by Billie Jones
‘Well, he only had the one affair with Toffany and she wants to be a girl, so I think that cancels out the gay part. Doesn’t it? I get confused.’
Me too. The drag queen thing wasconfusing.
‘I guess. Maybe I’ll call him later. It’s just I have this image of the perfect relationship. You know, a totally normal, stable love affair where he gives me his credit card. He takes me out for lunch and then a spot of shopping. Not the other way around.’
‘I hear ya. I don’t think that’s been done since Julia Roberts became a Pretty Woman. And Sam, you’d be the first to say it – it’s so 1990s. I fear Women’s Lib has gone too far. We’ve made a rod for our own back. I mean, having to be a sugar mummy for a gay guy does seem like a bit of a cop out but, really, what else is out there? I know the lesbian thing is hot right now but, seriously, I just couldn’t do it.’
It really was the latest trend. At least half of my hetero girlfriends had turned gay for the sake of fashion. I had to be careful calling them my ‘girlfriends’ these days.
‘No, I couldn’t do it, either. Not that’s there’s anything wrong with it, it’s just one trend I’m going to miss out on.’ Since I didn’t start the trend, I sure as hell wasn’t going to follow it. I decided I’d call JJ tomorrow and take him shopping to make up for the lunch drama. I’m sure he’d understand. I mean, I was called away for a work emergency.
Kylie interrupted my scheming and said, ‘Where’s your kimono? You were wearing it during the “hair on fire” incident. Was it burned?’
‘Oh, no! I hope not. I don’t even know where it ended up.’ I bent down and began scanning the floor. I had clothes and shoes strewn from the kitchenette to the hallway. I really needed a housekeeper. One couldn’t expect to hold down a serious, high-paying executive career and then flounce home and clean. I would have no time for a social life at all.
We searched under discarded pizza boxes and behind cartons of A4 paper. We hunted through drawers filled with maple syrup and cayenne pepper (our last detox diet) and stood on furniture to check shelves laden with gossip magazines (probably Kylie’s), empty bottles of tequila (JJ’s, I bet) and half-empty tins of sex wax (obviously Toff’s).
Kylie wiped a layer of dust from her brow and said, ‘You don’t think you may have hung it in your wardrobe, do you?’
I thought for a second. It was unlike me to hang anything up. I had a much-loved and trusted dry-cleaner who worked from the bottom unit of the apartment building I lived in. I usually threw my clothes into a big pile by the front door and when I finally couldn’t get past it, I took it all down to Mai Ling who ran the place. She was old and tiny and only spoke to me in Chinese. Somehow we managed to arrange a price and we’ve been friends ever since.
Her son delivers the clothes once they are pressed and cleaned. He is your typical half-Australian, half-Chinese, gorgeous hunk of a guy. Beautiful chiselled cheekbones, glossy ebony hair, eyes so dark his gaze seems to burn you but, best of all, he has these really defined arms. You can see the outline of every muscle right down to his hand. They look strong and taut. I start to reminisce about the last time he knocked at my door. He held out my plastic-wrapped clothing and said in a harried voice, ‘I’ve come to drop your clothes off.’
Wow, that was suggestive. I said, ‘Come in. Maybe you could ask me nicely to drop my clothes off?’ He looked at me with unbridled lust, I’m telling you. He was definitely in love at that moment, but he obviously had lots of other deliveries because he coughed once, dropped the bag and left. I was a little miffed as to why he’d drop clothes on the floor that had just been pressed, but I understood the game we were playing. I then started to take my clothes to Mai Ling one piece at a time, several times a day. Then, for no apparent reason, she told me they didn’t do deliveries anymore. It was weird and I worried they’d lose a lot of business over it, but what can I do? I can’t save everyone.
I could picture Mai Ling’s son, those tight, tough arms wrapped around me. He would smell fresh and clean like washing powder as he threw me down on the lounge and started to ravish …
‘Sam.’
‘Sam?’
‘Sam! Wake up! Focus!’
I looked over to see Kylie frowning at me. God, she was so intrusive. ‘Yes?’
‘What were you just thinking about?’
‘Err, dry-cleaning. Why?’
