by Javi Reddy
James felt a strange sense of belonging within Layla’s flat. With her and their boy. He never knew what a home was meant to feel like. But her marble kitchen counters, her Persian rugs, her Tuscan-style cornice boards and skirtings; all felt rather homely to him.
Layla had an array of spices in her white wooden kitchen cupboards.
“It’s gotta be hot, Jimmy boy. Otherwise, it ain’t worth it,” she said as she furiously tossed red sprinkles into a pot on her stove.
“Just how hot are we talking?”
“Stop being a fairy. You’ll manage.”
“Why do you assume that fairies are feminine creatures? We’ve only heard about them in those tales which we so blindly tell our kids.”
She turned around and pointed a wooden spoon right in between his eyes.
“I know they’re feminine because one is standing right in front of me. Whining. And suddenly, I don’t feel like the only lady in the room.”
“Fair enough. Let me go and join the only man in the house.”
James idled around the living room, listening to the smooth flow of the shower from upstairs and the lively bubbling of liquids in the kitchen behind him. Eventually, Jay trotted down the stairs, dabbing his hair with a beige towel.
“No more blood,” he told James. He looked fairly upbeat for a boy who had just been assaulted in his own home. When the towel wiping ceased, James noticed that he was also clean shaven for the first time in ages. It was too much of a coincidence that this clean-cut look had arrived in tandem with Layla’s presence. James laughed to himself, knowing Layla had that effect on men. And boys.
“So, you gonna tell me what happened back at your place?”
“I heard the door open and I saw the suit walking through the living room. I don’t remember much else.”
“How did he hurt you? Can you tell me that much?”
“I…I’m not entirely sure he laid a finger on me.”
“What? Impossible.”
“No, serious. I was feeling kind of giddy before he came in…”
“Like how you feel before a seizure?”
“Not quite. I was slightly more aware than that.”
“Then?”
“I sort of collapsed…and I think that’s why the suit came in. He heard me fall and my chair rattle against the ground. I’m not entirely sure though.”
“So, let me get this straight. I nearly put a guy in a coma, who may not have actually done anything to you?”
“Possibly.”
“Charming.”
Jay’s face lit up. “Something smells great!”
“I bet it’s not as divine as chicken a la…”
Jay had already raced off into the kitchen. He helped Layla with plates and cutlery, whilst James perched himself at the dinner table.
“Oh, don’t mind the king over here, Jay. He thought chivalry died in the 80s. We can do everything ourselves.”
“It’s probably for the best. He’ll land up breaking the expensive china.”
They were ganging up on him and James knew that this was family. Layla brought in a large silver pot that she carried with oven mitts. The steam slowly escaped the pot and did a merry dance around the table as Layla neared them. Jay made sure that the place-mats he laid down for her were clean and dead centre. “So, what’s on the menu, Garcon?” James sat up straight.
“It’s a curry. Being a vegetarian, I didn’t have any meat in my freezer on such short notice. So, I chopped up some veggies and tossed them into the gravy. Hope you guys enjoy it.”
“My dad used to make veg curry like this all the time.” Jay dipped some bread into his gravy. “This is just like his curry! Thank you so much!”
The sight of Jay gobbling down, as much as he could, made James just as hungry. They were both due a good home cooked meal. So, the new family tucked in. The other two seemed to manage more than fine, but James felt the pungent flavour assault his tongue. They both cracked up and made jokes at his expense.
As dinner went on, they all discussed the silly things. Like their favourite cheesy song (James’ was Rick Astley, Never Gonna Give You Up) and they all did their best George W. Bush impression (Layla won hands down for combining the authentic accent with the most retarded statements). The dinner table was a Ferris wheel of joy, whirling away everything they were so desperate to forget. Even if just for the night. Jay’s curiosity eventually shot up:
“So, how long have you two known each other?”
“Too long,” Layla said. This time, she held James’ forefinger as a gentle reprieve from the flack she’d been giving him.
“We didn’t see each other for a while, though, until recently.” Their eyes met across the table, a gaze steeped in history and desire.
“It’s funny how you find people again. Especially those you never thought you’d see again…”
4 June 2013. Reunion
James had written on behalf of the biggest names, the biggest brands. He’d worked on the best accounts. Doing anything else would be a step-down. He’d wait for the big boys to come calling again. The whole head-hunting notion sounded like something they’d use on him. Besides, the break had done him good. He was fairly sure that they coined the term ‘work hard, play hard’ from the maniacal world that was the ad industry.
But during his break, he stewed in his own idleness, finding more ways to play and fewer ways to find work. The bottles of sinful spirits and cancer sticks all piled up. That was before and after he’d lie in bed with whoever had become as mislaid and wicked as himself. He soon made peace with working on the lesser accounts. Like any FMCGs. Or random objects like household paint and men’s belts. Either way, he was always on the cusp of his comeback. Who didn’t love a comeback?
