Rotten Peaches Page 4

  “I am sure you will let your baking work its magic,” Janette says. “But for now, we will move onto the reveal part of the show and which might involve a different kind of Mr. Right than the one you are thinking of!”

  Bernice looks startled and she clutches her rosebud microphone closer to her mouth, which causes a nasty buzzing reverb and Janette quickly swats Bernice’s hand away.

  “I thought the book was the reveal,” Bernice says, and she looks frightened. “No one said anything about a different reveal. Was my agent informed of this?”

  “Oh yes,” Janette says vaguely. “It’s in the fine print. But never mind that, we’ve got a big surprise for you! Are you ready?”

  “Not really,” Bernice replies and she starts to say more but Janette interrupts her. “Come on out JayRay! Welcome to Janette’s Daily Reveal!”

  JayRay saunters onto the stage and he was right, television didn’t dilute his looks the way that photographs did. I’m dismayed to see how good-looking and sexy he is on screen. Now the whole world will see it too, and I’m going to lose him for sure. I want to throw up and I can hardly watch. JayRay acknowledges the roar of applause as if he were born to it.

  Bernice is shocked and immobilized, her thin mouth is pressed into a tight line. She crosses her arms and I can see her fingers dig deep into her flesh.

  Janette’s having the time of her life. This is perfect. Her ratings have been falling and she’d been worried, but this show’s going to be killer, she can sense it. She turns to Bernice. “He’s your brother!” Janette exclaims. “Well, your half-brother. How about that?”

  Janette is grinning and JayRay is grinning, and Bernice looks like she is praying that the floor will swallow her up, or that aliens will abduct her, or that show will go to a commercial but of course it will not. It would never interrupt the highlight of the hour and her panicked reaction is playing right into the hands of the show’s mandate. Even I watch, fascinated, while she tries desperately, and obviously to gather herself, and get control of the situation.

  Janette turns to the audience and nods, and they start chanting brother, brother, brother, getting louder and louder and clapping in time to their calls.

  Janette lets the cheer reach a crescendo then she whips out a salute and slowly lowers her arm, a lion tamer ordering her beasts to sit and obey. When there is complete silence, she turns and looks at Bernice. “Your brother,” she repeats and the crowd leans forward, panting and eager, hoping for blood.

  Bernice turns that raw meaty colour again and she unfolds her arms and clasps her hands together. “Ja, I can see that for myself, thank you very much,” she replies calmly, her voice like ice.

  I watch from my bed, and I can see, clear as day, that she regards JayRay as a scumbag, a cheap scam artist on the make.

  I scoot closer to the screen and wonder what will happen next.

  4. BERNICE

  I’M SO ANGRY I CAN’T SPEAK. I am trapped in a ridiculously uncomfortable chair, live on primetime television, with my book on my lap. I watch the audience respond enthusiastically to the handlers, waving and shouting and punching the air with their fists. It’s like I am at a rugby match, and I’m the ball that’s just been kicked, and I’m lying there, waiting for more punishment.

  I know I have to do something to save the situation, to save my reputation, but what? I was assured that I was on the show to talk only about my book. And now, this?

  I look over at the man they are calling my half-brother. A good-looking oke no doubt, but in a cheap and sleazy way. Those terrible highlights in his hair and that big floppy fringe falling into his eyes, and that wide, lazy, self-satisfied grin. His smile reminds me of a young Don Johnson, and so what if I watch Miami Vice by myself late at night and dream about Sonny Crockett smiling at me and undoing my blouse? Particularly on nights when Dirk is home with his wife. What harm is there in watching the camera pan up Sonny’s white shoes, his white suit, and pale blue collarless shirt, his sunglasses looped into the neckline, a cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, and his gold wrist watch glinting in the sun? For a moment, I really am lying on my bed, watching my TV, and I’m waiting for Betty to bring me my supper on a tray, steak so rare it bleeds, with blood red wine to match.

