From Jamie Burchell’s Twitter feed:
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Jamie Burchell @jamieburchell

Hot Running Guy AKA Rude Neighbour Guy is HERE! In my house!!!

The Tenant @squatter

@jamieburchell Wow! How come?

Gugu Motsepeng @gugz

@jamieburchell Did you let him in??

Jamie Burchell @jamieburchell

@squatter @gugz He invited himself in for a glass of wine. Now he’s paying the delivery guy. We’re having pizza!

Cyril Attlee @inthemiddlecyril

@jamieburchell Careful! He’s a stranger, remember? Send up a flare if you need rescuing. #TwitterSOS

Jamie Burchell @jamieburchell

@inthemiddlecyril Will do. If I don’t tweet again in an hour or so, call the cops!

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Jamie had slipped off to the bathroom to post Twitter updates and to splash water on her face. Her head had finally stopped spinning. Once she had a few slices of pizza on board, she expected to sober up even more.

She wondered if she would regret asking Tom to stay for pizza. Having a meal together added a new dimension to the evening. It had moved beyond polite-apology territory, and was looking more and more like a date.

The thing was, she couldn’t kick him out into the cold after that revelation about his step-mother. He’d looked like a lost little boy while he was telling her the sorry story, and her heart had been wrung. The least she could do was keep him company in case he wanted to unload any more.

They were settled cosily in her little kitchen now – elbows on the table, eating slices of pizza with their fingers. There was no way she could match him in consumption, so she didn’t even try. He was on his third slice while she was still nibbling at her first.

“So tell me the story of your life, Jamie Burchell.” He reached for his fourth slice. “In the interests of full disclosure, I must add that I already got the highlights out of Vuyiswa. Seems she and your housekeeper are besties, so I’ve got the basic outline.”

“Okay, while we’re being honest, I got the story of how you adopted Ben from Faith. Who, by the way, is my parents’ housekeeper, not mine.”

“How does that work?”

“This is their house – my parents’. It’s the house I grew up in with my sisters. When my dad took early retirement last year they moved down to Umhlanga Rocks to be at the coast. The property market was going through a dip so they decided not to sell this place, but rather hang onto it and wait for the market to recover. They didn’t want to let it out to tenants because that’s a fast way to have your house trashed, but they didn’t want it to stand vacant either. So they asked me if I’d be prepared to move in.”

“And you said yes?”

“I said hell yes. I was living in a pokey, one-room flat in Linden. I jumped at the chance to move into a four-bedroom house in the suburbs with a garden where my kitties can frolic like spring lambs. It suits all of us.”

Tom watched as she put her slice of pizza down yet again. She seemed to play with her food rather than actually eating it. He’d had girlfriends who’d monitored every bite they took, and he’d found it very tedious. But in Jamie’s case, she genuinely seemed to forget about her food. She liked to wave her arms around as she talked, as though she had to throw her whole body into the act of conversation. Her cats had gathered expectantly next to her chair and were watching her like hawks, hoping that one of her sweeping gestures would dislodge a piece of pepperoni.

It wasn’t as though she didn’t enjoy food, he decided. The sounds she made when she bit into the pizza were almost orgasmic. She was apparently just absent-minded when it came to finishing meals.
Enjoying her and enjoying finding out more about her, he encouraged her to keep talking about herself.

“Okay, so by day you are part-owner of a very charming bakery, but what about by night? What do you do when darkness falls and you swirl on your superhero cape? Do you have a secret identity?” Smiling, she leaned towards him. Their knees were touching under the table, but she didn’t pull away.

“Well … as a matter of fact …”

“I knew it!” He grinned. “You do have a secret life.”

“I actually kind of do. Part of my reason for wanting to get out of the hotel industry was to have more time to work on my writing.”

“Oho. You’re a writer? Tell me more.”

“Still unpublished, unfortunately. Except for a couple of short stories and an article or two in magazines. But I’m writing a novel and posting it in instalments on my blog. I’m hoping it will get noticed by a publisher and I’ll get offered a book deal. It’s going really well so far I think. I have a lot of regular readers.”

“Okay, so let me get this straight.” He tapped on the table with his finger. “You’re giving away for free something you hope people will eventually want to pay you for?”

Jamie shook her head and reached for the bottle of wine. If she had to justify her career choices, she needed the assistance of alcohol.

“What you should be doing is sending out three chapters and a synopsis to all the publishers you’re hoping to impress,” Tom went on. “Most South African publishers will still consider unsolicited manuscripts. But if you’re hoping to get published overseas, you’ll need an agent.”