“Hello, how are you today?” she said with a pounding heart, feeling like a teenager again.
“I’m alright, thanks, and wena? I’ve had a busy day though, so I only just saw your email,” his silky voice said. After a pregnant pause he asked, “Have you managed to find a new venue for the exhibition? We need to view the site straightaway.”
“I’m just going through a list of potential places as we speak,” she told him.
“Do you mean to tell me you didn’t have at least two on standby in case the first one fell through?” Regile sounded exasperated.
“Well, to be fair, once we secured Gallagher Estate, there seemed no point in trying to provisionally book another venue.” Langa struggled to keep the annoyance out of her voice.
“Still, I thought you’d be professional enough to have shortlisted a few other places,” replied Regile in a condescending tone. “Anyway, I need confirmation of at least two venues by the end of the day.”
“You can’t be serious!” Langa exploded, past caring about how hysterical she sounded. Surely the man had lost his mind! The working day was almost over and she still had to collect her courtesy car.
“Is that a problem for you?” Regile challenged. “I can’t afford any complications regarding my merger; I thought I made that clear. With hardly a month to organise this exhibition, I’ll have no qualms about pulling the plug on Buthelezi.”
“You’ll have two venues by the end of today, even though the working part ends in just an hour and a half,” Langa stated flatly.
“Thank you,” Regile said calmly before hanging up.
Langa felt like screaming, which she did silently for a moment before saying out loud to herself, “I’m not going home until I’ve secured a suitable venue for two hundred and fifty cosmetic suppliers, two thousand potential buyers, space for live demonstrations and even more space for a large podium for our entertainers and their bands. So help me God!”
She suddenly thought of Steve, head of event reservations at The Dome, and called him. The two had worked together on a wine tasting show the previous year. Steve had taken a shine to Langa, professing his undying love for her after sampling the greater part of the exhibitions. He was overjoyed to hear from her again but informed her that The Dome was hosting John Legend during the week in question and then promptly proceeded to ask her out to dinner. Langa hung up feeling violated.
She feebly went through the list Zandile had drawn up in her curvy handwriting with big cheerful-looking hearts that dotted the letter “i”. Langa made a few more unproductive calls, then started coiling one of her dreadlocks around her finger as she sat thinking in frustration. After a few minutes she picked up the phone again.
“Connie, please get me the number for Joburg’s Directorate of Art and Culture,” she said before she hung up.
Thinking quickly, she completed her venue proposal just as Connie rang her back with the number. Langa knew it was a long shot but she had to try.
She called the Directorate and asked to speak to the head of reservations but he was on another call, so she spoke to his assistant, Malinda Harrison. After hanging up, Langa inhaled and allowed air to fill her rib cage. Quickly sending off the proposal to the email address she had just scribbled down, she felt an adrenaline rush.
Langa couldn’t think of a better venue for the exhibition than Mary Fitzgerald Square and the Africa Museum. Malinda had seemed impressed with the prospect of an internationally recognised event being held in Newtown and had told Langa she would get back to her the next morning but felt positive that her proposal would be approved.
It was just after 7pm when she called Regile.
“Hi, Regile, we have one venue basically confirmed,” she announced proudly when he answered his phone. It sounded as if he was driving.
“I thought I said two venues,” he answered curtly. “Two are better than one.”
Langa couldn’t believe what she was hearing; she felt hot tears build up in her eyes. She hated him with an intensity that made her want to scream the whole list of obscene words she had given up since finding Christ.
“Well, I’ve secured one,” she managed to squeak, the tears now flowing in a rush.
“What venue is it?” He sounded undeterred in his mission to make her life a living hell.
“It’s the cultural precinct in Newtown. You know, Mary Fitzgerald Square and the Museum,” she stammered.
Regile laughed. “Are you serious? I just spoke to the Directorate’s head of reservations to secure that place.”
