I like to be at the office early before the phone starts ringing and the emails start pouring in. And when I say office, I mean three doors down my hall in the apartment at the end of the corridor.

'I Spy's' offices are located in the apartment of one Phyllis 'Filly' Clarke. We started working together about a year ago. She does all my admin, accounting and arranges my schedule. Filly is one feisty sixty-eight year old widow, who's become my right hand woman, and probably one of my only real, non-aquatic friends.

We met in the lift. I'd just collected my mail and was on my way back to my apartment. I'd received a letter from the taxman and upon opening the little-sucker, I noted several things; there were a lot of capital letters and words written in red. Although I had no idea what the letter was actually saying, I was pretty sure the gist was, 'You owe us tax. Pay now. Or else.'

Filly had gotten into the lift at the exact moment as I was trying to decipher the Greek tax-talk, and being the excessively nosey creature that she is, I felt a head pop over my shoulder.

"Mmmmm," She made this loud worried sound. I've come to learn that she has a penchant for the dramatic; it's from watching too many soap operas.

"Mmmmmmmm. Ahhhhhh," She mumbled louder this time.

I swung around. "Do you have a problem?"

"No, but you do. A big one." She was pointing at the red writing in the top left hand corner of the note.

"Do you know what all this crap means?"

"Of course I do missy, I wasn't the bookkeeper at my husband's practice for forty- five years for nothing."

"So what does it mean?"

She snatched the paper away from me and started reading it. What followed were a series of very worried sounds, punctuated with some words with rather negative connotations.

"Mmmm. Ooooh. That's bad. I see. Problem. Big, big problem. Ooppps. Mmmmm, Huge mistake. Aaaahh-uuuuhhhh. Illegal."

"Oh for fuck sakes just tell me what it means!" I'd snapped back at her.

She gazed up at me over the letter with a suspicious looking eyeball, framed in purple eye shadow and covered by glasses with such thick lenses that they magnified her eyes ten- fold.

"Put it this way... when Lake deLange discovered that her husband Ryder Wood was actually her long lost brother's evil twin Hyder and that she was pregnant with his child-"

I cut her off, confused. "When, who? What are you talking about?"

She rolled her blue eyes. From 'The Days and Nights of our Bold and Restless Children." She looked at me as if I should know what the hell she was talking about.

She pulled her glasses down her nose and glared, "The world's most popular soapie."

"Aaahh," I said, "Sorry, don't watch it."

She tutted loudly, "Well, it's worse than that!"

My face must have betrayed my terror, because suddenly she looked empathetic. "But don't worry missy, I can help you. Let's do it over tea and cake though. I'm starved."

And that was it. She marched out of the lift, my letter in hand and headed down the corridor and into her apartment. Filly's apartment is a curiosity. Her late husband, Lou, had been a Prosthetist; the guy made limbs and other bodily appendages for amputees. But more than that, he'd considered himself an artist, and after he died, Filly decorated their apartment with some of his best work. So upon entering, you're immediately greeted by a leg, mounted on the wall in a large ornate frame. Start looking a little closer, and you'll begin to notice the madness of it all.

Little bits and bobs cover every surface. No centimeter is safe from the mad cramming. And what makes the whole thing even more bizarre, is that scattered in amongst the small ceramic deer, frogs wearing ballet shoes, tourist novelty spoons and porcelain dogs, you'll find the odd body part. A foot propped up against a wooden carving of an owl, or a hand cradling a bunch of sea- shells.

It's amazing what Filly can make with a hand, a few pink feathers, some glitter and modeling clay!

Today I was on my 3rd cup of coffee when I left my apartment. I locked the door, put on the chain and bolted both padlocks - like I say, you can't be too careful in my line of work. But as I walked past the stairwell, BAM!

"Hey. Hi, hahah, weird to see you here, what a co-inky-dinky...." It was psycho neighbor Byron again. And he was really starting to piss me off.

It was time to get firm. "No, it's not a co-inky-dinky, because you've been waiting for me in the stairwell. Haven't you?" I flung him an accusing look.

"Me, no! Never! Nooooo. Uh-Uh. Nope." (Definitely no Oscar.) "I was just..."

I was getting fed up with this guy's shit, "Okay, so what were you doing in the emergency stairwell which is a meter away from my office?"

I could see he was desperately trying to think, his eyes flicked upwards as if trying to find the answer.

"You know what!" He straightened up and his tone became forceful, "I don't get it. I don't get you. We have fun together don't we?"

I had to think about this for a moment. But when I did, I could recall there had been a few pizza and movie evenings - mainly after sex.

"Sure. We have fun." I said, slurping my hot coffee.

"And we have a lot in common. We talk about stuff?"

I thought again; we both liked action movies. We both liked pizza with anchovies and beer. He also had a fish.

