Mr Not Quite Good Enough Read online

  “You’ve had other boyfriends . . .”

  “Sure, but they never felt like this. God, where’d you learn to do these things?” Gorata asked. It was as if he knew exactly which parts of her body to touch, to lick, to kiss.

  “What things? I’m just being me,” Ozee said.

  Well, if this was being him, she liked him being him, Gorata thought. She liked it a lot. He was certainly talented.

  Gorata moved away from him. She needed a break or they wouldn’t even get through dinner, let alone the movie. “So how’s your mother?”

  “She’s doing okay. One of these days I must take you to meet her.”

  Gorata kept quiet. A Motswana boy stating that he’d like his mother to meet you right at the start of the first date? Yes, things were going very fast.

  Ozee must have noticed that she was getting nervous and said, “I’ve met Mmandu, and she’s basically your mother, right?”

  “Yeah, but everyone meets Mmandu, whether they want to or not.”

  “Have you sorted out things with Alfred?” Ozee asked.

  “Yes, we had a long talk and he understands that we would never have worked. I gave him his ring back.”

  “Good. I don’t want anything between us.”

  He moved closer to Gorata again and put his arm around her shoulder. “Listen, I don’t play games. I like things to be honest and open. I’m not afraid of getting hurt, it’s happened before and I survived. I’m more afraid of not living, of missing out on love.”

  Gorata just stared at him, unable to get out a word.

  Then he continued, “As I said, I like you a lot. So why should I play around and be coy? I like you and I think something important can happen between us. I’m ready for it. That’s all I’m saying, don’t get scared. It’s just me.”

  Struggling to find her voice, Gorata said, “I like you too, Ozee. But I’m not like you, I do get scared and I am afraid of getting hurt. I think I’m realising now that all of the men before tonight were nothing. I thought I had something with them, but it was nothing. I know that now, I know that because of you.”

  Ozee kissed her. First softly and then deeply, and she felt connected to him as if they were one, one heart beating. Gorata could feel his hand moving down to the centre of her back, pressing her into him, and she relented. She wanted to feel every part of him. She wanted to be lost in the feelings he was producing in her; new, exciting, unknown feelings.

  They finished eating and walked hand in hand to the cinema through the busy Melville streets. Hippies and skinheads, rastas and goths – Melville was home to the artsy types, the bohemians of Joburg. Gorata loved the place.

  Still, she was surprised to see a crowd at the cinema. She didn’t think Breakfast at Tiffany’s would have such pull, but apparently she was wrong. They sat near the back and Ozee took her hand in his and held it in his lap throughout the movie. She felt so protected and cared for, so special.

  When Audrey Hepburn searched in the rain for Cat, Gorata couldn’t help but cry, though she’d seen the movie before. And when Paul appeared and he and Audrey Hepburn’s character Holly were kissing in the rain, Gorata knew for the first time what they were feeling. That giving in to what was so strong. She knew she felt that way about Ozee too.

  By the end of the movie Gorata was a mess. Ozee handed her his handkerchief and wrapped his arm around her.

  “Great movie, one of my favourites,” he said.

  She looked at him in surprise. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s is one of your favourite movies? I thought you’d lean more towards The Fast and the Furious.”

  “That’s because you think you know me, but you don’t. Not yet, anyway.”

  They came out of the cinema into the starry night. Late spring in Joburg has to be the most magical time of the year, Gorata thought. Everywhere you look nature is waking up, happy and ready for the first life-giving rains. Potential vibrates in the air. It’s a hum of expectation, of optimism that good things are coming. Gorata could feel it pulsing through her own body too.

  “If you’d like, we could go to my place. It’s not far,” Ozee said. “We can walk from here.”

  “You live in Melville?” Gorata asked. She’d always assumed he lived in Soweto with his mother. This was certainly a night of discoveries. “Yeah . . . okay.”

