Your magnified man crisis, combined with some cheap office tattle and whoo-hooo, you flip out and decide to throw us in the deep end to take your mind off!” Her breathing sounded like a woman in labour.
“Hey. Whoa.” Vee contained a laugh. “Is roughing it a phobia for you?”
“I DO NOT DO VILLAGE! And I’m not even gonna address the man shit, a mess entirely of your making. But the other thing? We both know the only place it could’ve started. It’s Mapondera, finish and klaar.”
“Yeeeaah.” Vee massaged her forehead. All roads led back to Urban, the old den of snakes. Talented, hardworking, even friendly snakes … but self-serving nonetheless. The pedigree of gossip was telling: destructive, yet somehow careless and lacking spite. Classic Charisma Mapondera. Frenemy extraordinaire; biggest shortcomings – inability to keep confidence and chronic gagging for attention. It’s like we never left, she thought tiredly.
“So we deal with her, and with this. Or let it blow over. We didn’t take it, why should we give a toss what those morons think? We can handle this from the comfort of our homes.”
“Chlöe, I hear you, but no. We’re not arguing over it either. It’s been a crazy day … week, and this’ll be good for us. Be ready by six. That’s a.m., not p.m. We’ll take my car.” The Chrysler needed to stretch her treads.
“What if I don’t want to go to that tatty bush lodge?” Vee imagined the monstrous length to which Chlöe’s pout had grown. “What if I want to stay and be part of the interns’ thingy? That makes a lot more sense if we’re being ‘team players’ now.”
“Good night, Bishop.”
Vee flapped open on her lap the dossier of reviews Lynne Hammond had prepared before going on leave. She bristled at an impressive list of spoils the travel columnist had indulged, overindulged in, in the past months. Why hadn’t Hammond taken her maternity sooner, leaving the delights of the Arabella Sheraton and Twelve Apostles Hotel to a lucky stand-in?
Instead we get this, she sagged, leafing through The Grotto Lodge’s self-aggrandisement. ‘Our rustic but quaint accommodation serves to create a wonderful lodge experience for the discerning, adventurous visitor. Situated just fifteen kilometres shy of Oudtshoorn, our location encompasses many colourful aspects of the Garden Route towns. Nestled near the famous Cango Caves, we offer rock-climbing excursions, guided hikes and sightseeing drives, as well as spa facilities, horseback riding and our unique military boot camp for the real outdoorsman. Perfect for family, group and corporate bookings. Call –’
Vee tossed the file, muttering, “How the hell anything can be quaint and rustic at the same time?” Chances were it was much closer to one than the other; with their luck, it would be to the latter. Ever since pastoral life had scraped off its shameful veneer and become ‘an experience’, the hospitality industry’s contemporary spin on the concept bordered on ridiculous. Poverty porn, wasn’t that the catchphrase? She imagined bowls of sludgy rat soup in chipped tin cups, slurped down by a pack of enraptured fools with money to burn.
Chlöe was going to murder her.
She flicked off the bedside lamp, hit the highest setting on the fan and star-fished her limbs across the bed.
Chapter Four
The LG flatscreen sounded a tiny ‘zooop’ as it went off, fading to black over the ‘Harpo Studios’ emblem, trademark of Oprah Winfrey’s empire. Heavy-hearted, Zintle Msengwana sighed to her feet. The queen of talk was serious; she was really going off primetime for good.
Zintle couldn’t believe it. Not much made her days cleaning up other people’s mess easier to stomach. If the halls were empty and the work hadn’t piled up, relaxing in front of talk shows and soapies was the one treat she allowed herself before she started her routine. Management in some lodges was strict, and allowed only good clients to book rooms. At The Grotto, class and wallet size equalled one and the same, and judging from the nonsense Zintle had had to clean out of some of the rooms, that equation told a sad, disgusting story. At some establishments, they were more lenient, allowing longer breaks if the day was slow, or generous, handing out barely used or expired stock to staff that wanted it. No such luck at The Grotto.
Zintle sprayed the shag-pile rug in the en-suite sitting room with carpet cleaner and started on the bathroom while it dried to powder. She sighed again, shaking her head as she removed a half-full wineglass rimmed with lipstick from near the bathtub. The bathroom smelled vaguely of alcohol. Ms Greenwood was a good woman but she drank too much. It was an open secret amongst the staff and management, who’d turned a blind eye and tolerated it for years, but now the stakes were higher. The lodge had stepped up its game in the bid for three-star status, and if Ms Greenwood wasn’t careful her job would be on the line. It would be terrible to lose her over something so shameful.
Deciding to leave the scrubbing of tiles, which she hated, for last, Zintle moved on to stripping the bed. She yanked the corner of the duvet spilling down the side of the mattress. Cursing when it didn’t budge, she inched over to the other end of the bed, pulling harder. It gave under her force, releasing a heavy weight that rolled against and buckled her legs. Zintle yelped, stumbled and fell against a sidetable near the window, overturning a lamp.
“Hhayi mhani. Jesus.” Pushing the lamp aside, she knelt beside the bundle on the floor, pulling back the duvet. She jerked and uttered a tiny whimper. Underneath lay Rhonda Greenwood, face down and back turned, head barely visible beneath the rumpled folds.
“Ma’am.” Zintle put a hand on her shoulder and shook gently. “Ms Greenwood.” No answer. “Ms Greenwood. Are you awake?”
She had no idea why she was whispering, only suddenly she felt scared. She shook harder, and watched Rhonda Greenwood’s pudgy, prostrate form jiggle back and forth under her hand with no will of its own. Gulping, Zintle heaved, dragging the edges of the duvet and Greenwood closer. The woman pitched and rolled, coming to rest on her side. Through the blonde strands falling across her face oozed a dried mess of thick, creamy-looking fluid inside and around her mouth. A dark red lump stood out behind her ear.
Zintle shrieked and scrambled on all fours towards the door.
Sunshine slowly braised Vee’s forehead in sweat. Eyes shielded, she estimated the peril of venturing out unprotected and shrank back indoors.
She dragged her tiny suitcase across the baked mud floor and dug through it for her straw hat. Above her head, bouts of vigorous rustling emanated from the roof thatching. The mice usually did the rustling, especially at night, but she looked up to find a sizeable lizard languishing in a patch of sunlight on the wall. She made a half-hearted throw at it with a tissue box and missed. The lizard twitched a mere centimetre, turning its neck to stare at her. Vee went back in search of the hat. Dusty and mashed, she pulled it from under the rickety metal bedframe.
As she crept out of the chalet, she paused by the second bed. Spread-eagled in underwear and tangled in a sheet, Chlöe lay conked out. Her hair, a spill of rooibos tea brewed strong, had shrunk into a mangled halo of frizz. Her pale skin looked like blue-veined cheese, if there existed a kind with veins that appeared to throb in high heat. A few welts of a hateful indigo were blossoming in patches on her limbs. Paintball was a game unsympathetic to delicate skin, especially if you found yourself on a team of losers who couldn’t shoot worth a damn or even recognise their own team-mates.
Vee, who’d been on the winning team, twinged with guilt. Grotto’s idea of boot camp came off more like a softened version of boarding school, but its rustic appeal was kicking Chlöe’s
