He goes to the eye shadows, switches them around. Mother of Pearl Out to Get You. Well, that’s a good enough of a why if he ever saw one. His mother, Pearl, is out to get him. Doesn’t surprise him one bit, actually. What if she were the one screwing around with his memory? Maybe she’d conked him one on the head, made him forget. Stoker feels around on his scalp for a sore spot, but doesn’t find one. Hmmm . . .
And then to the nail polishes. It takes a little longer to put these together, swapping labels back and forth until he’s reasonably satisfied with the result: Remember Bring the Funk Concert Tee All for Naught Just a Rehearsal.
Stoker chews on that a little longer. Concert Tee stands out. Naught Just a Rehearsal. The only concert Stoker knows about this Sunday is Riya Natrajan’s concert. Maybe he’s supposed to be there. Maybe he’s supposed to get there like a bat out of hell. Maybe that’s what his mother doesn’t want him to remember.
His alpha bot rings. Speak of the devil.
“Hello, Ma. It’s so wonderful to see your smiling face this lovely Sunday morning,” Stoker says, laying it on thick. Whatever it is that he knows, he’s still not sure, but he sure doesn’t want her to know about it.
“Hello, dear. I’m glad you’re up,” she says, giving Stoker a quick glance before turning her attention back to trimming one of the topiaries in her prize-winning garden. “I’m just calling to see if you’d grace me with your presence at dinner this evening. I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Oh, Mother, I’d love to.” He needs an excuse. Quick. “But I just woke up with this killer headache. Too many long nights working on this terrorist fallout, I guess. Can I call you around lunchtime and let you know if I’m feeling any better?”
“A headache. Son, let me come over. I’ll make your favorite, pap en vleis.”
“And your homemade chakalaka?” Stoker says, momentarily forgetting himself in his craving for that spicy relish made with heirloom tomatoes from her garden and so much garlic that he could smell it seeping through his pores the next day. “I mean, that’s not necessary.” Last thing he needs is her coming over here. “You know what? I’ll just take a couple aspirin and drag myself over to your place. Would you like me to bring anything?”
“Just your smiling face,” she says.
“Sounds good. Maybe we can talk some about my premier candidacy.”
“Oh, honey, have you decided to declare your interest?” Her face lights up as he says this, and she turns her attention fully to him.
“I’m leaning that way.”
“I’ll invite Ted Stevenson over for dessert then. We’ll start crunching some numbers. Never too early to start preparing for these things!”
“What time should I be by?”
“Six thirty sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?”
“My calendar is clear. Six thirty it is. Love you, Mom.” Stoker leans forward and gives the alpha bot’s camera a faux kiss.
He’s got to get out of here, now. To Port Elizabeth for Riya Natrajan’s concert. And he has to bring the funk. Well, that could only mean one thing. Felicity Lyons is in demand, and here he is without a single thing to wear. He’ll drive like mad out of town, and once he’s safely in Port Elizabeth, he should have plenty of time for a pit stop. He’s heard a lot of good things about their Valle Ratalle, high fashion even if it is off the rack. And if he doesn’t eat a thing the rest of the day, he just might be able to squeeze himself into a size eight dress.
Chapter 31
Riya Natrajan
After all these years, Riya Natrajan has never gotten used to being a pincushion. She’s got a makeup artist accurate enough to put eyeliner on a rabid chinchilla. She’s got a hairstylist who can lay extensions with more urgency than a sapper laying land mines, and she’s got two fashionistas who can get her breasts to defy gravity even in the scantest of costumes. And right now, they’ve all got their hands on her, painting and pinning and poking and pulling and plucking.
There’s a knock on her dressing room door. Barely a knock. More like an apology. It cracks open and Adam Patel’s face peeks in. Oh, he wants something. It’s not like him to be timid, especially an hour from showtime.
“Bad news?” she says through parted lips as bright red lipstick is brushed on.
“Not exactly. It’s just that we’ve got a few VIP stragglers who were hoping to meet you.”
“The autograph session was an hour ago, Adam.”
“I know, but there’s only a handful of them.”
“Then there’s only a handful of people you’ll have to disappoint. You know this is my me time. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t wake up looking this beautiful.”
Adam steps fully into the room, walking tenderly as he comes closer, his right arm in a sling. Wisely, he stays out of striking distance. A fake gimp isn’t enough to shame her into submission.
“Have a heart, Riya. Just this once.”
“I’d claw yours right out of your chest if I didn’t just get these acrylics glued on.”
He dares to move next to her and lowers his voice, though there’s really no privacy when someone’s reaching up your skirt to straighten out the layers of frill beneath. “Come on,” he says. “It’ll take three minutes max. Certainly you could spare that from your regimen, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve seen you first thing in the morning. You do wake up looking this beautiful.”
“Lay it on any thicker, and I might suffocate,” Riya Natrajan snarls.
“Would a guilt trip suffice?” Adam says, raising his sling.
“It’s just a bad sprain,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’d think I’d broken your back or something. You probably don’t even need to wear that thing.”
He smirks. “Go out there and I’ll take it off.”
“Damn it, Adam!” She stands up, and her assistants buzz off like flies. She yanks the rollers out of her hair, gives her skirt a shake, then goes out into the hallway. There are a few kids and adults with them, eyes brimming with excitement.
“Riya! Riya!” They scream, surging forth, but Riya Natrajan fixes them with a smoldering stare.
“Here’s how it’s going to work,” she says, looking each of them square in the eye. “Have your autograph books or whatever you want me to sign displayed. Backs to the wall. No touching. No stupid questions. Got it?”
Their heads nod, silly smiles stretched tightly across their faces.
She holds her hand out and Adam places a silver Sharpie in it. She steps forward and signs each beloved object with a giant, completely illegible R-squiggle N-squiggle: two posters, the box of her new Riya! doll with interchangeable hairstyles, three commemorative and ridiculously overpriced concert program booklets, and the ivory handle of an antique brush—sadly not the strangest thing she’d been asked to autograph this evening. Then there’s this sleeve of a black concert tee, currently being worn by a rather homely-looking preteen. Riya Natrajan jerks the girl’s elbow to get a better angle on the sleeve, but as she does, the scent of pain surges through her, unsettlingly familiar and potent enough to set a chill in her teeth.
“Ow,” the little girl whispers in the politest manner.