by HJ Golakai
Joshua smiled indulgently. “Why? He just hired you.”
“Who say it will matter? Me and Chlöe feel like Boxer under the two-legs-good-four-legs-bad regime. Besides, first in means first out. It’s not so much myself I’m worried about, it’s Chlöe. That small matter of her not actually being trained, it’s never gone away. Things at the paper have gotten more strained, circulation’s down, he’s got that small problem …” She tipped a thumb to her lips to mime downing a brew and quirked her eyebrows. “Times rough o.”
Joshua shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed. “I still find that crazy. Your boss is an alcoholic. He’s what, forty-one, forty-two? And you’d pick up on it for sure … because of your mom …” They both nodded. “But dang. He seems so together.”
“He is. Very. But considering everything he’s lost, who can blame him. Oh,” she squeezed his knee, “I found out his connection to Portia. Remember it’s been bugging me, why they’re so friendly outside of their jobs, or used to be friendly, however you describe the skewed Kruger-esque relationship they’ve got going. Nico’s wife Lauren was an old friend of hers, they studied together. I told you this story already. On the day she died, Nico’s wife now, she and Portia were at a function together, one that Nico couldn’t attend. What I didn’t know was that Nico called Lauren and she said she was headed home, their two-year-old son was conked out and she was tired. But after she hung up Portia waylaid her, told her to stop being a boring old married woman and chill a bit longer. It wasn’t dark when that pick-up hit her car, but …”
Joshua’s eyes widened. “Geez. But … friends do that all the time. It’s horrible but he can’t blame Portia for what happened.” She cocked her head at him and his frown turned into a nod. “Yeah, suppose you’re right. Human beings. When it hurts, sensible goes out the window.”
“Every now and then the redness in his eyes look so bad. Exhaustion, or the booze or … Then there’s times when I work late and he’s still there, and I imagine he’s in his office …” She petered out. “I think he still cries over it. Five years.”
“Hey, if we had a kid and some shithead ran you both off the road, I’d be broken up for the next fifty years. With Kim Kardashian on my arm, but still devastated.”
“Awww.” Vee suctioned a noisy kiss onto his cheek. “I’d break that tramp’s leg off and beat her to death with it. Yes, from beyond the grave.”
“How ’bout Gabrielle Union?”
“Classier, but she still dies.” She propped a pillow under her back, reclined and pulled the sheet over her. “If we find what Gavin Berman was into, it’ll lead to what he was up to, who he was up to it with and how it got him killed.”
“Bingo. Put aside compliance certificates and the like. Could be someone had a private score of their own to settle. Things aren’t always about what they look to be about.”
“Why it can’t be, though? Things simply being what they are.” Tenderness slackened her expression; she held her arms out. “Look at us. We work as we are.”
He leaned down and brushed his nose against hers. “Mostly.”
He broke away to tie the laces of his black Air Jordans. She frowned. “Wait small. You dressing to go where? You hittin’ and quittin’? Shame on you.”
“Getting dessert. And supplies. If I’m holding you hostage, I need to be able to take care of you.”
“What supplies? Juju, I told you I’m not staying. I can’t.”
“We’ll talk about it. But I still need my dessert. That bakery down the road that makes the muffins with the oozy chocolate middle, damn. It’s criminal.”
“You should see your face. It reminds me of thirty minutes ago.”
“Laugh all you want, woman, but if you’re not planning on getting me off again, let me have my cake.”
Mid-exchange, their eyes simultaneously fell on her keys on the dresser. They both lunged for them.
“Joshua, you are not driving my car!”
“Why not? I serviced you and you expect me to walk, like an African? In the pouring rain?”
“What rain?!”
“On these troubled streets? Teeming with thieves and junkies?” He made a pitiful face.
“Ugghh alright. Don’t go driving round finishing my gas because you want to show off behind the wheel. I got to get home.”
“We’ll see about that.” He rumpled her hair. “Stay put, I’ll be back pronto. Requests?”
“Mmm yes, those doughnuts with –”
“Don’t care,” he shouted, slamming the bedroom door after him.
“Jackass,” she snickered.
