Except for his housekeeper, Angela Joyce, and her husband, Trevor, who stayed in a cottage in the grounds, he lived alone, growing ever more introverted. A smell of dust, damp and despair mingled with the stench of mothballs. A quick trip to the kitchen confirmed my fears. There was no food in the house.
Dad wasn’t short of cash, was he? I knew he had inherited some capital and that he played the stock market. He owned five hundred acres of farmland, some of which he leased to local farmers. Besides this, we had good breeding herds and he had a pension. Perhaps he’d bombed with Lloyds.
‘Dad. I earn far more than I can spend. Are you short of anything?’
‘God, no.’
‘So where’s Mrs Joyce?’
‘Flu.’
‘You need stocking up. I’d better get on with it. Can I borrow your car?’
‘Don’t bother. Mrs Joyce will be back tomorrow. If I wanted anything meantime I could always send Trevor. He’s around somewhere.’
‘Dad, why don’t you move down to London and stay with me?’
‘Can’t abide the place.’
‘It’s not so bad. It has its moments. I’ve got a lovely apartment in Hampstead on the top floor, overlooking the Heath. The flowers are lovely. I can see for miles. It’s like being in the country.’
There was no response so I went off to make tea and we passed an hour exchanging meaningless small-talk. It was only later when I was almost ready to leave that I tried to tell him about Ralph.
‘I met this man, well, a colleague, really, in the bank. He was a lot of fun. Good-looking, too. I’d thought we had it made, but clearly he wasn’t happy. He dropped me for my secretary. That’s why I’m glad to be getting away for a while. Eli sacked him for incompetence, but he blamed me. I shall miss him.’
‘He’s done you a favour,’ Dad said, in his quiet, precise voice.
Later, with Trevor waiting in the car to drive me to the airport, I bent to kiss Father’s cheek. I longed to hug him, but he did not stop painting and I was scared to nudge his brush-stroke.
‘Well, then…’
‘Take care,’ he said, and that was that.
*
The warning bell coincided with a sudden lurch. Having set my alarm for four in order to have a good wash before the queues began, I was unwilling to vacate the toilet. Return to your seat and fasten your seatbelt flashed above the tiny washbasin. Within seconds, the aircraft was swaying and bucking and my cosmetics were skidding over the floor. I peered into the mirror. A thin face with large, startled eyes, bloodshot and swollen, stared back.
Gathering my possessions, I squeezed past the stewardess and stumbled to my seat. The night had seemed endless, but at last the lights were switched on. A brittle, smiling attendant appeared from the galley to hand out glasses of orange juice. Breakfast and coffee improved my mood, and shortly afterwards, we were circling over Cape Town’s Table Mountain.
Chapter 5
A blast of the city’s famous sou’easter nearly knocked me flying as I left the gangway. Wow! I hung on to my case and battled to move forward. Soon, I was shuffling through passport control. I grabbed a trolley, retrieved my luggage and walked towards the exit, amazed that it had been so simple. The door slid open and I hurried through.
‘This way, Nina. I’m Bernard Fortune, your host. Well, your friend, too. Call me Bernie. Meet my wife, Joy. The press got wind of your arrival, but airport management have given us an interview room, so follow me.’ He grabbed my trolley.
Bloody hell! ‘Well, hello there.’
So this was Eli’s local agent. I studied him cautiously: olive skin, average height, excessively muscled, probably from weight-training, hairy everywhere except on his smooth and shiny head, bushy eyebrows almost concealing his ultra-expressive, predatory brown eyes. A man to beware of, I instinctively felt. I had the impression that he would run roughshod over anyone who got in his way.
‘Sorry you weren’t warned,’ Bernie said, ‘but your arrival here means a great deal to us. It lights the end of the tunnel. We’ve been the world’s lepers for almost half a century and we’ve had enough if it, I can tell you. Bloody Dutchmen are on the way out. They know it, we know it, and your coming here will spell it out for a whole lot more people.’
I was getting breathless for him. To my mind, people gabble on to confuse their listener. So what was Bernie trying to put over me? And what sort of an idiot organizes a press conference for a woman who’s spent the night on the plane? Wouldn’t tomorrow have done as well?
