by Lesley Lokko
‘I’m sorry,’ Julian said quietly. Their beers were long ago finished but he made no move to fetch another. ‘What rotten luck.’
Kemi gave a wan smile. ‘Luck? I don’t know that luck had anything to do with it, good or bad.’
‘You mustn’t think like that. That’s all it was. Bad luck. Him, I mean. The other thing, with Jen, now that’s different. You can get over a man, you know. But you can’t get over the loss of a sibling. From what you’ve told me, it sounds as though that’s what you really are . . . sisters. Deep down, I mean. Forget the biology.’
Kemi looked at him gratefully. He’d been able to put into words the pain she’d been feeling for weeks now. He was right. You could mourn the death of a relationship but there was no pain like that of a sister’s betrayal. ‘I just can’t get it out of my head,’ she said slowly. ‘All that time after she left. . . we used to phone or text each other every other day. Sometimes nothing, just little things, you know. “I saw this film,” or “Do you remember that” . . . silly things. And she never said a word. I can’t bring myself to call her. She’s three months pregnant. I should be there with her, but I can’t be. It’s been weeks since we’ve spoken. That’s what I miss more than anything.’
‘It’ll take time, Kemi. Probably more time than you think you have. But if you love her, you’ll forgive her. That’s what love is, Kemi. It survives. You survive. But it’s really up to her now.’
‘You sound as though you speak from experience,’ Kemi said hesitantly.
It took him a while to answer. ‘Well, you don’t get to my age—’
‘You’re not old!’ Kemi protested, interrupting him.
‘Old enough to be your father,’ Julian said, smiling gently. ‘Or near enough.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘What’s the matter?’
Kemi suddenly couldn’t speak. Her mouth filled with saliva, flooding her tongue and teeth. She was going to be sick. She got up clumsily and pushed her way past him, clutching a hand to her mouth. She looked around desperately for the toilets. One of the doormen caught sight of her, pointing to the stairs. He’d probably seen many young women like her. She made it to the stall just in time. His words had struck something inside her that had to be purged, released, revealed.
He was standing at the table when she returned, their coats in his arms. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Was it something you ate?’
She shook her head, swallowing to rid herself of the sour taste in her mouth. ‘It was probably the beer,’ she said shakily. ‘I’m not used to drinking more than a glass.’
‘Come on, I’ll get you a cab. It’s late. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kept you out.’ He was genuinely apologetic.
‘No, of course not. I only live up the road, on Fitzroy Square. I’ll walk. It’s less than five minutes away.’
‘I’ll walk you home. I’m in Primrose Hill. The walk’ll do me good. Come on. Are you sure you’re all right?’
Kemi nodded. ‘I’m fine. I don’t know what came over me.’
He escorted her from the bar, his hand touching her elbow gently in a chivalrous gesture, making sure she was fine to walk. She was grateful. It had been quite an evening. The mood between them had changed. He was no longer Mr Carrick to her, she realized. The formality she’d insisted upon had gone, replaced by a warmth that was comforting, if unfamiliar. She’d never been one to make friends quickly. Ayanda had been an exception.
‘Thank you,’ she said, as they reached her front door. ‘I mean it. I feel a little foolish now. I hardly know you but you were very kind. You are very kind.’
Julian looked down at her. His eyes were smiling. ‘Goodnight, Kemi. This will pass, I promise.’ He watched as she walked up the steps and put her key in the lock. She turned and waved. He carried on up the road.
