her bag of magical hair and skincare products. Before they’d even settled in properly, her whingeing had begun. The chalet was cramped and overrun with gleefully scampering critters; the mattress was too thin and lumpy; the shower spat freezing bullets. Vee didn’t have the heart to point out they were supposedly under military conditions, especially after watching Chlöe stink at almost every activity. She’d fallen on her butt during rope-climbing and hadn’t had the guts to tackle the swing bridge. Bishop the wildcat, picture perfect of a frontier woman unbridled on open prairies, had even flunked horse-riding. Who knew there existed any white girls who were scared of horses.
She ripped the top sheet off her own bed, wet it under the bathroom tap and draped it over Chlöe, shifting and muttering in her sleep. Don’t worry my lil Vanilla Princess, Vee thought, we’re out of here first thing tomorrow.
And on their return, Nico had better do a stellar job of explaining why they were marooned in hardship headquarters instead of, as she’d expected, lavishing in mod-cons in the valley. Not that he still needed to. By now his point had been made loud and clear – stay in line, or I deploy my myriad ways of making you miserable. No way in hell had she agreed to a weekend of roughing it for the sake of writing the review, no way in all nine circles of Dante’s hell had Chlöe agreed. But they’d been assured by Grotto’s management that their boss had insisted his journalists be ‘fully immersed in the true boot camp experience’ in order to get a unique and unindulged taste of the lodge’s facilities. Another Van Wyk blindside. Well played, bossman, Vee thought with a wry smile. She cast a longing eye downhill to utopia, her saliva slowly thickening like drying cement. The colourful Cape Dutch estate, complete with twinkling pool, sprawled in laughable contrast to theirs. The luxury guesthouses were solely for those ‘who truly got away to get away’. Their section, well … left a lot to be desired was putting it kindly.
Hat low, she snuck past the makeshift kraal that was the cooking area, snatching a bottle of warm mineral water on the way. The morning regimen began at the crack of dawn and broke at seven-thirty for breakfast and showers, lasting an hour and a half. Most of the team members were still lounging about after the meal, waiting for a camp instructor to kick the day’s activities back into gear. If ever she ran into them in the city, Vee would’ve walked right past them. The women were filling pots with water and loading them back onto glowing coals to soften up the pap-caked insides before they were scrubbed. Perched in a loose circle on the rocks around the fire, the men rested near huge barrels, their labour complete. After every morning’s workout, they walked over a kilometre off base to a water pump, filled the barrels, and hoisted them back on their shoulders, four men at a time.
She shook her head pityingly. White people were incredible. The toils others shouldered as a part of daily life, they paid good money to get whipped up about. Had anyone volunteered to spend a weekend in a real village with either of her grandmothers, the only thing they’d feel excited about was drowning themselves in the nearest river.
Outside the thatched fence, she hit the footpath and skirted the periphery, avoiding the main gate. None dared breach that iron curtain, and the security guards had superb radar for breakout guests. She scaled the fence at the lowest point, landing with a soft thump on the grass. Even the air felt cooler, lighter on the other side. Popping open the mineral water, she splashed dust and grass off her feet, face and elbows before tucking the bottle underarm, certain she looked shiny enough as she trudged down.
“Good morning, madam,” beamed the man at the front desk. “How’s been your day so far?”
“Oh excellent, thank you. I’ve just been to the spa …” Vee caught herself. Presentable she was, true, but her face (parched and tense) and hands (clean enough, but glaring brown moons of dirt under the fingernails) were hardly spa-fresh products. “Just for a massage. Can’t sit up long enough to endure anything in this heat.”
The concierge returned a polite half-smile. ‘Trevor Davids’ read his name tag. She broke eye contact and scanned the reception area, then through the glass double doors to the first, smaller dining area. Even for a post-breakfast crush, the vibe was dead.
“Where’s everybody gone?”
“They’ve reconvened for the final session of the conference. Today’s the last day of seminars and discussions; tonight we host the closing festivities. Although some have bunked off earlier and gone for this morning’s tour of the churches in Oudtshoorn and the nearby ostrich farms.” He coughed. “Aren’t you part of the convention?”
“No I’m, uhh … It must’ve slipped my mind.” She quickly plucked a free advertorial off the desk and fanned herself, forcing a smile. “You know what, I wanted to order a drink at the bar, but maybe I’ll just do that from my room.”
“Which would be room number … ?”
Maybe she could just walk off like she hadn’t heard, and scurry like hell once she was out of sight. The heat didn’t encourage that kind of energy burst though, and the concierge looked pretty damn fit. His eyes lasered her with open suspicion. His one hand bunched into a fist, while the other glided almost involuntarily toward the reception phone.
She cleared her throat. “Listen, Trevor. I’m with my boyfriend in a … um, private capacity. He’d hate for it to become widely known that we were here together, it’s rather delicate.” She made a woeful face that hopefully screamed ‘kept woman in precarious position’. “Management is well acquainted with our intimate situation, I believe,” she closed wildly.
His stance loosened, arms dropping to his sides. “Of course, madam. Room service will be glad to fill your order from your room.”
Vee muttered thanks and slunk off. The coast was clear as far in as the second dining room. Near the kitchen, a gaggle of female staff had congregated. She lingered near the commotion, watching one of the younger girls wind her waist in tune to the local house music playing. The rest of the group peeped through a cubbyhole at the widescreen television in the adjacent room, cheering and loudly comparing the girl’s gyrations to DJ Cleo’s background dancers. Snickering, she snuck past them.
The kitchen yawned, mercifully deserted. The first huge, upright fridge concealed nothing impressive but swirling plumes of icy air. The next one was kinder, offering colourful pinwheels of fruit arranged on silver trays. She carefully lifted the clingfilm and swiped chunks of watermelon and kiwi on toothpicks, giving a throaty moan of joy when the cold, sweet juices burst in her mouth.
“Dammit,” she whispered. The walk-in fridge was locked, and getting past the mechanism would take professional skill, time and the right equipment. What she did have in the boot of her car was her ‘access pass’ – a makeshift combo of tools for gaining entry where it had been denied, but the Valiant was in the car park, far from nearby. She bent over the chest freezer, locked also, examined the lock and brightened.
As quietly as possible, she rummaged through the drawers near the sink until she found a thin-bladed paring knife and a teaspoon. Kneeling, she slid the knife into the keyhole and jiggled. The metal hook of the latch lifted a hair’s breadth. The freezer was new. She leaned on it and the gap widened, enough to insert the teaspoon. She twisted the blade and used the teaspoon as a lever to lift the latch, and the mechanism soon clacked loose. She examined the lock for damage, exhaled in relief, and lifted the lid. Triumphant, she drew out two frosty plastic bottles, salivating as she worked open the Coke.
“Yhuuuuuu! Kanindincedeni! Izani; ndincedeni!”
A girl, decked in the pink-with-grey-trim uniform of the maids, skidded in through the back entrance. She looked to be in her young twenties, about Chlöe’s age, fair-skinned and heavy-boned. And terrified.
“Ndiyanicela bethuna,
