by Lesley Lokko
‘Here, let me.’ Julian walked over to help.
‘Thanks.’ She wriggled out of the dress and hung it up.
‘He’s a funny chap,’ Julian continued, peeling off his trousers. He sat down on the edge of the enormous bed.
‘What d’you mean?’ Kemi called, walking into the bathroom.
‘He looked as though he was on a stage the whole time, almost as though he couldn’t let his guard down. I’ve never seen anyone so aware of being watched.’
Kemi appeared in the doorway, toothbrush in hand. ‘People were watching him. They couldn’t take their eyes off either of them.’
‘He’s got real political ambitions. He’s looking to be president one day.’
‘Who told you that?’ Kemi asked, frowning.
‘Overhead a few people talking.’ He picked up his own toothbrush. ‘That’s the advantage of being a middle-aged, white foreigner,’ he smiled. ‘No one takes you seriously. You hear all sorts of things.’
She got into bed beside him. His arms went around her, as usual. He found it impossible to sleep without touching or holding her in some way. They lay in peaceful silence for a few minutes. She smiled to herself. She could almost feel him judging whether to make the now-familiar move that would lead to lovemaking. But they were both tired and a contented lassitude crept over them both. She drifted off to sleep.
The following morning, she went to Hyde Park to have brunch with Ayanda. She left Julian to spend the morning reading by the pool, which he was only too happy to do. A holiday was a rare and precious thing for a leading cardiologist. There was always some conference to go to, colleagues to see, patients to check up on. Jen and Solam had gone to the Seychelles for their honeymoon immediately after the wedding.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Kemi apologized, sliding into the seat opposite her. Ayanda was in a white trouser suit with a crimson silk scarf knotted elegantly at the neck. ‘There was a lot of traffic.’
‘Worry not,’ Ayanda smiled, pointing to the bottle of champagne nestled in the silver bucket beside her. ‘I’ve been keeping myself busy.’
‘It’s so good to see you.’ Kemi touched her hand. ‘And before you say it, I know, I know. I’m rubbish at keeping in touch.’
‘So am I. So, we’re even. You look well,’ Ayanda said, looking her over with a careful eye. ‘Marriage obviously suits you. How’s Julian?’ She had been at their Marylebone wedding, one of the few South African guests. The three doctors had got along so well together; Julian hadn’t stopped talking about Ayanda for weeks afterwards.
‘He’s fine. Asleep by the pool, I imagine. It was quite some wedding.’
‘You OK with it?’ Ayanda asked, looking directly at her.
‘Yes, of course, I am. Absolutely,’ she said firmly.
‘Well, good luck to her is all I can say. Let’s see how long he keeps it zipped up.’
Kemi looked at her. ‘Is he really that bad?’
Ayanda shrugged. ‘What you’ve done once, you’ll do again,’ she said dryly. ‘Anyway, enough about Solam Rhoyi. Tell me all about you. How’s work? How’s married life?’
Kemi picked up her champagne flute. ‘It’s fine,’ she said slowly. ‘No, more than fine. Julian’s wonderful. He’s good to me and he’s good for me. I sometimes wonder what I bring to the marriage, you know. He’s so successful in his field, everyone respects him—’
‘Everyone respects you too, Kemi,’ Ayanda said quietly. ‘Don’t underestimate yourself.’
‘I’m not, I don’t. It’s just . . . it’s just that he’s so much older and more experienced than I am. He’s lived a whole life before me. He’s fifty-five . . . I wonder sometimes if he doesn’t want more. He’s talked about doing something here, setting up a clinic or something, but I think he’s reluctant to tread on my turf, or at least that’s the way he sees it.’
‘So why don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Set up something here?’
‘Oh, Ayanda, I don’t know. I don’t think he’s serious about it, to be honest. And I’m not sure I want to live here. At least not now.’
‘If not now, then when? You said it yourself. He’s nearly sixty. Maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first real suggestion. If you take the idea seriously, he’s free to act.’
