Читать книгу The Score - HJ Golakai - Страница 13

“I look like watta-police.”

Chlöe blew an exaggerated breath. “No, you do not look like a slut, young lady,” she replied, wagging a finger. “I look like a slut, which is perfect. You look … moderately immoral.” She could tell Vee wanted to kick up a fuss, but was worried their six-year age difference would count as ‘granny points’ against her. Truth be told, Chlöe secretly agreed that her legs did look rather long and exposed in her outfit, but was that ever a minus?

“I look like a thirty-year-old trying to act twenty.”

“You’re a thirty-year-old who looks twenty, never bitch about that. Why be bootylicious with great legs and scared to flaunt it?” She patted Vee’s shapely bottom. “Wear it well.”

“Bishop, you know damn well I’m not prudish but I’m wearing a shirt! With a scarf round the waist to make it look belted,” Vee tugged and loosened her purple silk scarf over her midriff to spare up breathing room, “but it’s still a shirt with a scarf.”

“Correction, shirtdress. Wearable as exactly that.”

“In 1985, yes.” Vee riffled through her clutch. “To hell with it, I’m glad I brought my tights ’cause I’m putting them on. Meanwhile, here you now lookin’ all foxy in my dress. How many times have I said, always pack a social outfit.”

“Okaaay, I forgot. But you weren’t doing it justice. No offence to your boobs or anything, very perky and all …” Chlöe laughed when Vee gave a mock gasp of shock and covered her chest. “Meisie, if you leave ’em lying around, I will look. But I’m saying, they’re ‘everywoman’ B-cup. While this dress needed these double-D bastards to really make it pop. In fact, can I have it?”

“You’ve ruined it forever, so help yourself.” Vee snapped the leggings up her thighs. “The Dolly Partons crush The Pointer Sisters once again. At this rate you’ll own half my closet.”

Chlöe sniggered in triumph, adjusting cleavage as Vee scampered around the hedge to the entrance. She watched with bated breath and some amusement as Vee engaged the door’s sentry. She twitched her hips and put on a winning smile. The man shook his head. She leaned in closer and murmured in his ear. He shook his head harder and straightened up, implacable. Vee slunk back.

“What the –”

“Let me try.”

Chlöe skipped round the hedge and up the stairs, innocence soldered onto her face. She tilted her chest to full voluptuous advantage as she toyed with curly wisps on the end of her French plait. She tossed in a joke and brushed her hand over his arm while he laughed. When finally he nodded, she wolf-whistled Vee over.

“Black man’s kryptonite,” Vee muttered in disgust, shoving her playfully as they entered. “You know he only cracked because you’re white, right?”

“Whatever. Chocolate isn’t everybody’s favourite flavour, my love. Some people like vanilla with a hint of strawberry.” Chlöe tossed her hair and waggled her tiny butt.

Vee snorted. “Shame on you, manipulating the system.”

“Hey, don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

“Well done, Grotto,” Vee murmured as they crossed the foyer, a space by leaps and bounds transformed. Dim lighting and fresh flowers disguised many an evil, but still the place looked good. “It hardly looks the same since I saw it this morning. These guys work fast.”

Chlöe handed her a glass of Chardonnay and took a sip of hers. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not a wall-jumper.” She popped a tiny cracker, stacked with colourful layers and sprinkled with parsley, into her mouth. “More importantly, before we get made by someone who doesn’t know us or think we should be here …”

“True. Let’s find out who’s throwing this thing. I’m more worried about someone who does recognise us. Not exactly part of our assignment, this.”

“Chill. What’re the chances –”

“I say, finegeh you nah easy o. Dah how you will jes pass by yor friends dem without even speaking sef?”

As one, they whipped around in the direction of the rich male voice, Chlöe perplexed and Vee openly floored. The lilt of Liberian pidgin in the middle of Oudtshoorn, or anywhere for that matter, was far from everyday.

