Nandi’s plan that morning was to get as much administrative work out of the way as possible and leave the office early; a visit to the hair-and-nail salon was overdue. She was also meeting with Zaza in the afternoon for drinks and to discuss the progress of her upcoming wedding in January. They were having a small ceremony, hundred and sixty guests, but the details of the event were starting to take their toll on her, not to mention the enemies she had created in the process of trimming down the guest list. Though the wedding venue was confirmed (a charming farm on KZN’s north coast with acres of rolling sugar cane fields and breathtaking views of the Indian Ocean), the bridesmaids’ dresses nearly complete, the wedding bands picked, a week-long honeymoon in Phuket, Thailand, confirmed and paid for, and the invitations sent out, the list of things requiring her attention was growing longer with each passing day. Her wedding gown, bought at a bridal trunk show while she attended a conference in New York City, needed minor alterations. The menu for the reception dinner was under heavy debate between herself and her mother. And they hadn’t chosen the cake yet. She enjoyed the full support of family and friends, but she couldn’t help wondering how brides managed to come through the experience poised and smiling. To her, preparing for the wedding was proving to be harder than writing an accounting board exam.
Thinking about the wedding reminded Nandi of the nightmare she’d had earlier that morning. She felt a chill run down her spine. It was only a bad dream, nothing to agonise about, she told herself. The wedding plans were on track and her beloved Thomas was at her side.
Thomas.
She was still pissed off at him and that cow called Pinky and the whole state of affairs. One thing was certain, it was time to put diplomacy aside and tackle the problem with the ex-girlfriend head-on. She was no coward. She could play dirty too. Pinky brought out something evil in her. She had always thought that should she find herself in the unfortunate position of becoming involved with someone who had a child from a previous relationship, she would rise to the challenge and make the best of the situation and create a happy atmosphere for the extended family. Being the professional that she was, she had attempted to forge an acceptable relationship with Pinky, bent over backwards trying to make things smooth between them for Thomas’s sake. But the woman was impossible. Her and Thomas’s engagement had inflamed an already dire situation. Even the polite pleasantries she and Pinky occasionally shared had vanished completely. Pinky was waging a war against her.
There was a tap on the door and Sonja stepped inside. She walked over to Nandi and stood by the desk, her hands on her hips. Nandi winced at the body language. She knew it only too well; it was a sure sign of trouble.
“Are you giving me a cold shoulder?” Sonja demanded.
“Morning, Sonja,” Nandi said. She stood up and hugged Sonja. “No, I’m not snubbing you, my dear friend. I just want to deal with this paperwork; it’s been piling up for some time now and I’m starting to lose things. How is this Friday morning treating you, Mrs Wort? I must say you look absolutely stunning. Who do you have on, girl?”
Of the forty or so female employees at Le Roux, Mathaba and Associates, Sonja Wort, Nandi’s team secretary, was one of the handful of people she regarded as a friend. They had known each other since Nandi started with the firm five years previously. They were among the veterans who remembered the time when the female head count was less than six and middle-aged white males ruled the office, when every woman’s name was Tjerrie.
Sonja was in her late thirties, with a razor-sharp tongue, and coloured, a label she deeply despised. A few years back she had visited New York City and amid the energy and buzz of Times Square had crossed one of the streets without looking. A black guy in a Hummer had shouted, “Stop parading your fat black ass and get off the fuckin’ road!” Anybody else would have been offended by the statement, but not Sonja. She was elated. It had taken twenty hours on the plane, disorienting jet lag and a five-dollar trip on the downtown subway for her to temporarily lose the offensive label that had followed her all her life.
“Sonja W Creations, dear, it’s my latest range.” Sonja pivoted like a runway model, strutted a few steps and made an elaborate bow. Nandi clapped dutifully. “Isn’t it gorgeous? I’m expecting compliments from every person who sees me in this dress. Flip, it took me three months and the fabric set me back a couple of thousand rands. But what can I say? It’s the price of beauty.”
“The price of beauty indeed, and so worth it,” Nandi said. “I’m impressed. I think you’re ready to take the South African fashion industry by storm. Move over, David Tlale, here come Sonja W Creations.”
“You think so?”
“If you want it enough, I don’t see why it can’t happen,” Nandi said. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you design a dress for me to wear when I go over to Thomas’s family in Polokwane after the wedding?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“I guess I can do that.”
“Good, work out the costs and let me know when you want to take my measurements,” Nandi said.
“Costs? Who said anything about money? You’re my friend. I’ll make the dress for free.”
“Sonja, rule number one of becoming a successful businesswoman: do away with giveaways and discounts to friends and family. Treat everyone as a normal paying customer. You work for an accounting firm, darling, you should know nothing is free.”
“Got it, madam advisor,” Sonja said.
“Good, because I’ll be watching you.”
Sonja was quiet for a moment. She took a long look at Nandi, and the expression on her face was one of apprehension. Then she spoke quietly. “I have something to tell you.”
“What?” Nandi asked, unfazed by Sonja’s change of mood. There was only one word to describe Sonja Wort: melodramatic. She reacted to everything with the exaggerated expressions and gestures normally reserved for stage actors.
Sonja cleared her throat several times before she spoke. “Someone called for you a few minutes ago. You weren’t here.”
“Did that someone leave a message?”
“Yes.” Sonja fidgeted with the pen and piece of paper in her hand, grimaced. “I’m not sure if I should tell you this. It’s kind of bad news.”
“Someone I know is dead?”
Sonja shook her head.
“In the hospital?”
“No, I don’t mean bad in that way.”
Nandi squeezed a smile. “What could possibly be worse than death?”
Sonja hesitated for a moment. “Chris Phakathi is around. He left these contact numbers. He said he tried your cellphone, but the number isn’t working. I told him you changed the number after he left. I refused to give him your new number.” Sonja reluctantly handed the piece of paper she was holding to Nandi. She furrowed her brow anxiously, watched her.
Nandi took the paper and studied it. The news was worse than death. A surge of heat shot up her face. Her heart was pumping so fast she began to feel light-headed; thousands of tiny stars flared up and floated by in dreamy patterns. She grasped