Kemi smiled. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said quietly. ‘No one sees things as clearly as you.’
‘That’s why I’m twice divorced, my dear,’ Ayanda said with a wry smile. ‘Now, how about some lunch? I can’t remember the last time I had champagne on an empty stomach. Student days – and believe me, those are long gone.’
Julian was nowhere to be found when she got back to their suite. He wasn’t at the poolside or in the restaurant, either. She frowned. It wasn’t like him to disappear without saying anything. She walked back up the thickly carpeted stairs, trailing a hand along the bannister, just as she’d done at the house in Morningside as a teenager, mooching around with little to do. She picked up a novel from the bedside table – one of his; she rarely found time to read – and slipped into a white cotton sundress. It wasn’t yet warm enough to swim, but the sun was strong and the sky cloudless. She would spend a couple of hours by the pool. They were due to visit her parents in Pretoria the following day. An afternoon by the poolside was just what she needed.
She woke to feel a rather chilly breeze wafting over her. She put up a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. It was sinking rapidly behind the building opposite. She glanced at her wristwatch. It was nearly five thirty! She’d been asleep practically all afternoon. She got up hurriedly, picking her discarded paperback off the ground and thrusting her feet into her flip-flops. Surely Julian was back by now? She wondered why he hadn’t come to the pool to find her.
She was on her way back up to the room when she heard a burst of men’s laughter coming from the bar behind reception. She paused. Wasn’t that Julian’s laugh? She listened for a moment. It was him. She turned and walked into the bar. He was sitting with someone.
‘Darling,’ he said, sliding off the bar stool as soon as he caught sight of her. ‘There you are! I stopped by the pool but you were fast asleep. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’ He turned to the man sitting next to him. ‘This is Mitch Levinson. Mitch, this is Kemi, my wife.’
The man slipped off the stool and held out a hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Carrick. Although I understand from Julian that you go by your professional name. A good choice. Your father’s an excellent man.’
‘Mitch heads up the endocrinology department at Sunningdale,’ Julian said quickly. ‘We met in Sydney last year.’
‘Oh.’ Kemi was surprised. He hadn’t said anything about meeting anyone whilst they were in Johannesburg. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said, shaking his hand.
‘We’re meeting a couple of Mitch’s colleagues for dinner,’ Julian said, quickly looking at his watch. ‘Will you join us, darling?’
Both men were looking expectantly at her. ‘Um, yes, of course. I’ll just freshen up,’ she said, looking down at her sundress.
‘Of course. We’ll be in the bar. They should be here around seven.’
‘I’ll see you then.’
She took a shower, standing with relief under the powerful hot blast and washing her hair. She tied it up in a knot, finishing it off with a long black silk scarf. She took a black-and-white striped cashmere sweater off the hanger and selected a pair of black palazzo-style pants. She kept her make-up to a minimum and slipped her feet into a pair of flat black sandals. She took a quick look in the mirror – she looked chic and business-like – and made her way downstairs.
They were still in the bar, having been joined by three other men, all doctors, all around Julian’s age. She was introduced, one by one. They made their way to the table in high spirits and took their seats. It was funny, she thought to herself as she watched them talking and eating, pausing only to polish off three bottles of excellent red wine, how it only required the company of one f
emale in a gathering to bring out the show-off in most men. Julian was positively preening. She suddenly felt very young and rather out of her depth. This wasn’t about medicine at all, but about business. Trusts, investors, management, sites, partnerships. She slowly drank her glass of wine, listening with half an ear and wishing she were curled up in bed in their room, watching a film.
She suddenly became aware of Julian looking at her expectantly. ‘Sorry,’ she said, bringing her attention back to the conversation.
‘D’you think you could?’
‘I missed the question,’ she said, mortified. She saw two of them men exchange a quick glance. ‘What did you say, darling?’ she repeated.
‘We need a favour,’ one of the doctors butted in. ‘Julian here thinks it’s inappropriate to ask, of course, but look, I’m just a boy from Benoni—’ He broke off to much laughter from the others. ‘And I don’t mind asking a favour from time to time.’
