By the time he sees the Miller house, he’ll be impatient and excited, and maybe he’ll snap it up without asking too many questions.”
Keabetswe nodded. “That sounds like a plan. So when do I get to meet him?”
Esme grinned. “I’ve asked him to stop by tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ll be here,” Keabetswe promised as she left the office. She smiled to herself. If she played her cards right, she might just kill two birds with one stone. She could finally sell the Miller house, and she could impress the great Oagile Motsumi while she was at it. His approval would go a long way to helping her career, and there was nothing Keabetswe enjoyed more than a little corporate climbing.
Chapter 2
2
“The lease will be ready by the end of the week,” said Keabetswe, cradling her cellphone between her ear and shoulder. Her hands were fully occupied with the pot of maize meal she was stirring over her father’s ancient gas stove. “Yes, of course, Miss Lindley. Everything is set and ready to go. Just let me know when you’re available . . . Fantastic. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She abandoned the pot for a moment to deposit her phone on the peeling kitchen counter.
Keabetswe wasn’t a fan of the ugly old flat her father insisted on calling home. She had been only five when her mother left, taking with her as much money and furniture as she could. Her father had packed them up, sold the house in Mafikeng and moved to Cape Town, into a flat in the city centre.
It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but building up his small spaza shop into a mini-market took all his time and money. When Keabetswe asked when they were going to have a home of their own, her father scraped some money together and bought the flat. It wasn’t what she had hoped for, but it was theirs.
Keabetswe took the food off the stove and glanced around the kitchen. The paint was dull, the counters were scuffed and grime had collected around the taps, the sort that no amount of scrubbing would remove. But the lounge was cosy, even though it was small and its furniture didn’t match. When the sound system was on, it was invariably playing one of her father’s countless Afro-jazz CDs.
The flat held many good memories for Keabetswe, but as a child she had fantasised about a huge kitchen, a lawn and a marble-tiled bathroom. After working around beautiful properties for four years, she knew she would never be satisfied until she had a lovely big home of her own, complete with a garden and an electric fence.
“Mmmm,” her father murmured as he entered the kitchen, sniffing the air appreciatively. “My cooking never smells this good.”
She laughed. “Your cooking? You mean braaied meat and chakalaka straight out of the can?”
He chuckled. “I’m a simple man.” He took his seat at the small kitchen table.
She served him and then herself, and joined him at the table. It was a basic meal – maize meal and chicken stew – but she knew he would never be bothered to cook real food if he was eating alone. Shadrack Rantao had developed into the proverbial bachelor.
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asked suddenly.
Keabetswe shrugged. “I don’t have plans. Phemelo might need me for wedding stuff, but otherwise I’ll probably be at home. Or working.”
He nodded. “I want you to come for lunch.”
“Here?”
“Of course.” He chuckled. “Sunday lunch at your father’s. Why not?”
Keabetswe hesitated before asking, “Are you cooking?”
Her father arched his eyebrows as if it were an impertinent question, and she sighed. She knew what that look meant. He wouldn’t be cooking – his new girlfriend would. Keabetswe wanted her father to be happy, but she had grown tired of meeting his girlfriends after the fourth one had come and gone.
“You’ve never met Goldie, neh?” he went on.
“No.” The first thought that crossed her mind when her father mentioned Goldie was a Labrador, like the kind in dog food adverts. The second was a buxom woman in Lycra leggings, with one of those terrible blonde weaves worn by people who had no business being blonde.
“She’s a sweet lady. Very friendly.”
Keabetswe took a huge mouthful so she wouldn’t have to respond. Of course Goldie was friendly. They were all friendly, eager to please his precious only child in the hope that a few weeks of light-hearted fun could be stretched into a lifetime commitment.
“And maternal, you know? She likes to bake.”
“Hmmm.”
Her father sighed. “Keabetswe.”
“Rra?”
“Goldie is going to be in my life for a while. I expect you to be nice to her. And respectful,” he added, a stern edge to his voice.
“Papa, of course,” she said softly. “Have I ever been rude to one of your . . . friends?”
He looked at her and laughed. “My friends. You young people these days. Goldie is not my friend. She’s my lady love.” His face broke into a mischievous grin. “My sugarplum, my sweet-sweet.”
Keabetswe snickered. “Papa!”
“What? We’re both adults now, aren’t we? How old are you these days? Twenty?”
Keabetswe shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Seventeen, Papa. How could you forget?” They played this game often. When she was a child, her answer had always been a few years older than her actual age. Now that she was twenty-eight, seventeen sounded just right.
He laughed and she joined in. “Well, that’s still old enough to know what goes on between a man and a woman.” His expression sobered. “I know you’re not happy about the way I live my life. But I’m a man, and I have needs.”
Keabetswe cringed. Being a single parent meant her father had been forced to take responsibility for all the birds and bees talks. Never one to beat about the bush, he had simply decided to be open with her – a little too open sometimes.
“So.” Her father pushed his empty plate away. “Sunday. You’ll come?”
Keabetswe sighed inwardly. “Of course.”
He broke into a vibrant smile. “Good, good. Excellent. Now . . .” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a deck of cards.
Keabetswe laughed as she picked up their plates and carried them to the sink. “I can’t believe it. You don’t remember how I beat you last time?”
“That was then. This is now,” said her father with confidence, laying the cards out on the table.
* * *
“Morning!” Keabetswe greeted her colleagues when she arrived at work the next day.
Luke waved, already busy on the phone, and Radha smiled from behind her computer.
Keabetswe glanced at the folder on her desk. It was the usual beige, gold and green folder, fastened with gold elastic, with the company logo emblazoned across it. She dropped her handbag on the desk, picked up the folder and opened it.
It was information on the company’s most recent offerings, complete with full-colour photographs and floor plans. She flipped through it, skimming over the details and peering at the images.
Turning to the final page, she gasped when she saw the last image. It was the perfect house. Although much smaller than the sort of residences Peckham Gould usually dealt with, it was still a mansion compared to her father’s flat. It was built like a country cottage, brick walkway and all, with creepers snaking up the front walls.
The house was a single storey but quite large, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms, including the en suite. The best part was the kitchen.