by Lesley Lokko
She got up from the couch and walked to the kitchen. It had become something of a luxury to have the house to herself. During the week it was full of staff. There was a cook, a maid, a laundry lady and the gardener, as well as the two drivers who worked in shift rotation. Solam’s job as an elected politician meant he was entitled to a bodyguard, but he’d shrugged it off. She was relieved. It was quite enough to have six people on call practically 24/7, let alone a team of bodyguards. Most of the people they employed were distant – very distant – relatives, he told her. It was part of the way things worked out here. Loyalty aside, there was 75 per cent unemployment in some areas . . . it was what well-off family members did, no questions asked. And there was certainly no question they were well-off. She actually had no idea how much money Solam earned. It was another area that was off-limits to her, not that she particularly cared. She had her own income and inheritance. But money was never an issue between them, never discussed. There was simply enough for whatever was required. In the first year, she went back to the UK four times. She simply told Solam when she wanted to go and his PA dropped off a business-class ticket for her without being asked. For Christmas the second year, they flew to Melbourne to see one of Solam’s old university friends. They flew first class on Qantas Airlines and stayed in a suite at the Park Hyatt. ‘Why would we stay anywhere else?’ Solam asked, seemingly baffled by her question. ‘What’s the point?’ For Jen, more accustomed to her father’s Presbyterian approach to wealth management, it seemed almost decadent. It was surprising how quickly she’d acclimatized, she thought to herself with a wry smile. Aged thirty-two, she had more house help than her entire family combined.
She took out a bottle of San Pellegrino and slowly wandered upstairs. Perhaps she should go to yoga? Or the hairdresser’s? She stopped to look at her hair in the mirror, flicking her ends up for closer inspection. No . . . any more hairdressing and it’d start to fall out. A massage? She nodded to herself. Yes, that sounded more fun. She’d book an afternoon’s pampering at the Saxon, her favourite spa. Now, where had she left her phone? She went into the bedroom. It was lying on the bedside table. She picked it up and scrolled through until she found the number. ‘No, there is nothing available at the moment, unfortunately, but there is a slot at one thirty. Could Madam come in at one?’
‘Yes, sure . . . who’s the therapist?’ She knew them all by name.
‘It’ll be Marie, ma’am. What would you like to have done? We can do a full body, hot stone massage . . .’ She ran through the options. Jen cast around for a piece of paper. There was a yellow Post-it pad lying next to the novel she’d been reading. Solam must have left it by mistake. She tore off the first page and quickly scribbled the details. Marie. Hot stone & apricot body scrub. She hung up and picked up the note she’d torn off, turning it over. It was Solam’s handwriting. Hélène van Roux. There was a mobile phone number, a time and an address. She looked at it for a moment, frowning. Hélène van Roux was the chairperson of the Democratic Party, the ANC’s opposition. The two parties loathed each other. Why would Solam meet her? Nothing in politics was ever as it seemed but she preferred that to any other explanation. The thought did cross her mind from time to time. What was it Jimmy Goldsmith had said once? When a man marries his mistress, he creates a job vacancy. She pushed the thought away irritably. She replaced the note carefully on top of the pad.
63
Solam stood up and excused himself from the group of men who’d finished their round of golf. He walked away from them, reaching into his pocket for the note on which he’d scribbled Hélène’s number that morning. It wasn’t there. Shit. He swore under his breath. He could have sworn he’d stuffed the note in his pocket just before leaving. Hélène would be waiting for his call. He looked at his watch. It was nearly one. Home was a ten-minute drive away. He’d better go. The call was important. He jogged back through the clubhouse to the veranda.
‘Gotta run,’ he said to the assembled group. ‘Wedding drama.’