  Ozee put his arm around her and it felt as if she’d always been there, right in the crook of his arm where her head fitted so perfectly. Gorata could smell rain in the air. A dusty, organic smell, such a blessing in the dry Highveld.

  They turned into a side street that climbed up the hill behind the main street they’d just left. Halfway up Ozee stopped. “Here’s my place.”

  Gorata looked at the three-storey Victorian house in front of her. It was painted light blue with royal blue window frames. The garden looked like something out of a Beatrix Potter book, with blue hydrangeas and yellow and white daisies; Gorata was sure Peter Rabbit would be hopping across the brick path as soon as they opened the gate in the white picket fence. “You live here?”

  “Not the whole house, just the third floor. It’s owned by an old woman who lives downstairs. I do maintenance and odd jobs for cheaper rent,” Ozee said in a way that made Gorata think he wasn’t telling her the entire story. But she let it be. They had time to learn everything about each other; at least, she hoped they did.

  There was a wooden staircase at the back of the house that took them to a small veranda on the third floor. Two chairs and a small table took up most of the space. Gorata imagined Ozee sitting on his small balcony looking out over the lush back garden, reading or eating his dinner. And to her surprise there was a cat, a noisy cat who seemed to be chastising them for coming home late.

  “Is this your cat?” Gorata asked.

  “Yeah, he’s mine. Chinua, Gorata; Gorata, Chinua. Formal introductions are now over. I can’t promise he’ll be friendly, though. He’s a man who likes to keep to himself.”

  “Hmmm . . . The more I see of his owner, the more I think he’s like Chinua,” Gorata said.

  “Nope, I’m an open book,” Ozee said, smiling.

  An open book with about 3 000 unread pages, as far as Gorata could see. Each page had a new surprise. He lived in Melville, in a gorgeous house. He had a cat named Chinua. He looked like a male model when he was out of his uniform and he liked Breakfast at Tiffany’s. One surprise after another.

  Ozee opened the door and switched on the light. The flat was one big room taking up most of the length and breadth of the house, except for a bathroom off to the side. There was a sitting area with big windows looking out on the street they’d just come from. A kitchenette and a small dining area were in another corner. Bookcases packed with books filled one entire wall, and at the back was the bedroom area.

  Gorata couldn’t quite believe this was where Ozee lived. “This is . . . lovely . . . but . . .”

  “But what? How can a petrol attendant afford to live here? I told you, Mma Olson gives me a discount on rent and I have a few . . . part-time jobs.”

  “Part-time jobs? You never told me that. How do you do it? You seem like you’re always at the petrol station,” Gorata wondered.

  “You’d be surprised how many hours there are in a day.” Ozee was moving around his kitchen, taking out wine glasses and uncorking a bottle of wine.

  “But all this? You must work like a madman.”

  “No, not really. I’ve just been lucky.” He took her by the hand and led her to the sofa. On the way he tapped the top of a small CD player and Jimmy Dludlu played his guitar for them. “Must we spend time talking about things that don’t really matter?”

  Gorata let him lead her to the sofa, but she wasn’t done yet. “I want to get to know you.”

  He poured wine for them and handed her a glass. “Yes, and I want to get to know you too. I intend to spend as much time as I can find to devote myself to that very objective – getting to know you. I told you, I don’t like games. I like honesty.”
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br />   “But why didn’t you tell me about all of this?” Gorata asked.

  “Because it’s not important. You need to learn about this.” He put his hand on his chest. “You need to know the me in here. And I need to learn the you in there.” He placed his hand gently on her chest. “That’s all that matters. Don’t you get that yet?”

  Gorata looked at this man who was only about thirty years old and yet seemed to know so much. He seemed to understand things she’d only begun to know the names of. If there was such a thing as an old soul, Ozee was one. She remembered Stunki’s words that night at the party, “He’s gonna be great one day”, and Gorata had to agree. She could see this was a man with greatness written in his future.

