backwards trying to make things smooth between them for Thomas’s sake. But the woman was impossible. Her and Thomas’s engagement had inflamed an already dire situation. Even the polite pleasantries she and Pinky occasionally shared had vanished completely. Pinky was waging a war against her.
There was a tap on the door and Sonja stepped inside. She walked over to Nandi and stood by the desk, her hands on her hips. Nandi winced at the body language. She knew it only too well; it was a sure sign of trouble.
“Are you giving me a cold shoulder?” Sonja demanded.
“Morning, Sonja,” Nandi said. She stood up and hugged Sonja. “No, I’m not snubbing you, my dear friend. I just want to deal with this paperwork; it’s been piling up for some time now and I’m starting to lose things. How is this Friday morning treating you, Mrs Wort? I must say you look absolutely stunning. Who do you have on, girl?”
Of the forty or so female employees at Le Roux, Mathaba and Associates, Sonja Wort, Nandi’s team secretary, was one of the handful of people she regarded as a friend. They had known each other since Nandi started with the firm five years previously. They were among the veterans who remembered the time when the female head count was less than six and middle-aged white males ruled the office, when every woman’s name was Tjerrie.
Sonja was in her late thirties, with a razor-sharp tongue, and coloured, a label she deeply despised. A few years back she had visited New York City and amid the energy and buzz of Times Square had crossed one of the streets without looking. A black guy in a Hummer had shouted, “Stop parading your fat black ass and get off the fuckin’ road!” Anybody else would have been offended by the statement, but not Sonja. She was elated. It had taken twenty hours on the plane, disorienting jet lag and a five-dollar trip on the downtown subway for her to temporarily lose the offensive label that had followed her all her life.
“Sonja W Creations, dear, it’s my latest range.” Sonja pivoted like a runway model, strutted a few steps and made an elaborate bow. Nandi clapped dutifully. “Isn’t it gorgeous? I’m expecting compliments from every person who sees me in this dress. Flip, it took me three months and the fabric set me back a couple of thousand rands. But what can I say? It’s the price of beauty.”
“The price of beauty indeed, and so worth it,” Nandi said. “I’m impressed. I think you’re ready to take the South African fashion industry by storm. Move over, David Tlale, here come Sonja W Creations.”
“You think so?”
“If you want it enough, I don’t see why it can’t happen,” Nandi said. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you design a dress for me to wear when I go over to Thomas’s family in Polokwane after the wedding?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“I guess I can do that.”
“Good, work out the costs and let me know when you want to take my measurements,” Nandi said.
“Costs? Who said anything about money? You’re my friend. I’ll make the dress for free.”
“Sonja, rule number one of becoming a successful businesswoman: do away with giveaways and discounts to friends and family. Treat everyone as a normal paying customer. You work for an accounting firm, darling, you should know nothing is free.”
“Got it, madam advisor,” Sonja said.
“Good, because I’ll be watching you.”
Sonja was quiet for a moment. She took a long look at Nandi, and the expression on her face was one of apprehension. Then she spoke quietly. “I have something to tell you.”
“What?” Nandi asked, unfazed by Sonja’s change of mood. There was only one word to describe Sonja Wort: melodramatic. She reacted to everything with the exaggerated expressions and gestures normally reserved for stage actors.
Sonja cleared her throat several times before she spoke. “Someone called for you a few minutes ago. You weren’t here.”
“Did that someone leave a message?”
“Yes.” Sonja fidgeted with the pen and piece of paper in her hand, grimaced. “I’m not sure if I should tell you this. It’s kind of bad news.”
“Someone I know is dead?”
Sonja shook her head.
“In the hospital?”
“No, I don’t mean bad in that way.”
Nandi squeezed a smile. “What could possibly be worse than death?”
Sonja hesitated for a moment. “Chris Phakathi is around. He left these contact numbers. He said he tried your cellphone, but the number isn’t working. I told him you changed the number after he left. I refused to give him your new number.” Sonja reluctantly handed the piece of paper she was holding to Nandi. She furrowed her brow anxiously, watched her.
Nandi took the paper and studied it. The news was worse than death. A surge of heat shot up her face. Her heart was pumping so fast she began to feel light-headed; thousands of tiny stars flared up and floated by in dreamy patterns. She grasped the arms of her chair for support and lowered herself before her knees gave in. She squeezed her eyes shut. Chris Phakathi’s image flashed in her face.
“Nandi?”
Nandi pushed her eyes open. “Are you sure it is him?” She would have given anything for Sonja to say, “Relax, I’m pulling your leg. Let’s go get breakfast.” But Sonja was nodding and looking at her with a mixture of worry and grief.
“Well, that is some news,” Nandi said.
Noting the stricken look on her friend’s face, Sonja said remorsefully, “I shouldn’t have passed the message on. A part of me said not to, but I knew you were going to find out sooner or later anyway. Ek is jammer.”
“It’s not your fault. I just wasn’t expecting to hear from him,” Nandi said, attempting to compose herself. Her throat constricted, she swallowed hard. “What else did he say? Is he on holiday? How long has he been back for?”
“I didn’t ask. He caught me off guard. I couldn’t believe it was him on the phone.” Sonja stopped, gave Nandi a long, considerate look. “This must be hard for you.”
Nandi parted her lips but found words were refusing to surface. She read the number on the piece of paper again. Yep, it was definitely a South African telephone number.
“Chris has no business calling you after the way he left you, spitting you out like sour grapes and leaving you in all that mess. He . . .”
Nandi strained to hear the words coming out of Sonja’s mouth. She could tell by the dramatic gestures Sonja was making – hands flying in the air, face twisting, lips quivering, nostrils flaring – that she was angry.
“. . . shame on him, really shame on that man,” Sonja ended her diatribe.
“Can you give me a minute, please?”
“Why? Are you thinking of calling him?” Sonja’s eyes were wide, incredulous.
“No,
