Now in case you’re interested, the whole Julian Nicol fiasco was one of the reasons I got kicked out of my old school. If you really want all the gory details, you can read the box below. (If you don’t want to, I won’t blame you – it’s kind of a long story. Honestly, please don’t feel you have to. It hasn’t got anything to do with the rest of the story. I hope.)
The Sad Tale of My Disastrous Date With Julian Nicol (or, Why I Will Never, EVER Be Asked On a Date Again)
Up until about grade 10 nobody ever looked at me twice. In spite of my warm, sparkling personality and my obvious charm (ha ha ha), when it came to guys I was the invisible girl. And the worst thing was that I couldn’t even really blame them.
Up until then, you see, I was really, really skinny (by which I mean, of course, flat as a pancake). I also had mousey hair, thick glasses, a mouth full of braces (the kind with elastic bands), spots all over my face and no social skills. Not exactly Cape Town’s answer to Gisele Bündchen, that’s for sure. Ugly Betty, maybe.
But then, when I turned sixteen, the whole ugly-duckling-to-swan thing happened. Like an extreme makeover, only done by God. In the space of about a year my braces came off, I got contact lenses, my hair darkened to a respectable brunette (I don’t know why), my skin (miraculously!) cleared up and my boobs kind of – er – developed.
And before a more sceptical person could say “We’re living in a looks-obsessed, superficial society”, I suddenly became Miss Popularity.
Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly complaining.
It took a while before my mom clocked on to why all these boys were suddenly visiting our house, and when she did she was deeply weirded out, although she tried to act reasonably cool. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before she decided that we should have “the talk”.
Oh. My. God.
Is there anything more excruciating than having that discussion with your mom??? When she finally, finally, accepted that I knew more than enough about basic biology and HIV prevention to “stay safe” (thank you, LO – the most boring subject in the world), she decided to give me the moralistic angle. This, according to my mother, came down to the fact that:
1. modern society is “brutal” in its expectations of young women; and
2. not since Victorian times have inexperienced girls been “expected to go from a simple kiss to penetrative sex without any intermediate steps in order to explore their own sexuality”; and
3. “waiting for that special person” and “moving at your own pace” were consequently feminist issues.
Okay, I’m paraphrasing here, but that was the gist of “the talk”. According to my mom, sleeping with a guy too soon made you a bad feminist.
Just my luck to have a mother who’s both a housekeeper and some kind of bizarre women’s rights activist. (Not to mention the fact that I’m still reeling from hearing the words “penetrative sex” coming from my mom’s lips. Aaargghh!)
Finn’s advice – if it could even be called that – was even less helpful. When he realised I was going on dates, he sat me down and told me, dead seriously, that:
1. all boys are pigs; and
2. they only want one thing; and
3. “just saying no” isn’t going to help much if you’re alone in a room with a guy who’s bigger and stronger than you; because
4. none of the little buggers can be trusted.
He then proceeded to teach me how to break a guy’s little finger, “just in case”. No wonder the whole thing turned out so badly.
Okay, so now you understand the background to my sad little tale. What basically happened that fateful night was this:
For a short time I dated this guy called Julian Nicol, who I didn’t really like that much, although I did like the fact that he liked me. (I was popular! People wanted to be seen with me! Yay!) Julian was this kind of sport genius at our school – rugby captain, cricket captain, provincial colours in swimming … you get the idea. All the girls liked him, or pretended to. But he wanted to go out with me. (Me! I’m so cool! And pretty! Yehay!)
That Saturday night everything started out fine (if by fine you mean something between average and boring). We went to the movies at the Waterfront and afterwards for a few drinks at Primi Piatti, both of us pretending to be really chilled and relaxed and enjoying ourselves. Then he asked me to go with him to his dad’s flat, a penthouse apartment in the Marina just nearby. His dad was overseas with his new wife at the time, so we would have the place to ourselves.
I said yes.
