The Deal

Sixteen-Bernadette

I left Jabar's apartment as a lustful wife, a liar, and a confused, angry person. As I stroll across the calm, now quiet streets, something deep inside fills me with dread. I may feel guilty for trying to sleep with my brother-in-law, but a part of me, as of now, is figuring out a time when, tomorrow, Jabar and I can continue where we left off. Being humped like that on the bed felt so good, and kissing him felt so good. I'm smiling, flickering through the memories of Jabar's abs, biceps, condescending smirk, and especially the hump. I don't even focus as I'm making my way across the street.

Beep Beep!

The car horn jerking me back from daydream land, I jump backward and land on the gritty sidewalk. The driver hurls insults in Zulu. Enough of this crap! I kick an empty glass bottle out of the way, uttering a loud grunt. Jabar's words float in my head. She likes a particular drink. Champagne. She reads books. Downs a glass of champagne, reads a book, and leaves.

The more I repeat these words, the less I feel the relevance of this information. There are hundreds of curly-haired women who read and get drunk on champagne each day. This is hopeless. Either I pay a visit to J's Bar every day to keep an eye out or I have Jabar keep an eye out for me. The latter would work, but only if I can rely on him. The private investigator Thabo said he'll find. I could use this as well.

Sighing, I unlock my phone, only to find a missed call from Thabo. Shit. A message from Yvonne says: Sorry, I couldn't make it today. Something came up. Will catch up tomorrow.

I'll have to think of a way to persuade Thabo to leave me in peace, so I won't have to be bothered by his friends from the police department looking for me. I bring up the Google search engine and type in 'bookstores in Alberton'. From Jabar's description, I think she might be a bookworm. Who knows? I'm guessing, but maybe I could be right. If she loves to read books, whether or not she's new in town, she'd definitely buy a book from the local shops in this suburb of New Redruth. A name comes up. Bongani's Books. Wonderful. It's just a few blocks from my current location.

I'm about to call my husband to tell him I'm okay when a large neon poster promoting the second season of Bad Habits steals my attention. Neon lights illuminate my character, who is the main center of attention. Glaring at it, a sudden fear engulfs me. What if Yvonne is right after all? I can't act and perform any longer. What will I do when I depart from the show? Would I get any more roles? The way those girls adored and worshipped me back in Jabar's made me feel special. I felt like an actual human being who people gave a crap about.

"Bernadette! Bernadette Amara!"

I turn around, and coming towards me is a short, shady-looking reporter in a red pantsuit, a recorder in hand while a cameraman follows her. Shit. Am I so recognizable in public? Well, at least one thing is clear, I'm awfully terrible in wearing disguises.

"Good evening, Mrs. Amara," the short reporter says in a squeaky voice, stretching the recorder above her head. "Sorry to catch you at a bad time, but are you aware there's been a rumor concerning your career? There's been talks entailing the showrunner for Bad Habits, Yvonne Anderson, also your best friend, planning to replace you in the role of Puleng because she, along with her team of producers, crew, and cast, has not been happy with your recent performance on set and your bad work ethic included. Is it true?"

"What?" Before I say anything else, five or six other figures with camera flashes head toward me, yelling other random questions. Sweet Virgin Mary! How did I not expect to run into paparazzi parasites?

The questions parade my ears, causing my heart rate to increase. "Bernadette! Are you going to quit the show?!"

"Bernadette! When will you resign?!"

"Have you really lost your memories or was the car accident a publicity stunt so you could quit the show?!"

"What have your doctors said about your amnesia?! Is it going to be permanent?!"

"What does your husband say about the rumor?!"

"How much did you pay for the plastic surgery?!"

I throw the hoodie over my head and sprint across the sidewalk in quick haste. Who the hell leaked our conversation to the public? Just last night, Yvonne and I were privately discussing this to ourselves at a bar. The next day, the press is threatening to leak this to the whole country. Bizarre. Yvonne and I are definitely going to have a long talk. I'm guessing Bill might be responsible for this. He might have been with us, listening to the talk I had with Yvonne. If he is the one, then I'll need to move out of this town.

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