Mr Not Quite Good Enough Read online

  Gorata looked up at his handsome, dimply face and felt better straight away. “I went bungee jumping.”

  “Why?” Ozee asked, as if Gorata had just said she’d poked a sharp stick in her eye.

  She laughed. “Yeah, that’s an excellent question. But at least now I can scratch it off my bucket list.”

  “Well, I guess that’s something.”

  Ozee got to work filling the tank and washing the windscreen. Gorata watched him. Today he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. She wondered where he’d managed to build up such muscles. They pushed against his shirt as he pulled the squeegee towards him.

  Handsome, a fantastic body, and a smile that could melt ice. Not necessarily things she looked for in a man, though. Not important in the long term, really. But still . . . Gorata couldn’t pull her eyes away.

  What was going on here? She was dating Showa now. He was a great guy in so many ways. Then why was she so drawn to Ozee?

  A kombi pulled up, the speakers pounding heavy bass. “Hola, ma boss!” the kombi driver shouted at Ozee. “How long you on today?”

  Ozee dropped the squeegee on the bonnet of Johan’s car and rushed to the window of the kombi. He spoke to the driver for a minute and then came back.

  The kombi pulled up next to Gorata’s window. “Heya, ma-baby, howzit?” the driver enquired.

  Gorata turned away, ignoring him.

  “Yeah, okay . . . Be like that.” The kombi driver shouted to Ozee, “You gotta tough one there, my bru! Later!”

  Gorata watched the kombi screech out of the station. She hated men who spoke to women like that. That was another problem with guys like Ozee – they had friends like that kombi driver. She couldn’t deal with such a boyfriend.

  Ozee came up to Gorata’s window and spoke in that soft, whispery voice of his that drove Gorata crazy with its sexiness. “So, Lady Gorata, when are you gonna let me take you out on a real date, not this jumping off bridges that your men seem to prefer?”

  “He’s not my man, and it wasn’t a date.”

  “Okay, fine. But how about you let me take you out, show you how a lady is supposed to be treated?” Ozee smiled, and Gorata wanted to reach forward and touch his beautiful mouth, run her fingers over his delicious dimples.

  “I’m . . . actually seeing someone,” Gorata said. The words sounded hollow and meaningless in the tension-filled air between them.

  Ozee shook his head, the smile gone. “Too bad for me then.”

  Johan came bouncing back into the car. He gave Ozee R500. “Keep the change, man,” he said and drove out of the petrol station. Gorata saw Ozee standing to the side, watching them leave.

  As Johan stopped at her house, she turned to him and said, “Well, here we are. Hope Australia treats you well.”

  “Sure, thanks. Hey, it was nice hanging out with you.” Johan leaned forward and gave her an awkward kiss on the cheek.

  Gorata got out of the car and waved goodbye. As he drove away, all she could see as the car grew smaller and smaller was Ozee’s disappointed face.

  * * *

  “Where are you off to?” Amita asked as Gorata rushed down the hall of their office suite.

  “I have a press briefing in five minutes,” Gorata said while making her way towards the conference room.

  “Press briefing about what?”

  “The new Cellacom BEE shareholding deal.”

  Landmark Investments was involved in negotiations to assist new black investors in buying shares in the largest cellphone company in the country. It was a simple deal that allowed for small investments from people who had little knowledge about the stock market, giving them a chance to start investing in it a little at a time. Gorata was very excited about the new programme.

  “Okay, then that explains it,” Amita said.

  “Explains what?” Gorata stopped. Now she was confused.

  “The conference room is overflowing. I think someone got the wires crossed. There might be some journalists in there, but it looks like half of Joburg pitched up too.”

  Gorata’s face dropped. “No!”

  “Yes,” Amita said, nodding.

  Gorata turned back to her office where her PA, Ndo, was busy typing. “Who did you send the press release to?”

  He started paging though some files on his desk. “Ah . . . everyone.”

  “Everyone, as in who?”

  “You said everyone and so I sent it to everyone.”