(Look, I wasn’t planning to have sex with him or anything, but you have to get some experience somehow. I hated feeling like such a klutz when it came to, you know, hooking up and all that.)
Anyway, the walk to the flat was kind of sobering – literally and figuratively – and by the time we reached his dad’s place I was convinced that the whole thing was a bad idea. I just didn’t like the guy enough, you know? The problem was that I didn’t know how to get out of it, so I kind of just smiled and prayed that Finn would choose this moment to call untime. (Not that this has ever happened when I wanted it to. Ever.)
When he let me into the loft, the room was dark and he made no attempt whatsoever to switch on any lights.
I took a deep breath, and told him that I wanted to leave. But he wouldn’t let me go.
“Come on, just stay for a few minutes.”
“No. Really. I’d better go.”
“Come on, Katie, it’ll be fun.”
“Sorry, dude, I have to go.”
And so on.
By that time I was getting a bit nervous, because the guy was, like, twice my size, three times maybe, and we were all alone up there. I tried to shove past him, but he sort of blocked the entrance with his body.
“Just stay for one second, Katie, please.”
Yeah right.
Okay, so I might have mentioned earlier that I didn’t have too much experience with guys. So, let’s see if you can guess what I did next:
a) I politely told him that I was getting nervous and uncomfortable, and that he should let me leave.
b) I swore at him, then aggressively shoved him out of the way so that I could leave.
c) I completely panicked, kneed him in the groin without any warning, and when the poor sod lifted up a hand in surrender, I broke his little finger, just to make my point 100% clear.
You guessed it.
Only then, when Julian was rolling around on the floor, groaning and kind of crying, did a whole bunch of people suddenly burst out from behind a door, yelling “Surprise!”
Yip. He’d organised a surprise party for me, with Mandi’s help. And in return I’d mutilated the poor guy in front of all his friends.
After that, of course, Julian couldn’t play sport for months (when Finn teaches you how to break a finger, he means business). That meant our school did really badly in rugby, cricket and swimming that year, which made me Public Enemy No.1 and, I’m sure, contributed greatly to the way the principal overreacted later that year.
Julian Nicol has not spoken to me since.
And neither, unsurprisingly, has any other guy in the greater Cape Town area.
But hey.
If you missed all that, let’s just say that a date turned ugly, I overreacted just a tad, and now no sane guy on earth wants to date me. Or even come near me.
“Do you really think people at my school might not have heard about that whole thing?” I ask.
But before Mandi can answer we hear a knock at the door, and then a skeletal woman in a short, almost transparent shift dress wafts in.
Oh no. Mandi’s Evil Stepmother.
Now Mandi’s dad is a sweetheart, but because he runs this huge international business he’s not home very often. He married her stepmom about three years ago, and in those three years Mandi’s life has become what we euphemistically call “a living hell”. Skeletor (as we call her) is one of those ex-models who marry rich men when their beauty begins to fade. (There are a lot of
them around this neighbourhood, let me tell you.) She wears too much make-up, way too little clothing, has her hair “done” every second day, and spends all her time shopping.
But no matter how many hours she spends making herself beautiful, she remains strangely creepy, and kind of embarrassing. Her eyes are just too hard, you know, her mouth too bitter, her whole aura not so much ugly as … unbeautiful. If that’s even a word. She is just not a nice person, if you know what I mean. (I mean she’s an absolute bitch.)
“Hallo Mrs Muller,” I say, trying to force my face into a smile.
“Katie!” she lisps, in that breathless way of hers, like a nasty, anorexic Marilyn Monroe. “Why, how wonderful to see you!”
Sure.
She walks over, gives me an awkward hug, then stands back to look at me.
“Oh sweetheart, you look gorgeous! And so thin! Mandi, doesn’t your friend look pretty? Wouldn’t you want to look like this?”
Oh man. Not this again.
