‘Right,’ I said to Pete. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘After you, Miss Marple.’
‘Detective Beckett,’ I said, flicking my hair and following the AstroTurf carpet to the entrance.
The door opened into an intimate space by South African standards but perhaps what an English home would consider a large reception room. Tables of all shapes and sizes were painted glossy white and surrounded by differently styled chairs, also white and shiny. The wallpaper was an opulent patterned burgundy and ornate gold picture frames displayed tongue-in-cheek paintings of renaissance-style characters holding loaves of bread suggestively. A small raised stage took up the back wall and housed a polished black piano. Along the left-hand side of the room ran a flamboyant gold rococo bar, behind which stood a sandy-haired guy speaking baby language to a bichon frise. The bichon frise lay on a tasselled velvet pillow on top of the bar, luxuriating in the praise.
‘Oh hi,’ the bar guy said, looking up from his amour and noticing us standing in the doorway. He was English, which surprised me. ‘Can I help you?’
‘We’re looking for the gallery?’ I said, walking closer.
A brown shaggy dog trotted by me and I stooped to give him a scratch behind his hairy ears before he continued towards a door behind the bar, probably the kitchen considering the clanging sounds emanating from there. Pete followed me and narrowly missed treading on another dog lying partially under a table.
‘It’s through there,’ the guy indicated to a closed door opposite the piano, his grey eyes flicking between Pete and me. ‘But it’s not open. Where’re you guys from?’
‘London,’ I said. ‘I’m Jess and this is Pete.’
‘Jimmy,’ the guy said, offering his hand over the bar. He wore a white T-shirt, kind of grubby, and his forearms were tanned and muscled. ‘I’m from Richmond. Are you here on holiday?’
‘We’re here for a wedding,’ Pete said, a bit more blokey than usual. ‘Thought we’d tag on a bit of holiday.’
An ugly chihuahua/pug-type dog wheezed and waddled past and I picked it up. ‘Aww, how cute is he?!’ I said, hugging it and holding the dog’s face up to Pete. It immediately sneezed and covered Pete’s polo shirt in viscous snot.
‘Jess!’ Pete screeched.
‘Ooops!’
Pete gave me a death stare and I hid my sniggers behind the wheezy, snotty dog.
‘Here,’ Jimmy said, passing over a filthy-looking dishcloth, trying to supress a laugh. ‘And he’s a she. Lucy.’
Pete looked at the filthy dishcloth and Lucy’s snot and appeared to be wondering which was the lesser of the two evils.
‘We were wondering about an artist you’re exhibiting?’ I said, putting Lucy back on the floor before she gave Pete another coating.
‘You were wondering,’ Pete said, dabbing at his shirt with a corner of the cloth.
‘I don’t know much about the exhibitions,’ Jimmy said, glancing at Pete, then checking the levels of a liquor bottle. ‘I’m just the barman. You’ll have to wait until we’re open. How long are you here for?’
‘Two weeks,’ Pete said. ‘Wedding is tomorrow, then we’re seeing what Cape Town has to offer.’ He handed Jimmy back the filthy rag.
‘You guys are going to love it!’ Jimmy said, cracking into a wide grin. ‘There’s so much to do!’
‘I’ve been reading about it.’ Pete fished his Lonely Planet out of his rucksack, eyes a-sparkle. ‘I want to go shark cage diving, and there’s a triathlon next week, and we want to climb Table Mountain.’
I snorted. ‘You want to.’
Pete rolled his eyes. I rolled my eyes right back. The barman seemed to find us amusing.
‘They have the best nightlife here,’ Jimmy said. ‘And markets and beaches and festivals. Oh man, the festivals! There’s this one where the bands are on the banks of a river and everyone floats on the water in rubber rings, drinking beer! You’ll want to come back, two weeks isn’t enough to fit it all in.’
Pete looked pained at the thought of ‘not fitting it all in’.
‘Can we just see the gallery?’ I asked, trying to get the conversation back on track despite the fact that a very clear picture had filled my head of Pete floating past me on a rubber ring, his abs tensed pleasingly and his straight-toothed grin shining in my direction.
‘We’re not open yet,’ Jimmy replied.
