by Kuli Roberts
‘I’m not sure it’s true, but thank you for saying so,’ she said as they touched glasses.
‘And you certainly have some of the most beautiful women, present company not excluded.’
She could feel her skin tingling. ‘Thank you. Although remember, I am from South Africa, and we are currently in Namibia.’
He laughed at that, flashing teeth that had no business being that perfect. ‘I think I knew that, but then again, maybe I didn’t. After all, I’m an ignorant American.’ The waiter took their orders, relayed to the kitchen via cell phone.
Somewhere she’d read that a woman never eats on a first date, but that was not going to be the case here. For one thing, this wasn’t a date, and for another, she was ravenous, so she ordered a steak with all the trimmings. It was easy being with Keenan. They laughed about funny moments on set, especially Jacques and his instructions to the actors. Keenan brought up the haughty superiority of Walter Fairweather. ‘You know, he means well, but he forgets that he was once a jobbing actor, facing all those same insecurities. Sometimes when you’re on top, you forget what it was like at the bottom.’
‘Is that where you see me – at the bottom?’
‘Oh no,’ he said, reaching across the table to rest his hand gently on hers. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. You are on the way up.’
‘No, I’m not.’ She thought about pulling her hand away but left it there. ‘That’s not the way it feels, anyway.’
‘Didn’t I hear somewhere that you’re the highest-paid actress on South African television?’
Her smile was laced with irony. ‘That probably came from my agent, Brenda. She has a tendency to exaggerate.’
‘Well, I think you’re a very fine actress. And believe me, I’ve worked with some of the best.’ His fingers turned and gripped her hand. ‘You should do more movies. Your instincts are solid.’
‘I don’t think we should be doing this,’ she said, pulling her hand away and avoiding his gaze.
‘Why not?’ It was a question that did not require an answer.
‘For one thing, we’re both married.’
‘Not me,’ he said quickly. ‘Well, I suppose I am, technically, but it’s been over for some time.’
‘Mine, not so much,’ she countered. ‘Although we’ve had our fair share of problems.’
‘Why do the words “marriage” and “problems” always seem to go together?’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t it make you tired sometimes?’
‘That is a story for another day.’ She suddenly stood. ‘Thank you for a really special evening, but I have to go.’ As she tried to walk past him, there he was, blocking her way.
‘Don’t go,’ he said, his voice soft and soothing, like the warm Namibian wind. And then a hand was on her arm, moving up to her shoulders, his face close to hers. Those luscious lips she had already kissed, but the cameras had been rolling then, and now everything was different, now there were no lighting technicians and camera operators to ruin the mood; now it was just the two of them.
Before she knew it they were kissing, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and he was guiding her towards the bed, and she was letting him. The mattress gave way beneath her and he was beside her, feeding her more kisses, their tongues fencing. As they embraced, the words coursed through her brain, confronting this intense rush of animal attraction and the promise of some kind of release: I am married, I should not be doing this.
But all the months of frustration, the strained attempts at intimacy with Sipho, were being swept away by the force that was Keenan Thompson. And she was there with him, they were moving as one. This was what she wanted, needed, more than anything in the world … His hand was pulling up her dress, moving up her thigh, and she was there with him, not stopping him, encouraging. As his lips came away from hers momentarily, he gasped: ‘So long I’ve wanted this, oh so long, sweet Siren.’
His lips came down to seek out hers again – but her fingers stopped him. ‘What did you say?’
‘What? I said I’ve wanted you, for a long time now.’
‘No,’ she said, almost into his mouth. ‘No. I can’t do this. I can’t.’
She was pushing him away, but she didn’t have to push too hard because he was letting her go. She could see the disappointment and frustration in his face, and she searched for a level of understanding.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she heard herself say. ‘I have to go.’
Back in her hotel room, it was late, going on ten, but she just had to speak to him, tell him that she was still there for him, that she always would be. It was important to contact him as quickly as possible, establish a line of communication that would never be broken.
Sweet Siren ...
Please answer, babe.
That was the thought she sent down the line, hoping against hope that he would reply, but the phone just rang before going to message: ‘Hi, this is Sipho. I am not available right now ...’
She showered, trying and failing to wash away Keenan Thompson and all he had made her feel. As she dried herself, the phone rang. ‘Sipho,’ she said, not even looking to see who was calling.
‘Madam.’ It was Nokwanda, and her voice sounded shaky, as if she was struggling to get the words out. ‘There has been an accident. He took the Mercedes, and he crashed.’
‘What?’ Nokwanda was saying something else, but the line was bad and her voice kept cutting out. ‘Nokwanda, I hope you can hear me. I’m on my way home.’
She packed quicker than anybody ever had, calling down to reception for a car. Checking her phone, she saw it was almost eleven. Were there any planes at that time, and were any of them going to Joburg? There had to be something, otherwise she would find out about chartering a plane, anything ...
All she could think of was getting to the airport. Once there she would make a plan, but she just had to get home. Crashing the Merc – how could he do that? Not that he’d ever been the most careful driver, but as long as he was OK, that was the main thing. Would she give him a telling-off when she got home.
