Page 68 of The Pearl Sister
When I woke up, I cracked open one eye to look at the time on my mobile. It was past eight o’clock in the evening, which meant that I’d slept for three hours straight. Maybe the info overload of the past two days had had the same effect as a sleeping pill: my brain knew I couldn’t cope, so it switched me off. Or maybe, just maybe . . . it was some kind of deep relief that already, by gathering the guts to come here, I was finding out who I really was.
You come home . . .
Even if I believed I had, did I want to be labelled by what had been my gene pool, but no part of my upbringing? I stood up and went for a pee, then looked at my flat nose in the mirror, and knew it was the nose of both the old woman and my new friend, Chrissie. They certainly had a deep sense of themselves and pride in their culture, and maybe that was what I needed: some pride. I might not belong to Star any more – I’d learnt the hard way that you could neverownanyone. But just maybe, I could belong to both myselfanda culture that defined me.
In the wider world, I was a loser, but today, sitting with Chrissie and her granny, they had seen my heritage as a strength. In other words, I had people in my corner who understood, because they were like me too. My . . .kantrimen.Family.
I went back to the bedroom feeling energised. I decided I’d call Chrissie and see if she could tell me more about Aboriginal culture. When I picked up my mobile, I saw I had twelve new text messages and several voicemails.
The first two texts were from Star:
So great to speak and laugh last night. You know where I am if you need me. Love you, S xxx
Me again, more newspapers called! DON’T ANSWER YOUR PHONE!!
Then . . .
This is a message for CeCe D’Aplièse. Hi. My name’s Katie Coombe. I’m a journalist at theDaily Mail.I’d like to interview you about your relationship with Anand Changrok. Call me on my mobile anytime to give your side of the story.
And another . . .
This is a text for CeCe D’Aplièse from the BBC1 Newsdesk in London. We’d like to talk to you about Anand Changrok. Please call Matt at the number below. Thanks.
And another
Hi, is this CeCe’s mobile number? I’m Angie from the News of the World. Let’s talk terms for a full interview with you.
And so on, and so on . . .
‘Shit!’ The journos were obviously on my tail. With Ace locked up and under police and court protection, there was nothing they could get from him, so they were coming to me. For one moment, I considered calling Wormwood Scrubs to ask if I could speak to Ace and ask him if there was anything he wanted me to say to the media on his behalf.
Stop being an idiot, Cee,I told myself.He wouldn’t trust you to get him a mango shake from a beach café . . .
Linda knows the truth,he’d said to me once.
So, who was Linda? A girlfriend? Or maybe a wife, although in the papers there hadn’t been any mention of him having a partner. Apart from me, of course, but as one of the tabloids had called me his ‘girlfrienddu jour’,they were obviously labelling me as one of a heap that had gone before.
Still, some gut instinct told me I should be doing something for him. After all, he’d helped me when I’d needed it. The question was, what? And how?
There was one thing I could do . . .
I pulled the SIM card from my mobile, then checked on the handset address book that all the numbers I needed were stored there. I took the SIM card to the toilet, wrapped it in a piece of loo paper and threw it into the bowl. Then I flushed it, hard. Feeling satisfied that no one could trace me now, I left the room, walked down the road to a corner shop and bought a local SIM card. I texted Star and Ma with the new number. My mobile rang thirty seconds later.
‘Hi, Sia,’ I said.
‘I was just checking it was working.’
‘It is, but it’s pay-as-you-go and the lady in the shop says I have to pay for calls coming in from abroad, so I’ve probably got about thirty seconds left on my twenty dollars.’
‘It was a good idea to bin your SIM card. I’ve had another load of calls today. Mouse said that if they’re clever, they can probably trace you through the airline record too, so—’
Star was abruptly cut off and I saw a text banner appear across the top of my phone telling me my credit had run out.
‘This is getting ridiculous,’ I groaned as I walked back down the street to the hotel. I wasn’t James Bond, or even Pussy Galore, or whatever she’d been called.
‘Hi, Miss D’Aplièse,’ the receptionist greeted me. ‘Have you decided how much longer you’ll be staying yet?’
‘No.’
