Buttercup’s undercarriage shuddered and rattled as Tracy manhandled the old car over the speed control bumps. Yair always ignored the bumps, sailing over them at well over the 60km/h speed limit thanks to his Range Rover’s superb suspension, high chassis and enormous price tag. Buttercup, on the other hand, was literally falling apart and the speed bumps were torture, even if Tracy drove at 30km/h. But today, Tracy didn’t care. She was late, thanks to that fucking fat fart, Prince Tshukudu, aka Mafuta.
‘I know you wanted today off, TT,’ the news editor had said when he’d phoned her at some ungodly hour this morning. ‘But I need you at that meeting. It won’t take long and then, once you’ve filed your copy, you can go and do whatever you want.’
‘But Prince, you know those meetings never start on time. And what’s so damn important about this one that it has to be covered live? We never cover by-elections anyway. Surely I could just phone the chairman later—or tomorrow—for an update?’
‘Sorry TT. Editor’s orders. He lives in that suburb and he wants to know what the DA is up to.’
‘Having me at that meeting won’t change anything the DA does. Anyway why can’t Dudu go? She’s on duty today, isn’t she?’
‘Duduzile has other things to cover today. And you’ll blend in at the meeting far better than she would. Anyway, you aren’t telling me how to do my job, are you, Ms Jacobs?’
‘No... no of course not. But...’ Tracy bit back the accusing words that almost forced themselves past her disappointed lips. When Mafuta called her Ms Jacobs, rather than TT—short for Token Tracy—she knew better than to argue. Anyway, she had an excellent idea of exactly what Mafuta had in mind for Duduzile to cover today. The revolting image of her pretty colleague, her skirt bunched up around her waist, writhing on the fat news editor’s lap in the disused photographic darkroom would remain etched on her mind forever. Tracy had backed out, saddened that Dudu—who was a really bright and talented reporter—allowed Mafuta to bully and abuse her like that. Tracy had tried to raise the subject with her, but to no avail.
‘You don’t know what you are talking about, TT,’ Duduzile had said. ‘I don’t do anything I don’t want to, ever. We understand each other, Mafuta and me.’
So today, while Duduzile was undoubtedly further enhancing her career, Tracy fidgeted through the Ratepayers’ Association meeting in the stiflingly hot, cramped lounge of the chairman’s townhouse, trying to pay attention as the pompous little man droned on and on about the 2016 municipal elections and the ‘decisive role’ the association could play in determining which political party would win the ward. About half a dozen blue-rinsed old women dabbed at their foreheads with pink tissues and fingered their pearls; a couple of old men in grey flannel trousers and Polo golf shirts nodded sagely. Or perhaps they were asleep. Tracy couldn’t tell. She declined a cup of tea and an egg mayonnaise-on-wholewheat after the chairman finally closed the meeting, which had agreed—unanimously—to support the DA candidate in next month’s by-election and the national municipal elections next year, provided said candidate/s met their standards as qualified, educated councillors who reflected the demographics, and upheld the liberal traditions, of the ward.
Tracy rushed back to the Daily Express offices, dashed off a three-paragraph story—or non-story—about the meeting, submitted it and was almost out the door when Mafuta waddled in. His shirt, buttoned askew, strained over his stomach.
‘Going somewhere, TT?’
An hour later, after rewriting the Ratepayers’ Association story three times before Mafuta was satisfied, Tracy ran for the door, ignoring the ringing phone on her desk.
‘I’ll get that TT. I’ll call you if it’s anything important. Off you go, have fun,’ Duduzile warbled.
Thankfully, Johannesburg on Sundays resembled a ghost town. With no major accidents and only a few traffic lights out of order, Tracy made it to the dreaded boom at the entrance to Yair’s gated suburb in record time. Cars lined the street all the way to the Silvermans’ double-storey Georgian house and Tracy’s stomach clenched. Had Yair invited everyone he knew? Well, she couldn’t blame him. He had a point to prove.
