Читать книгу The Cupid Club - Cheryl Ntumy S. - Страница 3

1

Amarava Maake took a sip of her sparkling grape juice and stared, slack-jawed, at the most exquisite handbag she had ever seen. It was small and beige, with a delicate gold clasp and a long, slender strap. She lowered her glass to the floor over the side of her armchair, her gaze glued to the masterpiece in her lap.

“I’m going to die,” she gasped, running her hands over the calfskin surface.

“It’s cute, nè?” said her friend Karlien, gathering her long brown curls into a ponytail. “My cousin got it for me overseas and I haven’t had a chance to use it yet.”

Cute? Amarava tore her gaze from the bag just long enough to give her friend a disapproving glance. “What on earth are you waiting for? Christmas?”

Botho let out a low whistle from the other end of the room. “Hey, Karlien. How many times do we have to tell you? Keep your accessories away from Ama!”

The others laughed. There were five women altogeth­er, sprawled in various states of repose in Karlien’s apartment in Greenside, Johannesburg. There was beautiful Botho, with a shaved head and a sharp tongue. She always wore some combination of black and white, which only added to her intimidating demeanour. Angelique was built like Serena Williams, with braids that fell to her waist. Sheila’s baby-face belied her strong, sensible personality. Karlien had freckled caramel skin and a frustrating weakness for bad boys.

Amarava liked to think of herself as the fashionista of the group, the one wearing designer dresses and sky-high heels while everyone else was in jeans and flip-flops. She believed every day was an occasion to dress up, and sported a different hairstyle every other week.

“She’s got that look in her eye,” said Angelique. It had been several years since she moved to Johannesburg from Gabon, but she still had a lilting accent.

Sheila leaned forward on the sofa, one hand cradling her pregnant belly. Out of empathy, the club members had decided that for the duration of her pregnancy they would drink only non-alcoholic beverages during meetings. “Ama, step away from the handbag,” Sheila intoned. The others erupted into fresh bouts of giggling. “Just give it to me and no one has to get hurt.”

“You’ll get hurt in a minute,” Amarava retorted with a grin.

“Shame on you, threatening a pregnant woman,” chided Angelique, her long, lycra-clad legs hanging over the arm of the sofa.

“Hhayi suka.” With a sigh, Amarava placed the bag on the chair where she had found it. As far as she was concerned it was wasted on Karlien, who couldn’t tell the difference between La Perla lingerie and briefs from Ackermans.

“Where’s the food?” Botho demanded suddenly, holding up a plate with a few biscuit crumbs scattered on it.

“You ate it,” Karlien reminded her with a raised eyebrow.

Botho polished off the crumbs. “There’s no more? Didn’t I bring apple tart?”

“You ate that too,” said Angelique.

“Uyazi Botho’s policy. No crumb left behind,” remarked Sheila, to more laughter.

“Okay, okay,” said Angelique, getting to her feet. “Time to get to business, now that we’re all full. I hope.” She shot a glance at Botho, who scowled. “Everybody comfortable? Good. I hereby call this meeting of the Cupid Club to order.”

The Cupid Club was just ten months old, but Amarava had known Karlien since varsity, and met the others when she moved to Greenside five years earlier. When they met, all of them except Sheila were single, and as time passed the others grew increasingly frustrated with the dating scene.

The problem wasn’t a lack of men – just the opposite. Each woman knew several decent men that she couldn’t date for a number of reasons: they were incompatible, colleagues, or practically family. Finally Sheila suggested they change their approach. Instead of every woman for herself, they could find potential mates for each other.

Since then they had been meeting every fortnight. They took turns playing the “Madam”, whose job was to find three potential matches for one other member. The member would pick one for a date. At the next meeting she would do the Date Rate, an evaluation that determined whether the budding romance was worth pursuing. If it rated high enough, it led to date number two. After a successful second date, the club withdrew from the match and left it up to the couple. From that point onwards, the club no longer had a say in the relationship.

As the only married member, Sheila served as the relationship expert and tie-breaker for issues that came to a vote. So far the club had one success: Karlien’s three-month relationship, initiated by Sheila.

