Читать книгу The Nanny Affair - Nani Khabako - Страница 4

1

Seated in the front row of a flight heading for Cape Town, Sam fought disbelief and sadness. She couldn’t help but wonder at the about-turn her life had taken in the blink of an eye – or, more specifically, in the instant that a devious man’s revenge had succeeded.

Samkelo Ntuli had only been to the Mother City a handful of times for modelling jobs and every time she’d left again as soon as she was done. Though some of her colleagues would stay to enjoy the pristine beaches and historical haunts, she’d always found the city cold and indifferent – an intolerable contrast to the connectedness of her hometown of KwaMashu in KwaZulu-Natal and the joviality of her temporary home in Johannesburg.

The air hostess babbled on about the safety procedures, yet Sam felt that no tragedy could be worse than her current situation. Who would have thought that she’d find herself broke, desperate and banished from the only industry she’d ever worked in?

The “it” face of the moment!

South Africa’s answer to Naomi Campbell!

That was what newspaper and magazine headlines had called her only a few short months ago. Once celebrated, in demand and revered, she was now on her way to join the ranks of the unknown faces . . . Sam was heading for obscurity and a job as a nanny to the two children of one of Cape Town’s most successful black entrepreneurs.

The plane soon landed and people went about their business. Some were greeted by excited loved ones and some rushed for the nearest taxi. Sam, on the other hand, wandered around, searching the crowd for whoever was supposed to fetch her.

Nervously she touched her impeccably styled Brazilian weave. She frowned, beginning to wonder whether her employer had forgotten about her. Her eyes travelled the room. She felt forlorn, confused and alone.

“Samkelo?” a cheery voice suddenly asked.

Sam turned around to find a smiling man who had a middle-aged body, yet the buoyant countenance of an infant. She was set at ease by his kind smile and found herself reassured by his modest looks. She couldn’t handle one more arrogant stud treating her as merely a physical amusement.

Podgy and sweet she could do, even though it was hardly what she had expected. The little that she’d read about her employer – she’d been too distraught to do a thorough job – described him as a drop-dead gorgeous widower and restaurateur who had his fingers in all areas of the culinary business pie. Obviously he’d paid most of the journalists who’d written about him, because their descriptions were now proving to be misleading, if not downright false.

“Are you all right? You seem a bit frazzled. Was your flight troublesome?”

“Oh no,” she hurried to reassure him. “I’ve just had a very trying time recently. I could use a change of pace and scenery.”

“I’m Odwa, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.

“But I thought your name was Vusi?”

“Me? No, little one, no! I’m his driver.”

“Oh,” responded a deflated Sam as the man led her to the parking garage.

On the way to the house that would be her home until she found alternative employment, Sam thought back over the past couple of years and the events that had led to this tragic point in her life. She was grateful to her new employer. He had kindly agreed to hire her as a favour to her father, who had been his soccer coach during his younger years.

There was nothing more shameful to Sam than having disappointed her old and frail father. She was supposed to be taking care of her parents, not the other way around. She knew there was nothing they wanted more than for her to settle into a good job and have her own family. Though she’d always doubted she could have the latter, she’d certainly strived to establish herself in the modelling industry and be successful.

It had all been in vain, she thought angrily. Her modelling agency had deserted her, owing to “financial difficulties” and a partnership that was no longer “fruitful”. They might as well have told her the truth: that any association with her and her soiled name was financial suicide for any agency, brand or client.

Her career had bombed overnight and no one in the industry wanted to touch her. All because of one vindictive international playboy who had simply refused to accept the word “no”.

Her BlackBerry – thank goodness she’d been able to continue those payments – rang with the sound of an incoming e-mail. Sam smiled when she saw her friend Nobuhle’s name on the screen. They had gone to the same primary and high schools.

Nobuhle was now married to an accountant and lived in Durban suburbia. The two young women tried to see each other from time to time, mostly when Sam went back home to visit her parents. Though their lives had taken completely different turns, their friendship endured and Nobuhle was the only person Sam trusted to be on her side, no matter what.