  Gorata wanted to scream. Ndo and she were not working together very well. He needed everything explained in detail, minute detail, and if she had to do that much explaining she might as well do the thing herself, which is what she usually ended up doing. “I meant everyone in the media, not in the world! That’s what a press conference means – a conference for the press. You’re the personal assistant of a PRO, I thought you’d understand that by now.”

  “Oops . . . sorry.” He actually did look sorry, and Gorata felt bad about losing her patience.

  “Okay, anyway, it’s done now,” she said. “Come with me, we need to make a plan.”

  Amita was right. It did look as if half of Joburg had pitched up. The tables in the conference room had been removed and it was now full of chairs, but there were not nearly enough. The room was crammed tight with people standing, and others spilled out of the door into the hallway. Some pensioners were even sitting on the floor.

  No, this wouldn’t work. Gorata needed to think quickly. Then she remembered. She flicked open her cellphone and made a call. After a quick conversation she hung up and spoke to Ndo, close to his ear so he could hear her over the noise.

  Then she went to the podium. “Dumelang, batsadi. We didn’t expect such a fantastic turnout. I hate to trouble you, but could we go across the street to the old Joburg Cinema? The owner has opened it to allow us to have this meeting. I think there we’ll all be able to find a seat.”

  Ndo went to the door and led the group down the stairs and across the street. Gorata waited until the crowd was gone before making her way towards the door.

  “Quick thinking,” someone said behind her.

  She turned and was surprised to see Ozee. “Hello,” Gorata said, a bit lost for words. He didn’t quite look like the Ozee she was used to. The petrol station uniform was gone and in its place was a casual brown suit. He looked taller and bigger, stronger and more powerful. “What are you doing here?”

  “You don’t think a lowly petrol attendant like me has money to invest in the stock market?” He smiled and she felt terrible.

  “No, I mean . . . I didn’t mean it like that . . . I was just . . .” What was happening to her? Gorata was not normally lost for words, but suddenly here she was, stammering like a schoolgirl.

  “I thought PROs were communication majors,” Ozee teased.

  She laughed. “Yes, well, theory and practice are two different things. Sorry, honestly, I really didn’t mean it like that. I just thought it was a coincidence to see you here, especially since this was supposed to be a press conference but my PA got it mixed up.”

  There was that smile again. It was as if Ozee’s smile was directly connected to Gorata’s stomach. He smiled, her stomach flipped. Why was he making her so nervous? He looked seriously handsome in the suit, that was certain. She realised it was the first time she’d ever seen him in anything apart from his uniform. There were men who were good-looking and then there were men like Ozee, completely in their own class.

  She had no idea how long they’d been standing there. Time seemed to go in a different sequence when she was around Ozee, but she realised suddenly that she needed to be across the street at the cinema where half of Joburg waited for her. “Shall we go?”

  He motioned to the door. “Ladies first.”

  * * *

  Gorata rushed to collect Kelebogile after work. “Hurry,” she said as her friend made her way to the car, struggling with an overstuffed Lekuka. “I don’t want Mmandu spending any extra time at Park Station. God knows what she
could get up to.”

  Kelebogile barely had the door closed when Gorata was off. “Slow down,” Kelebogile said, and then, “What could she really do?”

  “You of all people should know the answer to that. Don’t you remember the inauguration of King Moletlegi? She went in front of the crowd and did that dance! Surely you remember? I wanted to crawl under a rock and hide – forever! They still talk about it at home.”

  “Okay, yeah . . . But that was an exciting event. Mmandu loves excitement. She likes fun.”

  Gorata looked at her friend. She was protecting Mmandu now, but Gorata had a feeling that after a few days of full-on assault from her sister, Kelebogile would change her tune. “Yeah, fun. Lots and lots of fun, that’s Mmandu.”

  She pulled the BMW into the parking lot and even before she got out, she spotted her sister waiting on the pavement with a crowd of people gathered around her. Mmandu was talking away, her hands flying in all directions. Gorata knew she was telling them a story, she’d seen her do it a thousand times before. Stories her sister swore were god’s truth, even though they were about as long and twisted as any story could get. She’d start quietly and reel the audience in; before long they were caught, mesmerised, and by the end they were her lifelong captives.

