Читать книгу Hot Property - Cheryl Ntumy S. - Страница 4

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It was a beautiful house. It had four large bedrooms, two bathrooms, excluding the en suite, a massive kitchen and a huge backyard with a pool. It was two storeys high, and the little balcony outside the master bedroom was just begging for a lovesick Juliet to lean over it, gazing at her Romeo, who would stand on the flawless lawn in the back garden.

The tiles were the colour of wet beach sand, mottled, with a thin border design. There was a chandelier hanging over the foyer that was a little too Baroque for the modern design of the house, but that was the only blemish on an otherwise perfect work of art.

Normally, Keabetswe Rantao would be taking it all in, running her fingers along the walls and enjoying the sound of her heels clicking against the tiles in the empty house. But not today. Today she was standing still in the bare living room, arms folded across her chest. The only part of her that moved was her eyes as they followed Mrs Patel, the prospective buyer, around the house.

Please say yes, she thought desperately.

Mrs Patel emerged from the kitchen. “It’s beautiful,” she declared.

Keabetswe smiled. “Yes, it is.”

Mrs Patel hesitated. “You know, I’m really not a superstitious person.”

Uh-oh. Keabetswe’s heart sank. That was how every rejection began. She managed to maintain her smile, even though her thoughts were racing. “I’m very glad to hear that.”

She approached the woman and said, “It would be a shame to let such a lovely place go because of an incident that took place ages ago. The Millers built many wonderful memories here until that tragic day, and I think your family could build memories here, too.”

“Hmmm.” Mrs Patel glanced around the foyer. Was it Keabetswe’s imagination, or did her gaze linger on the exact spot near the kitchen door where Ruth Miller’s body was found?

“Did you see the view from the master bedroom?” Keabetswe prodded.

“Yes. Lovely.” Mrs Patel turned to her and sighed. “I don’t mind it myself, you see,” she said, toying with her sleeve in a way that suggested she minded quite a lot. “It’s the children. I’m not sure they’ll be comfortable knowing someone was killed in their house.”

“Do they have to be told?” Keabetswe blurted out in desperation. The look she received was answer enough. “Of course. I understand.”

Mrs Patel shrugged. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to find me something else.”

Keabetswe’s smile was fixed on her face. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.” Mrs Patel headed for the door. “You’ll give me a call, won’t you?”

“Of course. Have a good day, Mrs Patel.”

Keabetswe followed her outside and stood in the driveway, waving. What a disaster. She walked back into the house, stopping briefly in front of the mirror near the staircase.

“Take a deep breath,” she told her reflection, and watched the dark-skinned, square-jawed face in the glass mimic her. As usual, she wore no make-up other than a coat of mascara and lip gloss. Her skin was as smooth as the wood that framed the mirror. She patted her long dreadlocks, which were pulled away from her face with a yellow ribbon, then turned away from the mirror and reached into her handbag for her phone.

After two rings, she heard the clipped voice of her boss, Esme Gould. “Bad news,” Keabetswe told her.

“No!” cried Esme. “I was so sure she would take it. At least tell me it was the chandelier she didn’t like.”

Keabetswe laughed. “Strangely enough, no one seems to mind the chandelier. It was the murder, of course.”

Esme groaned. The previous owners of the house, the Millers, were a high-profile couple and the murder of the wife, Ruth, had been all over the media for months.

“We’ll have to figure out something,” said Esme. “That house has been empty for two years! Get me a tenant, Kea. I don’t care who it is.”

“I’m working on it.” After hanging up, Keabetswe locked up the house and made her way to her Toyota Yaris, frustrated.

She had tried for ages to sell or rent out the house, but nobody wanted to live in a house where somebody had been murdered. What she needed was a mystery buff, or at least someone who didn’t have children. She took a last glance at the house from her car window as she pulled out into the road.

She wouldn’t mind living there herself, if she could afford it. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

It was nearly 4pm when Keabetswe reached the Peckham Gould Estate Agency. She would have gone home, but she had some work to catch up on. Most of the other agents were out, and the office was quiet. She waved as she passed Esme’s office, and walked across the chocolate-coloured wall-to-wall carpet to the sunny corner where her desk was.

She sat right by the window, gazing out over Cape Town’s City Bowl. The view might not have been inspiring to others, but Keabetswe had always been fascinated by buildings. Every time she looked out of the window, she spotted some new facet of one of them that she had failed to notice before.

Just as she reached her desk, her phone began to ring.

“Peckham Gould. Keabetswe speaking.”

“You’d better not have forgotten,” cautioned the breathless, high-pitched voice of her best friend, Phemelo.