60
Jen woke suddenly, jolted from sleep by a sharp, stabbing pain in her lower abdomen. It took her a second to understand that she was lying on wet sheets. She lay still, panic rising in her throat. There was a bedside lamp just beside her. She reached out and switched it on. She let out a muffled scream. The dark red stain pooled around her legs, spreading outwards. She touched the sheet. It was red and sticky with blood. Her blood. No . . . please God, no. She tried to sit up. She was three months pregnant. Her phone was on the dresser across the room. Why hadn’t she thought to keep it by her bed? She began to cry. The stabbing pain in her stomach intensified. She had to call for help. She pulled the pillow from behind her and put it between her legs, then tried to stand up. She staggered across the room and grabbed her phone before sinking to the ground. She felt dizzy, though whether with pain or fear she couldn’t tell. Her finger hovered over Kemi’s number. It had been nearly two months since they’d last spoken and she had no way of knowing how much Kemi knew. Solam had been adamant. Leave it to me to tell her. Yes, I know you feel guilty, even more than I do, but it’s best if she hears it from me. When she’s ready, she’ll reach out to you. Don’t force things, Jen. That’s your problem . . . you’re always in such a hurry. He was right, she supposed. But there was only one person whose voice she wanted to hear right now. Her finger hovered. What on earth would she say? Solam was in Lusaka on a trade mission. She couldn’t bring herself to disturb him. Another sharp pain coursed through her. With shaking fingers, she pulled up Parker’s name. ‘Parker? It’s me. I’m sorry to call you so early but I’m . . . I’m bleeding. Can you come round?’
‘Jen? What’s the matter?’ Parker was instantly awake.
Jen closed her eyes. She began to cry again. ‘I’m bleeding. I’m . . . I think I’m losing the baby.’
‘Hold on, Jen. I’ll be right there. Just hold on. I’ll call an ambulance and I’ll meet you at the hospital. Jen . . . have you called Kemi?’
She couldn’t answer. She let the phone slip out of her hands. Some mistakes couldn’t be rectified. She’d brought it on herself. She’d seduced her sister’s boyfriend . . . this was what she deserved.
PART EIGHT
2001
Three years later
• • •
If I get married, I want to be very married.
AUDREY HEPBURN
61
Kemi slowly turned the invitation over in her hands. It was on thick, luxuriously embossed card, a beautiful stippled cream colour, with spidery black writing.
Mr & Mrs Oliver Sibusiso Rhoyi request the pleasure
of your company at the marriage of their son
Solam Samuel Rhoyi to Catriona Jennifer McFadden
Saturday 11th August 2001, at eleven o’clock
in the morning
Saint Michael’s Church, Bryanston, Johannesburg.
Reception to follow.
There was an RSVP; a second, smaller card, tucked discreetly into the fold of the beautifully inscribed envelope. She turned it over again. S & J. With a fancy scrolled flourish. His parents, not hers, were hosting the wedding.
‘What was it?’ Julian came into the bedroom, towelling his hair dry. ‘I heard the doorbell.’
‘Special delivery.’ Kemi held up the card. ‘A wedding.’
‘Whose wedding?’ he asked, going through to the dressing room.
‘Jen’s. They’re finally getting married.’
He stuck his head back through the doorway. ‘Really?’ He looked at her closely. ‘Are you OK? How d’you feel about it?’
She smiled faintly. It was typical Julian. Her first assessment of him had been the right one. He was the kindest person she’d ever known. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, giving him a reassuring smile. ‘Really. It’s absolutely fine.’ It was true. Things would never be the same between her and Jen, but it was true what they said about time. It really did heal most wounds. She marvelled at the way the mind worked, weeding out pain, replacing it with other, less hurtful memories. It had taken her nearly two years to begin speaking to Jen again, but with distance and her own newfound happiness with Julian, the pain had turned to regret and then finally to
acceptance.
Jen didn’t come to their wedding. She had gone back to Johannesburg at that point and Kemi wasn’t sure she was ready to face her. But that was a year ago, after Julian’s divorce finally came through, and now . . .? Now they’d all moved on. She often saw Solam’s face in the newspapers and on television. He was now an elected politician and the party’s rising star. The role seemed to suit him. Jen was careful not to talk about Solam in anything other than the most pragmatic terms, which explained the invitation that had come by courier, not by phone call, Kemi thought to herself.
‘Where’s the wedding going to be?’
‘Johannesburg.’
He gave her a searching look. ‘D’you want to go?’
She nodded. ‘Of course. I’ll have to think up a present. What do you buy the couple who have everything?’
