I slid into my 1978 Mustang Cobra. The ultimate muscle car.

I love this girl and have spent a fortune completely customizing her. The exterior is a dark midnight blue. She has a silver metallic stripe down the bonnet and rolls around on black 17 inch mags. Pretty damn gangsta! If this car had an attitude, it would be bad - like that one kid at school who's always in the principles office. It's the kind of car that you get arrested just for driving - it looks that bad ass.

But she's also met with mixed reactions, especially from men. Some guys can't handle the fact that a woman would drive such an agro car, rather than something more 'ladylike'. Here's another fact about men (I should write a book) they like to impose their ideas about femininity onto us. I don't care how much they talk about gender equality, they still harbor those outdated 1950's sentiments.

To be fair, I don't think we can blame them entirely. I suspect it's a hangover from their primitive caveman days. When the ladies stayed in the cave feeding the young, picking berries and decorating with mammoth-skin rugs. While they ran around in all their hairy glory sewing their seed and hunting.

My car definitely doesn't fit the subservient, dependable cave-wife mold. In fact, my car shouts a loud 'screw you' to that mold and then spits in its face from its double exhaust pipe, before spinning its wheels and leaving it lying dead in the dust!

Twenty minutes later I turned into the lavish Peacock Lane. The houses here were massive and you could tell the elite occupied them; the upper echelon of society who had high-teas in their landscaped gardens. Drank champagne as if it were water and had credit cards that were so shiny they blinded mere mortals.

I pulled up to the house in question. The wall was so tall I couldn't see the building, but around these parts everyone knows that the size of your wall is directly proportionate to the size of your bank account - the bigger the wall, the more zeroes. And looking at this wall, this chick was clearly loaded. I buzzed an intercom and the massive gate opened slowly. Three large Dobermans growled at me from behind a fence and two security guards with AK-47's approached my car.

"Lizzy Brown?" The guard asked looking into my car suspiciously.

"Depends on who wants to know," I quipped, which was clearly a bad idea. Note to self: Don't make jokes with security guards in possession of large guns and bad attitudes.

"Yes that's me." I said pulling out my driver's license. He examined it as if he was trying to solve an unsolvable mathematical equation written in ancient Latin, but finally waved me in.

The house came into view and it was enormous. It was one of those Avant-Garde modern looking things; boxy, triple storied and made up of glass and lots of large pillars. In fact, when I scrutinized it that old saying popped into my head - 'money can't buy taste'. And when I saw who came to the door to greet me, I realised just how accurate that was.

Standing in front of me was none other than South Africa's very own Dolly Parton, Sharaz Venter. This woman was an institution, a cultural icon. She'd been singing for at least thirty years and had sold millions of albums. I tried hard not to smile, but it was proving difficult as she approached me with her balloon boobs, massive bleach blonde hair and lips that were filled to bursting capacity.

She was wearing a skin-tight white leather number that was bedazzled with glittery rhinestones, and just in case that wasn't enough embellishment, it was also tasseled and feathered. Sharaz must have interpreted my facial expression with some accuracy because she quickly explained.

"I've been rehearsing for my show," said flashed me a dazzling white smile and gestured for me to come inside.

And when I did, I walked into what can only be described as a replica of the Parthenon, with an African twist. At first I was looking at a statue of Zeus and the next second I was staring into the glazed, motionless eyes of a taxidermy Zebra.

"Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, sparkling mineral water?" she waved her hand at me and I noticed her nails for the first time- jeweled, pink talons.

"Coffee would be great. Strong. Black. No sugar."

"Lydia!" She screeched in a shrill voice that almost made me jump.

"Yes Mam," A friendly looking Lydia suddenly appeared from behind a gigantic statue of David.

"Please get this young lady some coffee. Strong. Black. No sugar. No fun!" Sharaz laughed at her own joke but quieted down when she saw I hadn't joined in the guffawing.

"Follow me," she gestured with her pink eagle claw again. But I wasn't prepared for what came next.

Entering the lounge was like walking through a portal and into another dimension. We were now in The Palace of Versailles. Big gold mirrors, antique chaise lounges, velvet curtains and oversized chandeliers assaulted you, while the Fleur-de-lis wallpaper made your eyes squint.