  Ozee lay back on the sofa and pulled Gorata on top of him. He kissed her cheeks, one after the other, then her forehead, then her lips, then he slowly, gently, like a delicious torture, kissed her neck. One tortuous kiss after another.

  Her breathing became heavy and she was sure she would die from pleasure. Then he stopped. She looked at him, confused. He smiled, stood up and lifted her in his arms, then carried her to his bed. Gorata said nothing. She was breaking every dating rule she’d ever made – but it didn’t matter.

  Nothing mattered except being in Ozee’s arms. Finally she understood that.

  Chapter 9

  9

  Gorata heard birds singing and then a cat meow, making her wonder what was going on. She opened her eyes, looked around and then remembered. She was at Ozee’s flat. Remembering the night before, she smiled. She sat up and looked around the sunny room, but didn’t see him anywhere.

  She lay back down and Chinua settled himself on her stomach. For a cat with an attitude, he seemed to have taken to her. Gorata ran her hand down his tabby fur. She’d never felt so happy, so contented. It was hard to believe that she had nearly let all of this slip through her fingers.

  Gorata shook her head to get rid of the thought. Stupid ignorance nearly made her pass by the most fabulous man she’d ever met. Life was all about the decisions. Choose this and you get that, choose that and here she was. It was a scary thought. One wrong move and she could have been every other place but here.

  Ozee was so interesting. He was giving and loving and honest. He was wise and sensible. He was proud and caring. And just because he worked as a petrol attendant, she nearly gave him a miss. Who was that superficial woman? Did Gorata even know her any more?

  “Hello! Are you awake?” Ozee came through the door carrying a shopping bag. “I needed to go out for milk. It takes a lot of protein to keep Chinua in shape.”

  Ozee set the bag on the kitchen counter and came over to the bed. Gorata put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “How did you sleep?” he asked.

  “Wonderful. Last night was special,” Gorata said. “Very special.”

  “Special? I thought you might be able to come up with something a bit better. Aren’t you a public relations officer?” Ozee teased. “Aren’t words your stock in trade?”

  “Okay . . .” Gorata thought for a while. “How about magical?”

  He shook his head.

  “The best night of my entire life?” Gorata tried again.

  “Better,” he said. He took her in his arms and kissed her. “Are you hungry? I’ll make waffles.”

  “And he cooks too! My gosh! Will these wonders never cease to amaze?” Gorata climbed out of bed and pulled on Ozee’s shirt from the night before.

  He let his eyes travel the length of her. “That looks better on you than me.”

  She smiled. Waffles and the most wonderful man in the universe – what could go wrong?

  * * *

  At Sunday brunch Gorata sat on one side of the table and Amita, Mmandu and Kelebogile sat on the other side, their hands folded in front of them, waiting like a panel of judges knowing that Gorata’s answer to the next question would give them enough information to grant her parole or not. They were waiting for her to answer the question Amita had asked, “Do you love him?”

  Gorata knew the answer, but she wasn’t ready to make it public. How do you have one date with a man, spend the night at his house and fall deeply in love? It didn’t make sense. That just didn’t happen. You needed to get to know the person first.

  None of this made sense. Who was this odd, wise petrol attendant anyway? She didn’t even know him really, how could she entrust her heart to him? That was lunacy. But she knew she already had done so, making her a first-class lunatic.

  “Okay, tell me this,” Kelebogile said. “Is he the shell?”

  Amita looked at Kelebogile as if she’d lost her mind.

  Mmandu nodded her head and said, “Ee-heh, that’s right. Is Ozee the shell?”

  Somehow Gorata could answer that one. “Yes . . . yes . . . I do believe he is the shell.”

  All three women jumped up and came around the table, grabbing her up in their arms. “Yes, yes, yes! I knew it!” Mmandu said. “I like that boy very much. Daddy is going to like him too. I must tell him all about it.”

  “Hold on there,” Gorata countered. “Daddy doesn’t need to be told anything. It was our first date. It’s not like we’re getting married.”

