by Kuli Roberts
It was Sipho who first put it into words. ‘They hate each other with a passion, they want to destroy each other, but they want to fuck each other just as much,’ he said over lunch in the canteen. ‘But, of course, they never will. If that happened, it would all be over for both of them.’
That prompted a laugh from Siren. ‘I’m not sure I agree.’
‘Oh, really? Pray tell, oh Sweet Siren, what is really going on with these complex characters we are playing?’
Sweet Siren – he’d started calling her that. She kept meaning to ask him to stop, but somehow never got around to it. ‘They’re competitors,’ she said. ‘They recognise something in each other, some kind of ruthlessness, a passion for power.’
Sipho leaned back in a gesture of surrender. ‘Have it your way, Sweet Siren. Me, I think it’s a whole lot simpler than that. I think they just want to give each other a good fucking.’
‘You seem to like that word,’ Siren said, trying not to smile.
‘Fucking? Yes, why not? It’s a good word, functional. Gets right to the heart of everything. Don’t you like it?’
‘The word or the actual act?’
His smile was that of a conspirator as he leaned forward. ‘Both.’
‘Both are fine with me. Under the right circumstances.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said as they both returned to their food. ‘Have dinner with me.’
‘What?’
That cool, seductive smile. ‘You heard me. Let’s have dinner, you and me. The restaurant of your choice.’
‘We’re eating together right now.’
With his plastic spoon, Sipho fiddled with his beef stew and rice. ‘You call this food? This is mere sustenance to get us through the day, nothing more.’
‘No thanks. And besides, you’re really not my type.’
His eyes flashed with mischief. ‘You have a type? What is it? Pray tell, Sweet Siren.’
‘Whatever it is, you’re not it. And besides, I’m not sure I want to be seen out with you. The gossipmongers would have a field day.’
‘We wouldn’t be seen,’ he said, his confidence growing. ‘I know some quiet places. Out of the way.’
For the briefest of moments, she thought of ‘Zinger’ Baptiste and their first date in a quiet, out-of-the-way place. Zola had been more her type; certainly not some ageing, smarmy, over-the-top troublemaker who probably couldn’t even get it up. ‘I think it’s best to keep things professional,’ she told him. ‘Don’t want to mess with our onscreen chemistry.’
This seemed to please him. ‘Aha! So you agree that we do have chemistry. At least that’s something.’ And with that he stood, taking his plate with him. ‘Have to run through my lines for the afternoon. See you on set.’
And then he was gone, leaving her wondering why he hadn’t tried harder. Was she not worth at least some kind of effort to secure a dinner date? Not that she would ever have said yes. Working with him consumed enough of her being, expended so much of her energy, that there was no room for anything else.
When she arrived home the lights were on, and she remembered that her mother was visiting. The presence of the Porsche parked in the driveway was vaguely disturbing …
There was the sound of voices when she came into the kitchen through the back door. Her mother was laughing, sounding as happy as Siren had ever heard her. And there was a man’s voice, clear and distinctive. A voice she heard almost every day.
And there they were, sitting at the dining table, looking like two friends who’d known each other for years and were catching up on old times. When they looked up, she felt like an intruder, as if she somehow had no business being there. ‘Ah, there you are,’ Mabel said. ‘I’ve just been talking to your friend.’
For once, Sipho looked a little sheepish, and it didn’t suit him at all. ‘I just popped by.’
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Mabel said. ‘I thought you’d be home soon, so I invited him in.’
‘I had a dress fitting,’ she heard herself say, wondering why she was making excuses.
‘He hadn’t eaten and I was cooking pasta, so we ate together.’
‘Your mother truly is a wonderful cook,’ he said. ‘I brought wine, and persuaded her to join me in having a glass.’
Rarely had Siren seen her mother so animated and bubbly. ‘We’ve just been talking. He tells the most amazing stories.’
‘Does he now?’
‘This thing you’re working on, this series, it sounds great. He says you’re wonderful in it.’
‘You think I’m wonderful, Sipho?’
‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you that before.’
‘I think I would have remembered that.’
‘Well, anyway,’ her mother said, standing up. ‘I’m just going to clear away the dishes and leave you to it.’
‘Don’t worry about that, Ma. I’ll tidy up later.’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll be off to bed.’ She turned to Sipho. ‘It has been a pleasure meeting you. Please come again.’
He stood and took her hand, kissing it. ‘The pleasure has been all mine.’
Siren just stood there and looked at him, feeling a little out of sorts but at the same time consumed by a wave of wellbeing.
‘I think there’s a bit more wine,’ he said. ‘Will you join me for a glass?’
‘Sure.’
And there they sat, drinking, talking about everything and nothing. She meant to ask how he found out where she lived, but somehow it slipped her mind, because really it didn’t matter. He was there, and everything else was irrelevant.
When he finally left, some time after one, she didn’t want him to go. But he was doing the sensible thing, and at least one of them needed to be sensible, for there was work to think about, scenes to shoot, and whatever she was feeling would have to wait.
They’d been shooting for two months before the first episode of The Trigger aired. Expectation was high, with money spent on a nationwide publicity campaign.