“Well, I just spoke to his assistant.” Langa smiled, despite the tears. “I really think Newtown is perfect for the venue.”
“I actually think so too.” Regile’s voice sounded kinder. “You know what they say about great minds?”
“They think alike,” Langa finished off, wiping her eyes and wondering whether she really hated him that much after all.
“I suppose it was a bit of a long shot to try and secure two venues so close to the end of the day,” Regile said, and she knew he was smiling his boyish smile.
“You think?” Langa answered lightly, looking at her watch. She had to get going.
“Did you get your car back?” Regile asked after chuckling at her sarcasm.
“No, I was supposed to collect a courtesy car for the night but I guess I’ll just take a cab home,” she said, surveying her puffy eyes in the mirror of her powder compact.
“I could drop you at home; I don’t think I’m too far from your office. Isn’t it in Rosebank?” he went on.
Langa hesitated, “Yes, it is, and a lift would be great.”
“What road are you on? I’ll try and use the navigation system in this car; wait a second.” She could hear him looking for something in the car. “Alright, what road is it?”
“We’re on the corner of Cradock and Biermann Avenues,” she told him.
“Great, I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Regile hung up.
Langa spent the next few minutes trying to disguise her swollen eyes with make-up so that by the time he called her to say he was outside she looked like a cross between a lady of the night and a drag queen. Her lashes were caked with enough mascara to stick them together and the glitter around them made her feel like a fifteen-year-old mischievously sipping on Brutal Fruit in a park with an eighteen-year-old boyfriend. So much for trying to look like a relaxed businesswoman of thirty who’d just had a hectic day at the office.
Regile stepped out of his car to open the door for her and noticed the Greek restaurant under her office.
“Would you like to get a quick bite?” he asked after they had exchanged brief greetings.
“Alright, I don’t think Nandi will have cooked anyway,” Langa said, realising she hadn’t had a proper meal all day. It was only as he led her to the entrance of the restaurant that she remembered her face was heavily made up and darted away from the light. Regile, following closely behind her, was taken aback and asked if she was alright. Unable to meet his eyes, she just nodded her head. But lo and behold, the waiter led them to a table right under the restaurant’s only fluorescent light!
“This looks like a great place to have meetings,” Regile said, taking in her face for the first time in the light. Slightly puzzled by what he saw, he raised his eyebrows and gave her an expression she’d often reserved for people with spinach stuck in their teeth.
“It does have an enchanting feel to it,” Langa agreed as their waiter hovered about. The young man openly stared at her before asking them if they were ready to order drinks.
Langa had been so preoccupied with scurrying from the direct beams of the light that she ordered the first drink she saw on the menu. “I’ll have a Cherry Marble,” she told the waiter, her usually confident voice sounding strained.
“Sparkling water for me, please,” Regile said to the young man, raising another eyebrow. The waiter left, casting one last glance in Langa’s direction.
“Wow, looks like quite a concoction.�
�� Regile read the menu with a smirk. “Cherries soaked in brandy, mixed with Amarula cream and then laced with Stroh Rum and Kahlua.”
“I didn’t realise it was an alcoholic cocktail.” Langa slapped her face in genuine shock and imagined a cloud of powder rising from it. “Excuse me,” she said, abruptly getting up and heading for the bathroom.
Her compact mirror hadn’t done her face the justice the large one above the washbasins now did. She looked so ridiculous that she had to laugh at herself. Langa rubbed vigorously at her face with the paper towels from the dispenser, then decided that she resembled a clown who had just been mugged and splashed cold water on her face. The result was a little disheartening; she’d evolved into a clown looking refreshed, ready to make people laugh! Sighing, she headed back to Regile who was waiting at the table.
Their drinks had arrived. Hers looked like creamy drinking chocolate with crushed cherries nestled at the bottom of the stylish glass.
“Don’t ask,” she said when Regile took in the smudged traces of mascara and patches of running foundation.