Tonight Angelique was the Madam and Amarava was up for a match. Despite having been on several dates, she still got butterflies in her tummy when her turn came. After all, every date was a potential Mr Right.

Angelique picked up the club notebook. It was an innocuous-looking book, a black A5 hardcover, but inside were all the club’s secrets: notes, match profiles and records for each member. Angelique had been up for a match at the previous meeting, and Sheila had been the Madam. Angelique handed the book to Sheila. “Let’s start with my Date Rate.”

“Just to remind everyone: Angie’s date was with Sbonelo, age thirty-two, retail manager,” Sheila read from the notebook. “I had high hopes for this one, but we’ll see. Angie, rate the conversation.”

“Five,” said Angelique. “He wasn’t much of a talker.”

Amarava was not surprised. A lot of men got tongue-tied just looking at Angelique. Besides working out like a fiend, she was also trained in karate, and she liked to wear sleeveless tops that showed off her muscular arms.

“Rate the etiquette,” Sheila went on.

“Nine,” said Angelique. “And a half.”

The others murmured their approval.

“A gentleman, huh?” Sheila grinned. “That’s always good to hear. Okay, rate the chemistry.”

Angelique hesitated. “I would have to say . . . five.”

Amarava and Karlien exchanged disappointed glances. It had been a while since anyone had had a really good Date Rate.

Sheila noted the rates and shook her head. “Why? He’s nice, and he’s one of the few men I could find who are taller than you.”

Angelique shrugged. “Sorry, my dear. There was just no spark.”

“Conversation and chemistry both rated below six,” Botho declared. “We know what that means. This is the end of the road for Sbonelo.”

Sheila sighed and handed the notebook back to Angelique.

“I’m up to three failures,” Angelique remarked with a grin, peering at her records. “But there’s always hope, eh? Now we move on to Ama’s potential matches.”

Amarava loved this part. Instead of giving the women profiles of the potential matches, the Madam had to come up with a clue for each match. The clue was supposed to reflect his personality, style, career and other defining features. Based on these clues, the women would then decide which match they preferred. It was far from an exact science, but it added a level of mystery and fun to the matchmaking process.

Amarava remembered her first Cupid Club date all too clearly. Karlien was Madam, and Amarava had unwittingly picked a journalist. Karlien’s clue had described the guy as a determined man of the people, and Amarava had assumed that meant he was some kind of public servant or advocate. Big mistake. She had nothing against journalists, but for some reason most of them seemed to have appalling style.

She had arrived at the restaurant for the date dressed to kill, as always. She could still remember exactly how confident and sexy she had felt in her Hip Hop minidress and peep-toe ankle boots. She had even put on a splash of Paco Rabanne Lady Million, her scent of choice for those days when she felt like a diva.

She scanned the room for her match, who was supposed to be wearing a red shirt. It took her ten minutes to find him. His definition of a red shirt turned out to be a faded pink rag. It looked like something that had been through both world wars, and to add insult to injury he combined it with Amarava’s pet peeve: ill-fitting jeans. His only redeemable feature was his TAG Heuer watch.

But Amarava sat down with a smile and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was a friendly guy, polite and very intelligent, but he couldn’t stop talking about work. After a while Amarava started to feel as if she had stepped into a current affairs programme. She wanted to have fun, to get to know the guy, but all she learned during the date was the current state of the legal system, the problem with trade unions and the corruption in the mining industry.

Karlien called her the following day for feedback, too impatient to wait for the Date Rate at the next club meeting. “Well,” Amarava said, trying to be diplomatic, “he’s obviously dedicated to his work.” Too dedicated, she decided. There was no second date.

Things had improved over time as the Madams learned to make better potential matches and the ladies learned to analyse the clues more thoroughly. Since then Amarava had moved on to several good dates, two of which got to the second date, but romance had yet to blossom for her.

Maybe this time it’ll happen, she thought.

Angelique cleared her throat. “Ama, here come the clues.”

Amarava finished her drink and kicked off her kitten heels. “Hit me.”