  My defense mechanism, when I am stressed, has always been to slip into another world and get lost, but I can’t let that happen now. I need to get this unspeakable situation under control without losing my temper and, with difficulty, I force myself back into the present. Once this is over, I can reward myself with as much Miami Vice as I like and as much red wine as I like, in the privacy of my home, away from this nightmare.

  I look over at this half-brother of mine. What kind of man highlights his hair? And he wears his shirt open like a cheap café owner, two buttons too many undone. He looks like he works out a lot and I can just imagine him admiring himself in the mirror at the gym while he lifts weights.

  His thin gold necklace glints in the light and I notice without surprise that his beige trousers are a cheap synthetic fabric that never creases, but has turned shiny from being washed too often in hot water. He didn’t even get a proper suit for the show, and he probably doesn’t even know the difference.

  He was a real pain in the neck for a while, what with his phone calls, emails, and letters. He tried to persuade me to meet him but I refused, to the point where I thought I had successfully shaken him off. Clearly, I was mistaken. And while I had forgotten about him, he was busy planning this nonsense.

  I turn to Janette. “What exactly were you hoping to achieve with this stunt? Please enlighten me.”

  I’m dismayed to hear my accent. It is guttural and harsh, and much too South African. The careful training of my elocution lessons falls apart whenever I am caught off-guard, which doesn’t happen often.

  Janette looks stunned. “I thought you’d be happy. In your books, you talk about the importance of family. I did my homework and I found your brother for you. It wasn’t easy, believe me. I had to do some serious investigating. I thought you would be happy. You’re always saying how family is everything.”

  She’s such a liar! JayRay tracked her down, like he did with me. She wouldn’t have had to do a thing! I want to expose her lies, but I keep my cool. I remember to inflect more of a British lilt into my tone and I make my voice go light and happy when I speak.

  “Janette,” I say, and my voice is even and soft, “Ja, you were right about one thing. I was aware of this man’s existence, thank you so much. He chased me with as much subtlety as a vuvuzela at a church choir. And frankly, I have not been in touch with him because I did not want to meet him. I did not want to meet him by choice. You didn’t find him, Janette, he found you. And I bet he was most persistent about it too.” I force my lips into a small smile, tilt my head to one side to indicate positive body language and I use a “smiley” voice to show there is only goodwill on my part, that I’m not being difficult in any way, I am simply stating the facts.

  I refuse to look at my half-brother and I focus my gaze on Janette who is still looking perplexed, as if she truly cannot understand why this good deed is being punished. Meanwhile, the crowd is loving the drama of the whole thing and Janette knows it.

  I refuse to say anything more. I study my nails and wait for Janette to make her next move.

  “Maybe he did come to me,” Janette amends. “We get hundreds of requests and it’s hard to keep track. But,” she says earnestly, “flesh and blood. Think about it. He’s your flesh and blood. Your family. Don’t you want to know more about that? Don’t you want to know more about him? And about the father you both share?”

  “Flesh and blood,” I repeat, and I look out at the audience who crane forward in a wave of motion. I sit up straighter in my chair and I clutch my book to my stomach for strength, using it as a shield. “Flesh and blood. Yes, Janette, I couldn’t agree with you more.”


  She looks surprised, she did not expect such an easy victory, and my ridiculous half-brother gets this triumphant look on his face but I continue, and I don’t stop talking for a while, and I use that same, even, soft, firm voice. “He is exactly, and only, that. Flesh and blood. The blood and bones of a stranger. I could have met with him any time I wanted to, had I wanted to, but I did not. You say we are family. Why? Simply because we share the same sperm donor? We share a father, you say? No. My father is the man who adopted me when I was two years old. My father is the man who gave me his name, and who supported me in every way, from teaching me how to ride my bicycle, and ride my pony, to buying me my first car, and to seeing me through university. To listening to my problems, my hopes, and my dreams. That is what a father is, that is what being a father means. A man who impregnates a woman he is married to and leaves when the baby is six months old, well, that man is no father. A sperm donor is all that man is. And, on the basis of sperm, you think that I should have an interest in this stranger, in this vehicle of flesh and blood and bones? Half-brother? You’ve been watching too many soap operas where strangers rush into each other’s arms on the basis of a DNA strand, crying and exclaiming love and affection and bonds forever after.”