‘You’ll think of something. So, it’ll be Johannesburg for our summer holidays. Well, I suppose it’s a relief. I was beginning to think I’d never get to see the place. Now, which tie? Blue or red?’
‘Blue. It matches your eyes.’ Kemi was relieved to have something else to focus on. She got up from the bed and walked over to the window. The garden below stretched all the way to Horniman Gardens at the back, giving them a swathe of greenery that few homes in the area could match. The builders were nearly finished with the kitchen extension – once it was done, there’d be a glass-fronted conservatory at the rear of the house with enormous sliding doors that opened directly onto the garden. She tugged back the curtains, letting sunlight flood into the room. It was May. The sky was clear and blue. She turned back to the room. Julian was humming to himself as he finished dressing, some mindless ditty he’d picked up from the radio. Their bed was a mess of sheets and blankets. She walked back towards it, automatically picking up discarded clothing and cushions and straightening the sheets.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ he said, coming through. ‘The maid’ll get to it.’
She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I can’t get used to having a maid in here. I don’t mind her doing everywhere else but not here. It’s too private. I’d rather make my own bed.’
‘Nonsense. It’s what she’s paid to do.’ He fastened his tie and picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Right, darling, I’d better run. I’ll be late. Dinner this evening with the Cartwrights, don’t forget.’
Kemi nodded absently. She kissed his cheek, which smelled of fresh soap and aftershave, and calmly continued making the bed. The house shuddered lightly as he ran down the stairs and slammed the front door shut. She heard the car start up, a loud, throaty purr, and then the tyres crunching on gravel as he reversed out. Then all was quiet again. She had a rare day off from work.
She reached for her phone on the bedside table and quickly tapped out a message. Just got the invitation. Congratulations! Looking forward to seeing you both. She hesitated, then signed off, K & J. She smiled a little wryly. S & J. K & J. There was a rhythm to their combined initials.
Downstairs she heard the front door open again, carefully. It was Magda, the maid, who came four days a week, including Saturday. Kemi would have preferred the weekends alone, free of the need to speak to anyone other than Julian if she didn’t feel like it, but he was adamant. Friday nights were generally spent either at a dinner, or hosting one. He certainly wasn’t going to spend Saturday morning clearing up, and neither was she. Julian loved to entertain. After a hard week, he liked nothing better than cooking for friends with Kemi perched on one of the kitchen counter stools, keeping him company. Since his divorce, it was as though he’d rediscovered a whole new persona. ‘I don’t know how I existed before you,’ he would say to her, over and over again. She finished making the bed, tied her dressing gown more tightly around her waist, and went downstairs.
‘Morning, Magda,’ she called out as she walked into the kitchen.
‘Good morning, Mrs Carrick.’ She was already busy hauling out the vacuum cleaner and brooms.
She plugged in the kettle. She would never get used to being called ‘Mrs Carrick’. No one at work called her that. There she was Dr Mashabane, as she’d always been. It was only Magda and a handful of other people – the newsagent on the corner; one or two of Julian’s senior colleagues, who presumably had never known the original Mrs Carrick, or who didn’t care. For two people who’d been married as long as Julian and Rosemary, it was strange how quickly it had all unravelled and with seemingly so little fuss. It had been a remarkably civilized divorce. They parted after twenty-four years together with some regrets, but no real anger. ‘But how can that be?’ Kemi was astounded. ‘She just agreed? Just like that?’
‘It’s just the way she is. Our kind, I suppose.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘We’re brought up not to make a fuss. Stiff upper lip and all that.’
‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Not to you, my darling. You’re not English.’
She took her steaming mug of tea upstairs and walked through to her side of the dressing room. She opened the wardrobe door and stood in front of it, biting her lip. Julian spoiled her. Buying her expensive clothes seemed to be his second-favourite activity. From Valentino to Dior, the closet was bulging with barely worn gowns, dresses, trouser suits. Fortunately for her, his taste was impeccable. Although she could easily have afforded the clothes herself, it seemed to give Julian so much pleasure to buy her quality garments. She accepted the gifts as gracefully as she could.
