‘Look, isn’t that that novelist woman?’ A woman, holding a large amount of hand luggage as she awaits the announcement of her flight, points.
‘Which novelist?’
‘The one who writes the dirty mysteries… you know Lay of the Land.’
‘Yes, Tricks of the Trade, all those… there, look, coming down the corridor, the one in the white.’
‘You’re right, it’s her. She looks just the same as her picture. I always thought it was touched up.’
‘It’s her face that’s touched up I should think, plastic surgery. I expect her old chin is up behind her ears.’
‘You’ve got to give it to her, though, she looks fantastic. Man, who would wear white silk to travel in?’
They gawp and press close to the window as the trail of passengers makes its way towards the fuel-suckling Boeing 747 gleaming in the clear, bright winter sunlight. Georgia Giacopazzi in her role of writer of blockbusters is used to being inspected and discussed by strangers.
‘How old do you think she is really?’
‘Nobody knows anything much about her. Not even where she lives. I read this big, in-depth profile about her in Cosmo and they said it was all true – about the mystery of her private life.’
‘All invented by publicity agents.’
‘She owns a London flat, a penthouse in Manhattan where she stays for a few days when she goes to New York to see her publisher, and a villa in The Algarve – isn’t that in France or Spain or somewhere? – but she never, ever lives more than a few days in any of them. She has them just to keep people at bay. It said that she lives somewhere where nobody knows, not even her agent. She writes one of her blockbusters, goes on a big publicity tour, does TV and photo-calls all round the world, and then disappears again until she’s written another one.’
‘She gets three million dollars a book now.’
‘How many rand is that?’
‘God knows, but it buys a hell of a lot of face-lifts.’
‘“An enigma” – that’s what they called her in Cosmo.’ The enigma is now approaching the aircraft steps. All that one can tell from this distance is that she is of average height, has that whiter shade of white hair which indicates that it was once red, and walks upright with an air of assurance about her.
‘You’ve got to admit, she looks pretty damned sexy still.’ The woman, the enigma, carrying an armful of fresh proteas, not huddling from the bitter winter wind of the high veld which ripples and billows her white silk coat, halts at the aircraft steps, turns towards the observation lounge window, raises her hand once then boards the London-bound aircraft.