He gave her one of his boyish smiles before shrugging his shoulders. Then he inquired with concern in his dreamy eyes, “Are you alright?”
She nodded vigorously before reaching for her Cherry Marble. The taste was glorious and the alcohol eased the anxiety she felt.
Regile sipped on his water, regarding her openly before clearing his voice to ask, “Doesn’t your fiancé mind you drinking?”
“No, he’s never had a problem with it,” Langa informed him, surprised by his question. Defiantly, she went on to take a ridiculously huge gulp of her drink, for a moment believing she was past caring what Regile thought of her.
“I’m sorry; it was rude of me to ask,” he apologised.
“It’s shocking enough that he lets me work, is that it?” Langa was itching to fire back at him but instead she said, “It’s alright; I guess you’re just curious. We don’t know much about each other.”
“Well, let’s see . . . You are Miss Langa Buthelezi, founder of the company Buthelezi Events. You live in Newtown with your younger, and might I add, feistier sister. You drive a bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle that should be replaced and you’re engaged to a dark-haired white man. And oh yes, you recently found Jesus!” Regile told her and laughed.
Langa blushed and felt grateful that the state of her face would perhaps mask the stupid grin on her face.
“Well, being engaged is one thing; not being sure if you’re doing it for the right reasons is another,” Langa let slip out. Then she quickly changed the subject. “I’m ashamed to admit I know virtually nothing about you, apart from the fact that you made some damsel mad enough to take you on in a tabloid. Tell me about Regile Mabhena.”
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he sipped on his water before saying, “There isn’t much to tell, really. I grew up in Shangana near Hazyview in Mpumalanga. We are a small tribe called Ndzundza-Ndebele and our language is very similar to isiZulu, in fact most people can’t tell the difference.”
“It does sound familiar when you speak it.” Langa remembered Regile and the white pharmacist speaking Ndebele on the fateful day they had met.
“I love the rings the Ndebele women make; the colourful ones with all the beads,” Langa said to suppress the memory.
“They are called idzila. I’ll get one made for you next time I go home, if I remember,” Regile offered.
“Thanks, I’d love that. But please go on telling me about yourself,” Langa said.
“I thought I was off the hook,” Regile chuckled. “When I was eight, my parents went into exile and I went to England with them,” he continued. “We lived there until just before South Africa’s new democracy. My parents moved back to Mpumalanga while I continued my studies in the USA. I moved back here just after the turn of the millennium.”
“But I thought you were a prince?” Langa blurted out before she could stop herself.
Regile seemed embarrassed. “Yes, I am, although I’d prefer we didn’t talk about that.”
The waiter came back just then and Regile, who’d been studying the menu all along, ordered food for both of them as he had done before. He asked for another Cherry Marble and more sparkling water. Langa played with the crushed cherries at the bottom of her now empty glass, letting a welcome silence settle comfortably between them.
“Where did you grow up?” he asked finally. “And how did you meet and decide to marry a white guy?”
“Nandi and I grew up with my mother in Diepkloof, Soweto, and then moved to KZN when she passed away. We never knew our father,” Langa told him, feeling a little startled that he asked about her fiancé. “Richard and I met about two years ago at a conference I was hosting. We clicked instantly and unlike most of my black brothers, he wasn’t threatened by what I do.”
“Well, he’s a very lucky guy to have you,” Regile grinned.
“I wish someone would tell him that,” Langa retorted and blushed.
Regile almost choked on his water.
Then he said, deliberately ignoring the sentimental path the conversation seemed to be taking, “Your little sister is a lot like you. She’s determined, has drive and is hungry for success. You can see it in her eyes and feel it when she speaks.”
Langa squirmed, ashamed that she’d almost confided in him.
“Are we talking about the same person here? Nandi is as unfocused as they come; she hasn’t got a clue what she’s doing!”
Regile shook his head. “You’ll be surprised. I think all she needs is a breakthrough. I got the impression she’s desperate for your approval.”