  I turn away from Janette and face the audience directly. “Family, she says? What does this man know of my scraped knees from falling off my bicycle? Did we ever fish together as children? Did we learn to shoot BB guns together? Did we learn to ride horses together, or read each other’s comics late into the night? Did we cover for each other as naughty teenagers? Did we comfort one another’s disappointments as we grew into adults? The answer is no, we did none of that, and we have none of those memories. And that is what family is. No, people, that, sitting over there, that is no more than a stranger’s body of flesh and bones and blood and muscle. We have neither shared soul, heart, history nor memory. And that is what family is.”

  I come to a stop and I sit back in my chair. I look over at Janette. She looks stunned, and horrified. I have no idea of the sleazy man’s reaction because I refuse to look in his direction.

  The wall of silence shatters as a wild cheer rises from the audience. The assembled crowd shoots to their feet, clapping, hooting, and whistling. The applause seems to go on forever and Janette’s expression changes from one of hatred to delight; delight mixed with tears of joy. I swear that bitch even makes a show of wiping her eyes. She joins in the applause and my half-brother also stands and claps along.

  After what feels like several lifetimes, Janette calms the crowd and they sink slowly back into their seats. “Wow!” she says, pretending to wipe more tears from her eyes, “that was incredible! People, there you have it. You have been told! Family. Shared souls, hearts, history, and memories. Come here, Bernice, come and stand with me.”

  I stand up awkwardly and I join her and she puts her arm around my waist and hugs me close, which I hate.

  She smiles at the audience, grabs my book from my grasp and waves it. “Each lucky member of the audience will be taking a signed copy of Bake Your Way to Mr. Right home, along with a cookie cutter sponsored by Royal Baking Flour! Thank you, Royal Baking Flour for being a proud supporter of this show today! Bernice, is there anything else you’d like to say to the audience before we sign off?”

  I take a deep breath. The book. I have to remember my precious book. I have to save the moment.

  “Ja, for sure there is,” I say, and I take my book back from Janette and hold it out to the audience, returning the central focus to it, and not me.

  “What I always want most for my books is that they will be a friend to you. That they will help you achieve your dreams, and give you love, advice, and support in tough times. If you are looking for Mr. Right, I hope this book will help you find him. But I also hope it will help you during the times when you have not yet found Mr. Right or perhaps Mr. Right is not behaving as perfectly as he should. This book is about you, and it is for you, and I hope it enriches your life and brings you joy.”

  The audience claps and cheers appreciatively and I give them the biggest smile I can, even though smiling is the last thing I feel like doing.

  Janette jumps in before I can say anything else. “There you go, what a show! We’ll take a few minutes for commercials and come back with our next guest, the stylish and beautiful influencer Elaine Jane Wheeler, who has more than eighty thousand Instagram followers! But, people, we know something about her perfect life that she doesn’t! Viewers at home, don’t go anywhere!”

  The moment the off-air signal is given, we leave the stage. I wave to the crowd on my way out and they wave back and I make sure my smile is plastered in place.

  Janette is ecstatic. She high-fives her producer and does a little victory dance. Out of the corner of my eye, I see JayRay standing in a corner, ignored. He looks confused, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cheap trousers.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” Janette shouts. “Anger! Passion! Ha!”

  “Congrats,” the producer says. “Great TV, the best kind. Your ratings will be through the roof. And Bernice will sell even more millions of her books. It’s a win-win! Everybody should be happy.” He looks pointedly at me.

  I want to voice my fury. The interview was supposed to be about the book, not an invasion of privacy. But I can’t find my voice. My hands are shaking and the room spins. I want to sit down but more than that, I want to leave.