Chapter Seventeen
The screenshot fractured into multiple smaller windows popping up on the broadcast. The effect was jarring, which Vee guessed was the point. Faces of the throbbing masses contorted with emotion in each frame: enraged in a public square, fearfully ducking and weaving from the missiles of riot police, tearful and jubilant as resignations and concessions were bullhorned. Over the replay, a busty olive-skinned CNN reporter delivered commentary in the mildly fraught singsong distinctive to all major Western news anchors.
The world’s gone mad. Beautifully mad. Egypt had declared itself free of a dictator, and now the entire North Africa wanted to dip their toes in the euphoria of revolution. She found herself smiling as throngs of Egyptians danced and shouted in the video date-stamped ‘11/02/2011’, less than a month ago. She flicked through channels, sucked in briefly by E! News and another media phenomenon, the imminent nuptials of Prince William to Kate Middleton. Speculation was rife about her bridal gown; pictures flashed of the young ever-smilers in each other’s company. Vee studied William, her head cocked a little. She wondered if this was what men universally looked like when they exited the confines of ‘normal love’ and threw themselves into the realm of, well, being unflinchingly prepared to lick their beloved’s toilet bowl if need be. She’d have to ask an independent observer (not Chlöe) if this was how either Ti or Joshua looked at her unawares at times, provided she had the guts to hear the answer. She shook her head to clear it and quickly changed back to CNN and the Egyptians.
Climbing out of bed to heed the call of a throbbing bladder, her Nokia hummed with a WhatsApp message. She grabbed it.
U watching this?? How much more springing is thr gonna be b4 this Arab Spring shuts down?
Vee dropped the toilet seat. Plenty! Ben Ali and Mubarak r out but thrs defntly more to come. Arab nations r constipated, it’l take awhl b4 they let it all out, she texted back.
Yea. Mayb nt violently. The problems dont instantly go away but at least the public forcing dem to resolve it asap. The stink cant be allowd 2 spread.
It’s too late, been brewing 4 too long. All these old toads wont step down easy. Its gona go sour and drag out in more places. Syria? Libya?? Dey got issues too!
Vee could almost hear Chlöe’s laughter in her response: Ok war baby! U always expect the worst. It only startd last Dec; at dis pace cld be over in a few months. Lets hope …
Spoken lk a naive white chick. Darkies got anger issues, esp. Arabs. I dated one in high skool … he stil pissd we broke up! Im tellin you, it aint over, far from.
Racist. Vee cackled at Chlöe’s astonished emoji.
“Lighten up,” she murmured. Barbie, she replied, adding the princess with a tiara.
Over the toilet flushing, she heard the soft close of a door. She frowned, picking off the floor and stepping into her lacy boy-shorts.
“Juju? That was fast,” she called, searching for her blouse. She gave up on it and headed to the kitchen. “I thought I was gonna have to call the cops to bring you in. You – ohh!” Vee flung her arms over her breasts.
“Ohhh!” Aria shrieked.
“Oh,” Vee said quietly.
“Oh. Uhhh …” Aria screwed up her mouth, barely missing a beat. “Umm. Hhmmm. Do you want to …?” With undisguised archness, she surveyed Vee’s state of undress, head cocked.
Vee parried with the barest of squints. Pu
rsed her lips and squared her shoulders. Dropped her arms. “I’m cool, thanks. Wasn’t expecting you.”
She moved from the doorway into the kitchen, near enough to command a towering but not inappropriate proximity.
“Clearly not.” Aria advanced until they were barely a pace apart. She stretched out an arm, and as Vee gritted her teeth, reached past Vee’s head and flicked on the muted studio lights. She lingered a second before retreating. Vee caught a warm waft of floral, vanilla and light woodiness from her nearness. She wanted to gag but couldn’t; the combination was delightful. So bitches don’t always wear cheap perfume, she acquiesced. The songwriters needed to scale back on the hype.
“Ah.” Vee crooked an arm behind her and flipped a switch. Floodlights bathed the kitchen, bouncing her semi-nude reflection off the toaster, the microwave door, the glossy countertops. “There’s usually only one person here for me to expect.”
Aria cocked one side of her naturally shell-pink lips. “Must seem like a carnival around here these days. With me around.”