‘What’s the favour? What could I possibly do for you?’ she asked, puzzled. She looked quickly at Julian. It was hard to read his expression.
‘We’ll need governmental go-ahead,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Setting up a private clinic’s not a straightforward thing.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Let me put it to you like this,’ one of the other doctors said quickly, signalling for another bottle of wine. ‘We’re in a bind here. First World know-how, Third World delivery. A question of misplaced ideology, if you will. Since this lot took over, I don’t mind telling you, it’s got worse.’ Wine had loosened his tongue. He warmed to his theme. ‘We’ve put together the best package you’ll see this side of the Mediterranean, but we can’t give the go-ahead until we’ve got ministerial sign-off.’
Julian was watching her closely, she noticed. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. ‘What Mike’s saying,’ he said hurriedly, ‘is that we’re going to need a little help in getting to the right ears, that’s all.’
Kemi looked straight at him. Her heart had started to pound faster. ‘I know what he’s saying,’ she said shortly. ‘I’m not stupid, Julian.’ She stood up. ‘I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I don’t know anyone in government, least of all someone who’s looking to make a cut.’
‘No, that’s not what—’ Julian started to say.
Kemi didn’t wait to hear what he was going to say. She got up and walked out of the restaurant.
Julian held his hands up as he entered the room a few minutes after her. ‘I know, I know. I should have talked to you about it beforehand. I’m sorry.’
Kemi stood by the window, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. ‘That was insulting,’ she said tightly. ‘I can’t believe you asked me to do that in front of your friends. I didn’t even know you had any here!’
‘Kemi, what do you want me to do?’ Julian’s voice was quiet. He sounded suddenly angry. ‘Has it ever occurred to you why I’m doing this?’
She stared at him. ‘I . . . I don’t understand what you mean,’ she said uncertainly. Julian seldom got angry.
He took a step towards her. His face was tight with some emotion she couldn’t identify. ‘I’m a senior consultant surgeon. I’ve worked for the NHS all my goddamn life. Do you know how much I earn?’
Kemi shook her head. It was one of the agreements between them when they married. Separate accounts, separate finances. She’d readily agreed to it; he was the one with experience of marriage, after all. She hadn’t questioned it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You insisted on that, not me.’
‘And did it ever occur to you why? Rosemary got everything. I gave her everything I had. I couldn’t give her children, a family or any of the things she really wanted. All I gave her was heartache. It seemed the decent thing to do, to give her the house and the savings and all the rest of it. But it meant I came into this marriage with next to nothing. Did you ever stop to think about that?’
‘How was I supposed to know? You never told me any of this!’
‘You never asked!’ He turned away and walked to the window. ‘Yes, I know it wasn’t phrased well. Mike’s an idiot. But I want to leave you with something. There’s absolutely nothing illegal about it. We’d be doing exactly what I do in the UK. No difference. Saving lives. But I’d be able to give you something, instead of watching everything I’ve worked for disappear down the drain.’
Kemi was speechless. The anger she’d felt was replaced by something else: a childish fear that she’d somehow done the wrong thing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I didn’t think . . . it just didn’t—’
He turned back to face her. ‘You don’t have to, that’s the whole point. You’ve got your inheritance and your rich uncle. You’re thirty-two years old, for Christ’s sake! You’ve got your whole life in front of you. I’ll be retiring soon. Did you ever think about that?’
‘Stop.’ Kemi moved towards him. ‘Stop, please. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realize . . .’ She put a hand on his arm. She’d never seen him like this. His eyes behind the convex glare of his glasses were wet with tears. It produced an alarm in her that was equal to, if not greater, than her earlier rage. ‘Don’t,’ she said, unable to bring herself to say it: don’t cry. She put her arms around him. ‘I’ll do it, of course I will. Just tell me what you want me to ask.’ She hugged him, pressing him to her tightly. The sound of him choking back tears was the most terrible thing she had ever heard.
