a few minutes before reaching for the landline. It rang twice on the other end before it was picked up.
“Ja, Kruger? It’s me.”
A sigh blew in his ear. “What?”
“Nice to hear from you too. Tell me …” He paused. “Where exactly is this venture of yours headed?”
“Of ours. Venture of ours,” Portia Kruger corrected. It sounded like she was chewing. “Don’t make it sound so dramatic. What happened?”
“We had a chat.” A loud groan vibrated in his eardrum. “She stormed out of here. Probably to go stick pins in my voodoo doll. In the groin area. Where’s she from again . . aren’t they all black magic-y over there?”
“Don’t be a racist dick, it’s not cute.” Another sigh. “She’s not on the crime desk, so she’s near wit’s end. You want performance, make her fight you for it.”
“I want her to do her job.”
“Which she has been. But you want more. It’ll take a second. In the meantime, can you stop bringing up that incident? It’s a dirty rumour. I’m pretty sure she kept her nose clean.”
“Pretty sure? I need to trust my staff. I can’t have a poisoned apple in here.”
“Geez, such a drama queen.”
“And don’t you forget I did this as a favour to you.”
“Bollocks. You did it for yourself. You wanted her over there, you actively poached her, now you live the dream.” There came a sound of slurping. “If that’s all, I’m quite busy. Goodbye.” The line went dead.
Nico snorted and replaced the receiver. “I bet you’re busy, running your girlie dishrag.” Nonetheless, he felt it allowable to be put in his place. For now.
Vee fumed in her cubicle for a quarter of an hour, eyes adrift out of the window as a pulse thumped in her neck. Finally, spewing a string of expletives under her breath, she grabbed laptop, handbag and keys.
“I beg your pardon?! Where’re you off to?”
She shoulder-bumped past Saskia and continued to the exit without a backward glance.
“Hey! What’s up?”
She stopped and whirled on Chlöe, unable to stop the mist building in her eyes, not caring if it showed.
Chlöe stepped back, mouth agape. “Yoh. Bosslady, what happened now? Why’re you leaving?”
“The interns’ meeting’s at two-thirty. You be there,” Vee snarled. She continued down to the underground parking, leaving Chlöe staring after her with a ‘what the hell?’ look on her face.
Chapter Two
Vee tore into the guava, spat out brown and popped the rest in her mouth. A welcome breeze ruffled her hair. Lifting both arms, she made a disgusted face as the material of her blouse smeared against moist armpits.
“Where de hell dis child at?” she muttered, swinging the front gate back and forth. Waves of heat shimmered off the tarmac of the deserted street. Tiny lasers of sunshine drilled into her scalp and corneas, making her crabbier by the second. “Twinkie!”
Nothing except another sweep of air. “Tristan Heaney! For God’s sake if I –”
“Right behind you.”
Vee jumped, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea that more African countries had laws protecting minors from corporal punishment. Because this lil pikkin was going the right way …
“Told you I was getting an ice lolly. Why you got to be all yelling on the street and acting country?” Tristan brushed a wheat-blond fringe off his forehead and shot a cheeky grin as he tore the wrapper off the frozen treat.
Vee bit back a smile. Tristan’s delight was imitating her, never mind how ridiculous it sounded in his Rondebosch Boys prep affectation. “It’s ‘ackin’ kuntry’, mister man. And you shouldn’t be shopping for goodies on your employer’s time. Get to work.”
“I needed sugar for the trip.” He chomped into a lolly of the most unnatural green – if she had to describe it ‘neon-lime’ would do – and held it out. “Want some?”
“No, I’hn want none of your diseased ice cream. Didn’t I tell you to stop buying from that nasty shop, before you go catchin’ sum’n?” Tristan shrugged and carried on chomping. Vee shook her head. At his age, food from a sparkling supermarket or the creepy kiosk down the road was all the same thing. Another child headed down the highway to street food hell. She wasn’t one to judge.
“You sound like my mum. Only old people have to eat properly because it’s good for their health.” He tipped his chin at the bulging bag looped over a slat of her picket fence. “That’s why I brought you those.”
“Very delicious, thank you.” Vee took another guava from the plastic shopper. “Never seen the white ones before, though. And guava jam! That’s sum’n else.”
“Mum makes it herself. Since Dad died …” Tristan averted his eyes and concentrated on the lolly, “she does stuff like make jam.”
Vee nodded quietly. All she knew about her young neighbour was that not long ago he’d been part of a happy unit of four, yet only three occupied the cream-and-olive house on the corner. More like two, since Tristan’s elder brother, a UCT student, only dropped by the odd weekend. Mrs Konstantinou, landlady and omniscient of all things concerning Leicester Street, had mentioned the father had died of cancer a year earlier and their mother, an executive in something or other, hadn’t returned to work. The woman barely opened the door to anyone, but seemed to trust Vee with her younger son.
“Well, thanks for picking them. I’ll pass by later to thank your ma myself.”
“Cool. I like your thank yous. Will you bring that fried banana and ginger stuff you made last time?”
“It’s called killi-willi, and it’s plantain not banana. Now come on.” Vee prised the ice from his fingers and stuck her palm to his forehead to restrain him as he flailed for it. “You’hn come here to run your mouth, no way.”
Tristan backed out of reach, face souring. “You’re grumpy today.”
“Move from here.”
“Yes, you are. Your accent goes crazy when you’re angry. And how come you’re home in the middle of the day?”
“How come you home?”
“It’s school holidays. School kids are home all day during school holidays.”
Vee opened her mouth and then shut it. Across the street, a silver Opel reversed into a space between two other cars. Her jaw clenched.
“Your friend’s here. She looks pissed.”
“Yes, BBC Claremont. Thanks for the update.”
She