Home.
She had to get home.
At Hosea Kutako International Airport, she was just approaching the enquiries desk when her phone rang. Still it was not Sipho.
‘Barney – I heard Sipho had an accident. Is he OK?’
The voice was uncommonly clear on the other end. Later she would wonder why Barney Thabete sounded so alive and distinctive when the rest of her world was fading.
‘So sorry, dear. The news is not good.’
‘What? Is he in hospital, is he badly hurt? What?’
‘It was a bad accident. Neither of them made it. They are both dead.’
All of her senses were beginning to shut down, but somehow she managed to get the words out. ‘Both? There was someone else in the car? What do you mean?’
‘Sipho. He had Bongani with him. I’m so sorry, my dear.’
Trying to move forward she stumbled, falling to her knees, her face contorting as the pain hit and strangers gathered round to help.
PART SIX – THANDO
2016–2018
Chapter 25
IT WAS ALL over.
The house had been full of people for days that seemed like weeks. There’d been an endless deluge of mourners coming to pay their respects, asking her every ten minutes if she was alright. What a stupid question that was! Of course she wasn’t alright, how could she ever be alright again? It was impossible, for now there was nothing to be alright about.
In the face of Siren’s grief, Mabel had been a tower of strength, organising everything along with Barney. And there was so much to organise: the undertaker, food for the mourners, people to help cook, dealing with the demands of the press.
In the midst of it all, Keenan Thompson had been an absolute star. After her collapse at the airport, somebody must have called the film unit, who called Keenan, who in turn bullied them into hiring a private plane for her, even though there was no real urgency; there were no bedsides
to visit, only bodies to attend to.
And then there were the details of the crash, and Sipho’s erratic behaviour in the days leading up to it. By all accounts, he’d resumed his gambling some weeks before her departure for Cape Town. The drinking had come a little later. But it was when she told him about the extended shooting schedule in Namibia that he really jumped off into the deep end; that was why no FaceTime, no answering his phone.
He’d returned home from work on The Trigger early that day. According to Nokwanda, he’d seemed fine, playing with Bongani in the best way – putting him on his back for horsey-horsey, play-wrestling. Then he told her he was taking Bongani for an ice cream, strapped him into his car-seat, and was gone.
It was unclear exactly where he went, but it must have been a place where he had access to alcohol. At the time of the crash, some hours later, it was estimated that his blood-alcohol level was five times the legal limit.
It appeared he was on his way home when it happened. Even in his inebriated state, he’d done the right thing, making sure Bongani was strapped into his seat, but not putting his own seatbelt on. What he didn’t do right was run the red robot, the other car colliding with the Mercedes right where Bongani was sitting, causing it to roll many times. Although the driver of the other car escaped with cuts and bruises, father and son were both declared dead at the scene.
After absorbing the initial shock of his death, Siren’s immediate feeling about Sipho was pure anger: for killing her child, for drinking himself into a stupor and then getting behind the wheel. In life she may have loved him, but in death she hated him with a vengeance, for taking away not only the life of her child but her own as well.
The days passed in a blur. Mabel stayed for a while, but then Siren wanted her gone, wanted everybody gone. She needed to be alone, there in the house she’d shared with them, surrounded by their memories. It was bound to be painful, but that was what she wanted. Anything was better than the numbness that enveloped her like a cloak.
Sleep was elusive. The pills prescribed by the doctor just increased her numbness, and she lay awake on the couch, the TV blaring, one programme melding into the next.
One night, she could tolerate it no more. Searching through her phone, she found the number. She looked at the time; well after eleven. Would she still be awake? Yes, she probably would. And there was the number ringing. Answer, damn it, answer.
‘Hello?’
‘Cynthia? It’s Siren. Listen, I can’t sleep and I need ... yes, I’ve got sleeping pills but they don’t ... yes ... you have? Please bring them. I’ll pay you whatever.’
Back to work.
It had to happen, although she was dreading it. She missed the easy familiarity she’d shared with Sipho on set. And of course, shooting could not happen straight away; there was an awkward protocol to go through first.
‘We’ve been looking at various scenarios,’ Richard said to her in Vusi’s office, looking decidedly discomfited.
‘It’s a delicate situation,’ Vusi added. ‘We understand that, but things have to move on, deadlines have to be met. You know how it is.’
‘Actually, I don’t know how it is,’ Siren said. ‘I’ve actually never been a widow before. So why don’t you two stop skirting around the issue and tell me how everything is going to go down?’
And that was exactly what they did, looking uncomfortable every step of the way but eventually getting through it. They had at first considered killing off Sipho’s character, but he was so integral to the story that it would’ve required a major shift in focus, which they did not want. So it had been decided to keep the character and re-cast.
‘Are you joking?’ Siren watched them both squirm in their seats. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’
Vusi let out a deep, regretful sigh. ‘I’m afraid not. It’s the only way.’
Richard cut in. ‘We’ve tried other scenarios. They just don’t work.’