If her father was surprised to receive a phone call from her early the following morning, he chose not to show it. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll tell security to expect you.’ His voice for her was still the disembodied voice of Prisoner 49865, heard over crackling airwaves. The enormous gulf that lay between them would not – could not – be crossed.
She slowed down, trying to remember the way. Eridanus Street, then left onto Regulus Street . . . there it was. Sharp turn onto Grus Street, third house on the right. She parked the rented car under a jacaranda, not yet in bloom, and opened the door. From the top of Waterkloof Ridge she looked down onto the city. It was just past eight in the morning and the sun was already high in the cerulean sky. The house, unlike many in the street, was fenced rather than walled, and set deep into the property. There was a discreet guardhouse just behind the gate pillars. A uniformed guard stood up as she approached. He wrote down her name laboriously, concentrating on forming the letters, she saw with a pang of sympathy. His bulletproof vest and gun couldn’t conceal a lack of schooling. He spoke into the walkie-talkie – a burst of unintelligible static – then motioned for her to walk up the path, alone.
Her father was waiting in the doorway. He was nearly seventy but he still stood tall and strong. He was wearing a cream woollen cardigan and slippers. It was a far cry from the formal attire of suit and tie which was all she’d really ever known of him. He smiled as she approached. She was struck by the similarity to her own smile, the face she saw each morning in the mirror. It was there in the upward flick at the edges of her mouth – his mouth too, she saw now.
‘What brings you here so early?’ he asked, standing aside to let her pass. ‘Come in, come in. We weren’t expecting you until lunchtime. Is everything all right?’ The hallway was dark and a little cool. ‘Shall we sit outside?’ he asked gravely. ‘It’s chilly but the sun’s out. Your mother’s still getting dressed.’
She followed him through the house to the stoep at the back overlooking the teal-green pool. How different it must have been to the twenty-odd years he spent in prison, she thought with a pang. She had never asked him about his years spent in jail, first on Robben Island with the others, then at the prison outside Cape Town from where he and Mandela had been released. There was a section of the wide patio that was in sunlight. He led the way to a grouping of white wicker chairs with brightly coloured red gingham cushions. A bowl of roses sat squarely in the middle of the low table. It was the sort of domestic, feminine touch her mother would never have thought of. The bowl had been carried out by a housekeeper, no doubt. As if on cu
e, a woman’s tread could be heard approaching the patio, high heels on the wooden floor. A woman appeared. She was wearing a powder-blue woollen dress with a string of pearls. Middle-aged, with a low bosom, sturdy calves. Light-skinned, with honey-coloured straightened hair.
‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked politely.
‘No, I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘I’ll have a rooibos tea, please, Victoria.’
Kemi sat down opposite her father. He busied himself bringing out his pipe and lighting it, giving her time to compose her thoughts. Perhaps there was more between them than she thought, she realized with another sharp pang.
She slid the brochure Julian had given her towards him, across the glass table, moving the heavily scented roses out of the way. She quickly explained why she’d come. ‘They’re hoping to start construction next year,’ she said. ‘Julian says most of the money’s in place.’
‘I see.’ He took his time, not hurrying her, the finger of one hand pressed into the fleshy pad of his cheek.
‘The thing is, they need governmental approval before they can go any further. The Department of Health needs to grant permission for a private healthcare provider in any case, but in this one particularly, since there are no South African investors.’ She looked at him. ‘Julian’s asked me to see what I can do.’
Her father nodded. ‘You say “we”,’ he said, picking up the brochure. He flicked through the pages. ‘Are you financially involved?’
‘No, of course not. This is Julian’s project. He just asked . . . I’m just asking you if there’s any chance you could . . . well, put in a good word for them. Get it through. I know it’s a lot to ask,’ she said carefully.
He shook his head. ‘On the contrary. You’ve never asked me for anything. Not once, not ever. I failed you as a father. I know that.’ He put up a hand to stop her protesting. ‘You’ve never reproached me. How can I refuse you, my child? My only child.’