The Score. HJ Golakai
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flicked through her mental archive. “Mossel Bay?”
“Further. Out in the south-western Cape, Klein Karoo country. The Grotto Lodge is a two-star establishment out there, and they’re gunning for their third this year. They put on their best face when we held the World Cup here last year, and still didn’t get it. They’re not giving up this year, and that means all the stellar reviews they can get.”
He pushed over a thin manila folder, opened to a brightly coloured pamphlet. “Looks nice enough. Apparently it was a hotspot during the soccer, though why anyone would want to be marooned on any stretch of the Garden Route when it was pissing down at kick-off last June is beyond me. Bloody tourists … never give a damn about realities like the weather.” Sighing, he rubbed his eyes hard enough to wrinkle his forehead. “It’s gone up in the revolving door ratings with the number of tourists and ministers’ wives that have been passing through. If they need more positive spin, it can’t hurt. They get publicity, we get advertising.”
She perused the leaflet. Adorning the front was a hulking, rustic building of indeterminate architectural style squatting amongst some dusty boulders. ‘Quaint’ was the first word that leapt off the blurb inside. She closed it. The look she shot him was an admixture of ‘I’m not following you’ and ‘I think I am, but you can’t be serious’.
Van Wyk looked weary. “Look, I’m sure you’re aware of Lynne’s being on maternity leave. Again. She’s all we’ve got on travel and tourism right now. The usual piece on accommodation hotspots can’t marinate till she gets back. It needs wrapping up.”
Wide-eyed, Vee shot, “And who say I know about travel writing? I’hn know nuttin about it o, I beg you. I can’t even whip up a dozen synonyms for ‘picturesque’.”
He almost smiled this time. “It’s a tad more involved than that.”
“And I’hn know jack about what those involvements are.” She opened the folder, didn’t know why she had, and slapped it closed again. “Why can’t somebody from the arts and entertainment page handle it?”
“Because we’re stretched that tight.” He paused. “You’re well aware how it’s been finding capable free hands around here since we had to downsize, here and at Urban. You and Tinker Bell can step up for this.” He coughed. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I’m confident you two can handle this.”
“So …” Vee took an indignant pause. “This you’re volunteering me for. Yet you bar me from the crime desk full-time. When that’s the job I was promised.” She was whining but she couldn’t help it. Khaya Simelane and Andrew Barrow, autocrats of the crime page, had done a stellar job pissing on their tree to keep her out. “Even after all my courses on web media and editing, which I put to good use every day. But no, I still can’t join the online team that’s got only three people on it despite it being more popular than the print. Darren appreciates the extra help, but I can’t even contribute my two cents without issues. Because of Saskia.” Your top spy. Who you’re sleeping with, on top of your liquor problem. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if you got drinking problems because you messin’ round with her. But we only here to explore my shortcomings. She clamped her lips shut with her teeth.
“It’s complicated. Yes, I fully appreciate how empty that sounds. You were candid and emphatic in your interview about not being shunted through departments willy-nilly as you’d been at Urban. For the most part I’ve kept my word, but –”
“I know. It’s an emergency. Isn’t it always.”
Van Wyk replied with a long, granitic stare. She nodded, took the folder and got up.
“Hang on.” He folded his fingers and eyed the ceiling, as if toying with an idea. “I’ve been meaning to, and I guess now’s as good a time as any to ask. Did you take it?”
Vee frowned.
“Year before last, that case … with the hospital … and the crazy family …” He twirled a finger in the air, indicating she jump in to supply the elusive words. “The missing Paulsen girl,” he snapped his fingers finally. “The pay-off. That the mother offered you for your … diligent services. Did you take it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Johnson, come on,” he huffed. “Look, you’ve got something. First of all, you don’t play silly buggers, which,” he clasped his hands in gratitude, “goes a long way to making my life easier. Top reason I can’t stand working with women. Besides the melodrama and all the time off they need to pop munchkins, of which I’m bloody gatvol.” He sat up straighter. “What I’m getting at is, in a hive, you need to know your bees. I need to know my people. Now you know there’ve been whispers. And I know that you know that I’ve heard, and if I’ve heard, then I’ve speculated. I hate speculation. So …” he spread his palms. “You’d hardly be the first or last journalist to take an incentive if they felt it was deserved.”
Stock-still, Vee felt a nimbus of heat pluming between her eyes. “You joking me, right?”
Van Wyk shook his head.
“You must be joking me,” she insisted, surprised at the dangerous rasp in her voice. She stalked out of the office, almost slamming the door behind her.
Nico fiddled with a pen absent-mindedly for a few minutes before reaching for the landline. It rang twice on the other end before it was picked up.
“Ja, Kruger? It’s me.”
A sigh blew in his ear. “What?”
“Nice to hear from you too. Tell me …” He paused. “Where exactly is this venture of yours headed?”
“Of ours. Venture of ours,” Portia Kruger corrected. It sounded like she was chewing. “Don’t make it sound so dramatic. What happened?”
“We had a chat.” A loud groan vibrated in his eardrum. “She stormed out of here. Probably to go stick pins in my voodoo doll. In the groin area. Where’s she from again . . aren’t they all black magic-y over there?”
“Don’t be a racist dick, it’s not cute.” Another sigh. “She’s not on the crime desk, so she’s near wit’s end. You want performance, make her fight you for it.”
“I want her to do her job.”
“Which she has been. But you want more. It’ll take a second. In the meantime, can you stop bringing up that incident? It’s a dirty rumour. I’m pretty sure she kept her nose clean.”
“Pretty sure? I need to trust my staff. I can’t have a poisoned apple in here.”
“Geez, such a drama queen.”
“And don’t you forget I did this as a favour to you.”
“Bollocks. You did it for yourself. You wanted her over there, you actively poached her, now you live the dream.” There came a sound of slurping. “If that’s all, I’m quite busy. Goodbye.” The line went dead.
Nico snorted and replaced the receiver. “I bet you’re busy, running your girlie dishrag.” Nonetheless, he felt it allowable to be put in his place. For now.
Vee fumed in her cubicle for a quarter of an hour, eyes adrift out of the window as a pulse thumped in her neck. Finally, spewing a string of expletives under her breath, she grabbed laptop, handbag and keys.
“I beg your pardon?! Where’re you off to?”
She shoulder-bumped past Saskia and continued to the exit without a backward glance.
“Hey! What’s up?”
She stopped and whirled on Chlöe, unable to stop the mist building in her eyes, not caring if it showed.
Chlöe stepped back, mouth agape. “Yoh. Bosslady, what happened now? Why’re you leaving?”
“The interns’ meeting’s at two-thirty. You be there,”