She considered driving Buttercup through the high wrought iron gates into the Silverman property, but changed her mind. Buttercup was sure to attract attention – the wrong kind of attention. And she was still in her ‘work clothes’ – grey trousers that bagged over her backside, a striped green and white shirt, fraying at the collar with a faded gravy stain on the pocket, and scuffed brown pumps. Her new leggings and oversized blue T-shirt with the stylised gold and green parrot emblazoned with faux diamanté and other bling that she had bought especially for today—and the low-heeled black sandals—were in the kitbag she’d had the sense to pack that morning in anticipation of not having time to get home and change. She also had to do something about her face: her nose was probably shining as brightly as the diamanté on her T-shirt and her freckles, standing out in stark contrast to her pasty white skin, would have to be covered with a liberal application of her new Estée Lauder bare-beige foundation. She also had that new mascara to try out, the one the Estée Lauder consultant had assured her would make her ginger, stumpy lashes all dark and lush and long. As for her hair – she dragged her fingers through the bright orange, frizzy tangle and sighed. She’d probably have to tie it up.
First, she had to get into the house without being seen. Then she could make herself presentable, so that Yair would realise that he wasn’t making a mistake when he asked her whatever it was that he was going to ask; so that when he did ask her and she said ‘yes’ and he made the announcement to everyone and they took photographs, their future children wouldn’t be ashamed of the way their very plain mother had looked the day their very handsome father had proposed.
Tracy shook her head. ‘Snap out of it,’ she told herself. The fact that Yair had told her he had something to ask her didn’t necessarily mean he was going to propose. Why would he? Because they’d slept together? That didn’t mean anything – did it? And it had only been that once. It wasn’t as if he’d declared his undying love for her afterwards. Or during, either, come to think of it. She’d been so scared that everything had been ruined, that she’d ruined everything. They were friends, just friends. They shouldn’t have... but they had. And then, after not hearing from him for two weeks—okay, she hadn’t exactly been easy to reach up in the wilds of Botswana and Zimbabwe—he’d phoned her when she got back to Johannesburg on Thursday and told her she had to come to the party because he had something to ask her.
Tracy parked Buttercup under a tree behind an oversized Mercedes, grabbed her kitbag and hurried up the street and through the open gates of the Silverman mansion. She could hear music coming from what she guessed was the patio. Everyone was probably in the front garden. She sneaked around the side of the house and slipped into the large kitchen. It looked like the Hell’s Kitchen set, with catering staff seemingly falling over each other as they loaded up and carried out trays of fancy-looking canapés.
‘Excuse me,’ Tracy said as she made her way through the chaos, into the passage and up the stairs. She hesitated at the door to Yair’s room – a suite really, now that Yair had converted the original five bedrooms into three self-contained suites, each with its own bathroom and lounge-cum-study area.
Tracy opened the door to the next suite – the spare one that Yair had told her was for guests. The third suite, at the end of the hallway, was for Zivah, for when she came home again. And now she had. Tracy glimpsed Zivah, dressed in white as usual, coming out of her rooms just as she slipped into the guest suite and quickly closed the door. She didn’t want to face Zivah. Not yet.
Chapter 2
Tracy
Tracy gently spread her new T-shirt on the bed. It was creased, but what had she expected after it had been scrunched up in her kitbag all day? She went into the bathroom, wet her hand and then flicked some water onto the fabric. It was an old trick her mother, Maxine, had taught her: dampen the
worst of the creases, then ‘iron’ the garment with your hand and leave it to dry on a flat surface. Once dried, the shirt should look far more presentable. Tracy had never tried it before. She hoped it would work and that it would dry quickly. The last thing she wanted was to have everyone commenting about what a frump she was. Not today of all days. She willed the T-shirt to dry and drifted across to the window while it did.
The party appeared to be in full swing below. Dozens of people thronged the patio around the pool, a disco had been set up on the left and over on the right a spit braai was underway. Two men in white jackets and chef’s hats, armed with what appeared to be long-handled paintbrushes, were daubing the revolving lamb carcasses with some kind of basting sauce – honey probably, if Yair had had anything to do with the menu.