She pulled out two Valentino dresses, both in wool crêpe. One was long and sleeveless in a deep, daring crimson; the other was shorter, falling to an asymmetric mid-hem, in a delicate blush stretch-silk georgette. She held both against her. The midi dress was less dramatic. It seemed to suit a dinner party better. She would keep the red dress for another occasion. She looked down for a pair of shoes. Her eye fell on the simple black high-heeled sandals. They would do. She slid the wardrobe door shut, relieved, and headed to the shower. She had a whole briefcase of case notes to go through before the upcoming week’s surgeries. No time like the present.
62
Jen picked up the neatly typed list and began to count. Solam’s assistant had ringed a total figure at the bottom in bold red pen – 351 – but she wanted to make sure. 267, 268, 269, 270 . . . She mouthed the numbers silently to herself, checking the names as she went. She hardly recognized anyone, aside from her parents and Kemi and Julian, of course. The few people she’d met when she and Kemi first came to Johannesburg were no longer in her circle. Her circle was Solam. She put the paper down. She’d been back for nearly three years, although it was hard to tell what she’d actually accomplished by moving to South Africa, other than being with him. They couldn’t have carried on like that, meeting every other month, for a day or a weekend at a time. She’d been so relieved when he suggested she move.
‘But what’ll I do?’ she asked, as though it wasn’t the question that occupied her every waking moment.
‘Whatever you like. What are you doing here?’
‘Nothing much,’ she said, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘I mean, it’s not like it’s a career or anything.’
‘Well, there you go.’
‘I could start painting again,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve got my inheritance. I could do anything.’
‘You don’t need to worry about money,’ Solam said, sliding out of bed. ‘Have you seen my phone?’ he asked, his mind already moving ahead. Jen pointed to the floor.
She knew when to let a subject drop. Pushing him for an answer to a question he wasn’t interested in simply didn’t work. He just wouldn’t allow it. He disliked what he called ‘scenes’. ‘It’s no use shouting,’ he said to her after one of their first proper arguments. She could no longer remember what it was about. ‘We can talk about it later.’ By then, she knew him well enough to know it meant they wouldn’t talk at all. ‘But I need to talk,’ she would say to his disappearing back. No matter. He was gone.
Later, when h
e came back, he’d look at her sideways, as if to say, “Have you calmed down?” She hadn’t, but there was little she could do. She learned quickly that there were boundaries in him that she simply couldn’t cross.
She looked back at the list again. There were hundreds of acquaintances; people Solam knew mostly through political channels. There were precious few whom Jen would happily have chosen to spend an afternoon with, let alone her wedding day. She couldn’t get over their surprise at the fact that she was white: ‘Oh, you’re white. I didn’t realize.’
‘What did she mean?’ she’d asked Solam incessantly when she first moved in with him.
He shrugged. ‘Exactly that. You’re white.’
‘No, it was the way she said it. Like it was . . . I don’t know . . . some big disappointment or something.’
‘Well, it probably is.’
‘But why?’ Yet he wouldn’t answer. It was up to her to figure things out.
She tossed the list aside impatiently. It was a Saturday. Solam was at golf. The house was completely silent. The day stretched out in front of her, endlessly, without purpose. She looked around, half wishing Solam hadn’t moved almost as soon as she arrived. She’d liked his loft in the centre of town, a floor above the noise and grit and drama of the street. Now they lived in leafy Parkhurst, behind six-foot razor wire and a wall thicker than any she’d ever seen. There was a patio off the master bedroom which was the only place you could see beyond the property walls. She often stood up there in the evenings before Solam got home, looking out over the hundreds of other identical properties with their countless security devices supposedly keeping them safe. The northern suburbs stretched as far as the eye could see, endless trees and manicured gardens. In the spring, the jacaranda trees burst into their annual spectacular lilac-and-purple haze. Someone had mentioned once that the city was home to the world’s largest urban forest. From where she stood on the balcony in the spring and summer evenings, she could believe it.