Vee shrugged and moved to the cabinets. She arched her back in plucking a mug from the cupboard; light danced in flattering notes over her skin as she lifted the full coffee pot from its warmer plate. “It’s fresh. Interested?”
“No.” Aria dropped her eyes to Vee’s chest. “Thank you. My appetite’s gone for some reason.”
Vee poured, creamed, lightly sugared. Sipped. She wiggled onto a stool, drew her cup across the faux marble counter towards her. Heat and steam swirled over the rim, hitting the centre of her bare cleavage. She edged it away with a poke.
“So. Aria. How have things been with you?” She propped her elbows on the counter-top.
“Great. Excellent actually. Yourself?”
“Brilliant.”
“Hhmm. Really? I heard a lot about a rocky patch … My bad.”
“Old news. Happens to the best of us. It builds character.” Sip. “And what brings you to Cape Town?”
“A jet plane. What else!”
They trilled merrily.
“Fortune, actually. Good fortune.” Aria sighed, smiled. “I seem to be blessed with it. Keeps me grateful.”
“How true!”
“I know, right! My studio has ties with colleges in Africa and South America. We run an interactive program where teachers and students collaborate on jazz, interpretative dance, but focusing on new ways to incorporate tribal dance. African ceremonial moves especially.” A faraway mist filled her eyes. “You know, dance is so physically expressive. So much like the act of love. It needs freshness, vitality, injected into it every so often to keep it alive.”
“Doesn’t it just.”
“I came for a short stint. Last I was here four years ago, we made a great connection with the UCT School of Dance and have been lucky to keep up the relationship. They invited me and my colleagues to interact with them, be a part of one of their programs for six weeks. Can’t believe I’ve already spent three.”
“Ncaww. You think you’ll miss it after you leave?”
“I won’t have to. Not just yet anyway. We’ve been invited to stay on another six months. The possibility of extending it to a full year is very likely. I’m super excited.”
“That’s …”
The front door slammed. Joshua strode in and stopped dead in his tracks.
“… wonderful,” Vee muttered.
Joshua edged, crept almost, from the mouth of the hallway into the kitchen, placed parcels with great care on the table, his eyes volleying between them. Vee noted the tiniest twitch of his lips and the playful sheen livening the dusk of his irises. The longing to bring a slap to meet his smug face made her palm itch for a brief second.
“Don’t mind me. Was making a quick stop to pick something up and wasn’t planning on staying long.” Aria’s voice faltered at the end of the lie; for the first time her gaze wavered in its assault. Vee lifted her chin. Aria had known chances were high she’d be over, had probably cringed through a careless, languid mention of it from Joshua. And still she’d risked stopping by. For what? To witness what?
“Clearly this is a bad time. I’ll get out of your hair,” Aria finished.
“Ahh. On that subject, I hear you might be scarce around here for good.” Vee tilted her head at Aria’s questioning look. “Moving out, I mean.”
“Oh. Yes, well. I found a coupla options, still making my mind up.”
“Really? I was under the impression it was already made.” She glanced at Joshua, who shrugged and looked genuinely nonplussed. “Anyway, don’t wait too long. First of the month round the corner, best time to jump on it.” Vee lifted the mug again. Sipped. “It’s never easy being a guest when you’re grown. Never being sure when you’re in the way.”
Aria’s brown eyes spat, lips creasing over a curse she swallowed when Joshua’s face hardened. “It isn’t.” Her arm shot through the loop of her handbag’s straps and she thrust it off the table onto her shoulder. A genuine Birkin bag. Ombre lizard, cream-coloured chevre interior, 2009 most likely. Chlöe would die. “I’ll be at Raquel’s till tomorrow,” she tossed at Joshua. “Call me when this isn’t a porn set anymore, so I can get my shit.”
“Ha! I reap the spoils of patriarchy!” Joshua pumped both fists in the air after the reverberating bang of the front door. “That was the most awesome thing I’ve ever witnessed. And I missed most of it.” His eyes glittered. “God, you’re spectacular when you’re a mean girl. With your iron titties.” Only he mimicked the Liberian pronunciation, ‘ah-yahn tay-tay’, and did it well.
“I beg your pardon? Of what do you speak?” She crossed the counter to perch on the kitchen table, planting her arms behind her and thrusting out her chest with a giggle.
