I Heart Beat by Edyth; Bulbring Read Free Book Online Page B

says:
    Five guests arrived at approximately 5:00 p.m. GMT. They were Mr and Mrs Thomas Phillips, otherwise known as Tom and Candy. There was Gill Goldman, a forty-something female with big breasts. The fourth was Eric Stephenson, a chain smoker, thirty-nine (although with diminishing life expectancy), with smelly breath and stress acne. The last guest was Mr Alan Rodderick, aka Mr Perfect.
    My report continues with a detailed description of Mr Perfect, a summary of which says:
    He dresses like a Gap model. He speaks like a cellphone advert. He eats nice and neat. (He is a piscatarian — loved Grummer’s fish curry.) He’s the librarian in Hermanus and studied at both Cape Town and Stellenbosch universities (got a Bee Aye from Yoo Cee Tee and Honours in Library Studies from Stellenbosch Uni). He’s fifty-nine, unmarried and goes to church (St Luke’s Anglican in Hermanus). He has hair — but only on his head — and absolutely doesn’t drink (alcohol).
    I enter his name under The Target. I assess my timeline. We’ve been here a week and I’ve made progress! Three more weeks to go. I am feeling pretty chuffed with myself. Mr Perfect’s coming for lunch on Sunday after church. I set it up. This is how I did it: while Tom, Candy and the other non-targets drank their way through Toffie’s wine supply and talked about who was stealing whose
leiwater
and who got fined cheating on the water restrictions, Grummer and Mr Perfect chatted about
The Da Vinci Code
.
    They both agreed that Mr Brown had perhaps been selective in his use of material and that poor Jesus never really made it with Mary. Which is bad news, considering he’s over 2,000 years old and still single. I should give him a couple of tips on book clubs.
    And then Mr Perfect (“call me Alan — with one el”) asked me who my favourite author was. I mentioned a couple of the Google and Nintendo geeks, but Alan didn’t seem to know their work. I spotted the gap and took it. “Alan.” (Ahem.) “Alan,” I said, “could you perhaps recommend a couple of good authors. My mom’s not too big on books, so I feel a little lost.” Ag, shame!
    And so it was agreed. Alan’s coming for lunch and bringing me some books. And he’s bringing his housemate Greg, an old guy of about sixty-two who runs the Hermanus bookshop. Two book-lovers at one sitting. Grummer will be spoilt for choice.
    I’m tapping out the last triumphant line of my report when Toffie arrives. I grind my teeth and get my bike. Grummer asks about lunch. Toffie says it’s fine, he’s packed a picnic. Oh, yippee!
    Toffie takes me to this place on the river just outside the dorp. It’s a deserted, walled reservoir. He’s put in some doors and windows, and there’s a sheet to make like a sort of roof. He calls it his den. I call it a dump.
    He’s got a whole lot of stuff in a box hidden in a hole in the wall: his stamp collection, with his precious Penny Black (yawn), his baby teeth and some old South African coins. He calls it his treasure. I call it so totally yesterday.
    Toffie says it’s time for the picnic and we go down to the river’s edge. He spreads out a blanket and unpacks his rucksack. I’m not sure the day can get any worse, but it does.
    There are beef sandwiches, lamb sandwiches and ham sandwiches. I tell Toffie I don’t do meat.
    â€œMa said you wouldn’t, so she packed you a special lunch,” he says and waves some peanut butter sandwiches in my face. Real special.
    I whip out my cellphone and go online. I google peanut butter sandwiches and learn that Bill Gates, Madonna and Lance Armstrong eat them. Swell.
    I watch a huge red snake swim lazily across the river to the clump of reeds at the other side. I point it out to Toffie.
    â€œI call him Rooi Duiwel. He’s always here,” Toffie says.
    I eat a peanut butter sandwich. It tastes like brain