She scanned the crowd but he didn’t seem to be there. And then she spotted him. Her heart lurched. He was alone, about halfway down the garden, looking back at the house and party. It was all a bit like a scene from The Great Gatsby, with Yair in the role of Gatsby himself. She giggled. What on earth had made her think of that? The Great Gatsby had been one of her least-favourite setwork books at university; and she hadn’t bothered to see the movie – despite the fact that Leonardo Di Caprio had played the lead. If she remembered correctly, she hadn’t liked Gatsby—Jay Gatsby—very much at all. She hadn’t liked any of the characters in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic novel. They had all been so... so needy. And shallow.
Tracy stiffened as a dark-haired woman emerged from the crowd and tottered across the lawn towards Yair. The woman put her hand on Yair’s arm and leaned into him, turning her face up to his.
Tiffany! What a cow. Tracy wondered how that slut had managed to swing an invitation to the party. Yair had always been a bit scathing about her, indirectly confirming Tracy’s suspicion about the rumour that Tiffany had ‘done it’ it with virtually every boy in their school before she’d been forced to drop out after failing Grade 11. She’d thought that Tiffany was in America or somewhere with her latest conquest, Cecil Zaldain. Maxine had told her that the Chev had given Tiffany the job in its charity shop – a menial little job but she had obviously put her one and only talent to good use, charming all the men who came in. The last thing anyone had anticipated was that—according to Maxine’s impeccable sources—Cecil Zaldain had fallen for Tiffany’s effusive show of gratitude and sympathy when he’d taken the late Mrs Zaldain’s clothes to the Chevrah Kadisha to be given to a poor Jewish family. The community buzzed with shocked titillation when the odd couple had eloped and fled to America for a dream honeymoon. Tracy had felt a frisson of glee at Gilad’s obvious discomfort that one of his classmates, someone he had probably even screwed, given Tiffany’s—and his—reputations, was now his stepmother and undoubtedly spending her way through his inheritance at a rate of knots.
But it seemed Maxine’s intelligence network had let her down this time because there Tiffany was, in a dress that barely contained her boobs, draping herself all over Yair. Tracy could just imagine Maxine’s face when she told her mother that the new Mrs Cecil Zaldain was back in town and trying to attach herself to Yair.
Tracy swung around as the door slammed open.
‘Zivah! Can’t you knock?’ she snapped. She massaged her palm where her nails had been digging into her clenched fist.
‘It’s my house. I don’t have to knock in my own house.’ Bright blue eyes flashed as Zivah bounced down on the bed, right on top of Tracy’s T-shirt.
‘Don’t sit there – you’ll crease it!’ Tracy yelped.
‘It’s my house. I can sit where I want. What are you doing here? This is my house. You don’t have the right to be here.’
‘Yes. It is your house, Zivah. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. But please, my clothes...’
The girl stood up and brushed at her long white skirt. ‘It’s my party. Yair said so. Do you like my party clothes? Do I look pretty?’
‘You always look pretty, Zivah. But yes,’ Tracy added quickly, ‘you look especially pretty today. I love those little pale blue flowers on your blouse. They match your eyes.’
‘And my hair? I did it myself.’
Tracy bit back her smile. Zivah’s hair looked as it always did: a fine blonde curtain hanging straight down her back. Today, it was held off her elfin face by a delicate white and blue Alice band.
‘Very nice, Zivah. You look lovely.’
Zivah twirled around and beamed at Tracy. ‘Do you think Yair will think I look pretty?’
‘I’m sure everyone will think you look pretty, Zivah. Oh,’ she added quickly as Zivah’s smile faded, ‘how do you like your new bedroom? Yair wanted it to be really special for you now that you’re home again.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Only okay? Yair really went to a lot of trouble to make it absolutely perfect for you, you know. He’ll be hurt if you don’t like it. I hope you told him you liked it.’
‘Of course I like it. And I did tell him I liked it. He helped me to put all my things away and now we’re having a party.’
‘Yes. It’s your party – for your twenty-first.’
‘I turned twenty-one ages ago. I’ve been a grown-up for months.’
‘Well, you didn’t have a party then and this party is also for your homecoming. It’s a double celebration, isn’t that wonderful? So don’t you think you should go down now and be with your guests?’
Zivah frowned. She wrapped her arms around her thin little body and shook her head. ‘I don’t really know anyone. I’d rather stay here.’