“Number one.” Angelique paused for effect before speaking. “For his boys he’d go with the convertible car, but for you, old-school jazz and a Cuban cigar.”

Three months earlier, Botho had decided to up the ante by making all her clues rhyme. It made it more challenging, but the others loved it so much that they all started doing the same.

Amarava frowned. “Again.” As Angelique repeated the clue, Amarava tried to decipher it. The reference to the car meant the man was flashy and liked to show off to his friends. The reference to jazz reflected both his musical taste and his quieter side, but the cigar meant he was a smoker – a black mark, as far Amarava was concerned.

She nodded. “Okay, let’s hear number two.”

Angelique cleared her throat. “He loves a woman who loves Amarani, but he’s more Indiana Jones in Armani.”

The women laughed. Amarani was the name of the cosmetics range Amarava had produced with her cousin, Senzeni. According to Angelique’s clue, date number two appreciated a woman in make-up. Good to know, since Amarava loved her lipstick, but the second part was puzzling.

Amarava shook her head. “Indiana Jones in Armani? Does that mean he’s adventurous and well dressed, or he tries to dress well but ends up looking like Indiana Jones?”

“That’s all you’re getting,” said Angelique firmly.

Amarava sighed. Club rules prevented the others from helping her; that way if she chose poorly, she’d have no one else to blame. “Okay. Let’s hear number three.”

“A stand-up guy in more ways than one, he’s picture-perfect and guaranteed fun.”

Amarava frowned thoughtfully. A stand-up guy . . . a comedian? Guaranteed fun was self-explanatory, but picture-perfect could mean he was handsome, a model, a photographer . . . She tapped her finger against her cheek. “I’m going with number three.”

Angelique smiled, apparently pleased with this choice. “Sure?” Amarava nodded, and Angelique closed the notebook. “He’s fantastic. You’ll love him.”

“Is he hot?” asked Karlien hopefully.

“Smoking,” replied Angelique, and Amarava giggled.

“Is he rich?” asked Botho.

Sheila threw a cushion at her. “Miss Cynical!”

“It’s a valid question,” Botho insisted. “We all know men are only good for . . .”

“Sex and money,” the others chorused, rolling their eyes.

Botho didn’t believe in love and had only joined the club to prove her point. Finding her a match was almost impossible, and the others had resorted to picking the toughest men they knew for fear that she would reduce the sensitive ones to tears. Amarava didn’t know the whole story behind the relationship that broke Botho’s heart, but it had something to do with a high-school boyfriend and a pregnancy scare.

“Back to business,” said Angelique, waving the notebook. “Ama, I’ll get in touch with your date and get back to you with the details.”

“Sure, sweetie,” said Amarava. “Now you can tell me what the clues meant. Let’s start with number three.”

Angelique grinned. “He’s funny, he’s fun to be around and he takes perfect pictures for a living.”

“A photographer!” exclaimed Karlien. “Now I get it.”

“And Indiana Jones?” Amarava raised an eyebrow at Angelique.

“An archaeologist with a taste for designer threads,” Angelique explained, taking her seat on the sofa.

“Oh,” the others chorused, and then burst out laughing.

* * *

Amarava stood in her flawlessly decorated pink-and-grey bedroom and frowned at her built-in wardrobe. Dressing up for the day was a ritual she took very seriously. She wasn’t the type to just grab anything she could find; she dressed to suit her mood, the weather, and the occasion.

She pulled out a black A-line skirt and held it against her body in front of her full-length mirror. Amarava had what people liked to call a “womanly” figure: rounded hips, a generous behind and a stomach that wasn’t quite flat. She worked out, but she’d never be as skinny as her little sister. She put the skirt back and studied the rest of her wardrobe.

“Ama?” A bespectacled face popped around her bedroom door. “Oh, you’re not dressed yet. I guess that means you haven’t had a chance to check the weather forecast.”

“I did check it,” said Amarava. “Partly cloudy with a thirty percent chance of rain.” She looked up at her younger sister, who was wearing a short-sleeved blouse over her tailored trousers. “Might want to take a jacket, Litha.”