The night the first episode aired, there was a massive launch party. Sponsors had been solicited to defray the costs, and the guest list was a veritable who’s who of South Africa’s entertainment elite. It was also the first night Siren and Sipho came out as a couple.
The press had a field day. Those who tried to dismiss their union as a shameless publicity stunt to boost ratings were quickly shot down by others who could see what was so obvious.
There were many angles to this story. Sipho, the notorious womaniser, showing his responsible side; Siren the soapie queen, who’d always seemed so committed to her work, displaying a different kind of affection. It had all come as a great surprise, and to no one more than Siren herself. She’d known nothing like this intensity of feeling before. It was scary, certainly, but inevitable. After that first evening at the house, it was clear to both of them that there was no other way to go.
For The Trigger, it was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the publicity surrounding their liaison catapulted the programme to somewhere near the top of the ratings, but both Vusi and Richard were afraid that the spike would be temporary, and that before long the public would tire of Siren and Sipho and stop watching.
They needn’t have worried. The storylines, the quality of the acting, the production values and most importantly the on-air chemistry between Siren and Sipho ensured that The Trigger resonated with audiences, and before long it was challenging Heritage for the number-one spot. For the happy couple, there were shoots for magazine covers, interviews on both radio and television. Wherever they appeared, they both seemed content and relaxed, at ease with their place in the world.
Chapter 20
‘WE’VE REALLY DONE it now,’ Sipho said after they made love for the first time.
‘What do you mean?’ Siren asked. They were lying on a rug in the living room of Sipho’s expansive but cosy townhouse, in front of a gas fire, their naked bodies covered with blankets to keep the winter chill at bay.
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br /> ‘Kristina and Ace,’ he said, referring to the characters they played on The Trigger: the seductively sadistic crime boss and the feisty lawyer determined to bring him down. ‘They’re finished now. All of that flirting, and it was all for nothing. They were never supposed to get it on.’
‘And they never will,’ Siren said, kissing him on those full, luscious lips she loved. ‘But Siren and Sipho – well, that’s a different story.’
It was already quite a way into their relationship, far later than anybody would have suspected. Siren had surprised herself with her reticence, sending him home after frantic and frenzied make-out sessions, driving herself home from his place late at night feeling all hot and bothered after he begged her to stay. What it was, she couldn’t really say. Perhaps she wanted this to be different from all that had come before; she needed their experience of each other to be somehow unique. And in the end it was different, although not really because of anything they did.
They’d been watching the latest episode of The Trigger, something they managed to do at least once a week, although in the past Siren had never really enjoyed seeing herself on the screen. When it came to her own performance, she’d always managed to see all of the flaws rather than anything positive. Watching with Sipho changed all that. ‘The trick is not to take it too seriously,’ he told her. ‘After all, what we’re doing up there on the screen is playing, pretending to be people we’re not. How can that ever be really serious?’
The episode had been particularly provocative, the sexual tension between their characters reaching new heights. Siren, as Kristina, had just found out that her husband had been unfaithful, sleeping with one of Ace’s lawyers, and now she’d come to Ace’s office, in part to accuse him of orchestrating the affair but also to look for some kind of sympathy. Her life was falling apart, and the only person she could turn to was her nemesis, the man she’d sworn to bring down. And of course Sipho as Ace took full advantage of the situation, coming up behind her and massaging her shoulders through the thin fabric of her blouse. Not unaffected by the gesture, she began to turn towards him, but quickly moved away, aware that she was close to compromising herself, to crossing the line.
‘That was the moment,’ Sipho told her, pulling her body close to his on the sofa as they watched. ‘He had his chance. When will it ever come again?’ He was caressing her shoulder, as his character had been doing to Siren’s character, and then suddenly they were kissing, at first lightly, tentatively, but then deeper, with greater passion and urgency. And Siren loved kissing Sipho; more than a matter of technique, it was everything kissing had never been before. Before today, it had almost been enough, but now she wanted more, and before long they were off the couch, rolling around on the deep-pile rug. Clothes were shed, and as he removed her bra and fondled her breasts, her nipples had never been more sensitive. She was compelled to seek more kisses, more caresses. Reaching down she could feel him, and although she’d felt him before, it was not like those times; this was a cock in dire need of a hole to fill, and that was what he proceeded to do, making her cry out as he entered her, a little pain mixed in with the pleasure, but that was alright, it was all part of the same exquisite moment. That first orgasm was unlike anything she had experienced before, her entire body enveloped in the most exquisite feeling, and she screamed out, surely louder than she’d ever screamed before. And then he was screaming along with her, making the moment all the more memorable.
A few weeks later, they were in the spacious kitchen preparing dinner. It had become their favourite thing to do together, and Siren had rediscovered her love of cooking. But this particular night it was Sipho’s show, and he was making oxtail, that favourite dish of her mother’s that she’d also come to love. What he lacked in expertise he made up for in enthusiasm and exuberance, but on this particular day he had taken on too much, and the dish came out of the oven resembling something that needed burying rather than eating. The meal abandoned, they ordered out. As the box containing her favourite chicken-tikka pizza with extra garlic arrived, she could not have been happier, but Sipho was suitably apologetic.
