his robe and climbed onto the table.
“My work is killing me, you know,” he mumbled into the pillow. “All those long, boring meetings . . . It might help if I had a pretty wife to go home to, but . . .” His voice trailed off.
Dream on, Spongebob, Melody thought in disgust, applying oil to her hands. Then she asked, “What happened to that nice lady you met at the bank?”
“Oh, her,” he sneered. “She dumped me after two dates.”
“No!” gasped Melody in mock dismay. “Did she give you a reason?”
“She said she needed someone with more oomph.”
Melody had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
“What does that even mean?” he went on. “I’ll have you know, men like me are hard to find.”
No, not really, thought Melody. But in a soothing voice she said, “Relax, Mr Meyer. Don’t worry about her. In a few minutes you’ll feel much better.”
Taking a deep breath, Melody plunged in. Much as she disliked Mr Meyer’s back, she loved giving massages. Her hands moved deftly across his skin. It was second nature to her, and even though she’d probably need a massage herself once the day was over, it was all worth it. She liked to make people feel better.
“You’re . . . really . . . good,” he mumbled.
“Thank you.” She smiled. Shame, maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. So he liked massages; who didn’t? And what man wouldn’t love to have a bunch of pretty girls give him a little TLC every now and then?
“Could you . . . A little lower . . . Ahhhhh!”
Another satisfied customer. Melody liked being good at her job. I’m a healer, she thought, applying a little more oil to her hands. Like a doctor who doesn’t cause you pain. Yep, she liked the sound of that. Working in her industry wasn’t a preference, it was a calling. She made people look and feel beautiful.
“Melody?”
“Yes, Mr Meyer?”
“How much . . . would I . . . have to pay . . . to have . . . you . . . as my . . . personal masseuse?”
Melody laughed. She’d heard that one before. “Uh, a lot.”
“Name . . . your . . . price,” he persisted. “I could . . . really use some . . . personal . . . attention . . . if you . . . know . . . what I mean.”
Melody’s hands froze. You dirty old man! And here I was about to give you the benefit of the doubt!
“Melody? You’re not stopping, are you?” he asked in panic.
She gritted her teeth. “Of course not, Mr Meyer.”
“I still have an ache in my upper back.”
Melody pushed down a little harder than necessary, making him cry out. “Oops. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. About my offer . . .”
“Thank you, Mr Meyer, but I’m fine where I am,” she replied, her tone icy. “Lie still, please. You have a lot of tension.” She slammed her palm into his shoulder.
“Aaarrgghhh!”
“Oh, did that hurt?” She smiled sardonically. “So sorry.”
* * *
“You’re mean,” declared Sophie, peering into her glass.
“He was asking for it,” replied Melody, sipping her drink. “He’s a pervert.”
Sophie shook her head. “You might have hurt the poor man, you know. He’s not as young as he once was.”
“Ugh!” Buhle covered her eyes. “Now I have the scary image of Spongebob in his youth burned into my brain.”
“How does he look?” asked Annelize, leaning forward in her chair.
Buhle lowered her hands. “The same. With more hair and much more dandruff.”
Melody laughed and swatted Buhle with her napkin. The four of them were in a corner of their favourite restaurant, sipping cocktails and trading gossip. The nightlife in Cape Town was always interesting. There were so many tourists around that it was almost impossible to go out without meeting someone new. Melody scanned the room until her gaze came to rest on a group of men sitting at a table not far away. One of them was staring at Sophie, mouth agape.
Melody grinned at the receptionist. “Hey, you have an admirer.”
“I was wondering why it was taking so long,” said Buhle. “Usually she has about seven by the time we make it to our seats.” She looked around, craning her neck. “Where is he? Let’s size him up.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Don’t bother. I thought we were having a girls’ night out, not a matchmaking festival.”
“No harm in looking,” said Buhle. “For you, of course,” she added with a smug smile. “Some of us are already off the market.”
“And you’ll never let us forget that,” said Melody.
Of the four of them, she and Sophie were the only singletons. Annelize had three years of wedded bliss under her belt and Buhle was still with her boyfriend from varsity.
Melody had been single for about a year, and was in no rush to start another relationship. She was only twenty-eight; she had plenty of time. Sophie, on the other hand, was so pessimistic about men that she had already decided she was going to adopt all her children.
“Oooh, he’s hot,” announced Buhle, turning back to her friends. “And foreign. Italian or something.”
Melody frowned. “He didn’t look Italian to me.”
Buhle shrugged. “Whatever, babes. Dark hair, light skin. What’s the difference?”
“All white people look the same to you, nè?” teased Annelize.
Buhle laughed. “More or less. But the point is, he’s hot. Right, Mel?”
Melody didn’t answer. A man at the other end of the room had caught her eye. He was pretty hot as well, she had to admit: tall, broad-shouldered and with the air of someone who knew he had the ability to draw female attention. His head was freshly shorn and his handsome dark face was clean-shaven. He had slightly slanted eyes, a strong nose and full lips which parted in a mischievous smile that made Melody’s heart skip a beat. Their eyes met briefly and his smile widened.
Melody smiled back and lowered her gaze, but when she looked up again he was talking to one of the women in his group of friends, his face turned away from Melody. The woman leaned towards him, said something and they both laughed. She was probably his girlfriend. Men like that were hardly ever single.
To her surprise, Melody was a little disappointed. It had been a while since she’d had her eye on anyone.
“Mel!”
“Hmm?” Melody spun around. “What?”
“Sophie’s guy. A hottie or a nottie?” asked Annelize.
“Oh, a hottie.”
“See?”
Sophie drained her glass. “Do you really think I care? I told you, I’m not interested in relationships. I like being on my own. I need a man . . .”
“Like a fish needs a bicycle, we know,” Buhle interrupted, holding up her hands. “Silly thing to say, if you ask me, and I bet you every cent in the Reserve Bank the woman who said it has a man.”
“I think she got married, actually,” mused Annelize.
“Ha!” cried Buhle, raising her glass in a triumphant toast. “I rest my case.”
Sophie tossed her head,