  Despite herself, Gorata smiled. Mmandu was more of a mother to her than a sister. She was only five years older, but their mother died when Gorata was ten, and Mmandu took over all the domestic duties while their father, a primary school teacher, was busy with his students. Gorata loved Mmandu and, despite all of the headaches she knew were in store for her, she was happy to see her.

  Mmandu looked up and spotted Gorata and Kelebogile coming towards her. She stopped in mid-sentence. “Ah! Gorata-wee! Kele-wee!” She came running towards them as fast as a 130-kilogram woman could run, her long arms outstretched, ready to grab the two friends up in her monster hug.

  They disappeared in her breasts and she rocked them back and forth. “Oh, my darlings. Come, come meet my new friends.”

  Gorata and Kelebogile were pulled over to the gathering of about twenty people, all originally on their way somewhere, but then they met Mmandu and somehow they suddenly all had time to stand around and listen to her and her stories. She already knew each of their names, where they came from, where they were going and who they’d come to visit. She even had their phone numbers, and when the three women were getting ready to leave almost thirty minutes later, the people all hugged Mmandu goodbye as if they were taking leave of an old friend.

  As the crowd cleared away and she turned towards Mmandu’s luggage, Gorata was reminded of why her sister’s presence in Joburg created problems. “All of this?” she asked.

  There were two gigantic, overstuffed suitcases, a huge cardboard box wrapped with rolls of packaging tape, a size 30 cast-iron pot with a smaller size 15 next to it, and . . . “And what is that?”

  Kelebogile turned her head. “Is that a . . .”

  “. . . goat?” Gorata finished.

  “Ee, I thought we’d make a small celebration, since this is the first time I’m coming to your new house in Soweto.” Mmandu smiled, proud of her initiative.

  “How did you bring a goat on the bus from Rustenburg?” Gorata gasped, still in shock.

  “Well, the conductor is a cousin of Mma Moleele, the old cleaner at Daddy’s school. He was keen to help. We hid the goat under the bus so the animal people wouldn’t take it.”

  “You’ve probably broken a hundred laws already, but how do you think we’re going to get all of this stuff and your goat to my house?” Gorata asked.

  “In your car,” Mmandu said, as if her younger sister had gone crazy. She heaved the size 30 pot onto her head, where it balanced precariously, picked up the two suitcases and led her goat, which bleated non-stop, to Gorata’s car.

  Gorata looked at Kelebogile. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you?”

  Kelebogile put the size 15 pot on top of the box and stood waiting for Gorata to pick up her side, saying nothing. Gorata bent down and picked up the box. She thought she heard a rooster crowing somewhere inside. She sighed heavily and they carried the box to the car. She didn’t really want to know what was in it.

  Chapter 4

  4

  Gorata decided on a traditional Ghanaian dress for the ANC fundraiser to which Showa was taking her. The dress was royal blue with white lines running through it. It was one of her favourites. At least with Showa she didn’t have to be careful what she wore, he hardly ever noticed. She needn’t fear he’d make her change her dress or re-do her hair.

  Gorata had met Showa through work. He owned a fleet of trucks and invested some of his money in the stock market. There was a lot she liked about him. For one, she admired his drive, his appetite for success. He had been raised by a single mother in a tiny village in the Drakensberg Mountains. From nothing he’d built a successful business. Gorata respected that.

  Though they’d only been dating for a few weeks, Showa had already talked about marriage. He told her he’d spotted her straight away as someone who would make him a perfect wife. But she was unsure.

  Showa was always polite and kind. He was generous and handsome in his own way. Not very tall, and a bit thick around the waist, but he was thirty-seven, after all, so that was perhaps only to be expected. But none of that was the reason Gorata couldn’t commit to him. The main reason was she knew so little about him. She’d never seen his house. He often disappeared for days on end and couldn’t be reached by cellphone. He blamed it on trucks that had broken down, but she didn’t believe him.

