Orange Is the New Black.
Natalie’s black and white wheelie suitcase, with the striped ribbon we bought at Kwaai Lappies in Woodstock (so I’d recognise the suitcase more easily in a crowd like this one – Lucas’s idea, he’s got such a practical mind), slides out of the carousel’s mouth. My relief at seeing something familiar is overwhelming and ties a knot in my throat. Which is ironic, since it’s not really my suitcase, and it’s full of someone else’s clothes. Jay-Z lady is still staring at me as I drag the case past her. ‘Hey, anyone ever tell you that you look just like—’ she starts.
‘All the time,’ I say, cutting her off. ‘Thanks.’
I keep moving and head for the exit.
*
‘Nothing To Declare’ is the last of this set of hurdles. I avoid eye contact with anyone and stride towards the exit, concentrating on looking innocent, yet purposeful. They probably aren’t looking for the kinds of things I have to declare, but who wants to chance it?
At last, hallelujah, sliding doors exhale me into the Schiphol airport arrivals terminal. I drag the suitcase behind me and glance back over my shoulder, still paranoid, amazed nobody has chased me down yet.
The route out is lined with bobbing meerkat heads. Dozens of people waiting for friends and family. There are also a few people in chauffeur outfits, holding up boards with names on them. There’s nobody waiting for me, Grace. They’re waiting for the person in the passport I’m travelling on: Natalie Hendricks.
I pause and stare at the crowd, not sure what I’m looking for. I’m the only static in the terminal; people pass by me in flashes. The new paranoia replacing my immigration angst, is getting stranded at the airport with only two hundred euros to my name. It would mean coming clean to Lucas, telling him the real reason I suddenly had to fly off to Amsterdam with only a few days’ notice. More lies. He doesn’t deserve this.
‘Rihanna!’ The shrill voice carries through the airport’s background hum. I swing my head around to try spot the star, and notice a number of other people doing the same, some staring at me with curiosity.
‘Rihanna, dahhhlink!’ the voice shouts again.
Of course, they’re calling me. I spot a couple in their late fifties or early sixties making a beeline for me.
There’s movement and a blur of too-bright colours, and then I’m enveloped in the woman’s arms and a cloud of too-strong Issey Miyake, although if you ask me, any amount of Issey Miyake is too strong.
‘It’s you,’ the woman says in my ear. I’m not really the ‘you’ she thinks I am, but the fact that she recognises me despite myself is a massive relief.
The woman kisses me on one cheek, then the other cheek and then finally goes in for a third kiss back on my first cheek. All of which feels like too many kisses from a complete stranger.
‘We do three kisses here, dahlink. Because the Dutch are three times as gezellig,’ she gushes, her accent strong.
‘Welcome to Amsterdam,’ a man says from just behind the woman, and I hope he stays where he is. I’m not much of a stranger-hugger, particularly after fifteen hours of panic sweating. I try to place the couple’s accents, which are sing-song and don’t sound anything like Afrikaans, so they can’t be Dutch. The man’s not fat exactly, but he’s filled out, rounded at the edges. His face is taut and barely lined, but overly tanned, almost orange. His eyebrows are perfectly plucked into straight lines too high above his eyes to look natural (and is that mascara?). When he smiles, his bleached teeth are almost fluorescent.
‘I’m David,’ he says, extending his hand for a business-like shake, for which I’m grateful. ‘We spoke on the phone.’
I nod, as if I know what he’s talking about.
‘Me, I’m Dania,’ the woman says. She’s wiry and muscular, with the body of a retired career dancer. Dark roots peek out at the scalp of her short peroxided blonde hair. Her lips are swollen with collagen and she has clumps of eyeliner gunk in the corners of her eyes. ‘Your flight was good, ja?’
‘Okay, thanks,’ I say.
‘This is your first time in Amsterdam, dahlink?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent, isn’t it, David?’ Dania says, elbowing him in the ribs. ‘We’re very excited. In twenty years of doing the show we’ve never had a Rihanna before, have we dahlink?’
‘Or a South African,’ he adds.
‘It was our son, David Junior’s idea. He wants us to find more modern acts. So I’m not familiar with all your songs yet, but we’re no strangers to showbiz,’ she says, doing jazz hands.
David nods enthusiastically, again. He’s like one of those plastic nodding dogs people put on the back seats of their cars.
‘Let me guess …’ Dania takes me by the chin, her fingernails digging into my skin as she inspects my face. ‘Cheek implants? Ja?’
‘What? No! Of course not!’ I say and pull my head out of her grasp. ‘These are my own cheeks.’
‘Brow lift?’ David asks.
I shake my head.
‘A boob job, then?’ Dania asks, as both of them stare blatantly at my chest.
‘No, nothing,’ I say, annoyed.
Dania pauses to re-evaluate me through critical eyes. ‘Sometimes performers send us their pictures, and when we see them in real life, they look nothing like it. It takes quite a lot of work for some.’
‘And tape,’ David cuts in.
‘But you’re mostly okay,’ Dania says, looking me up and down like she would a prize cow. I’m almost waiting for her to run a hand over my rump. ‘You are a little heavier than in your pictures though, ja?’
Heat floods my cheeks. Are they effing serious? I’ve only just met these people. The weight comment is a low blow. One of my biggest worries about this whole scam is that Natalie is quite a bit smaller than me.
‘But the fat will come off with a little work,’ Dania says.
I open my mouth, about to blurt out that I’m tired and sweaty and not a piece of meat, that I’m not actually who they think I am and I don’t need this scrutiny. And that I don’t think this is going to work, but David cuts me off before I blow everything.
‘She looks tired, shall we get her to the house?’ he says.
‘Of course, ja.’ Dania throws up her hands in a jangle of bracelets. ‘How unthinking of me, keeping you standing here like a potato sack!’ She slips an arm through mine and it takes pure effort of will not to pull away. ‘We will become close, like sisters. I can tell. Like pod peas,’ she says.
I’m tempted to say she’s probably too old to be my sister, more like an aunt. But she interrupts my thoughts.
‘… Okay so we go home, ja? You have the performance at eight, so we must be moving so you can settle.’