There was a round of good-natured ribbing. Someone said something about marrying a white girl. ‘That’s what happens.’ There was a guffaw of laughter. He nodded, smiling. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ He left them, still chuckling and shaking their heads, and hurried down to his car.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up outside the house. He left the car parked by the kerb and walked through the sliding gate. Jen’s car was gone. She was probably at the gym or the mall. He unlocked the front door and ran upstairs to the bedroom. The note was lying where he’d left it, although it had clearly been torn off. He frowned. Jen must have used the pad after him. It was a silly slip. He dialled the number and ran downstairs again. In the kitchen, as the phone rang on the other end, he switched on the gas. He quickly burned the note, flushing the ashes down the drain.
‘Hélène? Sorry I’m late. I got held up. Can we talk?’
The road to the secluded farmhouse was rutted and pitted with potholes and deep grooves, fissures in the earth that forced the vehicles to bump and sway drunkenly from side to side. Sitting in the back of the second Land Rover, Solam’s arm kept banging painfully against the door as they advanced slowly over the terrain. They were deep in the Hottentots-Holland mountains, somewhere between Paarl and Stellenbosch. It was dusk and the rosy winter sun was sinking in a graceful arc behind the jagged profile of the highest peak.
They stopped at a pair of wrought-iron gates set into one of the thick white walls that the early Dutch settlers had built all across the valley to demarcate their farms. Two men got out of the car in front, speaking into their walkie-talkies. The sound carried across the silence, crackling in the frosty air. The gates swung open and the cars passed through, one by one.
‘Nearly there.’ The driver at the wheel of Solam’s vehicle turned his head briefly. ‘House is just up ahead. It’s a fantastic view.’
Solam nodded. He peered out of the window. It was true. God’s country. The forgotten schoolbook phrase came back to him. The winter-green vineyards spread outwards in rows around them, hugging the slope of the mountain, pushing towards the peak for the last possible reaches of arable land. The ploughed earth stretched away in fan-shaped waves, closing in on its own horizon. It was an intensely cultivated landscape, shaped, pruned and organized according to human whim. Only the rocky silhouette of the surrounding mountain peaks retained anything of the former wilderness. Whatever else, he thought to himself with half a smile, they were a plucky bunch, those first settlers. The vehicles pulled into a gravelled driveway, parking under huge oak trees planted a century before, providing a natural canopy to the farmhouse. The doors were opened and he stepped down onto the ground, his boots biting into the earth, making the sound of a biscuit breaking. Pieter Hofmayer, the party whip, walked ahead, going through the hallway first. He saw Hélène in the shadows. Tall, very upright, her silvery bob catching the light from inside.
‘Solam,’ she said as he walked in. She held out her hand. ‘Welcome to Vrede en Himmel. Glad you could make it.’
The rest of the group left them alone in the small study off the main living room. It was warm inside. A fire had already been started in the fireplace in the centre of the room. He looked around as he sank into one of the two leather chairs that had been carefully positioned in front of it. There was a small coffee table between them. Someone had put out two crystal tumblers and a plate of oatmeal rusks.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Hélène asked, indicating the decanter.
He shook his head. ‘After. If there’s to be an after, of course.’
She smiled. ‘Of course.’ She sat down opposite him and leaned forward, clasping her hands between her knees. They began to speak, each giving way to the other at first, then growing more animated and heated as the minutes went by. An hour passed, then another. Every now and then, to ask a question or make a point, she tucked a loose curl of hair behind her ear, showing a flash of her discreet diamond earrings. Everything about the woman was discreet, but the discretion
hid a steeliness that was matched only by his own. Yes, they were more alike than anyone would ever have guessed.
‘So, let’s talk timing. I’ve got another term ahead of me, but in about a year’s time, we’ll start looking for my successor. If you were to jump ship around that time, it’d give you enough time to start building your alliances. How will you do it?’ she asked. ‘Press announcement?’
He shook his head. ‘No, it has to be more public than that.’
‘What, then?’
He leaned forward. ‘I’ll cross the floor.’
She sat back. Neither said anything for a moment or two. She looked at him thoughtfully, reflectively. ‘It’ll certainly be public,’ she said. She got up suddenly and walked towards the fireplace. She held out her hands to warm them, rubbing them briskly together.