Litha grinned. “I’ll take my chances. Come on! Let’s go. It’s all very well for you, being your own boss, but if I’m late I have people to answer to!”

“Should have come to work for me,” Amarava teased, pulling a hound’s-tooth print dress out of her wardrobe.

Litha rolled her eyes and left, closing the door behind her. Amarava chuckled. Her sister worked as a pharmacologist for a large cosmetics company, and Amarava had been trying to coax her away for ages. She didn’t really expect her sister to leave her job, however. Litha had worked hard to get to where she was and she didn’t want to give it up. Besides, living and working together might be a bit too much for them.

Amarava tugged the dress over her curves, taking care not to smudge her carefully applied make-up. Then she opened her shoe closet, which was half as big as the one for her clothes. She settled on a pair of Christian Louboutin heels, a bright red handbag, and a brown butterfly clip to hold up her long, relaxed hair. She grabbed a black cropped jacket and threw it on over the dress.

After a quick glance at her face she decided a little mascara was in order. Amarava had wide eyes, plump lips and high cheekbones, rather like the outline of Nefertiti that served as Amarani’s logo. She ignored the array of cosmetics on her dressing table and opened the large faux snakeskin vanity case on the chair beside the table. It was filled with make-up; hundreds of little coloured squares of eye shadow, blusher and lipstick, pots of gloss, several wands of mascara and enough nail polish to sustain all the women in town. As far as Amarava was concerned, a girl could never have enough cosmetics.

She snatched up some dark grey mascara and a rosy shade of lipstick, dropped them into her bag and closed the case, then hurried out of the room. Litha was waiting at the dining table, her laptop open as always, her big eyes moving swiftly from one side to the other. She looked up as her sister entered, and gave her an appraising look.

“Are those new shoes?”

“I’ve had them for ages,” said Amarava smoothly. It was true – three weeks was ages in her book. “Here.” She pulled out the lipstick and handed it to her sister. “This colour will work perfectly with that shirt. Now can we get going, please? We’re late and you’re still on Twitter!”

“Excuse me! I was up hours ago, and for your information, I’m working!” Litha shook her head in disbelief. She packed up the laptop and put it away, then followed Amarava to the red Mini Cooper they shared, a joint gift from their uncle and aunt.

Olivia, their mother’s sister, had taken them in after their parents were killed in a car accident. Amarava was only seven at the time, Litha was three. The children had been dropped off at their grandmother’s house so their parents could spend a quiet evening together, but the young couple never made it back to their Germiston flat. After the tragedy, Clement, Olivia’s well-to-do husband, graciously accepted the two girls and raised them alongside his only daughter, Senzeni.

Amarava started the engine and put the car into gear before her sister had even closed the door. Litha leaned forward, peering into the hand-mirror on the dashboard as she slicked on a coat of lipstick. Amarava jerked the steering wheel to one side and stepped on the accelerator, pulling the car smartly onto the road.

“Ama, please!” moaned Litha, clutching the dashboard.

“Hhayi suka, the car’s barely moving,” Amarava replied in a breezy tone. “Litha, I really think you should reconsider joining the Cupid Club.”

Litha snorted. “Here we go again.”

“I’m serious.” Amarava glanced at her.

“I don’t have time to date!” her sister protested. “I barely have time to sleep!”

“Just come to one meeting. It’ll be fun.”

“I’ll join the club when Botho makes it to a second date.”

Amarava scowled. “That’s low.”

Litha grinned. “Just focus on finding your own Mr Right.”

Amarava had always been optimistic about love. She’d had some good relationships, but now that she was twenty-nine, only seven months shy of thirty, she felt ready for something more serious. “My Mr Right is on his way,” she told Litha.

“You’ve been saying that for years,” her sister pointed out.

Amarava shrugged and stepped on the accelerator. “It’s a long road. Maybe he’s walking.”

Her sister laughed. Amarava smiled, but she was serious. If there was one thing she never worried about, it was finding love. She still had her whole life ahead of her, and true love was bound to come knocking at some point. It was inevitable.