Читать книгу Her Forever After - Nani Khabako - Страница 4

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Tumi Vika sat impatiently tapping her fingers on the elegant mahogany table as the drone of cheerful people behind her seemed to grow ever louder and more cheerful. Even in the exquisite surroundings of one of her favourite eateries, she was nagged by a feeling of un­ease in the core of her stomach.

A storm was brewing, for sure.

And for a self-confessed control freak such as herself, any unplanned discord brought with it unmitigated grumpiness. She was convinced there was a plague of incompetence running rampant in all Cape Town establishments. That had to be the reason why she was in a foul mood lately, or simply finding fault with most things.

It had absolutely nothing to do with a certain horrid cretin who’d recently crawled out of the woodwork, hellbent on ruining her life.

Mandi.

Her shameful university obsession was back in the country, presumably having tired of sowing his wild oats throughout all the continents and geographical locations. She’d hardly been researching him, but she had heard about his scandalous exploits, the worst being a rumoured affair with a Russian tycoon’s niece! As if his shameful philandering had not been enough, his doing it in such a public fashion had been truly disgraceful.

Adding insult to injury, he’d sent Tumi a two-paragraph e-mail the previous morning, informing her of his imminent arrival in her dry and boring life. He had left for the UK to pursue a career in journalism shortly after graduating, leaving her a heartbroken mess. He had quickly established himself as a top-notch political commentator and interviewed some of the most powerful people in the world. For months it had been widely speculated that the African News Network wanted him to work for them. Just a few weeks ago, he’d been signed up as the senior political reporter at the network, which was the biggest news agency on the continent.

At the youthful age of thirty, he was on his way to be­coming a legend in the media world, respected for his professional integrity and shrewd intellect even though his private meanderings and Casanova-like antics were discussed in hushed tones.

Tumi flicked back her ebony braids and sipped more of the cooling espresso. She noticed a distant male form gazing at her – eerily and for too long.

It was strange how she’d become accustomed to this.

Before she could mentally dread the prospect, he was on his way to her table.

“Hello. I couldn’t help but notice that you were dining alone.”

Originality was obviously not a strong point with him.

“Yes, I actually prefer it that way.”

“A beautiful woman like you has no business being all by herself and without good conversation.”

Before Tumi knew it, he had plumped his butt down on the chair opposite hers. What was it about some men that made them incapable of noticing when their presence wasn’t welcome?

She had a million things going on in her mind, one being a particular man. The last thing she needed now was another one to deal with, and some weirdo at that.

“Look, sir,” she said, wanting him to know they were not on friendly terms, “I’m sitting by myself because I chose to. If I had wanted company, do you honestly think I would’ve struggled to get someone to join me?”

Before he could mutter some response, she was out of her chair and making her way to work.

Tumi was a striking woman. Well put together, groomed, never missing a spinning class. She turned heads on a daily basis.

Strange as it was, it did nothing to inflate her ego. It just made her more determined to be more than the pretty wife of so-and-so. Or, even worse, the docile lover of a heartless wretch.

She wondered how much she’d enjoy dangling her success in Mandi’s face. She was no longer the starry-eyed bookworm with a permanent grin he’d known, eager to please his imperious self.

Just like the presumptuous stranger at the restaurant, he’d be quickly cut down to size, should he have any illusions about where they stood. She’d have Mandi know that she was the features editor at one of the top glossy magazines in South Africa. She mingled with the who’s who of the entertainment, media and business world.

Tumi lived her own life and took bloody good care of herself and her mother. Mandi probably expected her to swoon at his glorious feet now that he’d returned. As if she’d celebrate his arrival like he was some roman­tic saviour. She had no intention of becoming his local plaything. She had trusted him once, but that had been a long time ago when she still believed in fairy tales.

She was a woman now. A well-respected, talented and much sought-after woman.

So Mandi Mabandla could take that piece of information, wrap it around his frequently stamped passport, and down it with a bottle of vinegar!

* * *

Tired after a day’s work, Tumi struggled for keys that had been buried under a million other items inside her Louis Vuitton bag. Oh, her mother would die if she knew how much money she’d spent on this one single item. Tumi had always felt that good things only came to those who worked hard for them, and she had no qualms about those good things being authentic designer bags.

As she entered her beautiful bachelor flat, she knew she was forgetting something but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She was glad to notice that she still felt that pang of bliss when she looked at the beauty with which she’d managed to surround herself. That feeling was what kept her motivated, what made her the first person to walk into the office in the morning and the very last to leave.

The décor was mostly white and gold, broken up only by soft shades of pearl and tan. She walked over to the white leather sofa that was positioned in front of the humongous window overlooking a throng of stately trees that concealed some of the most beautiful houses in Camps Bay. She was hardly in with that bunch. That would have to wait for when she owned her own magazine.

Then, like a ton of bricks, it struck her why she felt as if she’d forgotten something. She would have to immediately call her loudmouth of a best friend and grovel her way out of another broken promise! She’d been so busy stressing about Mandi being back in the country that she completely forgot she was meant to meet Tatum and Tholaphi for cocktails at Long Street Café.

When Tatum picked up her cellphone, all she did was give a long-suffering sigh and a brief but faint murmur to signal she’d answered.

“Honey!”

“Tumi, I’m not in the mood.”

Well! There went that whole feigned civility thing.

“Babe, I’m truly sorry. I would make up a tale but the truth is, I forgot.”

“We waited for you! What happened to Wednesday, ladies’ night out?”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t in the headspace to remember anything but my own arse.”

There was a reluctant snicker on the other side, which made Tumi hopeful. Tatum could never be mad for long anyway.

“What’s wrong, darl?”

She supposed she could get away with lying, but knowing how clued up Tatum was regarding the latest on the city’s social scene, it would be pointless to delay the inevitable.

