Читать книгу Second Time Lucky - Malihanelo Molapo - Страница 4

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Criselda Moyo stepped out of the courtroom hurriedly, not believing what had just happened in there. Given half the chance, she would let the tears flow straight away. She headed for the water cooler in the foyer so that she could ease the tight lump in her throat.

She was walking so fast that she didn’t see the tall man who had just poured himself a cup of water until she collided with him and it spilled all over her grey chiffon blouse.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I was in such a hurry ...” she said with a shaky voice, unable to finish her sentence as she looked down at her soaked chest.

Trying to wipe her blouse with her hands, she saw a coffee-coloured face before her with a very square, strong jaw. His small oval eyes had the deepest, darkest tone she had ever seen, but they were surmounted by a deep frown. His head was shaved and he had thick, dark lips, just full enough to complement his good looks. He looked in his late thirties, she guessed as she quickly collected her thoughts.

“Please forgive me, sir. It was idiotic of me. It’s just that ...”

But before she could finish her sentence the man took out a handkerchief and handed it to her. She started wiping herself again.

“You should be more careful. What if I had been carrying something hot?” he said in a cool but slightly annoyed tone.

“As I said, please forgive me, I was in a hurry to get some water.”

“Late for a court hearing?” he asked composedly.

“No, I actually just came from a hearing involving my ex-husband,” she replied huskily.

“Really. Well, I have a hearing myself,” he continued unfazed.

“Then I guess we have something else in common, other than wet clothes,” Criselda smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

But the man just walked away, showing no interest in engaging in pleasantries and not even saying goodbye. Taken aback by his coldness, she realised she was still holding his handkerchief.

She looked at it and saw the initials JD boldly embroidered in royal blue in a corner of the white cloth. It looked as if it had never been used before, and yet it felt so soft when she caressed it with her fingers. She brought it to her face to wipe any left-over water droplets and caught a whiff of a musky and woody scent that for some strange reason put her mind at ease.

Her thoughts drifted and she wondered who this stranger was who had been so abrupt with her. Had he simply helped her out with his handkerchief so that they wouldn’t look like a spectacle to any passer-by? But the hallway was deserted. She wondered why the man was there. Could it be for the same reasons as her own – or maybe even worse? His eyes had seemed cold, but somehow also alluring in a strange kind of way.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the loud squeak of the tall, heavy oak door of the courtroom where she had just been. Advocate Nzimande, her lawyer, came out, arguing in muffled tones with the lawyer of her ex-husband, Sifiso.

Sifiso followed just behind them. He immediately quickened his pace and approached Criselda with a cunning smile, followed by a smug wink. Then he hissed, “Things didn’t quite go as planned for you, did they? The judge is right. I deserve at least one weekend a month with them.” He sniggered and quickly moved on.

As the lawyers approached, Advocate Nzimande stopped next to Criselda and told Sifiso’s lawyer that he would call him later to further discuss their clients’ case. Then he turned to her and said, “I’m really sorry, Criss. I know you’re worried about Sifiso’s irresponsible ways and wild parties. I thought the judge would rule for supervised visits for now. But don’t worry, my child. Leaving aside his unruly ways, he really does love his kids.”

Advocate Nzimande had been her father’s close friend and confidant for over thirty years, and since her father’s death Baba Nzimande had taken it upon himself to look after the interests of his friend’s family. His law firm was one of the most reputable in the Johannesburg CBD.

Criselda couldn’t help smiling. The advocate’s grey Afro hair was sticking out of his funny hat, while it looked as if his spectacles were about to fall off his pointy “English nose”, as it was often called teasingly by close friends and family. And indeed he did have a stern, old-school English accent when he spoke. He had adopted it during his years at Cambridge and it had stuck ever since.

Earnestly Criselda looked at Baba Nzimande as he went on about his latest farming project in KwaZulu-Natal, but actually her thoughts were with the owner of the handkerchief, known to her only as JD.