  But still, she liked Showa and always enjoyed spending time with him, so she was looking forward to the evening. She sat down at her dressing table and looked through her necklaces. Finally she chose a silver one with a tanzanite teardrop surrounded by tiny quarter-carat diamonds. Alfred had bought it for her; she wouldn’t have been able to afford such a necklace. It matched the colour of her dress perfectly. She checked her hair one last time and stood up.

  “Oo la la, fancy lady!” Mmandu stood at the door admiring her. “Too bad you’re so skinny, though. That dress would have been perfect if you had a proper bum.”

  Gorata smiled. She knew Mmandu meant no harm. The skinny city women just didn’t measure up in her eyes.

  “Where are you off to?” Mmandu asked.

  “A date. It’s an ANC youth league fundraiser.”

  “Ooh, a rich politician too. Why didn’t you invite him to our party?”

  Gorata hadn’t invited anyone to the party except Amita. The goat had been duly slaughtered in Gorata’s backyard and hung from the tree to drain the blood. Flies had congregated and her neighbour, a BEE wannabe called Quentin Ndlovu, had complained bitterly over the fence, first about the frantic bleating of the goat when Mmandu ran her sharp knife across its outstretched neck, and then about the terrible smell as the afternoon became evening and still various parts hung from the tree. But when the gumba-gumba speakers arrived and the township jive started pumping out of them, so loudly it could be heard four blocks away, Quentin had given up complaining.

  Ever since then he gave Gorata a sorry look in the mornings when they climbed into their cars while the rooster that had been in Mmandu’s box crowed its greeting to the sun in the background.

  Gorata heard a knock and grabbed her bag.

  “Is that your man?” Mmandu asked, trailing after her. “I’d like to meet him.”

  Gorata opened the door with her nosy sister standing so close behind her that she could feel her hot breath on the back of her neck.

  “Oh, don’t you look lovely,” Showa said as he always did and kissed her on the cheek. Gorata attempted to leave quickly, but realised with a feeling of hopelessness that it wasn’t going to happen that way.

  “Come in for a minute, come on in,” Mmandu said. “Where are you rushing off to?”

  Showa, always the gentleman, shook Mmandu’s hand and introduced himself. They made their way to the sofas in t
he sitting room and Gorata rolled her eyes. There was no use fighting it, so she closed the door and followed them.

  Mmandu started off slowly, asking Showa what he did for a living, and then went in for the kill. “So are you intending to marry my little sister, or what?”

  Gorata looked at Showa and mouthed, “Sorry.”

  He smiled. “That’s a question you must ask her,” Showa told her sister. “I’ve already asked her to be my wife.”

  Mmandu turned to Gorata in surprise. “Ao! Gorata-we! Why didn’t you tell me this was your fiancé? When is he coming to Rustenburg to meet Daddy?”

  Gorata was amazed at how quickly things could change from relatively plain sailing to utter disaster. “Mmandu, it’s not like that . . .”

  “That’s true,” Showa said. “She hasn’t said yes. I’m not officially her fiancé – yet.”

  Mmandu became quiet and glared at her little sister. Gorata looked away. She didn’t want to have to deal with this now. What she wanted was a nice dinner and some dancing with Showa. Mmandu could wait.

  “I think we should get going, we’ll be late,” Gorata said.

  Showa stood up, looking confused by the sudden end to the discussion. They walked to the door and said goodbye to Mmandu, who kept quiet.

  Gorata knew she was in for it. A quiet Mmandu was a dangerous Mmandu.

  * * *

  The function was in Sandton’s Cedar Park Hotel. There must have been almost four hundred people, all of the who’s who of Joburg.

  The main conference room was decked out with white silk tablecloths and elegant bouquets of orchids as centrepieces. A stage was set up at the front for the various political speakers, who Gorata hoped would be quick and to the point – not exactly the norm for politicos, but she could only hope.

  Gorata spotted a few people she knew. Some of the local journalists had pitched up thanks to complimentary tickets given with the idea that they would cover the speeches in their next issue. Most wouldn’t, but were happy for some posh food and an open bar. Gorata talked with them while Showa greeted some of his political friends. She was always friendly with journalists, knowing to what extent they could make or break a PRO.