“Wha’happin so, we made palaver or you’hn got no home training?” the man finished. The blonde woman on his arm looked bored, her only acknowledgement of their existence being a blink in their direction before she turned away.

Vee scoffed, breaking into an immediate grin. “Lovett Massaquoi.”

“How you been keepin’, Ol’ Ma, you awreh?”

“We thank God o, what to do.”

The peroxide blonde arm candy in tow detangled herself as if on cue and melted into the crowd with not a backward glance, leaving the man with Vee. Chlöe watched their exchange with uncontained interest; the two quick pecks on each cheek, followed by the smooth handshake that ended with a brief wrestling of their middle fingers and snap against their palms. The famously cool snapshake, which she was still struggling to master. As they stepped aside to let other guests filter in, outdoor lighting streaming through the sliding glass illuminated their corner.

Chlöe expelled a tiny gasp. The man’s face was … captivating. The landscape of his features was more hewn than crafted, like his maker had taken a machete to the bark of dark walnut, methodically yet somehow carelessly. His forehead, cheeks and nose appeared to rest on angular props that shifted in entrancing ways each time his expression changed. His laugh leapt past dark, almost wastefully full lips, a laugh that seemed to emit from the bottom of a well; a sultry, disconcerting boom. At long last, the stream of jabber between him and Vee ended, and with a pat on her shoulder and a nod to Chlöe, he moved inside.

“Who was that?”

“Oh, Lovett Massaquoi, attorney-at-large. We’ve done some work together.”

“Lovett? What kind of name is that? Doesn’t sound … indigenous.”

“His granma was one of those rare, olden-time feminists. She be damned her grandson was carrying her last name one way or the other.” Vee broke stride and threw a squinty side-eye. “Come oooon … Say it, I won’t judge.”

Chlöe blushed. “What?”

“Girl, please. I know you too good,” Vee teased. “You were thinking he looks all menacing black male, like those tribal masks I got up on my living room wall.” She made an arc through the air as if lining up the array of miniature carvings of her country’s sixteen tribes, a fascination for Chlöe every time she came over. “Comes busting through the bush all junta rebel-like, his sweaty, rippling chest bared to the elements, ready to stick some chocolate into your cream …”

“You’re an idiot. A disgusting, racist idiot.”

“Fine. Since you’re not asking, Lovett is and was no rebel. Lovett does not do guns or physical violence; Lovett does not do blood. Or swearing. I don’t think dirt, sweat or morning breath have any feature in that hologram of perfection he calls his life.” Vee nudged her. “I also know you don’t do boys, but shut it down in case you’re planning to experiment. That one’s a real pompous ass.”

“Nothing to shut down, trust me. If he’s an ass what was that back there?”

Vee shrugged. “We …” She mish-mashed her fingers together to indicate it was complicated. “We coexist. There’s a working respect, but we still fuss with each other. That boy’s a class act.”

“So are you. Did you ever …”

“Hell no.” Vee looked appalled. “He don’t do it for me. And long as I’m not a skinny blonde called Tiffany, Lovett ain’t lookin’. Huge kryptonite junkie. Didn’t you see who his date was?” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s with all the questions then?”

“It’s just rare that I see you with your kinfolk. Nosiness is allowed when I do. What threw a lawyer and a journalist in the same line of work?”

“Ah, that.” Vee passed a hand over her forehead. “We’re rare out here; the Nigerians represent the whole west coast, if you know what I mean. That’s part of how we met. I needed to sort out my name and place of birth issues on my birth certificate once and for all. It was getting annoying, not to mention crippling, all the attitude from Home Affairs and not being able to apply for certain things.”

Chlöe did a double-take. That Voinjama went through life named after a northern trading city because of a clerical error on an identity document was hilarious enough. “What the wuhhhh?! I thought you sorted it years ago.” She poked Vee in the ribs. “Come on, why won’t you tell me what your real name was meant to be? It can’t be that embarrassing. Was it Meredith?”

