flirting.

‘Ya, why not, lovely? Take a seat,’ he said. With some hesitation, I sat on a red, green and yellow striped stool. If this wasn’t such a crisis, I think I would have enjoyed the atmosphere of the place. All I needed was a coconut cocktail and I’d be set.

‘Mi name is Isaiah, lovely.’ Wow, he was really keen on himself.

‘Great, err, Lovely. I’m Samantha.’

I picked up one of the magazines on the table in front of me; it was hard to concentrate on the hydroponic article with all the reggae music that was blaring out overhead somewhere. I was caught up in an article about celebrities and marijuana. It was very entertaining. Celebrities get away with everything, don’t they? Isaiah was humming happily away while I laughed at some B-grade American actress’s excuse for being caught with a hydroponic set-up in her B-grade mansion in LA. Medical reasons, apparently. She needed a whole crop of pot for medical reasons? Why, to relieve the pain from her latest nose job? To ease her heartbreak on being replaced by a younger actress with bigger boobs? Because she put on ten kilos due to having the munchies? Secretly I was a little bit jealous of the nose job thing and the B-grade mansion, but keep it to yourself.

Jealousy is not cool in these parts. It smacks of envy.

I looked up to see how my main man was doing. I was pleasantly surprised. He had very nimble fingers and his constant humming and occasional bouts of breaking into dance were highly amusing. Kylie had a lot to learn in the art of client entertainment. I couldn’t tell her, though. She was so sensitive about things like that. Plus she would kill me for seeing someone else; she was the kind of person who didn’t ever have emergencies. She just wouldn’t understand. I was sitting there almost wishing I was a Rasta when I made the second mistake of the day and looked into the mirror. Staring back at me was a pale girl with horror written all over her face. Instantly I felt her pain. You see, her hair was crimped. You know, like they used to do back in the eighties. Crimped like a crinkle-cut potato chip. Crimped like corrugated iron. Crimped like …

‘Arghhh!’ I screamed like I’d just been busted with a layer cake full of Mary Jane. The scary crimped-haired loser was me! ‘Isaiah, please tell me there is method to your madness? That I need to go,’ I could barely sound out the word, ‘
crimped
before I go straight!’

He looked at me through the mirror and said, ‘Lovely, you don’t like the pleats?’

‘Pleats? I look like a throwback from the eighties!’

‘Hargh, hargh. Eighties. Yuh, mon. Backin’ fashion.’