Langa smiled as the second round of drinks was placed on the table. “Since when has Nandi ever needed approval from anyone?” she mused. “Do you have any siblings?” she went on, changing the subject.
“No,” Regile said abruptly and then more silence filled the space around them.
But this silence was chilly, not comforting like before. Langa was taken aback. What was the matter? Was it something she’d said?
Chapter 8
8
The next morning Langa collected her car from the garage and quickly drove to Rosebank to have a briefing with her staff. Regile had phoned earlier to tell her the Joburg Directorate had approved their venue proposal and that she should meet him on site at 10 am.
She left for Newtown with Zandile after delegating enough work around the office to keep everyone busy until Christmas.
“Morning, Langa,” Regile said when he saw her outside the Africa Museum. Handing her his laptop, he continued, “I just received a list of cosmetic suppliers who have confirmed that they will be attending the exhibition.”
“Morning, Regile; thanks again for dinner last night. Fortunately I got my car back today,” Langa offered, marvelling at how simple it seemed for him to switch from friendly to professional mode.
Zandile had been standing uncertainly behind Langa. Now she stepped forward and held out her hand. “Mr Mabhena, I’m Zandile, Miss Buthelezi’s head events coordinator. We met briefly at the board meeting.”
“Hi there, Zandile,” Regile said cordially and Langa noticed that his eyes sparkled as they travelled from her assistant’s head, adorned with a long weave, down to her gilded toes in wedge sandals.
“Please call me Regile,” he added, holding on to Zandile’s hand a little longer than necessary as far as Langa was concerned. Zandile in turn giggled like a cheap vamp.
“Now that this is out of the way, can we go into the museum?” Langa requested irritably, taking in Regile’s faded Diesel jeans and a white Top Man fleece. At the entrance of the museum they met with Malinda Harrison, who turned out to be as cheerful in person as she had been on the phone.
Malinda showed them all four floors of the museum that could be hired out: three cooking and four dining areas. Zandile efficiently took notes while Langa and Regile asked questions. They decided that the museum would work as the main exhibition area, while the square o
utside would be perfect for the live demonstrations and entertainment.
After two hours of turning the museum upside down, taking measurements for the various stalls and the walls to be covered completely with the In-Cosmetics banner, they headed for the square.
“We need at least three medium marquees for the cosmetic demonstrations and a large one for our entertainers, with enough space for their equipment and a two by five by five metre podium,” Langa said to Zandile and Regile as they stood in the square, surveying the space currently being used as a car park. Zandile jotted down everything Langa was saying but then Regile’s phone vibrated.
After taking note of the caller’s name flashing on his screen, he excused himself with a frown. Positioned a fair distance away from them, he began shouting animatedly into the phone, waving his hands emphatically in a state Langa had not seen him in before. She and Zandile tried to continue with their work but it was evident they were both trying to eavesdrop on the conversation that had the usually calm prince at his wits’ end.
“Sorry, I have to fly to Mpumalanga immediately. It’s a family issue,” he spat out after ending the conversation and storming back to them. “I’ll be back by the end of tomorrow. Langa, I’ll email you all the cosmetic suppliers who have confirmed they will be exhibiting so you can get going on stand numbers and the catalogue.”
“Alright,” Langa said. “Is everything okay, though?”
“Yes, it’s just a small matter. See you soon. Thanks, Zandile,” he added as he left.
“Oh, and start working on themes; nothing overly buntu, please. Like I said, that’s been done to death,” Regile turned to say as an afterthought before he disappeared among the cars, leaving Zandile and Langa to wonder what had just happened.
“Rather abrupt, don’t you think?” Zandile quipped.
Langa refused to comment and simply said, “We have a marquee company to phone, a furniture company to locate and a decorator to get down here. Let’s get to work.” Regile had been abrupt but that was nothing new. At least now she didn’t have to deal with Zandile flirting with him all day!
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