walked around her desk, settling into her chair. “Yes, the architect.”
Keabetswe blinked, stunned. “Wow.” Then her features creased into a frown. “But that doesn’t make sense. Why would a successful architect need a real estate agent?”
“That was my first question too,” Esme admitted. “After all, he could live in any of the obscenely expensive houses he’s designed, right? But it turns out the man is a lot more traditional than his work would suggest.” She tapped away at her computer for a moment. “He sent me an e-mail with detailed specifications of what he’s looking for. Ah, here we go. ‘Simple double-storey town house, very little glass or steel, large grounds.’ ”
An image of Motsumi’s most recent design flashed into Keabetswe’s mind. It was an office building with glass and steel everywhere. It had meaningless structures jutting out from it at odd angles, and looked a little like a spaceship about to take off. She snorted. “Are you sure he sent you the right e-mail?”
Esme laughed. “I was surprised too, but who are we to argue? The man wants an old-school town house.”
“The Miller house fits his specifications exactly,” Keabetswe mused. She gave Esme a hopeful smile. “Did one of the others beat me to it?”
“No, you’re in luck. You’re handling the Miller house, and I want it out of the way as soon as possible. Motsumi won’t be afraid of a two-year-old bloodstain.”
“We hope,” said Keabetswe drily. She was excited at the prospect of working for Oagile Motsumi. She had never met him, but she had read an interview or two about the brooding, mysterious architect with a penchant for the avant-garde.
“This time, we’ll need a better strategy.” Esme thought for a moment. “Let’s work our way up to the Miller place. Show him a few other houses in a similar price range, but much less appealing visually. By the time he sees the Miller house, he’ll be impatient and excited, and maybe he’ll snap it up without asking too many questions.”
Keabetswe nodded. “That sounds like a plan. So when do I get to meet him?”
Esme grinned. “I’ve asked him to stop by tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ll be here,” Keabetswe promised as she left the office. She smiled to herself. If she played her cards right, she might just kill two birds with one stone. She could finally sell the Miller house, and she could impress the great Oagile Motsumi while she was at it. His approval would go a long way to helping her career, and there was nothing Keabetswe enjoyed more than a little corporate climbing.
Chapter 2
2
“The lease will be ready by the end of the week,” said Keabetswe, cradling her cellphone between her ear and shoulder. Her hands were fully occupied with the pot of maize meal she was stirring over her father’s ancient gas stove. “Yes, of course, Miss Lindley. Everything is set and ready to go. Just let me know when you’re available . . . Fantastic. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She abandoned the pot for a moment to deposit her phone on the peeling kitchen counter.
Keabetswe wasn’t a fan of the ugly old flat her father insisted on calling home. She had been only five when her mother left, taking with her as much money and furniture as she could. Her father had packed them up, sold the house in Mafikeng and moved to Cape Town, into a flat in the city centre.
It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but building up his small spaza shop into a mini-market took all his time and money. When Keabetswe asked when they were going to have a home of their own, her father scraped some money together and bought the flat. It wasn’t what she had hoped for, but it was theirs.
Keabetswe took the food off the stove and glanced around the kitchen. The paint was dull, the counters were scuffed and grime had collected around the taps, the sort that no amount of scrubbing would remove. But the lounge was cosy, even though it was small and its furniture didn’t match. When the sound system was on, it was invariably playing one of her father’s countless Afro-jazz CDs.
The flat held many good memories for Keabetswe, but as a child she had fantasised about a huge kitchen, a lawn and a marble-tiled bathroom. After working around beautiful properties for four years, she knew she would never be satisfied until she had a lovely big home of her own, complete with a garden and an electric fence.
“Mmmm,” her father murmured as he entered the kitchen, sniffing the air appreciatively. “My cooking never smells this good.”
She laughed. “Your cooking? You mean braaied meat and chakalaka straight out of the can?”
He chuckled. “I’m a simple man.” He took his seat at the small kitchen table.
She served him and then herself, and joined him at the table. It was a basic meal – maize meal and chicken stew – but she knew he would never be bothered to cook real food if he was eating alone. Shadrack Rantao had developed into the proverbial bachelor.
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asked suddenly.
Keabetswe shrugged. “I don’t have plans. Phemelo might need me for wedding stuff, but otherwise I’ll probably be at home. Or working.”
He nodded. “I want you to come for lunch.”
“Here?”
“Of course.” He chuckled. “Sunday lunch at your father’s. Why not?”
Keabetswe hesitated before asking, “Are you cooking?”
Her father arched his eyebrows as if it were an impertinent question, and she sighed. She knew what that look meant. He wouldn’t be cooking – his new girlfriend would. Keabetswe wanted her father to be happy, but she had grown tired of meeting his girlfriends after the fourth one had come and gone.
“You’ve never met Goldie, neh?” he went on.
“No.” The first thought that crossed her mind when her father mentioned Goldie was a Labrador, like the kind in dog food adverts. The second was a buxom woman in Lycra leggings, with one of those terrible blonde weaves worn by people who had no business being blonde.
“She’s a sweet lady. Very friendly.”
Keabetswe took a huge mouthful so she wouldn’t have to respond. Of course Goldie was friendly. They were all friendly, eager to please his precious only child in the hope that a few weeks of light-hearted fun could be stretched into a lifetime commitment.
“And maternal, you know? She likes to bake.”
“Hmmm.”
Her father sighed. “Keabetswe.”
“Rra?”
“Goldie is going to be in my life for a while. I expect you to be nice to her. And respectful,” he added, a stern edge to his voice.
“Papa, of course,” she said softly. “Have I ever been rude to one of your . . . friends?”
He looked at her and laughed. “My friends. You young people these days. Goldie is not my friend. She’s my lady love.” His face broke into a mischievous grin. “My sugarplum, my sweet-sweet.”