‘What’s your hurry? I’m here for a month, Bernie.’
He flushed and grinned disarmingly.
‘We don’t let the grass grow under our feet, Nina. Too much at stake.’
His wife, Joy, seemed over-anxious and tense. She was wearing a velvety blue track-suit with a matching ribbon round her bleached straight tresses. Her eyes were blue, her features good, and she was thin enough to be anorexic, but her skin let her down. It hung in folds under her chin, sagged around her eyes, wrinkled her brow and turned to chicken skin around her neck. Nothing that a good plastic surgeon couldn’t fix, as Mother could have told her.
The media consisted of two tired-looking men and three young women. I was pushed behind the desk between Bernie and Joy.
‘This is Nina Ogilvie, whom you’ve come to meet.’ Bernie’s voice was honey smooth. ‘As I told you, Nina is the City of London’s latest whiz-kid.’
I glanced sharply at him, but Bernie was keeping his face averted. ‘She’s been on the plane all night, so ask your questions and buzz off.’
The questions came haltingly at first, but ten minutes later there was still no end in sight. ‘That’s it. I’m getting out of here.’ I moved towards the door.
‘How do you cope with being a woman in a man’s world?’ a female voice called from behind me.
I turned with a tart comment on my lips, which froze when I saw how young and vulnerable the reporter was. Haven’t we all been living in a man’s world for the past ten thousand years? I pondered. So how do I cope? Perhaps by beating men at their own game.
I smiled and put up my hand. Enough was enough.
*
I was ushered into a gleaming 7-series BMW and introduced to a huge black man with slanting eyes and a small pointed beard. He was wearing a chauffeur’s uniform that was far too tight for him.
‘This is Caesar, our driver. Take you anywhere you want to go.’ Bernie spoke without bothering to glance at him.
‘Good morning, Caesar.’ I held out my hand and he shot me an astonished smile.
As we wove between the traffic, Bernie placed his hot hand on my knee. ‘What a girl!’ he said. ‘A superb performance. Old Eli’s lucky to have you.’
I knew for a fact that he and Eli were not on first-name terms. I burned at his crude flattery and pushed his hand away, hoping Joy had not seen.
Soon, we were passing the most depressing slums. Mile after mile of tin shanties set among unbelievable squalor and overcrowding.
‘Our latest informal settlement,’ Bernie said, with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. ‘Every householder owns a field, a few cows, a mealie patch at the very least in his homeland, but they flock to the cities where there aren’t enough jobs for them.’
Silence would be my best bet, I decided, since I was a stranger.
We sped away, leaving the slums for pleasanter homes. Soon, we entered what might have been another planet: oak-lined avenues, exotic architecture, acres of manicured lawns and brilliant flowering shrubs, styles that were Swedish, Spanish, Moroccan, Old English, Early Dutch, but they all had something in common and that was wealth.
‘This is Constantia where we live,’ Joy told me, with a tinge of smugness in her voice. ‘You see that house up there? Lord and Lady Melcroix live there. And can you see that pink wall between the trees…?’
Joy had a weakness for titles. According to her, half the British Establishment were securing their place in the sun. We turned into the d
riveway of a massive Spanish hacienda with immaculate lawns and an Olympic-sized pool. Caesar opened my door.
‘Caesar, this madam has flown six thousand miles to see our country. Look after her well. See you at dinner, Nina.’ Bernie smiled smoothly. ‘Joy will take you shopping and that sort of thing.’ He nodded coldly at his wife.
‘Look here, Bernie, I can see you have a real problem catching up with the twentieth century, but try to banish this image you have of a visiting colleague’s wife. I’m the colleague. Right? So I’m not here for shopping.’
‘Nina… Nina… You need to meet the big boys socially first. That’s important here. We’re leaving for Timbavati Game Park first thing in the morning. Everyone you need to know will be present, relaxed and ready to make friends.’ He frowned before favouring me with a disarming grin. I could see that he resented having to humour me. ‘When in Rome, Nina. We’ve invited a select few to dinner tonight, so take the day off and pamper yourself. Joy’s taking you shopping because you’ll need a few things: khaki shorts and shirts, a bush hat, good boots. Charge it. My pleasure.’
He drove away, leaving me fuming.