Keabetswe smiled. “Forgotten what? Was I supposed to do something?”

“Kea!”

She laughed. “Don’t panic, my dear, I’m just joking. Of course I didn’t forget. Give me an hour to wrap things up here, and then another hour for traffic and groceries. I’ll be home around six, okay?”

“I have a million swatches,” groaned Phemelo. “And they’re all in ridiculous colours like salmon pink and meringue. I have ten different shades of light blue! I’m going crazy!”

“I can tell.” Keabetswe sank into her swivel chair and spun it around lightly. “Calm down. I’ll see you soon and sort out everything.”

Keabetswe hung up and shook her head, then turned on her computer. A moment later, she was lost in her work; Phemelo’s wedding drama was the last thing on her mind.

* * *

Keabetswe stepped into her Vredehoek flat and kicked off her high heels. It was a fully furnished apartment subsidised by Peckham Gould, decorated in impersonal neutral colours, like a hotel.

Keabetswe hadn’t done much to change it. All the quirky pieces she had bought seemed out of place in the modern apartment, so she kept them in boxes in the spare room, just waiting for the day she finally found her dream home.

She was about to head to the kitchen when there was a knock on the door.

“Nhlanhla!” she said in surprise when she opened it.

“Who were you expecting?” her cousin asked, sweeping past her into the flat. “Trevor Noah?” She carried a heavy-looking shopping bag.

Keabetswe shot her a look. “Phemelo’s coming over for some help with wedding stuff.”

“Ag, shame. Trevor Noah would have been much more exciting.” Nhlanhla marched towards the kitchen. “I brought wine. You know, in case you’ve decided to lighten up.”

“I haven’t.” Keabetswe shook her head and closed the door. “I still don’t drink.” She had always been a teetotaller, avoiding anything that could impair her judgement for as much as a moment. Her experiences with her alcoholic mother had convinced her from an early age that alcohol was poison.

Nhlanhla emerged from the kitchen. “Can I say something?”

Keabetswe gave her a wary glance. “You’re going to say it anyway.” She peeled off her grey waistcoat and unzipped her skirt on her way to her bedroom.

Nhlanhla hesitated, and Keabetswe could tell that she wasn’t going to like what was coming. “You don’t have to be so hard on yourself. You’re the most responsible person I know. You can have a drink once in a while. You’re not going to turn into your mom.”

Keabetswe clenched her jaw. She hadn’t seen her mother in over a decade. After her parents’ divorce, she got used to the idea of being a daddy’s girl. She had no choice – her mother was too busy partying up a storm to visit her. “Don’t go there,” she warned her cousin. She flung open her closet and grabbed a pair of tracksuit pants and a T-shirt.

“I’m just saying . . .”

A frantic knock interrupted her, and Keabetswe heaved a sigh of relief as she pulled on her T-shirt.

“Now that’s definitely Phemelo.”

Nhlanhla walked back to the kitchen.

Keabetswe went to open the door and Phemelo hurried in, arms filled with books, magazines and bags.

“Hayi, she brought a whole bridal shop!” declared Nhlanhla, returning from the kitchen with a glass of wine.

Phemelo looked at her and smiled weakly. “Oh, hi. Good thing you’re here – I need all the help I can get.”

“I thought we were looking at fabric swatches,” said Keabetswe, holding up a bridal magazine.

“Fabric swatches, flower arrangements, invitation card designs . . .” Phemelo sank into the nearest armchair. “I’m so stressed out! I need to send the invitations out by the end of the week and I can’t decide between embossed silver paper and engraved baby-blue paper.”

“Well, at least you’re losing weight,” remarked Nhlanhla.

Keabetswe looked at the jumbled pile of things on the coffee table in dismay. “I still don’t understand why you’re putting yourself through all this,” she said. “All you need to do is pick a colour scheme and stick to it. You wanted white and light blue.”

“Yes, but there’s ivory, cream, silver-white. And . . .” Phemelo reached into one bag and pulled out a pile of swatches. “Look how many shades of light blue there are!”

“They all look the same to me.” Keabetswe emptied out the bags and spread the contents across the coffee table.

Nhlanhla snickered and hid a smile behind her wineglass. “Kea has no imagination.”

“Who needs imagination?” Keabetswe countered. “It’s a wedding, not a pantomime.” She could never understand why people went to so much trouble to get married. She had no intention of ever walking down the aisle, but if she did, she would at least have the good sense to save herself the drama and just make a quick stop at the magistrate’s office.

“Such a cynic,” sighed Phemelo. “One day you’ll fall in love, Kea, and then you’ll understand.”

“I’ve been in love. It was fun while it lasted, but I never once had the desire to put myself through all this.”