‘But surely the gallery is?’
Jimmy shook his head.
‘But it’s daytime?’
‘I don’t make the rules. I make margaritas!’ Jimmy held up a bottle of tequila, the worm banging against the side. ‘And if you come back when we’re open I can make you one on the house.’
‘Sounds great!’ Pete said.
‘I don’t want a margarita, thanks,’ I said. ‘I want to speak to someone about an exhibition. Is there anyone here I can speak to?’
‘The gallery isn’t open. The bar isn’t open. The restaurant isn’t open. We’re not open,’ Jimmy said, but not unkindly. He flashed a wide grin to Pete. ‘Persistent, isn’t she?’
‘You have no idea,’ Pete smiled back.
I shot him a look that said you’re supposed to be on my side, punk, and if you want any future blowjobs you’d best keep that in mind. Pete gave me a repentant smile because he did want future blowjobs.
‘What kind of gallery isn’t open during the day?’ I asked.
‘This kind.’ Jimmy emptied one bottle into another. ‘T.I.A.’
‘Huh?’ I was starting to lose my ‘Kate Beckett’ coolness.
‘T.I.A. This Is Africa. It means . . . things don’t make sense. That’s the only thing that makes sense.’
‘That things don’t make sense?’
‘You got it!’
‘So, the gallery isn’t open until night time?’
‘Nope.’
‘Because it’s part of the bar/restaurant/dog hotel you’ve got going on here?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So, if I want to see if it’s my father’s work in that exhibition . . .?’
‘Who’s your father?’ he said, looking interested.
‘Teddy Roberts?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘How about Edward Roberts? Or E. Roberts?’
Jimmy shook his head.
‘You’ve got an exhibition for an E. Roberts starting in just under two weeks and you’ve never heard that name?’ I said, sceptical.
‘I told you, I’m just the barman.’
‘Then why did you ask who my father was?’
‘Seemed polite at the time.’
‘That was thirty seconds ago,’ I growled.
Jimmy seemed unperturbed. ‘If you come back tonight Frankie will be here and will be able to answer any gallery-related questions.’
‘Can’t you just take me in there?’ I didn’t know what I thought I’d find. An incriminating self-portrait of my father perhaps? But the website had said E. Roberts was exhibiting a collection of erotic nudes, so I put that mental picture in the mental shredder. Twice.
‘I’m not allowed in there any more,’ Jimmy said.
Pete and I frowned.
Jimmy glanced towards the kitchen then leant on the bar. ‘My brother shows in there sometimes, and once,’ he paused. ‘Twice.’ He paused again. ‘OK, every time . . . I’ve sneaked in before opening and put some real piece of shit up on the wall with his name under it.’
I giggled and, encouraged, Jimmy continued with a twinkle in his grey eyes.
‘You know that drawing of the dog that has a story that helps you draw it . . .? About a guy in a cave with bees and a bear or something?’
‘Yes,’ I said, captivated.
‘No,’ Pete said, confused.
‘Well, I did one of those on the back of a menu then taped it to the wall and called it Dog’s Dinner.’
I sniggered.
‘Another time I dropped tomato juice on a napkin and pinned it to the wall with a green drawing pin. They
loved that one.’ Jimmy grinned. ‘My brother didn’t. His art is quite serious.’
‘What kind of art does he do?’
‘Takes photos of bridges.’
‘Brilliant,’ I said, with growing admiration for stubbly chin, scruffy shirt, practical joker Jimmy.
‘Anyway . . .’ He picked up another half-filled bottle and wiped it with a cloth. ‘Like I said, I can’t help you but you can come back later tonight and talk to Frankie if you like.’
‘Will do,’ Pete said, taking my hand in his and giving it a gentle tug towards the exit. ‘See ya, mate,’ he said to Jimmy, who raised his arm in return. ‘We’ll come back for that margarita.’
I followed Pete outside, who’d begun flicking through his Lonely Planet, but then remembered a photo I had in my phone and rushed back to the bar.
‘Have you seen this man in here before?’ I said, holding the screen towards Jimmy, watching for his reaction.
For a tiny instant I thought I spotted recognition behind his eyes, then he frowned and shook his head.
