Umbilicus: An autobiographical novel

STALKER

'ANYWAY, NOW THAT I knew what you looked like, I used to look out for you everywhere I went. I spotted you once at Sanlam Centre, and twice at The Pav. The one evening you were with a group of friends at Centre Court. You were wearing a miniskirt with stockings and suspenders, and I remarked to Max what beautiful legs you had.'

You laugh. 'I was working at Edgars at the time, over the Christmas holidays. It was probably at the end of one of my shifts. Sometimes I used to meet up with mates of mine, who also worked in the mall, for after-work drinks.' You remember the period well. It was just after the centre opened in late 1993, and you'd landed your first job as a sales assistant. They stationed you in the ladies' plus-size section, right next to Victoria's Secret — an intimate, circular store-within-a-store concept, with plush shop fittings, soft lighting, and the heavenly scent of potpourri. You used to get staff discounts on all stock in the store, and even though you were earning minimum wage, you soon had the most impressive lingerie drawer of anyone you knew, much to the pleasure of your many boyfriends. Of course you don't tell Beth any of this. It's not the kind of stuff a mother needs to know.

She watches you intently, taking it all in.

'I am flabbergasted by all these revelations. All these people who knew of my "real" identity, but kept it a secret from me. Amy, Lauren, Emily. Like spies, everywhere. It's insane!'

'I know. It must all be very overwhelming. Come, let's go outside for a bit. Get some fresh air. I need to stretch my legs.'

'I promised myself today I wouldn't, but would you mind terribly if I had a cigarette?' Everyone has their vices. And under the circumstances, you reckon you've done pretty damn well to have held out this long.

'Of course not! I'm so sorry, I didn't realise you smoked. There's an ashtray outside.'

You dig around in your bag for the crumpled pack of Stuyvesant blue and follow her through the patio doors. Before you light up, you pop a piece of Beechie's in your mouth. It's a trick you picked up when you first started smoking, as a way to disguise the worst of smoker's breath. One piece during the cigarette, and another, added to the first, straight after.

Your gum is musk-flavoured. To match your musk oil perfume. And your musk-scented deodorant. You like to match these things. OCD? Type A personality? No doubt someone, somewhere would have a theory. Try and stick a label on you and pop you into some pigeonhole, some neat little category. All dodgy square pegs must be made to fit into perfect round holes. Story of your life.

The Kreepy Krauly chugs around the pool, a lawnmower hums in the distance, and a couple of Indian mynahs squabble over something in one tree while a lone hadeda squawks in another nearby. Ah, the sounds of summer in suburbia, so different to the cacophony of taxis hooting and the occasional gunshot in the streets around Moncrieff.