‘I wanted everything to be just right,’ he said. ‘Especially today.’
‘Why especially today?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I know you wanted to cook solo, but let’s face it, some of us just don’t have what it takes when it comes to the kitchen. Anyway, the pizza makes up for everything.’ Eager to dig in, she opened the box. ‘Don’t worry, my darling, you are so off the hook, you –’
She stopped in mid-sentence, because there was her favourite pizza, just as she liked it, and in the middle of it, lying next to a tantalising piece of chicken, was a ring, its diamond gleaming.
‘I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you,’ Sipho was saying. ‘Sweet Siren, will you marry me?’
Eager to avoid the media circus that had been her first marriage, Siren kept a firm hold on proceedings. Their celebrity made it almost impossible for them to marry under the radar, so they opted for the quietly lavish. A wedding planner was hired, and Siren enjoyed the process of going over all the details with her. At first, both the ceremony and the reception were to be held at Sipho’s house, but as the guest list grew that seemed less and less feasible, so a small venue was found. Siren made sure it bore little resemblance to the location of her first wedding.
Wearing his business hat, Vusi wanted the engagement drawn out for as long as possible to garner maximum publicity, but Siren would not be dictated to, and a date was set six weeks after Sipho’s proposal.
Unwilling to repeat the mistakes of the past, she sat down with her fiancé to review their individual histories. Honesty was the name of the game: Siren knew that if she was not prepared to be completely transparent, how could she expect it from Sipho? So she unloaded it all, from losing her virginity the night Abdul was killed, on to Clifton Michaels, his exploitation of their marriage and her discovery on their wedding night, to Asanda and the Yellowbone parties, leading to her meeting with Zola ‘Zinger’ Baptiste and on to her affair with Sandile and then Caesar Mabaso. She laid it out there, and Sipho took it all in. At first he looked almost stunned, then reached forward and took both of her hands in his. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said, kissing her lightly on the lips. ‘You didn’t have to, but thank you.’
When it was his turn, she thought he would clam up, but then after a deep sigh it all came pouring out. What she quickly discovered was that most of what she’d read in the tabloids was true. He had proposed to a woman he hardly knew, he had challenged a former president to a drinking contest (although according to him, Sipho was the winner). And there were the women – lots of them – many of whom were little more than distant memories. One of them, he admitted almost sheepishly, was Selinah Gumede. It had been in their days of relative obscurity, when they were both young, struggling actors dedicated to their craft. For a while, they’d even been engaged. ‘But she changed when she started having some success, became more of a diva, and I just couldn’t keep up. It wasn’t long before she moved on.’
And then he dropped a mini-bombshell: ‘Those Yellow-bone parties – I attended a few of them.’
This Siren had not been expecting. ‘Really?’
‘Really. But I never saw you there,’ he said, smiling. ‘I think I would have remembered.’
No surprises. That was all Siren was hoping for on the big day. But for her it was not the day itself that was important, it was the union with the man she adored, and who adored her. It was a celebration of that, and nothing more.
Her cream dress was beautiful in its simplicity, and Sipho’s suit was plain and elegant, taking nothing away from the bride. As the best man, Sipho’s lawyer friend Barney Thabete gave a hilariously irreverent speech, while Mabel, sitting at the top table, opted to stay silent.
Nonetheless, it wasn’t long before Richard du Ploy caught sight of her. He was at one of the tables near the back of the room, trying to keep the emotion from his face, and sitting next
to him was his wife. Florence du Ploy had weathered the years less well than her husband. Her size appeared to have doubled, while her bloated and mottled face erased any hint of subtlety in her features. She seemed divorced from the proceedings, as if she’d wandered into the wrong wedding, taking a seat while deciding what to do next.
After the formalities were concluded, and with everyone in enjoyment mode, Richard came over to Siren and led her to the dance floor. She could feel him trembling as he held her. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he managed to blurt out.
‘Don’t say anything. Just enjoy the day. I’m happy to have you here.’
‘I don’t suppose you would have wanted me walking you down the aisle. That would really have given them something to write about.’
‘What about your wife?’ she asked, looking over at Florence, who was sitting on her own nursing a gin and tonic, looking disconnected from everything around her and frankly bored.
‘I’ll probably have to tell her when we get home.’ He looked at Siren with a calm intensity. ‘I suppose I should have known. Now it all seems so obvious.’
‘Don’t sweat it. I’m OK.’
‘Well, that’s good. Me, I’m not so sure.’
‘Come on. What could be better than dancing with your daughter at her wedding?’
Letting go of her hand momentarily, he wiped away a tear. ‘What about Sipho?’
‘He knows. We have no secrets from each other.’
‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Keep it that way.’
She was heading for the bathroom when she saw them talking. And that was all they appeared to be doing, just talking, no raised voices.
Fuelled by a combination of the alcohol she had consumed, the brightness of the day and the levity of the occasion, she walked over to them. Mabel saw her coming first, her face registering shock, but Richard seemed to take it all in his stride.