Chapter 6
‘Dinner at seven,’ Bernie had said. Not knowing how they dressed here, I played safe with a black cocktail dress. The damp heat, plus the shower, had turned my hair into an unmanageable dark red frizz and my face was still flushed and slightly puffy from the long flight. I tied my hair back with a white chiffon scarf and added a pearl necklace and earrings.
Bernie was hovering. ‘Come,’ he said, propelling me firmly towards the sound of voices. ‘You’re late. Let’s get the show rolling.’
I smirked as I entered Bernie’s reception room. The decor shrieked loud and clear that the Fortunes had made it: wood-panelled walls, Persian carpets on an inlaid marble floor, old paintings in heavy gilt frames. Joy was flitting around in a midnight blue silk shift loaded with jewellery, playing the society hostess with enviable skill.
A quick glance around assured me that every wife was beautiful and none was past their mid-twenties. Clearly, this was the second or third time round for their paunchy husbands. Joy stuck out like a weed in a rose garden, and twice as poignant, as she doggedly clung to her illusion of being young and attractive.
‘Look at them.’ Bernie blinked lovingly at his guests. ‘Ugly bastards, most of them, but they don’t come any better – friends from way back. Between them they’re worth billions.’
Presumably, the female guests were mere appendages. A white-clad waiter, complete with gloves and cummerbund, approached carrying glasses of punch on a silver tray. Taking one, I was shocked to recognize Caesar, whom I had last seen in khaki shorts weeding the garden.
‘Thank you, Caesar. A man for all seasons, Bernie.’
Bernie flushed. ‘Get to know the country before you start criticizing, Nina.’
Grudgingly, I conceded this point with a nod as Bernie grabbed my arm and steered me across the room. ‘Nina, meet Theo Hamilton. He owns several diamond concessions,’ Bernie blabbed happily. ‘Hi, Theo, meet Nina, London’s newest and only female whiz-kid. Woo her, my boy.’
‘Hi, Theo.’ I thrust out my hand. ‘Wooing won’t help. Profits will.’
Bernie was a schmuck, but Theo seemed unconcerned as he turned on the charm heavy-handedly. He looked like a Hollywood-style Roman gladiator gone to seed.
‘Bernie and I go back a few decades, Nina. Under that tough skin there’s a great guy. Trust me!’
The back-scratching session came to an abrupt halt as Bernie dragged me to the next group.
‘Meet Steve Watson, who made his pile in Texas oil.’
Steve drooped over me like an overgrown beanstalk, while his piercing, predatory blue eyes left no doubt as to his mental agility.
‘Cool it, Bernie,’ Steve mumbled, without success.
‘Steve owns a dozen mines and a fleet of jet aircraft. Worth ten million dollars if he’s worth a cent.’
‘By Nina’s standards we’re the hoi- polloi. Right, Nina?’ Steve nodded knowingly at me while I froze with annoyance.
‘If the cap fits, Steve…’
Bernie dragged me on.
Joshua van der Walt, chairman of the country’s most powerful indigenous bank, assumed the manner of a monarch as he listened to Bernie’s monologue and clasped my hand in his gigantic paw. ‘Hello,’ he murmured.
‘Worth a hundred million rands,’ Bernie stage-whispered, as we moved along.
God! It was endless. David McFarlane’s massive head was set on wide, muscular shoulders with a paunch to match. He bought and sold mines and mining supply houses, Bernie explained, well within McFarlane’s hearing.
‘Don’t let Bernie intimidate you. I’m just a glorified salesman. We all are.’
‘Yes, I know that.’ A sidelong glance revealed David’s amusement. He winked and suddenly I liked him. I guessed he wouldn’t patronize me again – and he had meant no harm. He was a man’s man and he could only relate to the ‘little woman’. I tried out a smile as he grabbed his wife.
‘Honey, come and meet Nina. You two will be great pals.’
David’s new wife, Sophia, looked set for a royal wedding in her amazing collection of diamonds, including a tiara, set off by a sophisticated black strapless sheath. ‘Enchanted, darling.’ She leaned forward, almost kissed me on both cheeks and turned her back.