Vee smirked. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you. But it wasn’t done, that kinda thing is never top priority for kids. Then the war happened and … well. We did some hurry-hurry documents when I left Ghana for the States, that’s what I use here.” She wolfed a sushi roll from the snacks tray. “Anyway, Lovett finally saw to it. He’s a consultant for firms and businesses, and also runs his own legal aid set-up called Advocates for Refugees Abroad, ARA. He started it with a couple of his friends, and there’s one in the US, one in Ghana, plus the one in Joburg.”

“He had this case a few years ago. A Liberian couple living in some ghetto in Joburg got reported to the police for abusing their daughter. Our embassy in Pretoria asked Lovett to get involved, to make sure they were protected and everything was above board with local authorities. The couple claimed they only spoke the Grebo dialect and that made everything difficult, especially translating court procedure and working on their defence. Lovett didn’t trust the situation so while they scouted around for a translator here, he did his own hunting. I was visiting Joburg at the time, someone mentioned to him that I ‘investigated things’ and he got in touch.”

“You’re not Grebo. Or a detective.” Chlöe flapped a wave. “Okay, you do have that knack for ingenious, moronic plans. What did you do?”

“Nothing crazy. Apart from the elderly and people in remote rural areas, there’s hardly anybody who can’t speak colloqua, or pidgin English. And if you know that, your English’s good enough. I tailed them for a whole day and finally managed to video-record them having a full-blown discussion in a supermarket about the best type of rice to buy. Things turned around after that. Turns out the kid wasn’t even theirs, they took her from her Ma who was the man’s distant relative … it was a mess. In the end, they got deported to face the charges at home and the girl was eventually reunited with her mother.”

“And everyone lived happily ever after thanks to Miss Cleverclogs.”

“Lovett did most of the work, but you know …” Vee batted her lashes.

“Well since you’re such a bright spark, can you figure out what that means?”

“Legacy Entrepreneurial Advancement Deal. That’s what it stands for.”

Eyes aglow with youthful zest and a head of light-brown hair so rowdy it looked like it was trying to escape, the very tall man cut the caricature of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He knuckled glasses up his nose with one hand, using the other to stab at each letter on the banner above the door that read ‘L.E.A.D … Into Our Innovative Present and Our Prosperous Tomorrow’. “That’s us. Business owners who innovate,” he said.

Vee and Chlöe both opened their mouths.

“The potential for expansion and diversification in most African economies has largely been taken out of the hands of their own governments, whether they accept it or not,” blurted an overly studious-looking woman with short natural hair framing mousy features. “More and more, it’s up to big private financiers to be the driving force behind up-and-comers. They can better evaluate our capacity to innovate, our fiscal probity and our chances of success, and back us accordingly.” She sipped her wine. “Especially in post-World Cup South Africa. This is still a thriving era despite the global economic downturn.”

“Did she just, like, say ‘fiscal probity’ at a party?” Chlöe asked sotto voce.

“I believe so,” Vee whispered back, alarmed.

A gnome of a man with a crown of shiny, beaver-black hair guffawed. “Well, well, looks like somebody was listening too closely during those boring seminars. There’s no need to be so technical for our less finance-oriented guests. As the kids these days would say, chill out dude.”

Several gathered round the circle tittered. Looking embarrassed, the uptight woman turned to the wall, jaw flexing.

“She means 2010 was South Africa’s year and in 2011 we’re still feeding off it, thanks to FIFA and other smart private investors,” the man continued. “The LEAD incentive is a collaborative effort. Working with government, a group of these private fat cats intend to evaluate a group of small and medium-sized outfits, based on their performance in the economy so far. The companies with the best ability to showcase a proudly South African profile and promote the country’s best image through their work will be awarded a shitload of funding, and you’ll jump in the pool to compete for a lot of juicy tenders, which is a big boost, seeing as it’s so competitive. Not to mention the chosen few get nominated ‘national legacy enterprises’.” He fashioned air-quotes and whispered the last words like they were thick with intrigue, before he submitted to laughter. “Basically you get a full purse and the prestige that goes along with it. That’s some quality branding.”