Hello, dear

I miss you. Thought I’d e-mail you before you start your new job, just to encourage you. Blessings often appear to be tribulations at first. But who knows? Maybe modelling wasn’t your path, maybe something much bigger is waiting for you.

Please don’t be discouraged. I’m here for advice, or if you simply need to talk.

Love – always

Nobs

Sam smiled tenderly. Next to her wonderful parents, Nobuhle was the person she loved most. Of the two of them, Nobs was the one who always seemed to have it all figured out. It came as no surprise to Sam when by the age of twenty-five her friend had a thriving career and had married a lovely man.

There was a part of Sam that had always felt as if she was living in Nobuhle’s shadow. In retrospect, she understood that running to Jozi to “find herself” had been involved with her need to form an identity separate from her perfect and blessed friend. She wished she hadn’t been so quick to move away from that connection. Especially now that she knew what the so-called friends she’d acquired in recent times really thought of her and how easily they’d abandoned her in her time of need.

After her arrival in Johannesburg at the tender age of twenty-one, it took Sam two years of constant effort to crack the modelling industry. She started off with small appearances in the occasional advert, and then did fashion shoots for magazines before getting her big break as the face of a new energy drink. The media buzz that followed fast-tracked her on the road to success. Soon she was booking the most coveted jobs and became the face of the most respected products and brands.

Ramp work eventually came after she’d started working with a personal trainer and dietician, and Sam ended up being the body to book for all the top lingerie and swimwear lines in the country. Now she was five kilos heavier than back then.

After everything had gone wrong, Sam had been too stressed to eat and lost a considerable amount of weight, but when it seemed her situation couldn’t be resolved, she’d turned to food for comfort. It was hard not to blame the fickle industry and the people who ran it, the same people who’d initially refused to give her a break.

It was even harder not to hate the man who had caused all of her troubles: Gérard Malvaux.

Sam balled her hand into a fist just thinking of him. The sought-after and internationally renowned photographer had ruined her life. Gérard, who boasted the likes of Beyoncé and Leona Lewis as some of the superstars he’d photographed, was particularly known for his ability to capture the unique beauty of ethnic women.

SureLove, an innovative cosmetics company that had revolutionised African women’s beauty routine in less than a year on the market, had managed to convince him to shoot their international campaign. After they had considered the top models in the country, they chose Sam as the face of SureLove. It had consolidated her position as one of the top black models of the moment. It had also meant she would be working closely with the brooding Frenchman, and have a chance at getting exclusive rights to his famed affections.

“Oh, please! I’d rather be mauled by a bear than allow myself to become part of that Casanova’s harem,” she’d declared to her friends during one of their cocktail evenings in Rosebank. They had all exchanged amused and somewhat pitying glances. With hindsight she realised that she should not have been so arrogant as to underestimate the power the man wielded.

Sam turned back to the present just in time to hear Odwa ramble on about her new home and the children she would be looking after. According to him they were the cutest, sweetest things in the world. Sam doubted that very much. In her limited experience, most children were tiresome little brats who never stopped running, talking, eating, asking, pooping, slapping, screaming, complaining and, of course, crying. Sam had had horrible experiences on shoots with children pretending to be her younger siblings or her children.

“Thulani and Lindiwe, right?” she asked Odwa, not wanting to make the unforgivable error of getting their names wrong when she met them.

“Yebo, sisi. But everyone in the house calls them Ani and Lili.”

“Ani?”

“Lili was not quite three when Thulani was born. She couldn’t pronounce his name properly and called him Ani. It stuck.”

“I see,” Sam said with little interest.

“Mr Khumalo is a well-known restaurateur. He owns a number of restaurants, including the world-famous Perle Mani at the Empire Hotel.”

“So I’ve heard.” Sam smiled, trying to seem more enthusiastic, though she wasn’t quite sure she was being convincing. The last thing she needed was another demigod egomaniac trying to boss her around. What she’d read about the formidable Mr Khumalo painted a vague picture of a very rich single father who fiercely guarded his privacy and that of his children.