By now, I suspected that my fruit punch was not as innocuous as it tasted. The alcohol, plus the heat, was producing purple patches on my arms. I dreaded to see what my face looked like. I could feel the trickles of sweat rolling down between my shoulder blades and gathering in my armpits. Did it show?
Bernie nudged me forward and lowered his voice. This puzzled me. ‘I’m going to introduce you to Wolf Moller,’ he murmured. ‘It’s rumoured that he’s making a fortune breaking sanctions to bring oil into this country. No one knows for sure. Said to be very well connected in high places. Bit of a dark horse.’
I found myself gazing into dark blue eyes crinkling into a smile. He was lovely to look at and my glance lingered, captivated by his boyish grin. His hair was light brown, and cut very short. He was in his mid-thirties, I guessed. Sweetness and humour showed in his expression. I felt I’d found an ally in hostile territory.
As Bernie began his recitation about my work, Wolf Moller gripped my arm. ‘You’re embarrassing Miss Ogilvie and, besides, I read it in the newspaper. Didn’t everyone? May I borrow her for a moment?’
Turning his back on the astonished Bernie, Moller led me across the terrace towards the garden.
‘Phew! I couldn’t be more grateful.’
‘Bernie goes a bit over the top.’ He stopped short and pressed his fingers on my arm.
‘Listen,’ he muttered, ‘a Cape canary. You don’t hear them often.’
As we listened to the melodious strains, I was conscious of the scent of Moller’s aftershave and the way his eyes seemed to darken as he gazed towards the trees. In a matter of minutes, twilight turned to dusk and the canary lapsed into silence.
‘Shall we go down to the pool, Miss Ogilvie? It’s cooler there.’ He took my glass and poured the contents on the grass. ‘I’ve probably killed their lawn.’ He chuckled. ‘I checked with their obsequious slave: aqua vita, champagne, brandy, tequila, orange juice… I advise you to stick to fruit juice until it cools down, Ms Ogilvie.’
As we walked towards the pool in the lingering twilight, I puzzled over his accent. German, with a long stay in America, but that wasn’t all of it.
‘No wonder I feel dizzy. It’s so hot. Is this normal?’
‘Unusual for the Cape, but further north the nights are always this exotic. Nights for fishing offshore in a small boat, scuba-diving, walking in the mountains, making love, dancing barefoot on the sand, almost anything except standing in a stuffy room full of sweating nouveaux riches. I was wishing I hadn’t come, but then I saw you and I changed my mind. You are that rare phenomenon, a perfectly beautiful woman.’
‘Wow! Slow down! Let’s analyse your opening gambit. For starters, do you know Africa well?’
His laugh came often, I noticed. It was a sensual, deep-throated sound, both intimate and intriguing.
‘Does anyone ever know it well…? Quite frankly, I don’t think so, but I’ve travelled extensively all over the continent. I’m always amazed by its excesses. I adore and fear and hate Africa. Like so many of its viruses, once it penetrates your bloodstream you can never be free of it.’
‘So let’s move on… Is the Cape good for scubadiving?’
‘Not really. The water’s too cold. You need to move north along the Indian Ocean coast.’
‘D’you know, Mr Moller, I haven’t heard that description nouveau riche since my vague flirtation with Communism during school days. It seems to reveal an Eastern European background with aristocratic connections.’
He scowled. ‘I’m German. Does that bother you, Ms Ogilvie?’
‘Should it?’
‘Yes, maybe it should.’
My silence echoed around us, but then he said, ‘I find your omissions more interesting than your questions.’
I wasn’t going to fall for that innuendo. ‘It must be dinner-time, Mr Moller.’
‘Oh, come now, Ms Ogilvie. You pounced like a tick-bird on a buffalo’s back to sort out the juiciest titbits, gently sidestepping those that didn’t tempt you, such as my allusions to your incredible appeal. I have an obsession for beauty, particularly in women.’
‘Everyone has an obsession, Mr Moller. Mine is my work. It occupies all of my waking hours.’
‘That’s a temporary aberration, Ms Ogilvie. One day you will find a man who is more satisfying than your work and you will marry him.’
Somehow, this intriguing man, with the scented garden and the balmy night, had conspired to penetrate my defences. I turned towards the house, but he pulled me towards him.
Sunstroke Page 3