“Hummph,” Chlöe snorted under her breath. “Quality money laundering, more like. Jislaaik, when will the government realise the public can see these so-called upliftment ventures for what they really are? Cronyism, and more crony-beneficient ways of ripping us off.”

“This,” the orator gestured at the room at large, “is all part of the vetting process we’ve been undergoing since last year, the last leg of it actually. Every man for himself from here on out.”

Presenting the loudest lil pikkin on the playground, Vee thought, watching him adjust his belt and puff his chest as approving nods went round the group at his summation.

“Yes, there’s pie on offer and we’d all like a slice of it,” said a plump Indian woman with a giggly voice and an enviable sheet of gloss tumbling past her shoulder blades. By her elbow stood a much younger, pretty Indian girl with a vaguely familiar face. Vee smiled; the girl shot back a rather strange look. “But we’ll be fighting like greedy children very soon, knives drawn to stab each other in the back. Pity we can’t all have a share in it.”

The tall man gave a sniff of mock severity and pulled himself up to his full, magnificent height. “However the chips may fall, some of us are pacifists and fully intend to be good losers. Sporting spirit and all that.”

“Of course you’d spout such rubbish! You’re rich already, you white oppressor,” joked a young dark-skinned woman with budding dreadlocks. “Your company has the best chance of walking away from this looking rosy whether you win or not. IT is the future, and the now, of everything.”

Tall-and-Lanky sighed dramatically. “Good God, we aren’t going to endure another lecture about black empowerment and the bloody rainbow nation, are we? Because we covered it in the sessions.” Beaming, he whirled on Vee and Chlöe. “I don’t believe anyone’s introduced themselves. How churlish of us. I’m Ryan Walsh.”

“Akhona Moloi,” added Uptight, immediately re-pursing her lips onto the rim of her wineglass.

“Gavin Berman,” said Mr Grandstand, massaging Vee with leery eyes.

“Aneshree Chowdri,” murmured the pretty and up-till-then silent Indian girl, giving Vee a pointed look of her own.

Another half a dozen names flew in from around the room, leaving Vee and Chlöe blinking like dazed deer.

“What’re you guys doing here? Obviously you’re not one of our lot,” someone asked.

“We’re jo–”

“On corporate retreat,” Vee interrupted Chlöe with an arm squeeze. “We’re under military rule on the other side.” She pointed in the boot camp’s general direction. “Thought we’d bust out for the night and have a little fun.”

“Ahhh,” breathed the room in unison. “Party-crashers,” someone quipped cheerfully. “What’s it like over there? Must be exciting.”

“Talk about exciting over there, what about right here? Someone kicked the bucket in the lodge this very morning. We saw them moving the body when we came out of our first session. Talk about creepy. I thought they’d cancel the merry-making.”

“And drive away paying clientele? Ag, you must never.”

“Yeeaaah … I heard it was the general manager.”

“I saw the general manager an hour ago. It was the head of housekeeping.”

“Head of housekeeping is male and black; the dead person was a white woman. It was the deputy GM. Apparently she drank herself to death. Sad, hey.”

Chlöe’s neck snapped sideways, eyes agog. Vee shrugged and looked askance as Chlöe’s gaze doubled back and then began to shrink with suspicion.

“Were you –”

“I need the bathroom,” Vee said, trying to shrug off her arm.

“You should dance with me.” The Walsh man blocked her path. “I can never find a properly statuesque woman in any gathering. Not that you’re anywhere near tall enough,” his grin mocked as he eyed her up and down. “But you’ll do.”

Vee allowed herself to be whisked away, her back cutting off Chlöe’s splutters.