Nhlanhla hesitated, and Keabetswe could tell that she wasn’t going to like what was coming. “You don’t have to be so hard on yourself. You’re the most responsible person I know. You can have a drink once in a while. You’re not going to turn into your mom.”
Keabetswe clenched her jaw. She hadn’t seen her mother in over a decade. After her parents’ divorce, she got used to the idea of being a daddy’s girl. She had no choice – her mother was too busy partying up a storm to visit her. “Don’t go there,” she warned her cousin. She flung open her closet and grabbed a pair of tracksuit pants and a T-shirt.
“I’m just saying . . .”
A frantic knock interrupted her, and Keabetswe heaved a sigh of relief as she pulled on her T-shirt.
“Now that’s definitely Phemelo.”
Nhlanhla walked back to the kitchen.
Keabetswe went to open the door and Phemelo hurried in, arms filled with books, magazines and bags.
“Hayi, she brought a whole bridal shop!” declared Nhlanhla, returning from the kitchen with a glass of wine.
Phemelo looked at her and smiled weakly. “Oh, hi. Good thing you’re here – I need all the help I can get.”
“I thought we were looking at fabric swatches,” said Keabetswe, holding up a bridal magazine.
“Fabric swatches, flower arrangements, invitation card designs . . .” Phemelo sank into the nearest armchair. “I’m so stressed out! I need to send the invitations out by the end of the week and I can’t decide between embossed silver paper and engraved baby-blue paper.”
“Well, at least you’re losing weight,” remarked Nhlanhla.
Keabetswe looked at the jumbled pile of things on the coffee table in dismay. “I still don’t understand why you’re putting yourself through all this,” she said. “All you need to do is pick a colour scheme and stick to it. You wanted white and light blue.”
“Yes, but there’s ivory, cream, silver-white. And . . .” Phemelo reached into one bag and pulled out a pile of swatches. “Look how many shades of light blue there are!”
“They all look the same to me.” Keabetswe emptied out the bags and spread the contents across the coffee table.
Nhlanhla snickered and hid a smile behind her wineglass. “Kea has no imagination.”
“Who needs imagination?” Keabetswe countered. “It’s a wedding, not a pantomime.” She could never understand why people went to so much trouble to get married. She had no intention of ever walking down the aisle, but if she did, she would at least have the good sense to save herself the drama and just make a quick stop at the magistrate’s office.
“Such a cynic,” sighed Phemelo. “One day you’ll fall in love, Kea, and then you’ll understand.”
“I’ve been in love. It was fun while it lasted, but I never once had the desire to put myself through all this.”
“But your wedding day is the most important day of your life,” said Phemelo.
“Really?” Keabetswe flipped carelessly through one of the magazines, wincing at the elaborate gowns and their ridiculous price tags. “I thought other rites of passage might make the top of the list. You know, like graduating from varsity, landing your dream job, buying your first car.”
“Having your first child,” added Nhlanhla.
Keabetswe shuddered, but Phemelo’s gaze had grown misty.
“Phenyo and I said we would give ourselves a year, but I’m not sure we can wait that long,” she confessed. “I’m hoping for a girl.”
“Good luck with that,” said Keabetswe, closing the magazine and tossing it aside. “As long as you don’t expect me to babysit.”
Phemelo made an impatient sound as she tried to arrange the pieces of fabric on the table. “Ke’eng ka wena? Why do you hate kids so much?”
“I have no problem with them,” Keabetswe protested, “as long as they keep their distance.” She turned her attention to the swatches. “Okay, enough talk. Where do you want us to start?”
Nhlanhla approached the coffee table. “I’ve never seen so many swatches in my life.”
“Oh, these are only for the bridesmaids’ dresses,” said Phemelo.
Keabetswe and Nhlanhla exchanged horrified glances. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
There was a buzz of excitement in the air when Keabetswe walked into Peckham Gould the next morning. She left her things on her desk and knocked on the door of Esme’s office.
“Good, you’re here,” said her boss. She was just hanging up the phone. She perched on the edge of her desk, her long, pale legs crossed at the knee. There was a glint in her eyes, and her trademark red lips were curled in a smug smile.
Keabetswe knew something was up, and it was probably good news. “New client?” she guessed.
Esme laughed. “And I thought I was going to surprise you. Ja, I just got off the phone with him. He’s been looking for a place for the last month and hasn’t found anything suitable yet.”
“Great!” Keabetswe beamed. “Maybe I can finally get rid of the Miller house. What’s his price range?”
Esme rolled her eyes. “Money is no problem for this man, trust me.” She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to know who it is?”
“Sure.” Keabetswe flipped open her notebook, ready to record whatever useful information her boss was going to provide.
“Oagile Motsumi.”
“Right.” Keabetswe’s pen scratched across the page. She was halfway through writing the name when it hit her. Her head snapped upwards. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You mean the Oagile Motsumi? The architect?”
“I thought you might like that,” said Esme, a triumphant note in her voice. She stood up and walked around her desk, settling into her chair. “Yes, the architect.”
Keabetswe blinked, stunned. “Wow.” Then her features creased into a frown. “But that doesn’t make sense. Why would a successful architect need a real estate agent?”
“That was my first question too,” Esme admitted. “After all, he could live in any of the obscenely expensive houses he’s designed, right? But it turns out the man is a lot more traditional than his work would suggest.” She tapped away at her computer for a moment. “He sent me an e-mail with detailed specifications of what he’s looking for. Ah, here we go. ‘Simple double-storey town house, very little glass or steel, large grounds.’ ”
An image of Motsumi’s most recent design flashed into Keabetswe’s mind. It was an office building with glass and steel everywhere. It had meaningless structures jutting out from it at odd angles, and looked a little like a spaceship about to take off. She snorted. “Are you sure he sent you the right e-mail?”
Esme laughed. “I was surprised too, but who are we to argue? The man wants an old-school town house.”
“The Miller house fits his specifications exactly,” Keabetswe mused. She gave Esme a hopeful smile. “Did one of the others beat me to it?”
“No, you’re in luck. You’re handling the Miller house, and I want it out of the way as soon as possible. Motsumi won’t be afraid of a two-year-old bloodstain.”
“We hope,” said Keabetswe drily. She was excited at the prospect of working for Oagile Motsumi. She had never met him, but she had read an interview or two about the brooding, mysterious architect with a penchant for the avant-garde.
“This