The Score. HJ Golakai
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all day and his window open, and at least his choices are imaginative. He deserves some credit for that.”
“How do you know it’s a ‘he’? Could be a very liberal, oversexed woman.” Chlöe stretched her legs and leaned back, craning her neck at an awkward angle to follow the exertions of the four nude actors on-screen. “On second thought, definitely a man. That’s way too much admin for any woman to find it remotely sexy.”
Vee handed her the Fanta, her favourite, watching in mildly repulsed fascination as she guzzled it, mat of hair thrown back, a trickle of orange sliding down her chin and staining her frowzy T-shirt. “Damn, Bishop. Not even two days and you’ve turned into a creature raised by wolves. Don’t ever turn poor for real ’cause you’d die on the spot.”
“Now you get it? What’s that saying of yours? Black people don’t camp because they have villages. Well, spoilt white people don’t camp because they have hired help.”
“You shame your Afrikaner heritage. Those pioneers trekked across –”
“Fuck that. This place is a dorp and it sucks ass. It’s literally making my skin crawl.” Chlöe scratched her scalp furiously. “I’m counting the hours till we hit the road. Please tell me we’re leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow, because for once I won’t mind.” She squinted down the grassy verge, past the easternmost cluster of chalets nearest the kitchen. An animated group of staff were gathered, talking and pointing. Vee made out Zintle in their midst, looking quietly confused. “What’s up over there?” Chlöe asked.
“I’ll fill you in later. Meanwhile, I just found out there’s some plehjay and merry-making going on tonight, some conference is ending. How you feel about being my date to a gate-crashing?”
Chlöe did a little jig of joy. “Yaaay! At least it’s something to break up the bloody monotony. God, that’s why I hate being in the boonies. Nothing ever happens.”
Vee watched a short man and stately woman, both civvies-clad and reeking of seniority, break from the uniformed gaggle and stride towards the chalet at the outermost fringe. A cluster of pink-with-grey-trimmers tiptoed behind them, Zintle in the rear, hem of her uniform pressed over her mouth.
“Stay tuned,” Vee mumbled.
Chapter Six
“I look like watta-police.”
Chlöe blew an exaggerated breath. “No, you do not look like a slut, young lady,” she replied, wagging a finger. “I look like a slut, which is perfect. You look … moderately immoral.” She could tell Vee wanted to kick up a fuss, but was worried their six-year age difference would count as ‘granny points’ against her. Truth be told, Chlöe secretly agreed that her legs did look rather long and exposed in her outfit, but was that ever a minus?
“I look like a thirty-year-old trying to act twenty.”
“You’re a thirty-year-old who looks twenty, never bitch about that. Why be bootylicious with great legs and scared to flaunt it?” She patted Vee’s shapely bottom. “Wear it well.”
“Bishop, you know damn well I’m not prudish but I’m wearing a shirt! With a scarf round the waist to make it look belted,” Vee tugged and loosened her purple silk scarf over her midriff to spare up breathing room, “but it’s still a shirt with a scarf.”
“Correction, shirtdress. Wearable as exactly that.”
“In 1985, yes.” Vee riffled through her clutch. “To hell with it, I’m glad I brought my tights ’cause I’m putting them on. Meanwhile, here you now lookin’ all foxy in my dress. How many times have I said, always pack a social outfit.”
“Okaaay, I forgot. But you weren’t doing it justice. No offence to your boobs or anything, very perky and all …” Chlöe laughed when Vee gave a mock gasp of shock and covered her chest. “Meisie, if you leave ’em lying around, I will look. But I’m saying, they’re ‘everywoman’ B-cup. While this dress needed these double-D bastards to really make it pop. In fact, can I have it?”
“You’ve ruined it forever, so help yourself.” Vee snapped the leggings up her thighs. “The Dolly Partons crush The Pointer Sisters once again. At this rate you’ll own half my closet.”
Chlöe sniggered in triumph, adjusting cleavage as Vee scampered around the hedge to the entrance. She watched with bated breath and some amusement as Vee engaged the door’s sentry. She twitched her hips and put on a winning smile. The man shook his head. She leaned in closer and murmured in his ear. He shook his head harder and straightened up, implacable. Vee slunk back.
“What the –”
“Let me try.”
Chlöe skipped round the hedge and up the stairs, innocence soldered onto her face. She tilted her chest to full voluptuous advantage as she toyed with curly wisps on the end of her French plait. She tossed in a joke and brushed her hand over his arm while he laughed. When finally he nodded, she wolf-whistled Vee over.
“Black man’s kryptonite,” Vee muttered in disgust, shoving her playfully as they entered. “You know he only cracked because you’re white, right?”
“Whatever. Chocolate isn’t everybody’s favourite flavour, my love. Some people like vanilla with a hint of strawberry.” Chlöe tossed her hair and waggled her tiny butt.
Vee snorted. “Shame on you, manipulating the system.”
“Hey, don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
“Well done, Grotto,” Vee murmured as they crossed the foyer, a space by leaps and bounds transformed. Dim lighting and fresh flowers disguised many an evil, but still the place looked good. “It hardly looks the same since I saw it this morning. These guys work fast.”
Chlöe handed her a glass of Chardonnay and took a sip of hers. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not a wall-jumper.” She popped a tiny cracker, stacked with colourful layers and sprinkled with parsley, into her mouth. “More importantly, before we get made by someone who doesn’t know us or think we should be here …”
“True. Let’s find out who’s throwing this thing. I’m more worried about someone who does recognise us. Not exactly part of our assignment, this.”
“Chill. What’re the chances –”
“I say, finegeh you nah easy o. Dah how you will jes pass by yor friends dem without even speaking sef?”
As one, they whipped around in the direction of the rich male voice, Chlöe perplexed and Vee openly floored. The lilt of Liberian pidgin in the middle of Oudtshoorn, or anywhere for that matter, was far from everyday.
“Wha’happin so, we made palaver or you’hn got no home training?” the man finished. The blonde woman on his arm looked bored, her only acknowledgement of their existence being a blink in their direction before she turned away.
Vee scoffed, breaking into an immediate grin. “Lovett Massaquoi.”
“How you been keepin’, Ol’ Ma, you awreh?”
“We thank God o, what to do.”
The peroxide blonde arm candy in tow detangled herself as if on cue and melted into the crowd with not a backward glance, leaving the man with Vee. Chlöe watched their exchange with uncontained interest; the two quick pecks on each cheek, followed by the smooth handshake that ended with a brief wrestling of their middle fingers and snap against their palms. The famously cool snapshake, which she was still struggling to master. As they stepped aside to let other guests filter in, outdoor lighting streaming through the sliding glass illuminated their corner.
Chlöe expelled a tiny gasp. The man’s face was … captivating. The landscape of his features was more hewn than crafted, like his maker had taken a machete to the bark of dark walnut, methodically yet somehow carelessly. His forehead, cheeks and nose appeared to rest on angular props that shifted in entrancing ways