‘You were kissing your arm!’
‘Oh. Ah.’ Stupid fantasies.
Kylie did her usual ‘You’re a freak’ face and said, ‘Right, well, let’s check your room, then.’
We each took our glass of wine and walked down the dingy hallway. My bedroom was the size of a small shoe box taken up with a huge king-size bed and an inadequately sized walk-in wardrobe. I fumbled for the light switch and turned it on.
‘Ahhhhh!’ we screamed in unison.
Kylie clasped my arms and dug her nails into my skin. ‘It’s alive!’ she screamed.
The kimono was hooked over the curtain rail and was radiating an eerie ruby-red glow. The silk rippled and its arms looked like they were reaching out to grab us and suck us into a vortex of terror. ‘Please tell me the balcony door is open, and that’s where this gust of wind has come from,’ I whispered to Kylie.
‘I opened your balcony door to let some of the noxious air out, but I doubt a gust of wind could carry all the way in and go around a wall and down the hallway.’
The arms of the kimono undulated like they were beckoning to us. ‘It’s like some kind of kimono hypnosis! It’s trying to get us to move closer, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, to suck us into the next world! It’s possessed. You’ll be possessed! Are your ears ringing?’
‘Yes! OK, it’s going in the wood-fire pizza oven at Luca’s,’ I said. All of a sudden, the wind stopped. The kimono lay as limp and as flaccid as, well, I won’t name names, but let’s just say he works in Accounting.
‘That was weird. Do you think it heard you?’
I tried not to get waylaid with thoughts of an impotent penis and said, ‘Maybe, if so, we know how to stop it in future.’
Kylie was clutching at my waist and trying to pull me backwards out of the room. I shook her hands off, looking around for clues. Someone must have hung the kimono on the curtain rail – I certainly couldn’t reach that high.
‘I think your Mum is right, that kimono is bad luck!’ Kylie’s eyes were as large as the time she was jailed for tax evasion.
I was a little petrified myself, but Kylie can smell fear so I played it cool. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Next you’ll believe that paying tax is compulsory!’ She was so gullible.
‘It is! Don’t try to confuse me. That’s how I wound up in the slammer last time!’
‘You are so naive. If you had gone to the accountant that I recommended, you would have been fine!’
‘I did go to the accountant you recommended. Turns out, he wasn’t actually an accountant! I still have nightmares about that time in my life.’
Cue the waterworks. Honestly, she was so dramatic sometimes, I could barely stand it.
She sniffled and wiped away at her crocodile tears. ‘I still can’t believe you’d set me up like that because you thought it would be funny. I’m scarred from what I’ve been through.’
‘Oh, come on. You said it helped your hair psychology. Shaped you into a better hairdresser. That you wouldn’t be where you are today without all those buzz cuts and short back and sides you practised in there.’
‘Yes, well, it was still harrowing.’
‘Plus you wouldn’t have been able to set your business up if you didn’t meet that loan shark in prison. No one else would have loaned you money with your criminal record.’
‘I guess you’re right. That criminal record has hindered me somewhat.’
Better stop this line of conversation or we’d be here all night. I was one step away from falling into a thought coma. ‘What were you saying?’ I asked.
She did her great big old huffing and puffing thing and s
aid, ‘Look, forget it, OK? Now, what are you going to do with that kimono? I know I wouldn’t sleep with it hanging above my head all night.’
‘What should I do? Do you really think a piece of material could be ruining my life? It just seems ridiculous!’
‘It has to be. Look what just happened. I think you should burn it.’
‘But it cost $10,000!’
‘Is money more important than your life? What if it kills you? This whole scenario is like something from a horror movie.’
God, when she put it like that it sent shivers down my spine.
‘Kylie, how can a few metres of silk kill me?’