Tracy’s heart soared. This was the first indication of friendship Zivah had ever shown her. ‘That’s okay Zivah. You can stay and chat to me while I get changed. I’ve just come straight from work, you see. And when I’m dressed, we can do down together. Would you like that?’
Zivah sat down on the bed next to Tracy’s T-shirt and ran her hand over the fabric. ‘It’s wet! You can’t wear this. You’ll get sick if you put on wet clothes.’ She giggled. ‘Now you can’t go to my party. You’ll have to go home.’
Tracy sighed. Trying to befriend Yair’s little sister was more difficult than trying to pick up mercury with chopsticks.
‘I’m going to the party, Zivah. Yair is expecting me. You can stay and watch me change and we’ll go down together. Or you can go down on your own. Isn’t your social worker coming? Or any of your friends from The Lodge?’
‘I don’t like Carol Aronowitz. She’s not a nice person.’ Zivah jumped to her feet and started pacing up and down the room. Tracy tried to hide her dismay as Zivah looked set to launch into one of her tantrums.
‘What do you mean? Isn’t she kind to you?’
‘Carol Aronowitz is not a nice person. She asks me horrible questions. She says bad things about daddy. She didn’t want me to come home. She is jealous that I have such a nice home and she has that horrible office. She wanted me to stay at The Lodge so she could still be horrible to me and they could lock me up again. She shouldn’t be a social worker. She isn’t a kind person. Social workers are supposed to be kind. She isn’t kind. I want another social worker. I don’t like her. I hate her. I won’t go back to The Lodge. I won’t. I don’t care what Carol Aronowitz says.’
‘It’s okay Zivah. It’s okay. Shh.’ Tracy put her arm around Zivah’s shoulders. She could feel the girl trembling. ‘You don’t have to go back to The Lodge. You are going to stay here, at home, in your beautiful new suite that Yair built, especially for you. Shh. Sit here and as soon as I’m finished, we can go down. Okay?’
‘No, not okay. You’re not a nice person either. I don’t like you. I don’t like anyone. Only Yair. You can’t come to my party. You must go home!’
Zivah flung off Tracy’s comforting arm and bolted out the door, slamming it behind her. Tracy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So much for making friends with Zivah. How on earth she and Zivah would ever be able to share a home after she and Yair... she paused. She was getting ahead of h
erself again. She unzipped her jeans and stuffed them into her kitbag. Her striped shirt followed. Armed with her make-up bag, she went into the en suite bathroom.
She had just finished applying her new Estée Lauder mascara to her left eye when the bedroom door opened again.
‘Zivah – I told you to knock,’ Tracy snapped.
‘I’m not Zivah, God forbid. So I was right. It was you spying on us from up here.’
Tracy flushed. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl. Having to speak to Tiffany at any time was bad enough, but having to face the voluptuous beauty while dressed only in grey Woollies bikini panties and a yellowing sports bra was just so humiliating.
‘Tiffany! I’m not dressed. Close the door! I thought you were in America.’
Tiffany leaned against the bathroom door, swirled her champagne flute and appraised Tracy, who tried desperately not to cringe. ‘Nah. Poor Cecil couldn’t take the pace. I would have thought you’d heard. And Gilad was such a bastard about it. He left me stranded. No thanks for making his dad happy or anything. I mean, what a way to go – know what I mean?’
‘You mean Cecil Zaldain died? I’m so sorry. I wish you long life.’
‘Thanks. Yeah, well at least he died happy – very happy.’ Tiffany winked and giggled.
‘Oh my... um... you don’t mean he died... um... on the job as it were?’
Tiffany laughed. ‘Aah, now that would be telling, and I don’t tell. I was really very fond of Cecil you know – but Gilad was ...well, can you believe he wouldn’t even give me money to get back to South Africa? Just left me stranded, without a bean, in a foreign country. It was terrible. I was terrified and...’
‘So how... when did you get back?’
‘Then my luck changed. I couldn’t believe it. I was walking down Broadway, or maybe it was 27th Street, well, whatever, and next thing I know, there’s Yair right in front of me and he says... by the way, what are you doing in my suite?’
Deceive and Defend Page 2