“Whoa-ho. Wait, lemme grab my camcorder.”
“Don’t even try it! Save dah nonsense for your Kim Kardashian.” She opened the confectionary carton, ‘oooh’ed, pinched a doughnut frosted with lemon buttercream between two fingers and took a hefty bite. “Fan’kew,” she mumbled.
“That means you’re staying, right?” He edged her knees apart and tugged her to him, his body heat disconcertingly intense against her bare thighs.
“I can’t. I can linger small …” She feathered her lips over his, melting point dropping when he kissed back, deeper. “Twenty minutes.”
“No. Doughnuts and carrot cake? Forty or nothing.”
“Forget it. Once you –”
Gentle bites nipped a trail of disquiet along the soft flesh of her neck. Vee gave a joyful mewl, arms snaking around his neck before she could stop them. “Two hours and that’s it.”
Chapter Eighteen
“It’s not good news.” Vee slammed the security gate and back door, locking both. “Not that I expected her to change her findings, but at the same time I was. I really hoped she would.” She grabbed a can of Ceres red grape, popped the tab and poured half the contents down her parched throat. “Accidental asphyxiation, they’re sticking with it. Greenwood was apparently drunk enough to throw up in her own mouth and choke on it.”
“What a way to go,” Chlöe said.
“You tellin’ me,” Vee scoffed. “Naturally she must be an expert, since – aaagggh Monro, shut up, stop makin’ all that damn noise!”
“What’s wrong with him? Have you taken him to the vet yet?”
“Not yet. He’s not barking because of that. Monro, baby, shut up, please! It’s these stupid teenagers in the neighbourhood. They go round at night throwing cans and firecrackers into people’s yards and driving the dogs crazy. I haven’t untied him yet, so he’s losing it. Anyway, as I was saying. I can’t dismiss Coetzee’s expertise. She’s a whole city’s, district’s, or whatever Oodeeshoon is, their medical examiner, she and that old papay she works with, but I feel they’re missing something.”
“Naturally,” Chlöe quipped. “And it’s pronounced Oudtshoorn.”
“I think they’re wrong.”
“And I think they went to medical school, wh
ich you didn’t. I can’t say this enough times: the Greenwood death is a coincidence. There’s no connection. And don’t say –”
“There always is,” Vee laughed over Chlöe’s extended groan. “Get ready to kiss my unwashed feet when this is over.”
“Not gonna happen. You get ready to eat your words.”
Wish I’d seen this sooner, Vee groused to herself. Chlöe gone, phone dead against the side of her neck, she frowned through what felt like the fiftieth re-read of Dr Coetzee’s email, half expecting mounting irritation to change the words into what she wanted to see. Then she did a quick mental retraction. Had she seen it earlier, it would have taken a dour dump on an evening of frolicking with Joshua, and Lord knew they both deserved a passionate intermission. But what I’m thinking shouldn’t be too difficult, she thought. Time like this, Richie’ll still be up playing with his toys. If I send him a few lines explaining what I need, maybe he’ll have something to report by tomorrow afternoon.
“You wanna talk to Richie now? What – why? I don’t know,” Chlöe spluttered when she called her back to pitch the idea. “It’s late isn’t it? I mean, if it’s that urgent, but be careful when you talk to him. He’s had a bit of atto lately. Rather let me do it.”
“Richie’s got free cheek for days, when is that a surprise.” Vee’s frown deepened. “You two been acting shady lately. What y’all up to?”
Chlöe snorted. “Huh? Nothing. Who said –? Whatever. You see shadows everywhere. We’re planning you a surprise birthday party.”
“Planning in March for October? Nice try. Now I won’t be surprised.”
“Yeah you will, ’cause you love surprises and drama. Never mind that, me and Richie are fine. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Chlöe yawned hugely. “God, I’m finished. See you tomorrow, g’nite.”
Vee smiled, the dead line droning in her ear. Something was up. Bishop was, as was she herself, a liar of expediency: when a situation demanded, her tongue left quicksilver in the dust. On the flipside, though, Chlöe was glaringly horrible at lying to those she cared about. Vee made a mental note to twist her arm before the first meeting of the day.