“Mandi.”

“Him! We haven’t spoken about that lecher in ages. I mean, he did some number on you, babe – it was a sight to behold! Tragic and verging on gut-wrenching.”

“I get it!”

“I heard he’s back in the country. A few friends saw him at the Waterfront, picking out designer furniture, no less.”

“Well, how cosmopolitan of him.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still hung up over him. It’s been seven years! You’re not twenty-one any more.”

“I know. You’re right. And I couldn’t care less what he chooses to do with his debauched life – I just want him to stay the hell away from me. Look, babe, I’m sorry about tonight, let’s do lunch tomorrow. I have to oversee the cover shoot; it’s part of the main feature article. I’m not really sure when that’ll be done, but I’ll give you a heads up, okay?”

“You sure I don’t need to come over there with tissues and hard liquor in hand?”

“Tate, honestly! . . . Suppose I still have to ask Tholaphi for forgiveness as well?”

“Oh, honey, rest assured. No sooner had we realised you wouldn’t show than a canary-yellow Hummer, nogal, whizzed by to whisk her off to goodness knows what exotic location.”

“Oh, God help her. I’ll call tomorrow to make sure she wasn’t dumped in some ditch on the Flats.”

“Okay, sweets, bye.”

Tumi sat pondering the unexpected turmoil in her life. How could she, a woman who had it all, a woman with the whole world at her feet, be flustered by the untimely arrival of an ancient love? It wasn’t that she was still hung up over him, which would be the biggest act of stupidity on her part; it was just that Mandi’s return had brought with it unwanted and very painful memories.

She could count on one hand the number of men she’d gone out with since him. Only one had developed into a relationship, but she had never really let the guy in. She’d been constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, and he’d eventually given her an ultimatum: Be in it fully or let me go. So she’d let him go.

There were a few things Tumi knew for sure. She’d never allow herself to fail, she’d never let her mother go without, she’d one day run her own successful magazine – and no man would ever bring her to her knees the way Mandi had. No one should have the right to hurt another so carelessly, so heartlessly, and so devastatingly.

She remembered the first day she saw him as if it was yesterday.

He’d come striding into the lecture hall in the media studies building at the University of Cape Town chaperoned by a throng of admirers, a forward-thinking kasi boy with street and book savvy. And that skin . . . God help her, but Tumi had never been able to forget the shade, tone, texture and depth of Mandi’s cappuccino skin. Every other facial and body feature seemed enhanced by its smooth and perfect tint.

He had been perfect. He’d also unnerved her in every way possible. He’d been brooding and serious, hard to pull into conversation and seemingly above the banal interactions of the varsity experience.

He’d performed excellently academically, and he’d always been impeccably groomed.

But never would one miss that he was from the town­ship. He’d worn his background and origins with equal measures of pride and arrogance, and seemed to dare anyone to judge him for it. She’d picked up bits of information from the gossips that he was originally from the Eastern Cape and had relocated to Gugulethu, Cape Town, when he was sixteen. They said he lived alone and had no family. They said a lot of things which she wasn’t sure were entirely true.

And how the girls would stare and gossip and speculate. Once in a while there would be one brave enough to approach the forbidding township hunk, but they soon found that he didn’t suffer fools gladly or allow any probing into his personal life. Tumi studied him too, though not as blatantly as the others. She’d almost wanted him to know he was not the centre of everybody’s world and that she had other things to do besides wondering about Mandi the African chocolate-drop-slash-god who didn’t talk.

She’d been so over him! Well, at least that was what she’d told herself, but if she’d really been honest, she would’ve admitted that he’d gotten to her in a bad way. It wasn’t until they were paired together for an assignment that she was forced to interact with this man who irritated her so. Even though she was studying literature and he politics, they shared a Linguistics class and would see each other twice a week. They were tasked with correcting punctuation and identifying parts of speech, as well as various other grammatical torments lecturers dished out.

“Do you wanna do your part and then I do mine, and we can just hand it in together?” Tumi had asked after the awkward silence that filled their initial meeting.

She’d been determined to show him that she didn’t care either way.

“Suits me just fine,” he’d said without looking up from his book on Marxism.

“Well, okay then. I mean, if that’s all?”

The jerk actually sighed like some long-suffering tor­ture victim before uttering his few choice words. “Good­bye, Tumi.”

The absolute arrogance! She’d taken his indifference as a personal attack.

“At the risk of wasting more of your time, might you want to know which part you have to do and which part I . . .”

“Look, do the first two exercises and I’ll do the other two,” he’d interrupted.

“No need to be so short,” she’d found herself saying, hating how she was showing irritation when actually aiming for cold indifference.

“Lady, you don’t like me. I don’t like you either. I’m just making things easier for both of us.”

Oh, how she remembered that conversation! How she had tossed and turned that night, thinking how much of an arse he was, how his calling her “lady” had been a clear sign of misogynistic arrogance.

“Fine!” she’d said. A weak response, but she’d refused to give him the last word.

And with that feeble comeback she’d stormed off, seething.

She remembered how she hadn’t been able to shut up about her rude partner to all who would listen at res. She remembered how she’d been unnerved to find that he realised she didn’t like him and had made it clear he didn’t like her either. Oh, how Tumi remembered that from the very first encounter, Mandi had wreaked havoc on her soul and made her want to weep from the over­whelming obsession to figure him out.

If only she had been smart from the onset. If only she’d recognised the handsome and elusive stranger for what he was: a cold and heartless human being. But she’d been young and foolish. She had let her desperate attraction cloud her vision.

But not this time! This time she was ready to face him with her head held high. And boy, he was in for the shock of his life when he found himself faced with a brand-new Tumelo Vika.