by Kuli Roberts
They were sitting in Brenda Archer’s plush new office, twice the size of her old one. Business was booming for her; she was involved in the casting not only of local productions but some major Hollywood movies being shot in South Africa. There was even talk of her being made a member of the American Academy. Arranged along one wall were photos of her with Donald Trump, Oprah Winfrey, Steven Spielberg and many other titans of the entertainment industry.
Brenda was now officially her agent, with Siren more than justifying the faith she’d placed in her. She was a valuable client, but today Brenda could give her no more than thirty minutes to discuss the ins and outs of her career. ‘Harvey Weinstein is flying in for a quick chat,’ she explained. ‘He’s preparing a movie in Cape Town, an interracial love story.’ The clock was ticking, Harvey would be waiting, and there was no time to waste.
‘OK, so this is the situation. Vusi Mangena, one of the former writers of Heritage, has been developing his own concept for a show, and I think it has a great deal of promise. I was actually representing Vusi as an actor, but between you and me his range is seriously limited to vacant pretty-boy roles, and there’s not a whole lot I can put him up for. Developing concepts, that’s where his real talent lies.’
‘So now he’s doing his own show,’ Siren said, sipping from her orange juice. ‘What does that have to do with me?’
‘He wants you for one of the lead roles. Asked for you specifically.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘But you know I’m locked in with Heritage. Taking on another drama series right now, it’s just not possible.’
‘I know that, but there’s no harm in talking. Vusi asked if you would meet with him. Building relationships for the future and all that.’
‘Sure, why not?’ Siren said, draining her glass. ‘Set it up.’
The Sandton City Hotel was a place that had once intimidated Siren with its lavish interior, the high roof and the glass elevators leading up to the rooms, but since her elevation to soapie royalty she’d enjoyed more than a few meals there. That Vusi Mangena had agreed to meet in such a place impressed her, as long as he was the one picking up the tab.
Vusi waved as she approached the bar area. He was sitting there with an older white man, and they both stood to greet her. ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Vusi said. ‘This is Richard du Ploy, my head writer.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Siren said, shaking their hands.
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ Richard said.
As they sat down, Siren cast a discerning eye over both of them. Vusi was rounder and shorter than she’d expected, not at all the good-looking hunk Brenda had described. On the other hand, Richard was a tall drink of a man, his greying hair swept back from his face; in middle age, he’d retained what had clearly been youthful good looks.
‘I know you’re very busy,’ Vusi said. ‘Thanks for making the time.’
‘Well, Brenda made it all sound very exciting.’
Vusi laughed a little at this. ‘She can be extremely persuasive when she wants to be.’
‘That’s what I pay her for.’ She turned to Richard. ‘Mr du Ploy, what is your background?’
‘Originally advertising, but I’ve always dabbled in television. Wrote some episodes of The Crown some years back.’
She’d heard about the mining series with its all-white cast. ‘You mean in the good old days,’ Siren said with the barest hint of a smile. ‘When in most of your dramas you pretended black people didn’t exist.’
‘Hardly that, but yes. Thank God things are a little more democratic these days. So when Vusi approached me with this idea, I could immediately see the dramatic possibilities.’
Vusi cut in. ‘And we should make it clear from the outset, we see this as being very much in competition with Heritage.’
‘Which is why I couldn’t possibly consider doing it.’
This seemed to rub Vusi the wrong way. ‘So why are you here?’
Her smile felt short of being apologetic. ‘I think you knew the chances of me taking the part were slim.’
‘Slim, yes. Not impossible.’
‘Mr Mangena –’
‘Please – call me Vusi.’
‘Vusi, if life teaches us anything, it is that nothing is impossible.’
Vusi was only slightly soothed. ‘But impossible always takes a little longer. And time is something we don’t have.’
Siren was just about to respond when Richard du Ploy intervened. ‘Siren, maybe you can tell us – is it OK If I call you Siren?’
‘It’s what most of the country calls me.’ She smiled, lulled by his placating tone.
‘Siren. Maybe you can say what you need to hear from us, to give us at least an outside chance of making the impossible possible.’
His turn of phrase amused her. ‘Well, maybe you could start by telling me what hopes you have for the project.’
‘World domination,’ Richard said, and even Vusi had to laugh at that. ‘I may be overstating it a little, but not by much. We will replace Heritage as the number-one local TV programme. Our seven-thirty slot is perfect for us, and we’re already attracting major advertisers, just on the quality of the storyline and the scripts.’
He then proceeded to outline the basic premise of The Trigger: warring crime families in a fictional town in Gauteng, and the crusading lawyer who’s sworn to bring them down, the web of corruption thwarting her at every turn, and her marriage to a businessman more compromised than she realises.
As a concept, it was provocative and exciting, promising to raise the bar in the soapie world. Vusi had the occasional point to interject, but primarily it was Richard du Ploy’s show, and as he spoke Siren could see the scenes unfolding before her eyes.
‘What kind of money are you offering?’ she asked. A little brutal after such an impassioned pitch, but it was a question that demanded an answer.
‘I’m afraid we can’t offer you anything like what you’re getting at Heritage,’ Vusi said, hinting at some insight into her pay grade.