"This is my French room," she stated the obvious, lowering herself into a chaise, "Each room has a different theme. I'm just about to remodel my bedroom, I'm thinking of going Tuscan. What do you think?"

"Mmmm, sounds lovely." I wasn't good at lying.

"So lets get down to business." She said. "Well you obviously know who I am," the pink eagle claw came out again as she waved her arm at a wall behind me.

I turned.

It was shocking.

The wall was covered in enormous portraits of Sharaz, all done in various styles. There was the Sharaz in an Andy Warhol style print, Sharaz as Botticelli's Angel and a large moody black and white of her lying on the floor flanked by two black panthers. And to make it even more incredible, in between the large paintings were shelves of gold awards and platinum albums.

"Yes, I know who you are," I was struggling to pry my eyes from the bizarre smorgasbord of portraits.

"So you know who I'm married to then?"

"Um, aren't you married to that young guy, that swimwear model or something? Sorry I don't really keep up with gossip and stuff."

Sharaz smiled, "Yes, you don't strike me as the kind of girl who rushes off to buy the Heat magazine. His name is Brian Black. So, I'll give it to you in a nutshell." She looked around, "Lydia!' She called out in that shrill voice again, "We need the coffee for this one."

Suddenly Lydia reappeared from behind a large, feathery lampshade with the much-needed cups of coffee.

"She's a total gem," Sharaz leaned towards me as she said this, before turning and taking Lydia's hand, "I don't know what I would do without you."

I had to smile to myself; this was such a South African thing. Rich women who relied so much on their domestic workers that they became a belovered part of the family. And they were equally invaluable in my work too, because if you wanted to know what was really going on behind closed doors, just ask the domestic worker - she knows everything!

"So!" she clapped her claws together, "The bastard is obviously cheating."

I was surprised by Sharaz's sudden change in tone. It gave me a glimpse of her feisty side, and I liked it. "I think he's screwing that Logan Van Beek."

"Isn't Logan married to that old billionaire, Johan?" Don't ask me how I knew this, but I think it has something to do with the fact that Filly always has the Entertainment Channel on in the background.

Sharaz leaned forward and gave a loud conspiratorial, "Mmmmmmm," before continuing in whispery tones, "Talk about gold digger, she's 32 and he's 78!"

"So why do you suspect he's cheating?" I took out my iPad, ready to take notes.

"I can't really explain it. It's just a feeling I have. They're in Zanzibar right now on a swimwear photo-shoot."

I looked up at Sharaz who was reclining regally in her chair, "May I ask a personal question?"

Sharaz nodded while slurping on her frothy cappuccino.

"He's 30 right? You're in your 50's? Why did you marry him, did you really think it was love?"

Sharaz sighed and I could see genuine pain in her eyes, "That's the million dollar question, isn't it? I guess I was flattered. Here was this hot young guy taking an interest in me. I really loved him. And I thought he did to. But... maybe in the back of my head I always knew he was in it for the money."

I was surprised by her candor, "What does your marriage contract say?"

"Well, that's the real reason you're here. We were married in community of property, so if we get divorced he gets half of everything I own."

"Oops," I hung my head; I'd heard this story far too many times before.

"Luckily, my lawyer had the foresight to make me put in a clause, without Brian's knowledge of course. It states that if he's ever caught cheating it's all null and void. I thought it was terribly unromantic, but my lawyer insisted. Now all I need to do is catch him cheating. And once I have enough proof, not only am I going to divorce his sorry ass, but I'm also going to publically expose him. So when you get the photos, please feel free to send them to the Heat magazine. I want the world to know what a bastard he is."

I liked her attitude.

Sharaz slid over an airplane ticket, "Your ticket to Zanzibar, leaving tomorrow. I hope this's okay?"

My heart started racing with excitement. This is what I lived for. The hunt. I could feel the anticipation bubbling up inside me as I took the ticket and slipped it into bag.

"I'm going to get him Mrs. Venter! Don't worry about it."

She smiled, "I know. That's why I hired you, your reputation precedes you."