He continued with his filthy habits—only his budget slowly decayed. He was forced off the drinks that left the faintest of hangovers and the cigarettes that burnt smoothly. Years went by and he could no longer pay the rent. He stayed with friends, then with anyone he could force a friendship on. He thought about the worst type of advertising that was now his best shot. The infomercial: Scripted by the failures of the writing world. Cash was cash, but they no longer needed people to write those crummy scripts out. They either recycled old scripts or the narrators improvised. Bringing writers on board was an expense that could not be afforded when all companies were looking to do was cut costs.
James thought about paying for sex because no one craved him anymore. But that was obviously not in the budget. The women he could afford would probably mean him forking out more in the long run for anti-viral meds. Perhaps, advertising was not the field. He brainstormed his future over a glass of the cheapest vodka he could find, whilst he rolled his own tobacco.
Soap opera writer? He couldn’t keep up with modern trends so he couldn’t write superstar scripts.
Sports journalist? He had to know a bit about a sport. Any sport. Screwing lonely women did not count as an official game.
Novelist? He had stories. But he needed cash, and he needed it now. He finished the vodka but not the brainstorming.
He had no plan, nothing published in years and was staying with a friend who wanted to marry her long-time boyfriend. His time was running out. He sat alone in the dark. Alone with his grave thoughts. He needed a walk. Then, he saw it in the newspaper, and he knew where that walk would take him.
Art galleries were peculiar types of exhibitions. James wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to be looking at when he gazed upon the ‘art’ in front of him. Did he comment? If so, what did he comment on? The colour? The structure? The symbolism? Symbolism was a whole new headache unto itself. But this was all about networking.
Rosebank. He hadn’t been here since he was a student. Walking through its street at night had eased the panic within his tired soul. He had entered the home of artists. A haven where a chance could be given to those forlorn individuals. There’d be a lot of creative directors here tonight. All he had to do was keep his malevolent tongu
e at bay.
The art gallery was set up outside, under the starlit sky in the middle of a small courtyard, opposite the Mall of Rosebank. There was a small water feature in the centre of it that brought about a slight tranquillity to the bustling around each piece of work. He snaked his way through, trying to avoid the waiters hoisting up trays of white wine. He couldn’t be drunk. Not tonight.
He struggled and fought hard to thwart all his intuitions. He looked around soberly. So, this is what the country’s artists were producing? Paintings of angry tribesmen, sculptures of crying women, wooden ornaments of thin children. Why was everything so morose? Were all the artists feeling this way? And they were the ones with the jobs.
He looked away from the craftsmanship and at the characters around him. These smartly-dressed buffoons had his future in their hands. He got some brisk hellos, a few nods and even the odd nervous grin. He couldn’t hold up a conversation. His charm had faded. He’d been out of the game so long, spending all his time wooing women; he’d forgotten how to win over prospective employers. He didn’t even recognise any of the big players. That was because most of them were nearly half his age. The ad industry was changing with youth dictating the pace.
Who wanted a washed-up writer to bring their copy to life? “Every good story starts with a drink.”
That voice. It literally made him freeze. He’d played out this moment in his head forever. In his replays, he was just as hapless as he was now. He turned to face her. The faint light emanating from the steel tower covered in floral patterns struck her face gently. His smile was flimsy, his stare woeful. He was an orphan of a soul, yearning for love from anyone that crossed his path. Layla thrust the tall, sleek glass of champagne into his hand.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you empty-handed at a party.”
“This is your idea of a party?”
“There are drinks. And there’s me. So, yes. I miss this jacket, by the way.”
She caressed his brown leather as she smiled at him. He forgot how radiant the grin was. He could still see it as she sipped from his glass.
“At least my father left me something.”
“I’m sure you picked up other things from him.”
She ran her hands over the red J and T stitched on either side. Same initials as his own.
No one was going to hire him tonight. He saw journalists talking to the artists, ensuring they got a scoop. All the jobs were taken. At least, the drinks were still available. He latched onto the glass from Layla and gulped down the bubbly in one go.
“That’s the James Tait I know.”
He scoured the courtyard for another waiter.
“So, where have you been? I don’t see you anywhere. Not at the Loeries1 or anything. And you never miss a chance to go out.”
“Only winners go to the Loeries. So, how many did you win now, madam? Double figures I assume?”
James moved his head from side to side. Still no waiter.
“What’s your agency doing here anyway? Bidding for an artist to join the team? No more good art directors out there?”
“Actually, I’m in the exhibition.” He finally afforded her a glimpse.
“Come again?”
“I also left the ad industry. Shortly after you. I’m a photographer now.”
“But… but why? At least you were good! I mean you did pick up those awards. Even after I was gone.”
“I guess I found my calling.” He envied her.
“So, can I see your work?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
She cupped her right arm as a means of wrapping it around his and escorted him to her showcase. Her work was not what James had expected. For someone fairly mirthful, her photos carried within them an eerie sadness. Like every other artist on display. Her exhibition was called ‘The Real Youth’ and focused on photographs of kids from the street. There was one kneeling over a puddle, another of two boys cuddling up to each other on dirty stairs, one of a girl chewing on an empty plastic bottle.