‘How much?’ Siren repeated, and then he told her.
It was close to half of her Heritage package. Vusi would surely know that.
Money matters were clearly not Richard du Ploy’s area of expertise, but still he had something to say. ‘We realise this is a modest proposition for you, but the room for growth is great. The Trigger is going to shake up local television, and we’d love to have you along for the ride.’
Mabel had been staying with her for a week, taking a break from her Camps Bay house, which was being renovated in preparation for the following summer.
‘You’re home late.’
‘I told you, I had a meeting in Sandton.’
‘And how was it?’
‘Actually, not bad.’ As she had many times before, she related the events of her day, particularly her meeting with Vusi Mangena and his eloquent head writer. ‘It’s a really interesting project, but it’s new, a start-up. Could go either way, and prime-time television can be such a minefield.’
‘But you think the meeting went well.’
‘Actually, at some point it was going nowhere fast, but this guy Richard, he spoke so passionately about the show I nearly signed up on the spot. But I could never. They just don’t have the money.’
‘So who’s this Richard?’
‘I don’t know. The head writer. Some white guy. Middle-aged, been in the industry for ages. Tall, good-looking. Long hair.’
‘Sounds like some ageing apartheid hippy.’
‘Actually, he was quite impressive. Richard du Ploy, I think his name is.’
And that was when her mother seemed to slump, as if assaulted by a mysterious ailment. She lowered herself into a chair, holding her stomach, mouth gaping as if she couldn’t breathe.
‘Ma, what is it? What’s wrong?’ Bending down, she could see the tears falling from Mabel’s eyes, staining her cheeks.
‘Richard du Ploy,’ she fin
ally said, struggling to get the words out. ‘I haven’t heard that name for nearly thirty years.’ And then, placing her hands on her daughter’s, she looked her straight in the eye. ‘My angel, I have something I have to tell you.’
Mother and daughter sat close together as Mabel spoke about Richard, his cottage in the garden and how he had seduced her. ‘I never expected to hear his name again, but maybe it was stupid to think that.’
Betraying little emotion, Siren listened to all her mother had to say, holding her hands to comfort her. And it really was Mabel who needed the comforting. In many ways it made perfect sense. There was Richard du Ploy in her mind’s eye, selling the concept of The Trigger to her. Richard du Ploy. Her father.
Over the years, she’d speculated about her mystery dad, wondered who he was, whether he was alive or dead. But it hadn’t mattered that much, because wherever he was, he wasn’t with her. Her mother had always been there, through good times and bad, and that was what truly counted.
And who was Richard, anyway? An elegant man of some intelligence who had pitched her a moderately good idea.
‘You must not work with these people,’ she heard Mabel say. ‘It would not be good for you.’
‘They don’t have the money to pay me.’
‘Thank God for small mercies.’
For Siren, there was something fundamentally wrong with the whole situation, something wrong with her. She was the one consoling her mother, but it should have been the other way round. Why was she not destroyed by this?
The first thing in the morning, before Mabel woke, she called her agent. ‘Yes, Brenda, I know it’s bright and early, but that’s just the way I like it ... yes, the meeting went well, and yes, the money’s no good, just like you said. And yes, I want to do it. Make the deal.’
To say that all hell broke loose would be an understatement. Siren’s contract was up for renewal, and it had been understood that there would be negotiations for new terms. The news that Siren would not be renewing hit the Heritage offices with the force of a sledgehammer. At emergency meetings, it was agreed that they would raise their offer, but Brenda Archer carefully explained that this time it was not about money and that Siren was ‘moving on to pursue new challenges’.
Caesar Mabaso issued a statement, read out by Gunther at a press conference: ‘The Heritage universe is far bigger than any one actor or actress. At the end of her contract, Siren is free to pursue any avenues she wishes. The Heritage production team wish her all the best with her new endeavours.’
In private, he was not so gracious. ‘You are a fool,’ he told her, standing in the hallway of her house. ‘So silly and very short-sighted. And why would you go with these Trigger people? Vusi was a crap writer when he worked for me and, as far as I can see, nothing has changed.’
It had not yet been formally announced that she was going to The Trigger, but the industry was small, and it was hard to keep anything undercover for long. Normally an even-tempered man, Caesar was showing signs of losing it. ‘You think everything revolves around you. Heritage made you! You have betrayed me and everything I stand for,’ he said, wagging his finger in her face. ‘You will pay for this!’
‘I’m already paying for it!’ she shot back. ‘A lot of things will have to change, but I’m ready for it. It’s something new, a challenge. Why can’t you be happy for me?’
‘Happy for you?’ His expression suggested the very notion was absurd. ‘How can I be happy when all you have done is shit all over me?’
‘That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? I’m moving on, taking another step in my career. You helped me find the courage to do that, and I will always be grateful.’
He was in no mood to be mollified. ‘Please, do not patronise me. I made you, I gave you your name, I gave you your career. But I will not be the one to take you down. You will do that all by yourself, when this wannabe TV drama crashes and burns.’ And with that he was gone, trying to slam a large carved wooden door that refused to slam.