‘It’s a pretty terrible photo,’ he said, getting back to his bottle-cleaning.
This was true. It was out of focus, shadowy and Dad was dressed as Santa, his elasticised beard pulled down under his chin and his hat on wonky. But Jimmy had recognised him. I was certain of it.
‘Are you sure? Really sure?’ I pressed.
‘Two fucking portions of salmon starter?!’ A woman’s gravelly voice with a strong Afrikaans accent travelled out of the kitchen, then a diminutive lady with a messy grey chignon, wearing a blue and white striped catering apron over her chef’s shirt marched into the restaurant, cursing and pulling a packet of fags from her apron pocket as she went. ‘What do I pay you for? You’re fucking useless! Saturday night and only two salmon starters? Two?! Two fucking portions isn’t going to feed anybody!’
The lady barrelled past me without acknowledgement but as she reached the front door she said, ‘Jimmy, what have I told you about having your lady friends visit?’ then tugged open the door and stalked through, lighting her cigarette.
‘I’m going to kill her dead this time,’ said a young Hispanic guy as he emerged from the door behind the bar, his catering apron barely covering his wide chest and his face like thunder. ‘I’ll put arsenic in her cigarettes, I’ll feed rat poison to her dogs, I’ll put acid on her eye mask. I will kill her, Jimmy.’ He pronounced the ‘J’ more like a ‘Y’.
‘I’d better go,’ Jimmy said with an apologetic shrug. He turned, slung an arm over the Hispanic guy’s meaty shoulders and sweet-talked him back to the kitchen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘So are they going to say “the bride may kiss the bride” or something?’ Pete said as we jumped in the back of Trust’s van the next day.
‘No, they’ll say “you may now kiss”.’
Trust eyed us from the rear-view mirror. Priya and Laurel were going to have some kind of equality-type ceremony that involved vows of mutual respect, lots of flowers (Priya was obsessed with colour, yellow being her favourite), a traditional Hindu walk around the fire pit and lots and lots of laughter. Pete nodded and processed the information. He loved Priya. Absolutely loved her. But he’d never been 100 per cent comfortable with her being a lesbian.
‘I just worry I’ll say the wrong thing,’ he’d stressed to me once when he was drunk in a taxi on the way home from one of Priya and Laurel’s infamous (and boozy) pot luck dinners.
‘What, like, “This is a lovely salad; are those pine nuts YOU BIG CARPET MUNCHER?” ’ I’d replied, and Pete had dissolved into embarrassed drunken giggles. And hadn’t been able to eat pine nuts with a straight face ever since.
I’d told Priya about it the next day. She’d thought it was hilarious and now every meal we had at her flat contained pine nuts. And that was why, sitting in Pete’s lap, was his wedding gift; a little jar of pine nuts tied up with a yellow ribbon.
The wedding was at a winery forty-five minutes out of Cape Town. We travelled through dry, open landscapes with jagged mountain ranges showing grey-blue in the distance. Heat pounded through the windows despite the van’s air-conditioning blowing a noisy gale. I smiled at Pete, the memory of the night before playing in my head. After we left the RSPCA/gallery/bar/restaurant, Pete had asked Trust to swing by a place he’d read about. It was a big restaurant on the edge of the water where tables, sofas and bar leaners sat on sand. Yachts moored close by, their occupants lounging on deck listening to music coming from the outdoor speakers. Pete had gotten me tipsy on an amazing South African red (not sure of variety, definitely don’t care) and then we’d gone home, shagged and Pete had fallen dead asleep. I’d gotten up to check my emails but there was nothing from Dad; it wasn’t unusual, he often took a few days to reply. So I’d started a Google search for things to do in Cape Town. Pete liked his Lonely Planet and TripAdvisor recommendations but I preferred to scour Instagram and do intensive Google searches. By the time I crawled in beside Pete, I had more places I couldn’t wait to visit than we had time to see. I’d snuggled next to him and felt a heat in the pit of my stomach when, in his sleep, his hand stroked my thigh. I would think about climbing Table Mountain. I really would. Pete wanted to climb it and I wanted to want to.