“Katie, darling.” She leans towards me, whispering in that fake loud way so that Mandi can hear every word. “Why don’t you try convince Mandi to go on your diet with you? Pretty please, darling. Before she gets even fatter. I’m embarrassed to be seen with her these days.” Her fake girly giggle sounds like nails scraping against a blackboard.
“There is nothing wrong with Mandi, Mrs Muller,” I say angrily, but Mandi shakes her head at me, her eyes flashing dangerously.
(She never likes me getting involved in her battles – she says it makes her feel even more powerless. But sometimes I can’t help it. I just want to smash this woman’s head in! And the worst is that Mandi is not at all fat. She has the daintiest little waist, but she’s very curvaceous. It’s natural. And absolutely beautiful to anyone less stupid than this old cow.)
“What do you want?” Mandi asks her stepmother, her voice reasonably calm.
Skeletor shoots her a quick, vicious glare but ignores her, turning to me instead.
“Katie, my therapist tells me that another child has been abducted. One from your school. Do you know her?”
I shake my head. “She’s in grade 8. Macy Bowers.”
“That’s terrible!” Skeletor tries to look shocked, but you get the idea she’d be more upset if she broke a nail. “My therapist says there are absolutely no clues. She simply disappeared, like a whiff of smoke.”
I nod, wishing she’d just go away.
When she sees that I’m not going to play her “I’m-so-terribly-sensitive-and-concerned” game, she gives another of her fake sweet smiles. “Well, anyway, your mother phoned to say that you’re not to walk home today. When you two have finished your homework [She gives a pointed glance at the yellow nail polish] you can give her a ring and she’ll come and pick you up.”
“Okay, Mrs Muller.”
“Oh, do call me Nadine, darling – we’re almost the same age!”
I force a stiff smile. Obviously maths isn’t her strong point.
Before she leaves she turns to Mandi one last time.
“Mandisa, please remember that we’re having guests tonight, so for heaven’s sake, try to wear something suitable.” Her face distorts in distaste, so you can see the meanness in her soul. “If I see you in one of those Xhosa skirts again I’m going to throw up. The whole ethnic thing is so over. Jesus.”
The door slams shut behind her. For a few seconds I don’t know where to look. Then Mandi says dryly, “At least she didn’t offer me a poisoned apple …” and we both burst out laughing.
Somehow I know exactly what Mandi is going to wear to dinner tonight.
I shake my head, amazed as always that so much unpleasantness can be stuffed into the body of just one person. “At least she’s seeing a therapist,” I tell Mandi. “I didn’t think she’d have the insight.”
But Mandi only laughs. “She’s talking about her beauty therapist, idiot. Remember I told you – she’s been spending all her time at that new lifestyle place in town.”
I vaguely remember Mandi telling me about this new concept centre – Perfect Life or whatever it’s called. Apparently it’s some kind of bizarre one-stop vanity shop where you can get Botoxed, nipped, tucked, massaged, blow-dried, boot-camped, liposucked and life coached until every smidgen of originality has been bullied out of you.
I shake my head at the idea: when science meets shallow people with money to throw around, it usually results in raving idiocy.
“Please,” I beg Mandi, “if I ever set foot in a place like that, just shoot me.”
“Okay,” she says cheerfully. “No problem. Now pass me one of those Lunch Bars hidden behind the headboard, please.”
* * *
When the doorbell rings I go down expecting to see my mom, but it’s Finn who’s waiting for me.
Of course, Skeletor is all over him in seconds – going all “darling” and “honey” and fluttering her eyelash extensions until you want to puke. But in spite of the fact that she is so his type, [9] he barely manages to stay civil.
Finn doesn’t like many people, but he likes Mandi a lot.
When the door finally closes behind us he gives an audible sigh of relief. “That woman is just plain bat-shit insane.”
“Understatement,” I say, widening my eyes at him. “So I guess you and Mom have made peace now, seeing that she’s sending you on her little errands?”
“Your mother is a force of nature.”
“Understatement.”
“Don’t worry about it, we’ve sorted everything out.”
