‘It was more like, you know, when was the last time you had a date?’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ve got one tonight, for your information.’
‘Oh yeah? Me too. Unfortunately, it’s dinner with my sisters. Obligotainment.’ I open the fridge to see if there’s anything to snack on in the interim. It’s another hour and a half before I’m supposed to meet them at Simon’s Town station.
Jane gives in. ‘All right, mine too. I’m meeting my boss.’
‘Oh really? You got something going on?’
She flushes, the swathe of pink swallowing up her freckles. ‘No, I’m handing over some files. We’re talking career prospects. You know, where to go from here.’
‘Mmm-hmmm.’ There’s nothing in the fridge. Unless I feel like eating a wodge of butter.
‘And you?’ she asks.
‘And me what?’
‘I heard you’re getting bumped up.’
‘It’s not a big deal. More of a step sideways than up.’
‘Lead software designer, though. You’re young to take that on. Twenty-three?’
‘And three-quarters.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry, you know how little kids say that. Puffing themselves up. Always looking forward to the next year.’
‘Well, it sounds like it’s going to be a good one for you.’
‘I think it’ll be all right. Hey, do you want to get baked?’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, you know, I could do with something to take the edge off. You do smoke, right?’
‘The legal stuff.’ She snickers. ‘Mostly. You know, you’ve never asked me before.’
‘I thought you were too stuck-up.’
‘And I thought you were a ruthless bitch.’
‘Now you’re saying I’m not? Nice. Insult me in my own home.’
‘What did you think about the terrorist thing?’ she asks, while I roll a neat joint of corpissue Dormor, sprinkled with a touch of sugar, which is decidedly not pre-approved.
‘The gallery? I saw Toby’s cast. It was pretty retarded. Not the cast, I mean; the attack.’ Jane is quiet and then she says, ‘It frightened me. That they could be so bold, you know? So arrogant.’
‘It was supposed to, Jane. It’s a big splashy press release. They want you to think that your happy little status quo isn’t as safe and cosy as you assume. Of course, there are better ways to do it.’
‘What do you mean?’ I take a toke and hand her the joint.
‘I’m saying if I was a terrorist, I’d up the stakes. Billboard smears? Art galleries? Retarded. They’re not terrorists. They’re idiots. You give them way too much credit.’
Kendra
Jonathan prises apart the carcass of another prawn, a real one, with curled scratches of legs, not the gen-mod easy-peels – which makes it expensive. So expensive, there are conspicuous intimidating blanks on the menu where prices would normally appear. It’s a species removed from the café fare and readymeals I’m used to, or even the upmarket where Jonathan has taken me before – and a whole genus away from my cooking. But I’m secretly disappointed, and somehow that’s more satisfying than if it had lived up to my expectations.
Despite it being my first time, despite the ultraglam pink Black Coffee dress Jonathan sent over by courier to the house this afternoon, and the industria minimalism of the décor, fit for any of the style mags with its bare-stripped walls and sharp white scatterlights like an interrogation room, it’s not what I’d imagined. Even Naledi Nxumalo, sitting at a table opposite us, where she’s pointedly not talking to the rugby captain whose name eludes me, is strangely inadequate in person, like she’s a watercolour version of the woman in the soap, somehow diluted by the assertions of the purposely dilapidated interior.
The waiter greets Jonathan by name, which tells me he’s a regular. I’m still feeling frayed and stunned from the newscasts and Toby’s extra report, but I ask anyway, ‘Why haven’t you ever brought me here before?’
‘Why haven’t you, sweetheart?’ He’s intent on his dismemberment, deftly cracking the carapace open and scraping out the meat.
‘I couldn’t even get into this place as a waitress. I don’t think I could afford the breadsticks.’
‘I didn’t want to spoil you.’ His oversize fingers scrabble in the remains. ‘But you know,’ he pecks at his mouth with the linen napkin, ‘now that you’re famous, I expect you to keep me in the manner to which I’m accustomed.’
‘So I get to keep you?’ This comes out more clingy than I intended, but Jonathan takes it in his stride.
‘It’s a little-known fact that you can determine the appropriate time to introduce philosophy into the conversation by using the number of glasses of wine already imbibed as a measurement. And Kendra, my love, we are still at least three glasses shy of being anywhere near that mark. Not least because you are not drinking. Or not anything alcoholic, at least.’
‘I think you’re covering for both of us.’
‘I don’t think I have ever been in a situation where I’ve been forced to pay corkage on a soft drink. We may never be able to return here. So take it all in! While you can.’
‘You know I’ll pay for it. Don’t be patronising.’ If I sound defensive, it’s because I am. Even if the maitre d’ hadn’t handled it with excruciating courtesy that was more telling than a smirk or arched eyebrow.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Not when you already have a patron encouraging your dreadful habit.’
I raise my glass in mock salute and take a long slow sip of Ghost to irritate him. ‘At least it’s not heroin.’
‘I don’t know. I believe heroin can be very stimulating, creatively. And very credible with that whole artist culture thing. You know, we need to cash in on your cachet. We can only coast so far on the scandal. Maybe a lesbian affair with Nkosi, in the wake of her devastation.’
‘You’re a mean drunk. You should stop. ’
‘Someone has to. Or would you rather I switched to your beverage of choice?’ He leans across and takes my glass. ‘Does it have any effect on us mortals?’
‘No. It’s just a soft drink. It’s how it interacts with the nano. Didn’t Andile tell you?’
I don’t know why I entertained the concept for one instant that there was something I could accomplish on my own. I’m furious for not guessing this was Jonathan’s doing from the start, for not recognising the mark of his blunt fingers.
Of course he was the one who recommended me to Andile, old colleagues from when he used to shoot the Nokia Fash Week catalogues. It could just as easily have been any other young up-and-coming. I’ve tried to explain how he’s undermined me, but Jonathan just laughs and trudges out hackneyed clichés about how it’s who you know.
‘Or,’ I snap, ‘who you’re sleeping with.’ Not that we’ve slept together since I had the procedure done.
He tells me I’m too tense, and I am. The articles are freaking me out, but this is something I can’t forgive him, because, dammit, this was supposed to be mine.
He takes a sip. ‘Ugh. That’s nasty. The limevanilla’s quite nice, but the aftertaste. It’s so chemical.’ He thrusts it back at me. ‘I suppose you’re right, though. The lesbian affair is very passé. Right up there with the heroin thing, and you’re a new breed. My little art star.’ He leans over the table to kiss me, awkward.
‘You mean, your meal-ticket.’
‘Same thing. So, how are we going to build on your first success? What’s next? You said something about street kids and their pitiful possessions? Oh, Kendra. Don’t cry.’ He is more impatient than sympathetic.
‘I’m not crying,’ but denying it only makes my face slip more.