“These kids, they’re everything to me. That’s why I’m getting involved in as much proactive work with them as possible. The latest campaign that’s being run is called ‘Fork Up’. In fact, I’m going to Soweto tomorrow, to help them out. You should come.”
“I’m not the best company to be around right now. And, definitely, not someone you should be using to help kids out.”
“Okay, you definitely need another drink.”
As if she had her Layla powers on, she immediately got a waiter to come over. She took two glasses from his tray and gave them to James. She then took another for herself.
“So, how long has this unemployment stint of yours been going on for?” James ceased gulping down the next glass. “The stubble is the giveaway. As full of trouble as you always used to be, you were also always clean shaven. Maybe I’m wrong? Maybe this is you now.”
“This is me now. Unshaven and unemployed.” He finished the next glass.
“I can help you.”
“How?”
“I still have friends in advertising. It may not be as glamorous as before. But it’s an inroad for you. With your skill, you’ll get back to where you belong.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
Layla became mute. Her silence made him uncomfortable, and he struggled to come up with something sarcastic to break the tension in the air. A man approached from behind James. He did not greet either of them. He dug his teeth into his lower lip when he grinned at Layla. He looked as though he could have bankrolled the whole exhibition, with his silver three-piece suit, glittering in the evening light. He placed his hand on Layla’s neck when he looked at James. “Evening sir,” James said as casually as possible.
“It is a good evening, isn’t it?”
He placed his thick pinkish lips on Layla’s neck. She remained frozen and swallowed hard. “My name is…”
“James. I heard. You looking for work? There’s not much left in advertising. Maybe it’s time for a career change? I’ll help you if you want. We’ll help you.”
Both his palms were forced down on Layla’s shoulders as he peered at James from behind her. The waiter returned with his tray and their new guest took two glasses from him. He handed James one and he took the other.
“Layla, wouldn’t you like one?”
“She’s done drinking for the night,” he told James firmly.
“Isn’t that up to her?”
No one spoke. Tuxedos and fancy dresses glided by as James looked into the man’s eyes. “I’ll see you later,” the man finally whispered into Layla’s ear. He downed his champagne and placed it back onto the waiter’s tray, leaving as calmly as he had entered. James glimpsed at his Chinese inscriptions.
“Charming fellow, that.”
She didn’t answer James. She was staring at the floor.
“What’s wrong?” he moved in to comfort her, but she immediately pulled away. “He knows your name now, James.”
* * *
The Loerie Awards – Honouring the best talent in brand communications in South Africa↩
Chapter 21
2 October 2013. 10:01 PM
The pot of Layla’s curry was devoured. Even James’ bland tongue had had its fair share. The curry-leaves and spices Layla put in certainly packed a punch, but James knew a good meal when it had been placed right in front of him.
“I can’t imagine you clean-shaven,” Jay said, scrutinising his face. Layla rubbed James’ face affectionately.
“Well, I’m not sure how I feel about this whole stubble look.”
“Maybe, I could meet you guys halfway? A moustache perhaps?”
“No!” they both exclaimed.
“It must have been so good seeing each other after so long. But Vinny took that away from you as well.”
“He already had so much say in my life. I just wish he hadn’t got James involved as well.”
“I got involved because I wanted to.”
"I wa
sn’t honest when I told you I left the ad industry to find my calling. The truth is, I had to leave. Shortly, after you exited the business, I lost my job. I was good at what I did, but the recession hit us hard. Maybe a change was needed, so I welcomed the break.
"Unfortunately, just like you, I couldn’t get work. I was just as unsuccessful when I looked outside ad agencies. I went on a binge-drinking session one night, hoping to run into someone like you—someone I knew from a happier time. Instead, I met Vinny in a bar. He said he’d help bankroll a business for me. He admired my passion and believed that would take me far.
“Vinny whisked his usual devilish charm my way; and before I knew it, he was helping me with my dream. I had fallen so deeply in love with the idea of owning a photography studio, I did not care how my dream came about. He paid for everything—my equipment, my trips overseas. He even got me the studio. All he wanted in return was to see his investment turn into profit. And it did. As my confidence grew, I became a world-class photographer who had a natural flair for the art. Then, I started to realise that I was doing too well. I soon found out that Vinny threatened all my potential clients. He found ways to get to them. He slept with their wives and bullied their families. He even targeted their kids.”
James looked at Jay. Was there anyone more fitting of the Vinny-profile?
“That’s why I started getting more involved in proactive work. Vinny kept trying to disrupt my new path; he closed down my studio and thrashed my equipment. But I found ways to beat him. I got my own stuff. I had saved up quietly and bought everything with cash, so that he wouldn’t have any records of my transactions. I operated out of my car, making sure I changed the registration plate on my Toyota. He would still find ways of tracking me down; but thankfully, I got through my work quickly and moved on.”
“But I could no longer fight him, when he realised that the best way to get to me was to get to those who were part of my life. No one is a loner. Everyone is connected to somebody. We all have bonds that matter whether we choose to admit them or not. I had no blood-ties left. But family goes beyond genes. And he found my bonds. He found you both.”