Her father had insisted that he was a good and honourable man in desperate need of someone to teach his children their native isiZulu, as well as some worldly sophistication. Luckily for Sam, she’d not only passed her mother tongue with flying colours in matric, she could both speak and write it better than most. This, and Vusi’s apparent fondness of her father, had landed her the job.

Her understanding was that she would primarily be responsible for seeing to the children’s well-being, education and enjoyment; there was already a woman on hand who took care of menial tasks such as bathing them and doing their laundry.

“You don’t seem the nanny type,” Odwa said with a mischievous grin.

Sam smiled. “What type do I seem like?”

“I don’t know . . . Pretty girlfriend of some top soccer player?”

Sam’s smile faded. So would it be like that in Cape Town as well? She would be thought of as nothing but a glorified piece of arse on a sugar-daddy stipend? Typical of men to assume women who looked after their appearance were shallow and stupid.

“Well, I’m not. And I hope your boss realises that.”

Odwa threw his head back and laughed. For a minute Sam felt insulted, thinking he found the idea of his boss wanting her absurd.

“Don’t take it the wrong way, sisi. It’s just that Bhut’ Vusi doesn’t have much time for women.”

“Yet he has children. He must’ve spent time with some woman for them to have been made.”

Odwa suddenly looked uncomfortable and switched his attention to the road. Soon afterwards he announced, “Well, here we are. Constantia. Your home for the next while.”

Sam looked out of the car window and couldn’t help but gasp. The place could hardly be called a house; it was a mansion. There were three gardeners tending the vast and gorgeous greenery, a marble pathway led to an imposing wooden front door with handles seemingly made of pure gold, and the house itself was huge.

“We have underground parking as well,” Odwa said, as if to impress her even more.

“Who is this guy? Jamie Oliver?”

Odwa simply shook his head and parked the car outside. He helped Sam with her things and they walked to the house. He opened the door for her, and on the other side was a long passageway, painted in hues of white and gold, with several rooms leading from it. Sam felt she was entering a palatial home where royalty lived and dined.

Mr Khumalo was a man of exquisite tastes, or his wife had been, she decided. She made a mental note to find out more about his late wife.

“This is . . . it’s . . . more than I expected,” Sam stuttered.

“Oh, you stop getting lost after the first week.”

“Not me. I’d get lost even if there were a genie doing cartwheels in the direction I’m meant to go.”

Odwa laughed softly and shook his head. “I’ll take you to meet the boss now.”

“Yes, thank you.”

They walked up the long stairway to the second floor, where most of the rooms stood open. Sam peeked into a few and saw a particularly adorable one decorated in shades of yellow and orange, which she assumed was the children’s room. Another one had an imposing bed made of expensive-looking wood and was filled with art and decorative pieces, hinting at quite a bit of travel by the owner. This one she was almost certain belonged to Mr Khumalo.

It was comforting to see that he slept close to his children. To her it indicated that he was an involved and protective parent. He might become her ally after all.

“This way,” Odwa motioned.

He led her to a room at the far end of the corridor – the stereotypical office in shades of brown, black and grey, and simply decorated. Sam’s employer sat in a chair behind the cluttered desk.

When he looked up, it took every bit of strength she possessed not to gasp. She’d had no idea that Vusi Khumalo was such a handsome man.

From what she could tell, he was tall and lean, but not thin. His skin wasn’t the rich dark of hers but a compromise between caramel and chocolate, with creamy undertones. His eyes were dark and impenetrable behind heavy lids. She decided his lashes were the most intriguing thing about him. They were simply too heavy for his eyelids, which gave him eyes made for the bedroom.

His mouth was neither full nor thin, just firm, as if he spent a lot of time pursing his lips or biting on them in disapproval.

Sam was so busy admiring this man that she quite forgot why she was there. In his turn he was looking at her in a decidedly strange way.

Suddenly Vusi looked at Odwa. “Yes?” he muttered.

“This is –”

“I know who she is,” Vusi cut in.

Sensing the tension, Sam said, “Thank you so much for the opportunity to work for you, Mr Khumalo. My father speaks very highly of you.”

“As does he of you.”

Not one for too many words, Sam thought. She supposed when you looked like Vusi did, words hardly mattered.

There was a brief silence.

