the uptight woman turned to the wall, jaw flexing.
“She means 2010 was South Africa’s year and in 2011 we’re still feeding off it, thanks to FIFA and other smart private investors,” the man continued. “The LEAD incentive is a collaborative effort. Working with government, a group of these private fat cats intend to evaluate a group of small and medium-sized outfits, based on their performance in the economy so far. The companies with the best ability to showcase a proudly South African profile and promote the country’s best image through their work will be awarded a shitload of funding, and you’ll jump in the pool to compete for a lot of juicy tenders, which is a big boost, seeing as it’s so competitive. Not to mention the chosen few get nominated ‘national legacy enterprises’.” He fashioned air-quotes and whispered the last words like they were thick with intrigue, before he submitted to laughter. “Basically you get a full purse and the prestige that goes along with it. That’s some quality branding.”
“Hummph,” Chlöe snorted under her breath. “Quality money laundering, more like. Jislaaik, when will the government realise the public can see these so-called upliftment ventures for what they really are? Cronyism, and more crony-beneficient ways of ripping us off.”
“This,” the orator gestured at the room at large, “is all part of the vetting process we’ve been undergoing since last year, the last leg of it actually. Every man for himself from here on out.”
Presenting the loudest lil pikkin on the playground, Vee thought, watching him adjust his belt and puff his chest as approving nods went round the group at his summation.
“Yes, there’s pie on offer and we’d all like a slice of it,” said a plump Indian woman with a giggly voice and an enviable sheet of gloss tumbling past her shoulder blades. By her elbow stood a much younger, pretty Indian girl with a vaguely familiar face. Vee smiled; the girl shot back a rather strange look. “But we’ll be fighting like greedy children very soon, knives drawn to stab each other in the back. Pity we can’t all have a share in it.”
The tall man gave a sniff of mock severity and pulled himself up to his full, magnificent height. “However the chips may fall, some of us are pacifists and fully intend to be good losers. Sporting spirit and all that.”
“Of course you’d spout such rubbish! You’re rich already, you white oppressor,” joked a young dark-skinned woman with budding dreadlocks. “Your company has the best chance of walking away from this looking rosy whether you win or not. IT is the future, and the now, of everything.”
Tall-and-Lanky sighed dramatically. “Good God, we aren’t going to endure another lecture about black empowerment and the bloody rainbow nation, are we? Because we covered it in the sessions.” Beaming, he whirled on Vee and Chlöe. “I don’t believe anyone’s introduced themselves. How churlish of us. I’m Ryan Walsh.”
“Akhona Moloi,” added Uptight, immediately re-pursing her lips onto the rim of her wineglass.
“Gavin Berman,” said Mr Grandstand, massaging Vee with leery eyes.
“Aneshree Chowdri,” murmured the pretty and up-till-then silent Indian girl, giving Vee a pointed look of her own.
Another half a dozen names flew in from around the room, leaving Vee and Chlöe blinking like dazed deer.
“What’re you guys doing here? Obviously you’re not one of our lot,” someone asked.
“We’re jo–”
“On corporate retreat,” Vee interrupted Chlöe with an arm squeeze. “We’re under military rule on the other side.” She pointed in the boot camp’s general direction. “Thought we’d bust out for the night and have a little fun.”
“Ahhh,” breathed the room in unison. “Party-crashers,” someone quipped cheerfully. “What’s it like over there? Must be exciting.”
“Talk about exciting over there, what about right here? Someone kicked the bucket in the lodge this very morning. We saw them moving the body when we came out of our first session. Talk about creepy. I thought they’d cancel the merry-making.”
“And drive away paying clientele? Ag, you must never.”
“Yeeaaah … I heard it was the general manager.”
“I saw the general manager an hour ago. It was the head of housekeeping.”
“Head of housekeeping is male and black; the dead person was a white woman. It was the deputy GM. Apparently she drank herself to death. Sad, hey.”
Chlöe’s neck snapped sideways, eyes agog. Vee shrugged and looked askance as Chlöe’s gaze doubled back and then began to shrink with suspicion.
“Were you –”
“I need the bathroom,” Vee said, trying to shrug off her arm.
“You should dance with me.” The Walsh man blocked her path. “I can never find a properly statuesque woman in any gathering. Not that you’re anywhere near tall enough,” his grin mocked as he eyed her up and down. “But you’ll do.”
Vee allowed herself to be whisked away, her back cutting off Chlöe’s splutters.
Chapter Seven
Over four hours later, Chlöe tottered over to a quiet patch of lawn at the back of the venue, nearby to the last sprinkle of chalets across from the workmen’s quarters.
“You knew about that woman that kakked it this morning! You always hide the juicy stuff from me. They’re saying she drowned herself in a bathtub full of bleach!”
Vee emitted a gurgly groan from the back of her throat. “Chlöe, please …”
“Are you drunk?” Chlöe waved a hand in front of her face.
“Not exactly. Circling the drain. Those animals are the business leaders of tomorrow?” Vee rolled onto her back. “Hooo. Had to get some air. I swear, if one more person commented on my accent or how I ‘speak so well’ …”
“It’s no-one’s fault you sound like a Jamaican reading a dictionary.” Chlöe tossed Vee’s handbag on the grass next to her head. “Meanwhile, ‘Cricket’,” she said sarcastically, “your phone won’t stop ringing; don’t know why you dumped this on me. And yes I answered it, it was driving me nuts. You’ve been ordered by both your men to stop pretending you’re so busy and call them.”
She watched Vee lazily extract the cell, flip through the call and message register, sigh and switch the device to vibrate. “How long are you gonna keep this up? You can’t avoid a resolution forever, hey. And why won’t you tell me what this cricket story is about? Or the ‘my jue’ or ‘my rib’ thing? Which is kind of creepy by the way.”
On her back, arms spread out across the grass, Vee chuckled at the sky. “Jue is just slang for ‘girlfriend’. And Ti calls me his rib because … I’m the Eve to his Adam. It sounds a lil bit nasty but he does it to tease me. He told me six months after we got together that I was the woman who turned his life from good to incredible.”
“You turned mine to shit inside three months, so you’re devolving.” Sour, Chlöe regarded her rapt expression. “So what, like, you complete him? Eeuurgh, repulsive. Next.”