‘You said yourself there’s a soul inside that kimono. What if it’s a very unhappy dead soul, huh? One thing will lead to another and, next thing you know, I’ll be talking to you, but it won’t really be you, it will be this evil dead soul that’s possessed you, and I’ll only know it’s not really you because suddenly you don’t straighten your hair anymore or bother with make-up …’
Like scenes from a movie, the disasters from the last twenty-four hours played out in slow motion before my eyes. I shivered as I imagined what else might happen. The camera panned in for a close-up of me: there I was, make-up-less, hair-less, boyfriend-less, dare I say it, friend-less. Trying hard not to panic, I took big gulps of air and held my breath. Eventually fear got the better of me and everything spilt from my diaphragm in one huge, sobbing shriek, ‘Someone has put a curse on me!’I wibble-wobbled to the bed. I started to shake, I felt nauseous. Cold. Like there was an evil presence in the room.
Kylie looked scared. ‘A curse?’
‘Yes, a curse. It’s not the kimono that’s cursed. It’s me who’s cursed! Someone is trying to ruin my life.’ I squealed. ‘Do you feel that?’ I whispered.
‘Feel what?’
‘The temperature just dropped, like in the Sixth Sense, when there’s a ghost in the room.’
Kylie looked at me, fear etched on her face. ‘No, I don’t feel anything.’
‘Oh my God, I’m like that little boy. I’m going to see dead people!’
I tried to slow my gasping breaths. ‘Who would do such a thing? And why? Why me? I’m a pillar of the community, a rock for others, saint-like even.’
‘Oh, Sam. I was only joking! Sheesh, now you’re starting to scare me. I don’t think I’d go so far as to wonder who could possibly hate you. I can think of at least ten to fifteen people that …’
‘That what? Want to help me?’
‘Well, not exactly. There was that scandal with Truss-me …’
‘I don’t know anything about that video.’
‘And Moan-a Lisa.’
‘Her bum did look big.’
‘And Betty Boo-b and …’
‘They were clearly fake.’
‘And that’s just some of the staff from Toff’s, and then there’s …’
‘I can’t believe this! Somebody actually hates me? I mean, it just seems impossible.’ I stood up and started pacing – that always seemed to help in movies. My bedroom was so small I ended up doing laps next to the bed.
‘Sam, stop. You’re making me dizzy. You need to focus.’
‘You’re right, you’re right.’ It was no use, I can’t think in an emergency. All I kept picturing was my hair, knotty and teased, with visible regrowth showing. My skin not getting the correct nourishment from the moisturisers and expensive serums I used morning noon and might. Imagine walking out of the apartment with no mascara on. I mean, it was hideous.
‘You need to get rid of it. Like, now.’
‘No, no. In the movies you need to work out who dunnit first, right?’
‘I guess, but you’re no detective, Sam.’
‘Yes, that’s true. Plus, being the victim here, I’m too close to see what’s right in front of me. I’ll have to hire someone.’ I let out a wail and put my head in my hands. Kylie walked over and rubbed my back.
I was about to ask for a glass of wine to calm my nerves when she said, ‘Until then, I think I’m going to stay at my mum’s house for a while.’
‘But why?’ I said, sobbing. ‘I might need you, and you’re not cursed!’
‘I’m not sleeping a few metres away while you’ve still got that thing here,’ and she pointed to the kimono, its colours dazzling more brightly under the light.
‘What if I put it in the cupboard?’
‘No way.’
‘OK, let’s think rationally. I’ll call a detective. She can sleep here and bear witness to all that happens while keeping me safe.’
‘I guess …’
My initial fear was starting to ebb. I mean, realistically, this wasn’t a movie. It was only hearsay that I was going to be possessed by some evil, unhappy dead person. Hearsay from Kylie and we all know how dramatic she can be. For safety’s sake, I planned to relocate the kimono to her apartment, once she was safely ensconced at her mum’s house.
‘Sam, I really think you should go and stay at your mum’s house, too. She can probably help you solve this much quicker than any detective. While you’re at it, she can work on a range of issues, like your binge drinking, your—’
‘Enough! Go polish your silverware or something.’ Kylie had a real thing about her cutlery being clean.
‘I hope you learn from all this, Sam.’ And, with that, she stomped out of my apartment.
I gazed up at the kimono. Its colours shone like jewels and I felt wretched even thinking about destroying it. I moved it to the cupboard in my bedroom. Dusting my hands off, I poured another glass of wine and set to work, thinking.