  Janette meets my eyes and I silently agree to concede.

  “I’ve got to get back out there,” she says and she gives me a nod, which I take to mean, let’s leave it at that.

  I grab a bottle of water and watch the set from the sidelines as she strides back onto the stage. I’m dying to leave but I need to hear what she will say about our segment.

  “Wasn’t that amazing?” Janette coos. “Legendary! Don’t forget to buy Bernice’s book, all of you out there at home. And again, each lucky member of our audience will receive a copy of the book, along with a cookie cutter brought to you by Royal Baking Flour, the proud sponsor of our show! Be sure to spread the word; family is not just flesh and blood but shared souls, hearts, history, and memories. Amazing! And now I’d like to introduce you to Elaine Jane Wheeler!”

  She continues her babble and the next victim of her show is ushered onto the stage. I grab my purse and coat and I rush out of the studio without a backward glance. I push my way through gathered staff in the corridor who are too busy gossiping among themselves to care about me.

  Once outside, I stand on the street corner, unsure what to do next. The studio is one street off the Strip and I turn in a hurry and find a slipstream with the fast moving crowd of Vegas sightseers. My phone is beeping and buzzing with emails, tweet alerts, and Facebook comments, and I know I should answer them but I can’t trust myself to talk, not even via text. Especially not via text. To vent online now, is to regret it later. Better to be silent. What had my publicist been thinking? And if she had no idea this was going to happen, it’s even worse. She had put me in a hornet’s nest when it was her job to protect me from exactly that.

  I stare at my phone again. Why are there no messages from the only person who matters? Where is Dirk? True, he didn’t want me to be on the show; a woman’s place is in the home, not on the world’s stage. Even if that woman is only his mistress, not his wife, and even if she is an enormous success in her own right. In fact, all the more reason for her to stay at home, be demure, self-effacing, and humble.

  But I’m no Afrikaner vrou, I am no man’s wife. Not for lack of trying or wanting. I sigh. Dirk is punishing me with his silence and he’s succeeding.

  My pantyhose crawl around my legs like shongololos and I stop and scratch at my thighs, not caring who sees me. I grab the waistband of the offending garment through my skirt and try to yank them up but when I catch a few curious stares, I stop.

  I double-check my phone again. M
aybe the signal was briefly down. But there is nothing from Dirk. I hate him at that moment. He’s probably out with his Volksraad; he thinks I don’t know about that but of course I do. His “Parliament” of righteous Afrikaners who are intent on saving their language and heritage at all costs.

  I’m not even sure why a proper Afrikaner like Dirk is seeing me. He is an opregte Afrikaner, as he tells me just about every time he sees me. He’s given to quoting Hendrik Bibault’s cry of Ik ben een Africaander, reminding me that the rallying cry was first uttered in 1705 and that he is still waving that same flag. Not to mention that Dirk’s ancestors were among the Voortrekkers on the Great Trek in the 1830s. I have never had as many history lessons in my life as I do with Dirk. At least he doesn’t make me speak Afrikaans with him.

  Actually, in the beginning, he tried but he said I was butchering die moedertaal, the mother tongue, and could I please stop. I stopped with pleasure. To my mind, Afrikaans was nothing more than a relic of the past, a second-language I half-heartedly studied at school.

  I sigh. I want to smash my phone and break it into tiny pieces, as if it’s the phone’s fault there are no messages from the man I love. But that would be cutting off my nose to spite my face, as my father used to tell me when I was having a fit of fury and looking for vengeance.

  I stop at a corner store and buy a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Since it is Las Vegas, the lighter is shaped like a naked woman but I don’t care. I gave up smoking for Dirk but I needed a smoke now. One? I want to inhale the whole pack in one go. Dirk is one of those sanctimonious ex-smokers and I only stopped because he nagged me endlessly.

  I sit on a bench on the Strip and smoke three cigarettes in a row. I need some wine. Some good South African red wine. I’m going to have an entire bottle to myself and maybe not stop there.