It is Katlego. She’s paging through the booking register, sunglasses in her hand. She’s CFO at an auditing firm nearby.
“Adriana, hello.” She bends down on her heels, higher than mine, and kisses both my cheeks. “Business is booming, I see?”
She’s wearing a light, summery fragrance.
“So it is. We can’t complain.” I step back to study her. “You look ravishing. I’m envious.”
“Thanks.” She runs her hand over her dark-green dress, looks pleased. “I have a board meeting at OneX. I just wanted to check everything is on track for Alfred’s dinner party. Two other cabinet ministers will be attending as well, and the judge president.”
“Everything is ready. Ten people in total?”
“Yes. And you’ll make your potato salad, nè? Alfred is crazy about it. You’d swear he grew up in Bloemfontein instead of Phuthaditjhaba.”
I smile at the Afrikaans nè dropped into the private school English. “Of course.”
“Fantastic. See you tomorrow afternoon. I’ll make sure I’m home, or security won’t let you in.”
She gives a quick wave, and hurries down the stairs.
On her way out of the parking lot, her Jaguar squeezes past a black Range Rover on its way in.
I look at my watch. Must be the 11:30 booking.
Three men get out. The one in the middle – bald head, navy-blue jacket, smart checked shirt – raises his hand in greeting.
Surely not. When was the last time I saw him? In the flesh, not in the business pages or the cover of some gossip rag?
What is he doing here?
“Themba,” I say as he approaches, doing my best to sound pleased.
“Hello, Adriana.” He shakes my hand, his other hand squeezing my forearm. “You look as beautiful as ever.”
“And you look very important.” I point at the two men in cheap black suits flanking him.
He laughs, and his shirt collar quivers. He rescues the sunglasses threatening to slip off his head and hands them to the bodyguard on his left.
“Always so elegant and … how do you Boers say? Nie op jou bek geval nie.” He pronounces the last phrase in near faultless Afrikaans. “You always know exactly what to say.”
“Are you our early booking? The table outside, at the back?” The one where the diners can’t be seen or overheard.
He nods.
“Who’s joining you? I hear you and Pearl Khumalo have gone your separate ways.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the Sunday papers.” The right-hand corner of his mouth twitches slightly, as if he’s amused.
The way he looks when he wants something.
We go out onto the veranda.
“Please take a seat.” I point at the table for two, check quickly that everything is spick and span.
The bodyguards head past us to the garden and stand at ease under the white stinkwood trees. One man’s eyes are fixed on us, the other is watching the entrance.
I try to recall everything I know about Themba Zungu. Who is his guest? If it were Pearl, his bodyguards would have allowed him and the TV presenter more privacy.
“Double Yamazaki?” I seem to remember the eighteen-year-old Japanese single malt is his poison of choice.
“Please.”
“Two?” I motion at the empty chair.
“What would you like? I’m afraid I don’t remember.” He runs his hand over his forehead, snaps his fingers. “Ah, Grey Goose premium vodka.”
He has a good memory. It’s almost five years since we last saw each other. He came for dinner at Crow’s, and at the end of the evening stormed out in a rage. I knew more than was good for him and his business empire. From way before the properties in Hyde Park and Umhlanga, the expensive whisky and legendary dinners at high-priced restaurants like this one in Johannesburg’s northern suburbs.
Should I be worried? Can Boris handle two bodyguards? He’s older than the men in the cheap suits but I reckon he’s quicker.
I manage a smile. “I’ll have a whisky with you. Back in a moment.”
I go to the bar. Zenani pops her head around the kitchen door. “Everything okay?”
“Sure. Just an old friend, here for a quick visit.”
“How old?”
“From earlier.” I try to put her at ease. “Before Crow’s.”
She frowns. “No one from back then comes here any more.”
I shrug and turn away. Zenani is right.
I call Boris on the two-way radio in the office. “Did Themba say anything when he came in?”
“Just that he has a lunch date.”
“With?”
“You. Was he lying?”
Boris knows Themba, there’s no reason to refuse him entry. But why did the man come here in the first place?
“Adriana, are you okay? Should I come inside? I’ve already moved the cameras so I can keep an eye on you.”
“Forget about us. Themba has two bodyguards in the garden – don’t let them out of your sight.”
I put away the radio, unlock the safe and take out two throwing knives. I strap them to my left inner thigh, the cold steel familiar and reassuring against my skin.
At the door, I turn back. Impossible to run in Manolo Blahniks. I change them for a pair of practical pumps I keep in the office. Look at my watch. Twenty-seven minutes before my next guests are due to arrive.
It’s going to be a long half-hour.
On my way back to the veranda, Billie Holiday’s voice trails after me. 1958. “Tomorrow may never come, for all we know …”
Themba doesn’t ask what kept me. I hand him his whisky.
“Thanks.”
I stay on my feet, glass in hand. Look over his shoulder for Boris. He’s standing at the gate, near the new security office.
I examine the high perimeter wall. Shots will attract attention. Every private home and business in the neighbourhood employs costly, well-trained security guards. And the police are on high alert. The rich and famous are quick to run to the