‘When’s the wedding?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘August.’
She came back to her chair. ‘Good move. Glad you took my advice. She’ll be an asset.’
‘I hope so,’ he said, smiling faintly.
She looked at him. ‘Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer it, of course, but if we’re going to work together, it’d be useful for me to know.’
‘By all means.’ He returned her frank stare.
‘How long have you been planning this?’ The question hung in the air between them for a few seconds.
‘All my life.’
64
‘Ma’am, do you have a moment?’ Iketleng turned round. It was that pesky journalist from the Mail & Guardian. What the hell was his name? ‘Ivor Kowalski,’ he supplied helpfully, sensing her irritation. ‘If I could just have a minute of your time,’ he continued quickly.
She turned back to the assembled diplomats. ‘Gentlemen, please excuse me for just one second.’ She flashed an angry look across the room at her press officer. He ought to have made sure there were no journalists in the room. He returned her glare impassively. Idiot, she thought to herself. What is the matter with him? Doesn’t he know it’s his job to stop incidents like this? ‘How can I help you,’ she asked, as evenly as she could manage.
‘What was your son doing—’
‘Come now,’ Iketleng interrupted him immediately, putting a hand on his arm and steering him out of earshot. ‘This isn’t the right place for this sort of conversation. Why don’t you ring my office tomorrow morning? How did you get in here anyway? Come.’ She gripped his arm more forcefully. They were almost at the door.
‘Look, we both know you’re not going to let me in tomorrow,’ the journalist hissed. ‘I’m just trying to corroborate— Hey! Get off me!’ Two burly men had suddenly appeared as if out of nowhere.
‘Deal with him, will you?’ She quickly brushed the sleeve of her jacket down.
‘Your son was seen with Hélène van Roux on Thursday,’ the journalist hissed as he was roughly manhandled out of the door.
Iketleng stopped. She half turned in surprise, but the French Ambassador was walking towards her. She turned to face him with her professional smile firmly in place. ‘Apologies, Mr Claudel. An unwelcome guest. Please, let’s go in. No, after you.’
Oliver looked up from his side of the bed, peering at her over the rim of his glasses. ‘What the hell is he thinking?’ She burst into anger, freeing the waistband of her trousers and yanking her confining silk shirt over her head. He put his report down.
‘It’s probably nothing,’ he said patiently, trying to calm her.
Her straightened hair broke loose from its combs as she flung her clothing onto the floor, every inch the raging child. ‘How can you say that? What the hell was he doing with her, anyway?’
‘Did you ask him?’
‘No! How could I? Stuck with those diplomats all day!’ She broke into their language, which was only ever the tongue of intimacy between them. ‘If he’s up to something, I’ll kill him!’
‘What could he possibly be up to?’
‘How would I know? He says nothing these days! It’s that woman, I tell you. She’s put him up to something. How could he put us at risk this way?’
‘Oh, Iketleng, please. Let’s not go into that all over again.’
Anger made her ugly. ‘Why not? You refused to speak to him about it when I asked you. No, when I begged you. Why not the Mashabane girl? What was wrong with her? Does he realize what sort of an asset she would have been? Instead, he takes this . . . this—’
‘Iketleng!’ Oliver raised his voice. ‘Stop it! It’s his choice. Not yours, not mine . . . his. We gave up the right to make those sorts of demands years ago. Leave it alone, I’m telling you.’
It only seemed to make her angrier. ‘You’re telling me? Since when do you tell me what to do, what to think?’
He switched back to their language again. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. I’m just saying leave it alone. There must be a good reason why he went to see Van Roux and he’ll tell us about it in due course. Now, it’s late. We both have to be up early tomorrow. For God’s sake, let’s sleep.’
She threw her nightdress over her head and tugged it down. She got into bed beside him, stiff with rage. ‘I can’t sleep,’ she said angrily. ‘I can’t just forget about it, like you.’