“But your wedding day is the most important day of your life,” said Phemelo.

“Really?” Keabetswe flipped carelessly through one of the magazines, wincing at the elaborate gowns and their ridiculous price tags. “I thought other rites of passage might make the top of the list. You know, like graduating from varsity, landing your dream job, buying your first car.”

“Having your first child,” added Nhlanhla.

Keabetswe shuddered, but Phemelo’s gaze had grown misty.

“Phenyo and I said we would give ourselves a year, but I’m not sure we can wait that long,” she confessed. “I’m hoping for a girl.”

“Good luck with that,” said Keabetswe, closing the magazine and tossing it aside. “As long as you don’t expect me to babysit.”

Phemelo made an impatient sound as she tried to arrange the pieces of fabric on the table. “Ke’eng ka wena? Why do you hate kids so much?”

“I have no problem with them,” Keabetswe protested, “as long as they keep their distance.” She turned her attention to the swatches. “Okay, enough talk. Where do you want us to start?”

Nhlanhla approached the coffee table. “I’ve never seen so many swatches in my life.”

“Oh, these are only for the bridesmaids’ dresses,” said Phemelo.

Keabetswe and Nhlanhla exchanged horrified glances. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

There was a buzz of excitement in the air when Keabetswe walked into Peckham Gould the next morning. She left her things on her desk and knocked on the door of Esme’s office.

“Good, you’re here,” said her boss. She was just hanging up the phone. She perched on the edge of her desk, her long, pale legs crossed at the knee. There was a glint in her eyes, and her trademark red lips were curled in a smug smile.

Keabetswe knew something was up, and it was probably good news. “New client?” she guessed.

Esme laughed. “And I thought I was going to surprise you. Ja, I just got off the phone with him. He’s been looking for a place for the last month and hasn’t found anything suitable yet.”

“Great!” Keabetswe beamed. “Maybe I can finally get rid of the Miller house. What’s his price range?”

Esme rolled her eyes. “Money is no problem for this man, trust me.” She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to know who it is?”

“Sure.” Keabetswe flipped open her notebook, ready to record whatever useful information her boss was going to provide.

“Oagile Motsumi.”

“Right.” Keabetswe’s pen scratched across the page. She was halfway through writing the name when it hit her. Her head snapped upwards. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You mean the Oagile Motsumi? The architect?”

“I thought you might like that,” said Esme, a triumphant note in her voice. She stood up and walked around her desk, settling into her chair. “Yes, the architect.”

Keabetswe blinked, stunned. “Wow.” Then her features creased into a frown. “But that doesn’t make sense. Why would a successful architect need a real estate agent?”

“That was my first question too,” Esme admitted. “After all, he could live in any of the obscenely expensive houses he’s designed, right? But it turns out the man is a lot more traditional than his work would suggest.” She tapped away at her computer for a moment. “He sent me an e-mail with detailed specifications of what he’s looking for. Ah, here we go. ‘Simple double-storey town house, very little glass or steel, large grounds.’ ”

An image of Motsumi’s most recent design flashed into Keabetswe’s mind. It was an office building with glass and steel everywhere. It had meaningless structures jutting out from it at odd angles, and looked a little like a spaceship about to take off. She snorted. “Are you sure he sent you the right e-mail?”

Esme laughed. “I was surprised too, but who are we to argue? The man wants an old-school town house.”

“The Miller house fits his specifications exactly,” Keabetswe mused. She gave Esme a hopeful smile. “Did one of the others beat me to it?”

“No, you’re in luck. You’re handling the Miller house, and I want it out of the way as soon as possible. Motsumi won’t be afraid of a two-year-old bloodstain.”

“We hope,” said Keabetswe drily. She was excited at the prospect of working for Oagile Motsumi. She had never met him, but she had read an interview or two about the brooding, mysterious architect with a penchant for the avant-garde.

“This time, we’ll need a better strategy.” Esme thought for a moment. “Let’s work our way up to the Miller place. Show him a few other houses in a similar price range, but much less appealing visually. By the time he sees the Miller house, he’ll be impatient and excited, and maybe he’ll snap it up without asking too many questions.”

Keabetswe nodded. “That sounds like a plan. So when do I get to meet him?”

Esme grinned. “I’ve asked him to stop by tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’ll be here,” Keabetswe promised as she left the office. She smiled to herself. If she played her cards right, she might just kill two birds with one stone. She could finally sell the Miller house, and she could impress the great Oagile Motsumi while she was at it. His approval would go a long way to helping her career, and there was nothing Keabetswe enjoyed more than a little corporate climbing.