Trust swung the van off the main road and drove down a tree-lined drive towards a white building with round gables which, according to the Lonely Planet Pete was reading aloud from, was typical of Cape Dutch architecture and was about three hundred years old. Trust dropped us by a little chalkboard sign that directed guests to the picnic area and drove off to snooze in the van under the trees.
We followed a winding path through gorgeous gardens and when we reached the picnic grounds, stopped in our tracks. The vast lawn was emerald green, dense and short-clipped in a standard similar to a luxury golf course. Hammocks hung between grand old trees with drooping branches which gave dappled shade to the white and grey beanbags dotted about the lawn. Tables with linen tablecloths had been placed in various areas, each with jars of rustic bouquets of herbs and wildflowers. Yellow bunting hung between trees, marking out the wedding party area, and the expansive lawns stretched out towards the mountain ranges in the distance. The sky was blue, the air was warm and the only sounds were laughing, chatting and the tinkling of wine bottles on glasses. My favourite kinds of sounds.
‘Wow,’ I said, taking hold of Pete’s hand. I couldn’t believe I was actually there. About to watch my best friend get married in the most beautiful setting I’d ever seen. It was so romantic and joyful. ‘Let’s get some wine!’ I said, keen to get in the thick of the merriment.
With a rosé for me and a local craft beer for Pete, we walked over to a group of people who looked like they might be the most fun. Pete has the tendency to be shy whereas my philosophy is everybody is a potential new friend. Just walk up and find out if you like each other. And anyone who thinks I’m weird for introducing myself is not my kind of person anyway, so no loss.
‘Do you think most of the people here are gay?’ Pete whispered as we neared my chosen group of new best friends forever.
‘I don’t know. Why? Will you talk differently to them?’ I affected a serious expression. ‘Will you put on a lesbian accent?’
Pete, trying to look irritated, chuckled. ‘You are so annoying.’
I was delighted to find that South Africans are super-friendly. The wedding wasn’t big, maybe about fifty people; only a handful of Priya and Laurel’s friends and family could make it out at such short notice, and the rest were people they’d met while working on the show. The local guests were a good-looking bunch; hot guys with man buns, beardy chins, blocky sunglasses, big smiles and big personalities. The girls were beautiful, friendly and funny with smooth skin and long manes of blonde or caramel hair. Everyone looked like they had just been on holiday: tanned, thin and happy. In London people only looked like that for the week following a Spanish mini break where they’d starved themselves beforehand then worked intensively on cultivati
ng an ‘I’ve-been-on-holiday’ tan.
Within an hour I’d met nearly all the people I didn’t already know, and the chime of a bell told us the ceremony was about to begin. We sat on linen-covered hay bales in the shade, watching as Priya and Laurel danced down the aisle to the sound of Stevie Wonder. They stopped under a pagoda heavily adorned with flowers of every colour imaginable. Priya beamed in her floaty yellow dress, her make-up natural and her hair like liquid chocolate flowing over her shoulders; Laurel, with her blonde angular bob and her pixie nose, wore an ivory playsuit with lace panels, which had a sort of cape that flowed from her capped sleeves. It was awesome. And sort of Bowie-as-a-hot-female-spaceship-captain, which isn’t a recognised clothing style but SO should be. If anyone could pull it off it was tall, slender, grinning, ‘fuck it let’s do it’ Laurel. She worked in the writer’s room on Priya’s show and they’d been inseparable since the day they met three years previously.
‘They look so happy,’ Pete whispered, as the celebrant said something that made Laurel and Priya turn to each other and grin.
I grabbed his hand, intertwining my fingers with his. ‘Don’t they?’ I dabbed under my eyes with a scented tissue that a cute flower girl had handed out earlier. All I could ever ask for the people I loved was for them to feel joy. And my best friend was quivering with it. I couldn’t have been happier if I’d been given a basket of puppies and a bikini line that never needed waxing.
Priya and Laurel’s vows incited hilarity and emotion, and after a hysterical walk around the fire pit, where traditionally the groom leads the bride but with two brides and not enough planning meant Priya and Laurel had attempted the circuit side by sid, resulting in Laurel on the inside going half-pace and Priya on the outside skipping double time and tripping on her hem, Priya’s honking laugh signalled it was time to party.
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