Warm-hearted and funny, Limerence is a tale guaranteed to lift the spirits of even the sourest of exes.
“NOT FOR CLARISSA THE PADDING AROUND THE HOUSE IN SLIPPERS, dressing gown and kopdoek, chasing down some elusive creative thought before it slithered into the shadows. She wasn’t one for the anxious cups of too-strong coffee, followed by frantic clacking at a keyboard.
Just as Rudolf Nureyev could (presumably) perform a pirouette while licking an ice-cream cone and make it look easy, Clarissa effortlessly banished all words with more than two syllables from her mind as she went about her morning activities.
A minute or two after 6 a.m. she would have brushed her teeth, a further ten minutes and the shower would be complete (ending on an invigorating blast with the hot water twisted shut). Then it would take about forty-five minutes of hair-drying, applying make-up and – based in part on last night’s weather report – carefully selecting and slipping into the outfit she would wear that day.
A few moments of inactivity followed: a first cup of coffee with two, sometimes even three, rusks while seated at the large window in the lounge. The view – lawns sloping down to the small lake with the ducks – reaffirmed her commitment to her chosen lifestyle. A quick glance at the sky confirmed, as if she needed it, the suitability of her outfit.
Clarissa loved creativity but respected discipline. Without creativity, she reasoned, you could always fall back on discipline. But without discipline? Nothing.
By the time the perfectly spaced seven bongs of the faultlessly simulated electronic grandfather clock had rung through the house, Clarissa – dressed up, made up and ready to rock and roll – would push the start button on her computer, click on Spotify for some inspiring music, press the Word icon and sit with her fingers poised over the keyboard, waiting for the document to load.
Then, and only then, would she flick the creativity switch in her brain and continue writing her book, starting exactly where she had left off the day before. Clarissa wrote her novels in three steps. Three steps only. A rough draft (fast), a final draft (slow), a final edit (meticulous). She wrote chronologically, without hesitation, almost without pause, until the electronic grandfather clock announced 1 p.m.
Lunch, either alone (preferable) or with a friend or business acquaintance (if unavoidable), would end at either 2 p.m. or 3 p.m. (depending on the value of the conversation), and work would resume until 6 p.m., at which time the working day, mid-sentence if need be, would end, between the third and sixth bongs of that electronic grandfather clock.
But today was that one special day of the year, as regular as the annual migration of the butterflies that she deviated from the set routine.
It was only half past eleven – confirmed by a single bong – when she stood up from her chair and straightened her dress before sitting down again. She reread the first few paragraphs of the manuscript, inserted a full stop and deleted a comma. It was a private ritual she performed on finishing a new book. With a triumphant tap on the keyboard, like Oscar Peterson finishing a particularly busy piano solo, she saved the document to the ‘Completed’ folder; another manuscript in the bag, ready to be mailed to her publisher in London, the project forgotten until she had the final proofs in her hand.
“One of the reasons Clarissa had bought a unit in the City of Gold country estate was that she would not be disturbed for anything other than death or a book delivery, neither of which she was expecting.”
She knew exactly what she would do. She would treat herself to a long session at the gym before lunch … but then the intercom chirped. She froze, hand still poised.
One of the reasons Clarissa had bought a unit – probably an unnecessarily big unit – in the City of Gold country estate was that she would not be disturbed for anything other than death or a book delivery, neither of which she was expecting.
But then, it was still early, and she was indeed finished for the day, and with the book. A philosophical approach was called for.
She strode from her study alcove to the entrance hall, focusing on the click of her heels on the Mediterranean tiles. Clip-clip, clip-clip, she noted with satisfaction. No clip-clip, clip-clop. You didn’t get through a hip replacement with just stoic acceptance. It was important to stay vigilant. It took a hard-nosed commitment to rehabilitation, even five years later.
Stopping to inspect her reflection in the front window, she perceived a disobedient curl on top of her head and tapped it back into place before lifting the wall-mounted intercom.
‘Good morning?’ (‘May I help you?’ was too formal, ‘Hi’ way too pally-pally. Besides, verbalising the position of the sun made quite clear the implied question mark in her greeting.)
Except it wasn’t Security speaking.
‘Hello, Clarry.’ She hadn’t heard that voice for a lifetime. Yet it was a voice she instantly recognised.
‘Scout!’ She shouted the name into the mouthpiece. It was not a question.
‘Yes. Yes, it’s me. What’s it been? Thirty years?’
‘Forty years at least.’ She was about to do the sum in her head just before she remembered that she really didn’t care. ‘And don’t call me Clarry.’
He chuckled. ‘It just slipped out. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s a change. You’ve never been sorry about anything in your entire life.’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about.’
‘About being sorry?’
‘Sort of. It’s—’
‘No!’ She almost shouted again; forced herself to calm down. ‘No, don’t tell me.’
‘It’s important, I have to do—’
‘What you have to do …’ She spoke quietly, in as measured a tone of voice as she could muster, ‘… is fuck off.’ But the volume rose uncontrollably as her words multiplied. ‘I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. How did you get into the security cabin anyway? Who said you could call me?’
‘Dennis, here, allowed me to talk to you.’
‘Of course he allowed it, you smooth-talking son of a bitch.’
‘I said you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Well, I do mind.’
‘But you don’t even know what I want to talk to you about.’
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
  |
by Vincent Pienaar
 |
 |
by Vincent Pienaar
|
YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY