Siren

by Kuli Roberts

  ‘That director you’re fucking,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘Sandile, the director – you’re fucking him.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Don’t be coy with me, dear. Everybody knows. And you go to such lengths to keep it a secret. Hotel rooms, they can be so tacky, don’t you think?’

  ‘I really don’t think it’s anyone’s business,’ Zinhle said, feeling her face redden.

  Selinah’s smile was wonderfully wicked. ‘People will make up their own mind what is and is not their business. I would tread carefully, if I were you.’

  ‘Why should I?’ she asked, trying to retain a level of cool.

  ‘Because the man you are fucking happens to be the plaything of Karabo.’

  ‘Who?’

  Selinah’s expression was slyly patronising. ‘Oh, my dear, you really are so naive. Reality is something you need to get hold of, and fast. Karabo, once a famous model, now a mediocre TV producer. Five or six shows on air, I believe.’ Her sigh was for dramatic effect. ‘Anyway, Karabo may be married to a very successful and not unattractive businessman, but she likes to play. Who can blame her, with a husband like hers, but that’s another story. Anyway, one of her regular playthings is Sandile. Ask him, I’m sure he’ll tell you. It can only be a matter of time before she hears about the two of you. And she is not without influence in the industry. A whisper in the right ear and your TV career could be over before it has a chance to get going, and that would be such a shame.’ A slight turn of the head. ‘Ah, I think they’re calling us to the set. Let’s go, dear.’

  ‘Is it true?’ She waited until they were in Sandile’s Toyota Tazz before confronting him. His deep, drawn-out sigh confirmed it.

  ‘I should have told you, I know. It’s just that you were so –’

  ‘So what? Come on, Sandile. I was so what?’

  ‘So needy.’

  The words wounded her, and too late he tried to take them back. ‘OK, maybe not needy. A bit lost maybe. But we got on so well, and you were so –’

  ‘Needy. Yes, you said.’

  ‘Sexy, beautiful, passionate. No, really, you were. Are!’ He raised his hands defensively. ‘Hey, at the end of the day I’m just a man.’

  They were in the studio car park, the rain pounding the windscreen. She remembered another time it had been raining like this. They’d both been too horny to wait for the hotel and had clambered into the back to make frantic, furious love. Now she wondered if Karabo had enjoyed a similar privilege. Probably not, she decided. The back seat of a Toyota Tazz would never do for someone like her. For a brief moment she thought of asking Sandile, but there was no sense torturing herself more than was necessary.

  She called the number on the card and he told her where to go, an exclusive part of Bryanston. There was a high wall and a wrought-iron gate that she walked through, having let the taxi go. She rang the bell, and a few seconds later the large door swung open. There he was, in a black silk robe, black slippers on his feet. Black was definitely his colour.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said as she brushed past him. ‘Maybe we should change your name. Zinhle – I don’t know – it doesn’t stand out enough. You need to stand out.’

  ‘Hadn’t really thought about it,’ she said, turning to face him. Reaching for the belt of her coat she undid it, holding it open and letting it fall to the floor. Besides her sheer black panties, she was naked. ‘Still, it’s something to think about.’

  PART FOUR – SIREN

  2011–2014

  Chapter 16

  HE SWEPT THE black silk sheets aside and stepped out of the imposing bed. Feeling free in his nakedness, he took a few steps to the bathroom, stepping into the shower and letting the warm jets of water assail a body that had once been lean – he’d received many compliments – but was now running to fat. When was the last time he’d looked down and caught the barest glimpse of his penis?

  Whatever entered his mind as he stood there, he didn’t have to think for long. She came up behind him, her hands coming round to grip his penis, stroking it, making it hard. ‘No time for that,’ he said. ‘You have to be on set in an hour.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ she said. ‘But you are the boss. Surely –’

  ‘I am the boss because actors are on set on time. Remember that.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, kissing his shoulder. ‘But aren’t you forgetting something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is my house. You’re the one who has to go.’

  ‘Ah yes. For once you are so right.’

  ‘But I need you to leave with a smile on your face,’ she said, her lips gliding over the spare grey hairs on his chest, down past his bloated stomach, down to his still-erect penis, taking it deep into her mouth.

  It was a double-storey, five bedrooms, in a closed community, and it was all hers. The bond was killing her but it was worth it. For the first time in her life, she felt she had something all her own. Some of the time Caesar was there with her, and she was glad of that, but what she really treasured was time alone, shutting out the world to reflect on all she’d achieved, all that still lay ahead.

  The flat had been hers, but she’d sold it to buy this place. And besides, that flat had belonged to Zinhle, and now there was no more Zinhle.

  Now there was only Siren.

  Heritage had gone through some changes. It was still the country’s number-one show, and its audience share had increased. But the dynamic had shifted. Changes in the storyline had seen Fezeka, still ably played by Selinah Gumede, unseated as the head of the family business by the dowdy, shy accountant Khanya, who was revealed to be the daughter of Samson, the deceased founder of the business and Selinah’s ex-husband.

  In effect, Selinah had been reduced to a glorified supporting player to Zinhle – now Siren – who was too busy climbing the tree of success to care. This did not go down well with the proud and resourceful Selinah, who took her grievances to management. The usually diplomatic Gunther did not mince his words: ‘You can’t argue with the ratings. The audience love her in the show. The name change was a big gamble, but it has paid off big time. And her star is still rising.’

  Selinah was not convinced. ‘Changing your name does not make you a star. Mark my words, she’ll burn herself out, and then we’ll all be in trouble.’ Still, the ratings reflected the Heritage team’s faith in the new audience favourite. And it was all down to star-maker Caesar Mabaso, who’d mentored Zinhle behind the scenes, giving her a new name and setting her on her way, using the only vehicle at his disposal.

  The press headlines were brutal:

  SIREN V SELINAH: THE YOUTH VOTE RULES!

  SELINAH: WHERE TO FROM HERE?

  On more than one occasion, Selinah tried to have a meeting with Caesar Mabaso, but all requests were turned down.

  At least a week every Christmas was spent with Mabel in a rented three-bedroom house in Camps Bay, just the two of them, a lounging, lazy time. When the weather was favourable, they’d laze on the deck, sipping wine, looking out at the bay and taking in the happy buzz of revellers in the restaurants and clubs below. Occasionally they’d take the ten-minute walk down to the water’s edge, climbing over rocks and marvelling at the crabs scuttling in the small pools formed by the ocean’s tides. Siren gave Mabel a small monthly allowance, which allowed her to taper off her domestic work. She was glad to contribute to her mother’s life after all the years of sacrifice: the softness in Mabel’s face reflected an easier existence.

  ‘You’re looking good, Ma.’

  ‘Thank you. I feel good.’

  ‘Maybe you should get out there, go on a few dates.’

  Now Mabel blushed. ‘How can you talk to your mother like that?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with dating. You’re still a young woman, you’ve still got it.’

  ‘Got it? What have I got? Zinhle, whatever I had I lost a long time ago.’

  She’d always be Zinhle to her mo
ther, never Siren. It wasn’t that Mabel didn’t like her daughter’s new stage name. ‘It has a certain ring to it,’ she admitted. ‘And the public seem to like it, so there you are.’

  ‘Caesar chose it,’ Siren said. ‘He has a knack for such things.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Mabel warned. ‘He is a powerful man, and powerful men are never there when you really need them.’

  She had told her mother all about Caesar and their relationship, and although Mabel made vague noises of disapproval, there was no condemnation. ‘He doesn’t even live with his wife,’ Siren explained. ‘Their houses are a few roads away from each other. He says that it suits them both. Gives them space, I suppose.’

  ‘And gives you time for each other,’ Mabel pointed out. ‘It’s important to do that.’

  How would you know? Siren wanted to ask. In all the years, she’d never seen her mother show any kind of interest in anyone, and certainly not in that way. She wouldn’t have minded: sharing your existence with another was a part of life that could not be denied.

  Christmas morning was time for the opening of presents. Mabel bought her daughter a cookery book, ‘to get you back into the kitchen. I know these days you eat a lot of take-aways. Not so good.’

  The presents for Mabel ranged from things for the house to sexy underwear. ‘I can’t wear these,’ she said, throwing her daughter a disapproving look. ‘Really, what were you thinking?’

  There was only one thing left under the tree: a white envelope addressed to Mabel in Siren’s distinctive hand. ‘Zinhle, what is this.’

  ‘Something for you.’

  ‘But what?’ she asked, taking the envelope.

  ‘Ma, I know how much you like this place.’

  ‘What place? You mean here, this house? You know I love coming here. My favourite place actually.’ The envelope was open, and she pulled out what appeared to be legal documents. ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘What? What is mine?’

  ‘This house, it’s yours. I bought it for you.’

  It was the first time she had ever seen her mother cry.

  Chapter 17

  ‘AND THE SAFTA goes to ... Anda Kotsele for 55 North Street.’ Siren applauded as the slightly bewildered Anda Kotsele walked to the stage to collect her award for Best Actress in a Soapie. Predictably, her speech was all over the place, thanking everybody from God to the make-up lady. When it comes to winning awards, we are still a nation of amateurs, Siren mused. Why couldn’t we get our act together like the Americans and the Brits? They were always so professional and composed, not giving in to their emotions.

  Still, she couldn’t help feeling that little sting of loss when her name was not called. Hadn’t she deserved it as much as the gushing Miss Kotsele? And what was 55 North Street anyway? Some wannabe soapie that the bulk of the audience had yet to discover, if they ever would. Heritage was vindicated a little later when the show walked off with the People’s Choice Award, voted for by the fans and not some anonymous panel of experts.

  Making her way to the bathroom, she bumped into Brenda Archer, who was profuse in her commiserations. ‘Don’t worry, kid, you’ll get it next time.’

  ‘You never know what will happen at these things. The important thing is to enjoy yourself. You enjoying yourself, Brenda?’

  ‘Always, dear, always.’ Brenda turned to a woman standing beside her. ‘I’m sorry, have you guys met? Karabo, this is Siren.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Karabo said, and Siren found herself shaking hands with the woman Sandile had been sleeping with, was probably still sleeping with, who apparently could have destroyed her career with a single phone call. She seemed pleasant enough, vaguely attractive with a smile that seemed rehearsed, her flowing dress disguising unwanted weight. Then she was introducing Siren to the man she was with. ‘This is my husband, Osborne,’ she said, and Siren shook the hand of a man who met her gaze before looking quickly away. She’d seen his face once before and would never forget.

  It was the face of the man she’d found in bed with her husband, Clifton, on her wedding day.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Osborne,’ she said, and then she was walking away from them, heading for the bathroom, allowing herself a private smile.

  She headed for one of the stalls to collect herself, take some time out, for there was something important she needed to do. However it came out, she would not give in to her emotions, she would remain calm.

  When she finally emerged from the stalls, there she was in front of the mirror: the last person Siren wanted to see, applying lipstick to those uncommonly wide lips. Her body was hidden beneath an expansive, shiny, golden dress, pendulous earrings hanging from her ears. Her hair was short and natural, and the rouge on her cheeks seemed carelessly applied.

  ‘Sorry you didn’t win,’ said Caesar’s wife.

  ‘Don’t be. I’m not, ‘said Siren. These were the first words that had ever passed between them – and possibly the last.

  ‘Caesar never comes to these things, but he insists that I attend,’ the woman continued. ‘I suppose he thinks it’s important someone from the family is here.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s right, Nandipha. Anyway, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘I doubt that very much, but I suppose you’re just trying to be polite.’

  ‘I’m not trying to be anything.’

  ‘Have you seen him recently? You don’t have to hide, you know. It’s common knowledge the two of you are fucking.’

  ‘No one’s hiding, Nandipha. We’re just living our lives.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Having finished with her lips, she turned to Siren. ‘Oh, and enjoy him while you can. Caesar knows what is important in life. He may have his little obsessions, but he always comes home to me.’

  ‘And whose home would that be? His or yours?’ As she walked out, she knew that her little victory would be a whole lot sweeter if she hadn’t just discovered that she was pregnant.

  It had been a while.

  More than a while, in fact. The industry was small, but still they had not crossed paths since the Yellowbone parties led her into the arms of Zola ‘Zinger’ Baptiste.

  In many ways, she owed Asanda a lot. Strange ways, certainly, but their association was an important link in the chain that had led her all the way to Heritage. A springboard to better things – that was one way of putting it.

  Of course she’d heard the gossip about Asanda: that she’d taken on a high-profile client who was suing her for false representation; that she’d checked into rehab for alcohol and drug addiction; and that her cocaine habit had worn away the membrane between her nostrils, requiring corrective surgery.

  Siren knew she was in the process of divorcing her second husband, a pretty boy from Mauritius who’d turned out to be gay and was suing her for a few million. Here at least she could have some sympathy. And where was Clifton anyway? Absent from the TV screens for a couple of years, probably never to return.

  The number she had for Asanda was old, and she wasn’t sure it was still valid, but there was that voice on the other end of the line. ‘Asanda speaking. Who is this?’

  ‘Asanda, it’s Siren – Zinhle,’ she corrected herself.

  ‘Zinhle! How are you? Hey, it’s OK, I know everyone calls you Siren these days. What a name! I love it, it is positively orgasmic.’

  ‘Thanks. Hey, listen, I have a problem. Any chance of coming to see you?’

  ‘Sure. When?’

  ‘Yesterday?’

  The office was not the one she remembered; it was a lot more down-market, in Roodepoort. Up two flights of stairs, with her name on the door. No receptionist, just a single room, with a large metal desk dominating the space. As if in defiance of all that surrounded it, the room was decorated in Asanda’s own eclectic style, bright colours showcasing her wayward and hopelessly eccentric personality. A trifle ominously, an undertaker occupied the ground floor.

  They greeted each other like old friends.
Asanda looked much the same, although her trim figure had begun to fill out and the tint of her glasses failed to disguise the bags under her eyes.

  ‘Zinhle! Or I suppose I should call you Siren.’

  ‘My mother still calls me Zinhle, but Siren seems to have caught on.’

  ‘As much as I love the orgasmic Siren, I’ll stick with the familiar Zinhle, if you don’t mind.’

  Under the circumstances, she was hardly in a position to mind much of anything. ‘I need your help,’ she said, getting right to the point.

  ‘If I can, sure, I’m your girl. What do you need?’

  They checked her into the clinic under an assumed name. Asanda knew how to do it, had the contacts to make it happen. A private room, isolated from the others. The doctor’s name was Rashid, and he had a kindly, pleasant face, asking her all the right questions, saying all the right things, putting her at ease.

  The hard part came when he asked if she was sure about the termination. Of course she was sure – why would she be there otherwise? But then nothing was quite that simple. Having a child was in her plans, but not now, not when she was riding high with Heritage and the likes of Selinah Gumede were snapping at her heels. And Caesar already had five kids, so what was the point of making one more?

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she said finally.

  The Hippocratic Oath was alive and well, so she wasn’t worried about the delectable Dr Rashid blabbing, but at least one nurse was in attendance, maybe two, and as far as she knew they weren’t bound by anything resembling a code. Asanda assured her they would be taken care of. No running to the tabloids with a juicy story.

  It was a relatively simple, painless procedure, and she was in and out in three hours. Home by four in the morning, she was on set a few hours later, ready to take on the world.

  Chapter 18

  ‘OK, THIS IS something that has just come in. It’s a bit out there, but I think we should at least talk about it.’