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.
2
It was deadline day. The magazine was being put to bed in just two hours and Tumi was still waiting for one junior to submit an article, an important piece.
Only God knew why she was both a writer and subeditor at this publication, but after the last subeditor left amid a fury of profanities, it was decided she would help out until a replacement could be found.
Six months later she was still doing the job – without pay.
Tumi was not the submissive sort, but she didn’t have the stomach to fight the big guns over what would eventually be only a measly salary increase.
It was a well-kept secret that magazine staff were not that well paid. The job seemed glamorous to many who didn’t know that behind the shoots, events, interviews and fashion spreads were endless hours spent putting everything together into something consumers would rush to pick up from the stands.
She’d been with Pri-Chic for the last five years, and in that short while she’d worked herself to the top of the writers’ pile, contributing features, opinion pieces and a column every month. She didn’t mind all this; she truly loved her job. She just wished other people had the same drive as she did, and it irritated her no end when young writers failed to produce copy on deadline. It was a sure-fire way of seriously damaging one’s writing career. But hey, who was she to make such dire pronouncements – only one of the most respected writers in the magazine industry.
Tumi worked from a small office in a strange corner within the single-level building. She’d done her best to make it homely, adding her favourite dark-brown leather two-seater couch and two cream-coloured ottomans. But oh no, there was nothing glamorous about the world of magazines; it took endless passion, creativity and doing everything all over again in an entirely different way with each issue.
Tumi decided to have a quick chat with her mother, to persuade her to take her up on her offer of paid-for swimming exercise classes. She had the distinct impression that her mother would rather ingest a python than go anywhere near a large pool of water. Silently she vowed to continue her attempts to find some sort of physical activity that would keep her dear mom around for many years to come, although she’d already gone through yoga, Pilates, power walking and aerobics. Okay, maybe that last one hadn’t been too realistic on her side.
The junior’s copy finally arrived and Tumi bade her mother goodbye with a promise to visit on Sunday afternoon. It was then that she took the time to look through her e-mail messages. Among the spam, job applications, fan mail and outraged tirades was an e-mail from Mandi. She felt her heart starting to hammer wildly; even through technology he had that effect on her.
Hey, Tum
(She’d always hated that nickname, yet he insisted on using it.)
I haven’t had any response from you since my e-mail two days ago.
I hope you’re not ignoring me, because I’m not above showing up on your doorstep. And we both know you don’t want that. Besides, I don’t think we’ll get any catching up done if I’m forced to go that route.
So be a good girl and meet me for drinks tonight.
Primi Piatti, 8pm, Waterfront?
Till then.
Mands
Oh, the nerve!
Knowing how relentless Mandi was, he wouldn’t be above pitching up on her doorstep if she didn’t meet him for drinks. The manipulative twat knew very well that she had no desire to see him, but he insisted on pushing himself into her life.
Now she’d have to worry about all the arbitrary things she detested about the dating scene. Things like what to wear and how to act, because she definitely wouldn’t be intimidated by him. He may be the top political correspondent for the African News Network, he may travel the world, he may be one of the most prominent figures in the media world, but she’d show him she’d hardly been selling mealies in the streets while he was doing all that!
* * *
“You’re absolutely pathetic.”
Tumi rolled her eyes at Tatum. She was in no mood for her friend’s crap, especially not tonight.
“I’m just trying to reach a balance between sophisticated and sexy without looking like I tried.”
“A thong and a shawl. That should work.”
“Tate, you’re not helping!”
“I’m not here to help. What kind of friend would I be if I shoved you into the arms of your destroyer, if I assisted you on the path to your doom, if I became the vehicle that took you to your untimely demise?”
“Are you quite done?”
Tatum was enjoying this a little too much, Tumi thought. She herself was in a frenzy, trying to look presentable for Mandi.
Meanwhile Tholaphi simply continued with her intolerable texting, a habit she’d failed to quit even after two semi-interventions by her friends. Tumi supposed when one had such a busy schedule, juggling modelling and drooling millionaires, it required a considerable amount of time on the phone.
Tatum was the more obvious close friend in Tumi’s life, an accountant with a wicked sense of humour and the most gorgeous four-year-old son one could imagine. She was short and petite, in a nutshell: cute. She was the friend you called when the world seemed to be crashing down on you. And if you failed to call, you could be sure she’d come battering down your door with whatever she thought you needed to pull you through the worst.
However, what a lot of people did not know about Tholaphi was that behind the ridiculous beauty lay a deep, complex and very intelligent woman. She was the most social of the trio, the one who dragged them to industry events and called them meter taxis when it became obvious they could no longer keep up. She was also studying law, and hoped to specialise in criminal justice. It was just like Thola to pursue a dangerous and exciting career.
Tumi took a minute to think about the look she was aiming for this evening.
She wanted to come across as sexy enough that Mandi would regret breaking her heart, classy enough to look unattainable, sophisticated enough to reek of success, and all that mixed with a touch of “I’m so over you” superiority.
“I can tell you right now that you won’t be able to go through with your plan. This is Mandi we’re talking about.” Tholaphi finally lifted her head from her cellphone for long enough to contribute that much.
“Well, we’ll just have to see about that!”
“Do you miss him sometimes?” That was classic Thola, the hopeless romantic.
Tumi quickly concealed a pained look before answering in an offhand way: “Goodness, Thola, really! It’s been like seven years.”
“But you never talk about him. When I bring him up, you recoil and . . .”
“That means nothing,” Tumi interrupted her friend.
“It