“Thank you, Miss Ntuli.”

Not at all sure what she was being thanked for, Sam said the first thing that came to mind. “Oh, please call me Sam. It’s actually Samkelo, but that wasn’t cool for modelling, so I had it shortened. It’s actually quite strange to hear anyone call me by my full name. Anyone outside of KZN, that is,” she blurted out.

She was nervous, Sam realised, and it wasn’t helped by her employer’s impenetrable stare. He was an intimidating man.

There was another short silence.

“Very well,” he finally said.

Sam felt dismissed, somehow. Then she remembered him thanking her earlier on. Perhaps he’d meant for her to leave. And yet she’d lingered, prattling on like an idiot.

“I’ll go and settle in,” she said uncertainly.

“Your room is the first left, after the staircase,” Odwa said.

Sam nodded and quickly left.

“Is something the matter?” Odwa asked when she was out of earshot.

“Get rid of her,” Vusi hissed. “She won’t do.”

He got up and started pacing around his office while Odwa took his time pouring himself a cup of tea from the tray on the desk.

“Who said you could have my tea?! You work for me, remember?”

Odwa shook his shoulders and sipped from the cup.

“What’s wrong, boss? What bit you in the bum?”

“Get rid of her!” Vusi barked.

“I can’t do that, and you know it. That’s not how it works,” Odwa protested. He was intrigued by the young nanny and the unexpected – and welcome – effect she obviously had on his boss.

“If I tell you to get rid of her, you do! Or else you’re fired, Odwa.”

“I’d like to see you try. It’s not my fault she’s beautiful.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I saw the way you looked at her, boss. Had there been time and opportunity, you would’ve –”

“Oh, shut up, you old fart!”

The driver burst into laughter.

Vusi was fuming. “She was supposed to be a matronly mouse from some backwater in KwaZulu-Natal. You were meant to pluck her from a mud hut, not the pages of Cosmo!”

“Huh-uh!” Odwa exclaimed, slapping the palms of his hands together. “You yourself discussed everything with Ntuli, and he told you all about his daughter.”

“Oh, please. All fathers think their daughters are epic beauties; of course I took no notice of his proclamations. Besides, have you seen the man? Who would’ve thought he’d produce something like that!” Vusi said, pointing in the direction of Sam’s room.

“Well, that’s your problem, not mine.”

“I can’t believe you allowed such an oversight. On top of all my problems, I now have to deal with a femme fatale prancing around in my house and teaching my children whatever immoral nonsense she picked up in her butt-flaunting days.”

“Come on, boss, you’re not being fair.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t just fire her. She’d no doubt take me to the CCMA . . . I’ll give her a chance to fire herself by being dismal at her job. It shouldn’t be long.”

“Can I go now?” Odwa said with a sigh, placing his empty teacup on the table.

“Yes. All the way back to whatever slum I rescued you from, and don’t bother to come here again. You’ve been no help to me.”

“Lord! You must really find her attractive,” Odwa said, grinning widely as he fled his employer.

Sam ran into the children as she left her new room. Ani bumped into her first – literally – as he was looking behind him to make sure his sister didn’t catch up with him.

“Hello, monkey,” she said to the Afro that protruded from the head buried in her full skirts.

Ani giggled and slowly lifted his head to give her an impish look.

“You pweety.”

“Ah, thanks, hotstuff. You not too bad yourself,” Sam said awkwardly. She knew you were supposed to talk to children in a specific manner, but she wasn’t sure how.

She took a few seconds to admire the child, who looked like a prettier version of his father. Behind Ani a little girl appeared. The child was absolutely beautiful, but Sam could see nothing of her father in her. She supposed she took after her mother. The man had really made gorgeous children.

“Hi, you must be Lili. And you, mister, must be Ani?”

“Yep. Who are you?” asked the girl.

“I’m Sam. Your new nanny.”

“Dad won’t like you,” Lili said.

Sam was only briefly surprised by the statement. There was something oddly wise and mature about the child which both intrigued and worried her. The little girl looked about six years old.

Sam was distracted by Ani tugging at her skirt, wanting to be lifted up. She obliged a bit awkwardly, having not held a child in her arms in quite a while.