It was proposed that Siren would work a three-month notice period, giving the writers adequate time to conjure up credible exit strategies for her character. This was unacceptable to Caesar Mabaso, who came out of self-imposed seclusion to work with the writers and come up with an exit that could be executed far quicker.
And so it came to be that Khanya, the usurper of her rival Fezeka’s position as head of the family, was found floating face-down in her swimming pool. At first it was ruled suicide, but then certain clues pointed to murder. No guesses as to who the main suspect would turn out to be.
For Siren herself, the exit was swift and painless. They didn’t even need her to be the body in the pool. Another week of shooting and she was done.
PART FIVE – SIPHO
2014–2016
Chapter 19
THE BEGINNING OF anything significant is never easy.
There are the inevitable growing pains, the disagreements, the doubts, the frustrations, the failures. All of this and more was evident on the set of The Trigger, the latest entry into the South African soapie stakes.
The level of disorganisation was something Siren was not accustomed to. Heritage was a well-oiled machine, churning out soapie product at a rapid rate. On the Trigger set, things ran less smoothly. Schedules were not adhered to, costume fittings didn’t happen when they were supposed to.
One area that did seem to run relatively smoothly was the script department. Richard du Ploy had put together a team of young, inexperienced writers whose scripts he shepherded from the storyline stage to the outline and then the first draft.
She ended up spending a lot of time with him, talking through storylines while they shared their thoughts on her character and where they both thought she was going. She found herself asking about Richard’s family, and he mentioned his wife and how they hadn’t been able to have children despite IVF procedures. ‘At some point we gave up, figured it just wasn’t for us. I suggested adoption, but Flo, she wasn’t keen.’
There were times when he asked about her life, and it was relatively easy to mention her mother without arousing suspicion. There was really nothing to connect the dots, to make him realise that the daily drama series he wrote for had uncovered secrets long buried. Certainly, they didn’t resemble each other. She thought she caught some similarity around the eyes, but that could just be projection.
Mabel would come nowhere near the set, and Siren was thankful for that; the last thing she needed was a bitter reunion between her mother and father on the set of South Africa’s future number-one TV programme.
The rift between mother and daughter was slight, but affected them both. They had been a constant presence in each other’s lives, and it hurt Siren when Mabel returned to Camps Bay with things not really resolved. They still talked almost every day on the phone, but something was off. Certainly Mabel could not understand why her daughter had taken the Trigger job, knowing the situation. Whatever was she playing at?
The truth was, Siren did not have a clue. All she knew was that she was enjoying being part of the creation of something. Caesar was right about Vusi – he wasn’t a great writer – but then he didn’t need to be when he had Richard, and he was proving to be a motivated and innovative head writer.
Things were moving ahead, but when Siren heard that Sipho Dumisa had been cast as the head of the crime family in The Trigger, she balked a little. His reputation as something of a hellraiser preceded him. The tabloids were kept busy with stories of his exploits, from challenging the president of the Republic of South Africa to a drinking contest (Sipho lost), to waking up in the Royal Suite of the Lost City with a woman he could not remember meeting but had evidently proposed to (she sued him for breach of promise, and after appearing on the front page of the tabloids received an out-of-court settlement). As an actor, the man was skilled; as a human being he was clearly a liability, or at least that was how Siren saw it.
‘We need him,’ Richard told her, sensing her doubts. ‘He’s
a name, and there’s something about his lovable-rogue reputation that suits the character he’s playing. The camera loves him, and he’s a more than competent actor. He may be a pain in the ass, but he makes up for it with his talent.’
‘He makes me nervous.’
‘Give him a chance. We need the two of you to get along.’
The day of the first read-through was a day never to be forgotten. Everybody was on time except for Sipho, who rocked up nearly an hour late, putting everybody on edge.
If first impressions are everything, Sipho did his best to make a bad one. The first time Siren saw him that morning, she thought he looked unbelievably ugly and more than a little the worse for wear. Anger flashed in her eyes as she spoke. ‘Mister Dumisa, good to see you. Maybe next time you won’t keep us waiting.’
His casual chuckle annoyed her, but there was that smile – it transformed a face that wasn’t conventionally beautiful, but had a character all of its own. ‘It’s a real pleasure to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’ve enjoyed your work.’
‘Enjoyed my work? Really?’ Siren’s laugh was shot through with sarcasm. ‘OK, that’s just bullshit.’
His face was suddenly serious. ‘I never bullshit about acting. Our business is full of chancers who think they can fake their way through. There is nothing fake about you.’
He was ten years older than her and looked it, but there was no doubting his acting ability. His critics scolded him for wasting his talent on soapies and sordid melodramas, but his career was far from over, and he was still delivering the goods.
At that first read-through, Siren was impressed by his commitment and professionalism. As they traded lines, they were both combatants and allies, working together while their characters tried to tear each other apart.
Vusi was all smiles by the end of the read-through. ‘I think we’ve really got something here.’
She could not have agreed more.
It was all going the way it was supposed to, but there was something else going on, something that transcended the work. On screen, they were bitter rivals working for the other’s destruction, but between the characters they played there was an attraction that could not be denied.