‘So who were you thinking of playing this iconic role?’
They looked at each other before turning back to her. ‘Fox Mashile.’
Despite everything, Siren had a strong urge to laugh. ‘Fox Mashile? You have to be kidding. He’s a joke in the industry.’
‘Actually he’s improved quite a bit. He’s had small parts in some really big movies.’
‘He got those parts because Brenda Archer is his agent. She can do miracles.’
‘He’s making inroads. People are starting to take notice.’ Richard said the words as if he did not completely believe them.
‘No. Not him. You have to find someone else.’
‘There is no one else,’ Vusi said. ‘He’s the one the network wants. It’s a done deal.’
Her sigh was deep and heartfelt as she stood. ‘We’ll have to find a way to make it work. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.’
In the bathroom, she found the pills in the bottom of her bag, washing them down with the last swirl from a small bottle of vodka she kept for occasions such as this.
Taking the edge off.
Blocking a scene with Fox, she had to admit he’d upped his game acting-wise, but he was still an asshole. It was a problem when people thought themselves greater than they actually were, and this was at the heart of Fox Mashile. A little humility could go a long way, especially in acting, but his recent successes only served to further puff up an already inflated ego. And he was short, a lot shorter than Sipho, so she was always looking down at him, and somehow this unnerved her. Despite her animosity for her dead husband, she found herself missing him, yearning for the magic they had conjured together.
The pills and booze helped her get through, and she was almost able to look at Fox as a completely different character, totally unconnected to all that Sipho had been.
Everybody on set had been more than kind with their messages of condolence, but she knew what they were saying behind her back: that without Sipho she could no longer pull it off, that he was the talented one who’d carried her in all their scenes together. And why wouldn’t they say it, when it was true?
Every negative thought was countered by the pills and the booze. She began to understand why Sipho had needed such things, to bolster his insecurities. How had she got through without them for so long? Oh yes – because she had him, and that had always been enough.
Coming off set, she caught the tail-end of a conversation Fox was having with one of the make-up ladies: ‘I have to say I’m disappointed. She’s been through a lot, I know, but I really thought she would be better.’
Of course he was talking about her, had to be. And if a second-rate talent like Fox Mashile was thinking such things, really, where did that leave her?
There was no escaping the reality of Heritage once again reigning supreme in the ratings, with The Trigger snapping at its heels. Audience reaction to the Siren-Fox combination was at best lukewarm. When a major actor in any soapie is replaced with another, there’s always a period of adjustment, but here it was as if the audience could simply not decide if they liked the change.
And it wasn’t just Fox who was the problem. There was a marked drop in the level of commitment from Siren. At first the issues came from the crew. There had been a massive outpouring of sympathy in the wake of the tragedy, so at first people were reluctant to come forward, but as time wore on, more complaints made their way to Vusi’s office. She was often late on set; she stumbled over lines that would not have troubled her before; her attention wandered in the middle of scenes, requiring re-shoots.
As for Siren, she was oblivious to it all. Partying it up suddenly seemed the answer to the emptiness, filling it with an endless orgy of functions and festivities – often in the company of Cynthia, who kept her supplied with whatever stimulants the occasion required.
When in the past she’d turn down most of the invites she received, now she said yes to almost everything. And they were always happy to have her, for she was Siren the glamorous widow, and if she was there you could bet the media would be there, and th
at could only be a good thing.
When she was called into Vusi’s office, she thought she knew what it was about. Her level of concentration had dropped in recent weeks, and she knew she had to do something to lift it. They didn’t have to worry, she’d clean up her act, maybe lay off the pills and booze for a bit, get back to what she was really good at.
‘What’s up, boss?’ she asked in a jaunty manner as she entered.
‘Sit down,’ Vusi said, more abruptly than she felt was necessary. Richard was also there, and he looked down, avoiding her eyes.
‘OK, so you’ve got me here. You want to tell me what’s going on?’
‘Something has gone viral online,’ Vusi was saying. ‘I don’t know whether you’ve seen it.’
‘I see all kinds of things online,’ she said, ‘but I don’t live there like a lot of people.’
‘You were at a nightclub in Sandton a couple of nights ago.’
‘I may have been. Last time I checked going to nightclubs wasn’t illegal.’
‘Someone photographed you as you were leaving. I’m actually surprised you haven’t seen it.’
Vusi’s laptop was open on his desk, and now he turned the screen towards her. There she was, a grainy, moving image, emerging from Xenon, one of her regular haunts. She remembered being there, thought she remembered leaving. There on the screen, she walked a few steps, then staggered, almost falling. Yes, she remembered now. For a moment it had been quite scary, but then she’d recovered, keeping her feet. Those damn high heels, they always tripped her up one way or another.
The phone camera followed her as she walked on, and there it was, another stumble, this one no way as bad as the first, and then she was at the car, the Hyundai, opening the door and getting in.
End of clip.
‘If that’s gone viral, I don’t know why,’ she said. ‘I was at a nightclub, I walked to my car. End of story.’