“Honestly, Finn, you have the worst taste in women.”
He sighs, not even trying to defend himself. “I know.”
(To be honest, this is a bit of a sore point for me, although I’d rather die than admit it to him. See, although I’m so over it by now, I spent most of my childhood being head-over-heels in love with Finn. I know it’s pathetic, just puppy love or a dumb crush or whatever, but I dare you to spend some time with the guy and not feel the same.)
As we walk along, I glance at him from the corner of my eye (something I’ve perfected over the years). He looks the way he always does: glossy and stunning and too sexy, like a movie star, but with something else, something darker seething underneath. Edward Cullen meets Captain Jack Sparrow – if that’s conceivable – only even more psychotic and without the laughs.
It’s a good thing I’m not in love with him any more. It really is.
In the late afternoon sun the sea is a spectacular shade of blue and flat as a mirror. Finn walks with long, confident strides, lazy and elegant as a big cat, and once again I’m thankful that I’ve grown a bit taller so that I don’t have to do that silly, puppyish half-jog to keep up (also something perfected over the years).
Before we go inside the house I pull on his arm to make him stop. When I touch his warm skin my fingers tingle a bit (the way they always do), but I simply ignore it (the way I always do).
“So what’s the plan now? Are you and Mom going to follow me around everywhere?”
Another sigh. “Your mum’s worried. You’re lucky to have someone care that much about you.”
“I know. But we both know nothing’s going to happen to me –”
“You can’t be sure of that, Katie.”
I just look at him.
“I know you’re good, Katie, but nobody is invincible.”
I look at him harder.
“Ah, for crying out loud, I’ll try to speak to her, okay? But not today. We’ve done enough talking for one day, believe me.”
I shrug. “Fair enough.”
For a while we stand outside the house, neither of us knowing how to address the issue that we’re so obviously not addressing. Then I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and look him in the eyes.
“Finn. Don’t you think you should …” I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, because I know exactly how much I’m asking. “I mean … these are kids, Finn. Can’t you just …”
But he puts his finger over my lip
s to stop me from saying anything else. “Don’t ask me to do that, angel. Please.”
“But Finn …”
“I’m not a superhero, Katie.” He lowers his voice, speaking like the guy who does the movie trailers. “Finn O’Reilly … Master of Time …” But I don’t laugh, so he swears, runs his fingers through his hair. “You need to start accepting that I’m just a regular guy. I do the job, I get the money, I walk away. I can’t do more than that, Katie. I can’t.” His mouth is a thin, bitter line, but his eyes are dark pools of hurt.
I decide to let it rest. Finn has issues, I get it. This time it’s my turn to sigh. “Okay. Okay.”
He nods, obviously relieved, and opens the front door.
“So have you taken on another job yet?”
He grins. “I’m seeing a new client tonight. Big money.”
I don’t smile back at him. “Be careful.”
He lets me walk in first. “Yeah. You too.”
Chapter 4
I hate maths. It used to be so easy up until about a year ago and then, suddenly, blam. Complete nightmare.
The worst part is that I can’t even ask the teacher to explain it to me because I’m not actually sure what to ask. It kind of feels like if I knew what it was that I didn’t understand, I would at least understand enough to understand what it was that I didn’t understand … Oh, never mind.
Anyway, so there I am, with my most recent maths test in my hand, slashed all over with red pen so it looks as if it’s bleeding, when suddenly Daniel van Huysteen is standing right next to me.
“C’mon, I’m sure it’s not that bad.” He smiles and I feel myself blushing.
“Horror show.” I shake my head, trying to play it cool. “It’s like my IQ ducks and runs for cover whenever I write my name on a maths test.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, loosening his tie a bit. “Most girls can’t do maths.”
What did he say???
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“It’s a fact.” He shrugs.
Okay. I’ve heard about enough. Funny how quickly a guy can go from smoking hot to totally lame – snap! – just like that.
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