The only detective I knew was Mme Precious Ramotswe. I’d seen her in action on those documentaries, and I thought she was very prompt in solving her cases. It helped she was a woman, with that unique intuition we all have. I’d also read all the books Alexander McCall Smith had written about her, so I figured the fastest way to get in contact with her was through him.
Buoyed up by my quick thinking, I booted up my laptop and drafted him an email. You could never really trust those writer types, they were prone to airy-fairy whimsical-ness, but at this stage I really had no other choice.
Dear Alexander,
I’ve read all your books about Mme Precious Ramotswe, and I figure, since I’ve invested so much time in her life, the least she could do is help me in my time of need. Now I don’t want to alarm her, but apparently an antique kimono I bought from an auction carries a curse and is slowly but surely ruining my life. I would burn it but it cost $10,300 and although we live in a throwaway society, even I have limits. Can you tell Mme it’s urgent? I’m very scared this is going to spiral out of control. Already I’ve been subjected to the following:
A small hair fire
I’ve lost my corporate job, over some ‘alleged’ Twitter updates
I was hit by a remote-controlled car, driven by a very precocious child
My BFF, Kylie, has become responsible and won’t take time off work for lunch or anything, even in times of crisis, when I clearly need her
Gemma, the blue-haired bank freak, spoke very nastily to me in a public place where there were witnesses
JJ, my ex-boyfriend, who turned gay on me, is suddenly back from Paris declaring his undying love
And now, my crazy mother says I’ll be financially ruined (a little obvious, if you ask me, since I’m now unemployed)
These are the facts as I know them. As you can see, something is off-kilter. These kinds of things just never happen to someone like me. Please send Mme over as soon as you get this.
I have attached my dead dad’s frequent flyer points for her airfare, and instructions on how to get to my apartment.
Yours Sincerely,
Samantha Bevilaqua
Chapter 7
Stalker Alert
I pressed send and hoped Alexander would get my message to Mme as quickly as possible. With nothing to do but wait, I decided to ring my friend Charlize and see if she was keen for a night out. Puttin
g some space between me and the hypothetically life-threatening kimono might be a good move. She had potential to be my new BFF, too. Her real name was Charlene, but she changed it because she said people associated it with permed fringes and eighties-style fluoro leg-warmers. She had a point. Charlize was usually up for night-time jaunts. Her parents were super-rich and she didn’t really do anything except sleep all day. I could never be that lazy. Goal-less and job-less. Sad, really.
I dialled her mobile and she answered on the fifth ring (acceptable).
‘Samantha! What’s up? Haven’t seen you around town for ages.’ She had one of those husky voices from hanging around smoky nightclubs and waking up in strange boys’ beds.
‘Not much. I feel like going out tonight. Are you free?’
‘Yeah. I’m at the dry-cleaners under your apartment. I’ll come up. Buzz me in.’
Oh no. Stalker alert. Better keep a watchful eye on this chick.
Jesus, it was hard being good-looking and popular. Everyone wanted a piece of you and I only had so much to give.
Before I knew it, Charlize was at my front door in all her punk-rocking glory. ‘Whoa,’ I said. ‘What’s with the make-over?’Of all the luck. Rich bitch goes from well-groomed and expensively attired party girl to a cropped black-haired, pierced-nose Emo. We’ve lost another to the dark side.
‘You like?’ She looked at me expectantly. ‘I started this poetry class and met all these really alternative people. They said I was hiding behind people’s expectations instead of being who I really want to be, so I just let nature take its course.’
‘I see … and nature is gothic. Wow. Well, you certainly look different. Is that a leather skirt?’ Honestly! Was she some kind of bikie?
‘Yeah. This whole outfit is leather. Oh, God, don’t tell your mum, though. I told her I’d stop with the leather thing.’
I sighed, with full body emphasis and all the weariness I felt. ‘My mother. Now what in God’s name are you seeing her for?’
‘I needed some post-life regression therapy. To see how the choices I make in this life are affecting my next life. So far, so good, she reckons.’
Now I’ve heard it all. My mother must be killing a pig (figuratively speaking) with all these imbecilic followers.