‘Listen, woman. Keep your mind focused on your own affairs. Leave our son to sort out his.’ He reached across her and switched off the light. She lay in the dark beside him, her breath catching on angry sobs. She always cried when she was angry. What the hell was Solam up to? She hated being left in the dark about things. Especially things of this sort.
65
Jen and Kemi turned together to look at Jen’s reflection in the long mirror. The gown was by Stella McCartney, from her very first collection. It had been flown out by courier and Iketleng had personally overseen the fitting with two of her trusted seamstresses. It was simple, yet beautifully elegant. Made of stretch-crêpe satin, it had long fluted sleeves and a flowing train, and it opened from the neckline to the waist at the back, skimming gracefully over Jen’s milky white skin. With her hair teased into looping ringlets and simple gold jewellery, she looked beautiful. Solam was in black. It was hard to think of a more glamorous or photogenic couple. The newspapers and magazines would go wild.
Jen looked at Kemi. There was still an echo of shyness between them that would probably always be there, she thought wistfully. Kemi was wearing a short-sleeved red lace dress with a delicately scalloped hem. Her hair was long and straight, pulled back into a high ponytail, making her cheekbones stand out even more. Her nails were scarlet to match and she wore a pair of strappy black high-heeled sandals. She too looked radiant. It was mid-August, and although the air was cool, the day was flooded with brilliant, clear sunshine. It was exactly the right sort of day for a wedding.
‘Ready?’ Jen asked, biting her lip.
Kemi nodded. ‘Let’s go down. They’ll all be waiting.’
Jen stood up. In her silver high heels, she towered over Kemi. She put out a hand to steady herself. Kemi laid her own hand over hers. For a moment they stood in front of the mirror together: one short, one tall; one black, one white. There was a powerful uprush of feeling between them. Kemi squeezed her hand, hard. A strong sense of her own being flooded through her, leaving her trembling. Jen felt her eyes flood with tears, which she hurriedly blinked away. Then the moment passed and they walked out of the bedroom together.
The church was packed. There was standing room only at the rear. To address the imbalance between the bride and groom’s respective guest lists, the wedding planners had done away with tradition and guests were seated according to importance, political to the last. Jen was passed from cheek to cheek, hand to hand, arm to arm, embrace to embrace. The ululating cries of Solam’s relatives – the women – could be heard outside the church. Glasses were raised, flashbulbs went off, children cried. The wedding party moved slowly from the church to the cars for the short drive to the hillside Westcliffe Hotel where the reception would be held. There
were government vehicles, press cars, diplomatic licence plates, and a vast assortment of sleek, luxury cars. As they got into the waiting vehicles, a passage opened up between the cars that swiftly flowed closed again.
‘Happy?’ Solam asked her.
She nodded. ‘Very,’ she whispered. She looked out of the window at the crowds still pressing against the sides of the Mercedes. So many people. It was hard to imagine they’d all come just for her and Solam. Even now she found it hard to grasp how important he’d become. She caught sight of her father, his snowy white hair blown across his reddened forehead. He was talking to Oliver and Iketleng, both shadowed discreetly by bodyguards. She craned her neck to see if Kemi and Julian were following in the car behind, but there were too many people in the way.
‘Are you happy?’ she asked him, carefully watching his profile.
He turned his head and his face came round full upon her. A muscle trembled slightly in his jaw. It was a movement she knew well. It came upon him in moments of determined decision making. ‘Yes. This is only the beginning, Jen. You wait and see.’
66
‘It went very well, don’t you think?’ Julian said, tugging at his belt to remove his trousers. They were finally back in their plush hotel room. It was past midnight by the time the driver had dropped them at the front door.
Kemi paused in the middle of unzipping her dress. She’d kicked off her shoes in the car and walked through the hotel lobby in her bare feet, dangling them by her fingers. ‘She looked absolutely amazing,’ she said, struggling to release the zip all the way down.