"Sure. I guess."

'And the sex is good?"

I cast my mind back and replayed some of our encounters. He was pretty well endowed. He had stamina, technique and was always willing.

"Yes. I enjoyed the sex."

Suddenly, he threw his arms in the air rather melodramatically and let out a loud triumphant sigh, as if I should deduce something from it.

What was I missing?

"What?" I slurped my coffee again.

"Lizzy, don't you see? This thing between us - is a relationship. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Whatever you want to call it!"

"Whoa! Back up a bit tiger. This..." I gestured to the space between us, "This is not a relationship. We've just been having a bit of fun for a couple of months, that's all."

He stepped forward, "A couple of months? Try seven."

"Seven?"

It wasn't seven months, surely? The first time we'd hooked up had been in the lift – I do a lot of shit in lifts it seems. It was 3:00 AM and I was pretty tipsy after my first night on the town in years. And he was also there, also coming home after a night out. We both got into the lift together and somewhere between floors three and four, something happened. We flung ourselves at each other and went for it. And that party had been... yes, it was about seven months ago.

"Lizzy, " he was inching closer now with an intense look in his eye, "I love you. We're perfect for each other. Don't you see that?" He looked like a sad puppy who'd been put outside and was now crying at the door. "So, what's the problem Lizzy?" He tilted his head and looked at me with pathetic, pleading eyes. Perhaps this was supposed to illicit my sympathy? But it only made me angry.

"The problem Byron," I placed my cup down on the windowsill and put my hands on my hips adopting a firm stance, "The problem is that firstly, I don't do relationships and secondly, I don't love you." The words flew out fast and unemotionally and I immediately saw the pain I'd inflicted.

"Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that." I walked towards him but he blocked me.

"It's okay Lizzy. I get it. I'll never bother you again." And with that, he was gone.

I was very relieved that the conversation was over, but I didn't feel good about hurting him either. I'm not that cold hearted!

I pushed the office door open and came face to face with Filly, whose eyeball was stuffed halfway down the keyhole.

"He's right you know." She said taking off her glasses and cleaning them. "You're in a relationship with him. Whether you can see it or not."

"It's not a relationship!"

"No? Well, what do you call seven months of sex, eating pizza together and going to friends' weddings together?"

"That was only pretend, just to get my friends off my back for not having a boyfriend."

"That boys crazy about you Liz."

"Well I don't feel the same way. And I can't force myself to either."

There was a silence, and I suspected I knew what was coming next. She took a deep breath, which had become the pre-textural gesture for the next line.

"You know, Lou and I...."

Yeah, there it was. Another 'Lou and I' story. She always pulled these out when we had our regular debates about all men being cheaters, and love not being real and all relationships being doomed to crash and burn in infidelity, heartbreak and pain.

"I didn't much like Lou when I first met him. I thought he was very strange, making all those arms and legs. He begged me to go out with him for months and eventually I agreed." She walked over to the mantel and picked up a picture of her beloved Lou. "Well I tell you, five minutes into that conversation I knew he was the one."

I sighed and rolled my eyes. Not because I was belittling her relationship, or even judging it, in fact, I thought it was sweet how much she loved him, but I also knew - unequivocally - that relationships weren't for me.

"Do you know why I love you so much, Filly?"

She lifted those oversized purple eyes and stared at me over her glasses. "Because I make a mean cheesecake?"

"That too, but because you're one of the only people in my life that doesn't try and force a man on me."

She put the picture down and held her hands in the air, "You're right. It's not my business Liz. But... I just wish I could see you as happy and in love as Lou and I were."

"Maybe in my next lifetime." I said dismissively, hoping that it would put a full stop to the conversation.

"By the way," Filly said, "There's a blueberry cheesecake in the fridge, new recipe."

"Now you're talking my language," I said, making a beeline for the kitchen.

Filly's always baking for me. She and Lou never had kids, despite being married for over forty years. We've never really spoken about it, but I get the feeling there were some fertility issues. And over the last year, I know she's really come to think of me as a daughter, and honestly, I view her as a surrogate mom - since I barely speak to mine.

I was touched by her sentiment, but this love thing...is just not for me.

"So?" I said shoveling down my second slice of cheesecake, "What's the vibe for the day Filly?"

"You have a meeting today at 10: 00 with a potential new client."

"Cool, where's the meeting? "

"36 Peacock drive, Sandhurst." She sat back in her chair and eyed me. "Wow. Fancy!"

I nodded in agreement, because fancy was an understatement; Sandhurst is the most expensive address in Johannesburg. Houses there go for 20 million upwards. Ordinary people didn't live there either. Sandhurst is the home of celebrities, politicians, dignitaries, and CEO's. This was going to be interesting. I could feel it.

Little did I know it would also be life changing.