Chapter 1
1
Gorata looked at her watch while pacing across her spacious office.
“The hand hasn’t moved since the last time you checked,” Amita said. “Why don’t you just go now? No one will notice, it’s nearly time to knock off anyway.”
Gorata sat back down at her desk. “It’s no use leaving now,” she said. “I need to collect Kelebogile on the way home. If I’m early, I’ll just have to sit outside school, waiting. And you know how those Soweto boys are, they’ll be touching my car and making it all dirty.”
Gorata pushed her long weave back. “Alfred will be out with a sponge and bucket before we leave for the restaurant. He can spot a fingerprint from fifty metres.”
They both laughed.
“I really don’t know why you date that guy. I’m surprised he doesn’t go around with that vile hand sanitiser all the Americans can’t live without,” Amita said, rolling her eyes at such craziness.
Gorata glanced at her friend lounging on the sofa, then quickly looked away. There was no need to add more facts to the growing pile of evidence her friends were collecting to prove that Alfred Williams might not be the right man for her.
But her silence didn’t matter. Detective Amita heard the truth between Gorata’s unspoken words. “Oh no! He does carry that sanitiser around!” she exclaimed. “He’s a number one weirdo. Jeez, you need to dump this guy.”
“Come on, he’s not that bad.” Gorata struggled to find something to use in his defence. “He’s an accountant. Your mother would love him.”
Even she could hear the desperation in her words.
But it was true: Amita’s mother would love Alfred. Although at this point her mother would love just about anyone who fell into the category “male” and didn’t have a police record.
Amita’s mother was frantic about the fact that an eligible Hindu woman like her daughter couldn’t seem to find a husband. What she wasn’t aware of was that Amita had no interest in finding one, wasn’t even looking and did her best to chase away every man her mother so patiently herded in her direction.
“My mother, my mother! If you have to resort to pulling out my mother as a trump card, you have some serious issues. My mother would accept just about anyone right now, even your mentally disturbed Alfred.” Amita let her head fall back off the side of the sofa, her long, thick hair nearly skimming the floor. “But really, you need to drop this fellow. It’s going nowhere and he’s just wasting your time.”
“Don’t you have some shares to sell or stock prices to analyse?” Gorata asked, getting annoyed. They both worked for Landmark Investments, a stockbroker firm. Gorata was the PRO and Amita a very reluctant though unusually successful stockbroker.
“Arghh! What are you now? Boss man, Mr Pilane? I’m tired and it’s Friday. Give me a break. I’ve more than sold my quota for the week.” Amita sat up on the sofa, suddenly animated. “I have an audition for Generations, did I tell you?”
Amita hated being a stockbroker, even though she was one of the best in the firm. She seemed to have a sixth sense for when to pull her clients out of a company just before it headed south and also when to buy up everything at rock-bottom prices from companies that, straight after, took off like rockets.
What she really wanted, though, was to get a permanent role in one of the local soapies. She was a soap opera addict – South African soapies, American soapies, British soapies; she even had a special channel to watch Indian soapies.
“What’s the part?” Gorata asked, leafing through a pile of papers with feigned interest. Even if it was Friday, and she desperately wanted to get home and get ready for her date, she was still at work.
“Patient number two. It’s non-speaking, but I’m lying in the hospital bed next to Karabo, so that’s something. I might get a chance to schmooze up a bit. Maybe we’ll become friends. Imagine! Me – friends with Karabo.”
“You’d best learn her real name before you start sharing cell numbers.”
“I know her real name isn’t Karabo. But it would be cool if I got the part, huh?”
Gorata looked at her watch again and said distractedly, “Yeah, that would be great . . . You know, he’s taking me to Chez Louis tonight? I could never afford that place. I don’t know how Alfred got a reservation. I heard it was booked up until like June next year.”
“Look, I’ll grant you that – the guy is handsome and he’s rich. But Gorata, think of being married to him for fifty years. How could you have kids, with his OCD? Children get dirty all the time. What will he do? Run them through a sterilising machine every day?”
“He’s not that bad. I like him. He can be fun.” Gorata stopped. Even she knew applying the word “fun” to Alfred was a stretch.
He’d grown up on the Cape Flats, and somewhere along the way from there to Joburg he’d decided to forget everything he ever knew. He remade himself. Alfred was the neatest, most health-conscious man she’d ever known. On top of that he was severely fashion-conscious and wouldn’t be caught dead in anything without a label. Of course, he expected the same of his girlfriend, so Gorata was supplied with clothes she’d only ever dreamed of owning.
But that wasn’t the thing that attracted her to him. Alfred was interesting and a pretty good kisser. They’d only gone that far, though, dating on and off for three months. But it was okay with Gorata. She was not ready for anything serious. She was working towards her goal.
She expected to be married to a successful South African man by the time she was thirty, which was two years away. She had a goal, she was implementing her plan, and she expected success. Simple and straightforward. One way or another, she always achieved her goals, so why would finding a husband be any different?
Gorata looked at her watch again. “Okay, time’s up. I’m out of here! You still coming to the house for brunch on Sunday?” she asked as she gathered up her handbag and car keys.
“Yes, I’ll see you then. Have fun at Chez Louis tonight,” Amita said with a heavy sigh. “I, on the other hand, will not be having fun. I have yet another blind date set up by my mother. I mean, how many Indian doctors are there in Joburg?”
* * *
Gorata rushed from downtown Joburg to Soweto to collect her housemate. Kelebogile taught Biology at Albert Luthuli Memorial Secondary School. She and Gorata had been best friends since Grade One.
Like most schools in the townships it was under-resourced, but Kelebogile would teach nowhere else. She was a dedicated, passionate teacher, even under these tough conditions. Gorata just hoped the administration knew what an asset they had in her.
Kelebogile came towards the car, followed by a group of girls in soccer uniforms. One carried her handbag, the other the huge leather bag which Kelebogile took everywhere and which Gorata jokingly called Lekuka. On any given day Lekuka might contain anything from a laptop to a jar of preserved frogs to be dissected, a tumbler of leftovers from the night before to be eaten hurriedly at lunch, or stacks of papers to be marked.
The diminutive Kelebogile looked dwarfed, surrounded by the secondary school girls.
“Hi!” she shouted through the open window of Gorata’s car while opening the back door so the girls could load her stuff in. “Okay, see you ladies tomorrow. Get to bed early. I want you ready to win!”
Kelebogile got in, shutting the door behind her. “Eish – ke lapile!”
“So you have a game tomorrow?” Gorata asked, pulling out into the road. Her friend coached the girls’ soccer team at the school.
“Yep. This year I have a good team, we might even win the region. Did you see those girls? They’re tough and serious. I’m excited. And I invited Mark