“Will you guys show me where the kitchen is?” Sam asked. “I’m starving.”

“Sure,” Lili said, though she didn’t look too happy about it.

“I like your hair,” Ani announced as he pulled it.

“Well, you can’t like it that much if you’re pulling it,” Sam said, and the little boy grinned.

“So, Lili,” Sam asked the little girl, who was wandering ahead of them, “why did you say your daddy won’t like me?”

“He doesn’t like pretty girls – except for me, of course.”

Sam was beginning to wonder about her boss, the Greek god dipped in chocolate. Why was he so uptight, why did he give everyone such a hard time? And why did he have a problem with women?

A while later Sam found herself being peppered with questions by Lili. Vusi quietly observed from the doorway, finding himself mesmerised by the ease with which the Barbie doll handled the children. They were eating while she told them stories about her world travels.

Vusi was amazed at Ani, who willingly munched on vegetables. He was clearly besotted. Thank God for his more level-headed sister, who was studying the nanny before forming an opinion.

“Hey, bugs. Mavis is waiting for you upstairs. It’s bath time,” Vusi interrupted the conversation.

He was met with no resistance. The children each planted a kiss on his cheek before scurrying upstairs to their bathroom.

“They’re sweet kids,” Sam said.

Vusi could find no insincerity in the way she’d said that, so he left it at that. There was an uncomfortable silence, then he ventured, “Why are you here?”

The question had been bugging him since he’d seen her that afternoon. What woman with her looks would settle for being a nanny? Even now, dressed in an unflattering matronly outfit, she looked every bit the stunner she’d been earlier in a voluminous gypsy skirt, ankle boots and a rock star top.

“I work here.”

Despite her friendly tone, he detected a hint of defiance. He could tell this woman would not be easily intimidated.

“I meant, why are you working as a nanny?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” she flung back.

“You’re beautiful,” he said as quickly as she’d replied.

“So? Can’t nannies be beautiful?”

“Cut the crap, Samkelo, you know very well what I mean. A woman like you, if she were inclined to work, could aim for something much more glamorous, and if not, she’d have no problem finding a man to take care of her.”

Sam just looked at him as if he were daft.

“Or is that why you’re here?” Vusi continued while circling her like a predator would its prey. As if that way, he could see through the lies he believed she was telling.

She showed no signs of being offended by what he had said. “You’re a very rich man, Mr Khumalo. I hadn’t realised how rich until I got here.”

“And now that you know?”

“As long as you don’t expect me to jump to attention every time you snap your fingers, I couldn’t care less. I just want to do my job.”

“You’re . . . quite convincing,” he said as he finally faced her, his penetrating gaze fixed on her light-brown eyes.

She almost looked away because of the intensity of that gaze; her pride was the only thing that kept her from doing so. She would not be intimidated.

“Fine then,” Vusi stated. “But there are some ground rules. Firstly, I’m not in the market for a girlfriend, so if that’s what you came here for, you might as well quit now. Secondly, you’ll be paid for the job you do as my children’s nanny, nothing less or more. Thirdly, I’m not a man to be toyed with. The minute I sense ulterior motives for you being here, I’ll kick you out on the street.”

Satisfied that he’d laid down the law and that she understood him, Vusi made his way to the door. He secretly hated how forlorn it made him feel to turn away from her beautiful heart-shaped face. He was suddenly haunted by her full-lipped pout, her catlike eyes the colour of honey and her rich, dark skin.

“Mr Khumalo?” Sam called out before he left.

Would this be it? he thought. Her devious plan thwarted, would she now quit and prove herself the schemer he thought she was?

“I assume you haven’t read my CV, which would explain why you know absolutely nothing about me. I’ve been a model, a very successful one, for the past seven years. In that time I’ve been courted by men richer, more powerful and more attractive than you. Men who could’ve taken care of me, as you put it. Yet I didn’t let them . . . So please understand, I’m just here to do an honest day’s work.”

Vusi let her have her say, then he walked out.

Sam remained sitting motionless, dismayed to find that tears were forming in her eyes.