  Mmandu smiled knowingly. “Well, you think what you like, but I know. I knew it all along.”

  “You knew what?” Gorata asked, putting out plates for the slices of spinach-and-bacon quiche she’d just cut.

  “I knew there was a reason I needed to be in Joburg. I told Daddy that you needed me, then I packed and got on the bus. If I hadn’t come and you hadn’t met the doctor, you wouldn’t even have looked for the shell, you’d have been happy with that two-timing bone!”

  Gorata laughed as she set the plates down. “Ee, Mmandu, you’re right. Like always, you’re right.” She kissed her sister on the cheek. “So, Amita, any news with Shawna?”

  “Please,” said Amita, holding up her hand. “I don’t want to bring bad news to this party.”

  “Why, what happened?” Kelebogile asked.

  “Wednesday Karabo tells me her big secret, Thursday I die. They decided to change the script. My career is done and I haven’t even come out of the coma yet. It’s terrible! Now I’ll have to grovel back to Mr Pilane. It’s all very humiliating. And I was just – finally! – getting my mother to understand that I want to be an actress, not a wife and mother.”

  “But you can still audition for other parts, now that you have a foot in the door,” Gorata said.

  “Yeah, actually I already have an audition. Customer Three in Isidingo. It’s only one episode, but I have a line. How’s this – ‘Is that the right price? It seems expensive’?”

  “Good, very convincing, I’d give you the part,” Gorata said. “Why don’t you ask Mr Pilane to give you your job back on a freelance basis? You could get commission. You’re great at selling, and that way you’d be free to do your acting jobs.”

  “You think he’d go for it?” Amita asked.

  “I know he would. He actually told me he would’ve been willing to offer you that in the first place if you’d asked. He needs you,” Gorata said.

  “Really? Did he say that?” Amita’s mood was improving.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “I’ll see him first thing tomorrow then. Oh, what a relief! Thanks so much, I thought I was going to become that cliché – a starving artist!”

  * * *

  Monday morning Gorata couldn’t keep a smile off her face. She was absolutely, completely, a hundred per cent in love, floating on cloud nine and happily violating all physical laws that dictated such things were impossible. Not any more. Everything was possible. Anything at all.

  “Okay, quit glowing,” Amita said as she plopped down on the sofa in Gorata’s office.

  “I can’t.” Gorata looked at her watch. “Listen, we need to make this a quick coffee, I have an interview with Henry from The Sunday Voice. He’s late, as usual, so for the time being we’re okay.”

  Gorata poured mi
lk into her coffee and reached for a biscuit from the plate on the table. “So everything worked out with Mr Pilane then?”

  “Yes, perfectly. Gosh, Gorata, thanks again for that. I would never have approached him about freelancing if you hadn’t told me he discussed it with you.”

  “Just passing on information, which is my job. But it wasn’t totally altruistic, I missed you here. At least I get you part-time now.”

  “Ko! Ko!”

  Gorata looked up. “Oh, Henry, o teng?”

  He looked like usual, as if he’d been dragged around by a dog after being up for three weeks straight surviving only on coffee and cigarettes. “I’m fine, but this public transport situation – ag man, it’s too much. The ANC needs to sort out things for the masses who can’t afford posh cars like you.”

  Suddenly Henry noticed Amita. “Madam,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Henry Knowles.”

  His voice had changed from township slang to Model C school. This was going to be interesting, Gorata thought. This was a side of Henry she’d never seen before.

  “Hi, I’m Amita,” her friend cooed, and Gorata realised this was also a side of Amita that she’d never seen. What was going on here? Could the I-don’t-want-a-man Amita be interested in the rumpled, disgruntled, love-is-all-about-materialism Henry? And vice versa? The world was definitely turning upside down. Or was the Joburg spring air affecting everyone?

  “So are you employed by this fine establishment?” Henry asked, sitting down in the chair Gorata had only just vacated and still holding on to Amita’s hand.

  “Part-time,” Amita said, flicking her long black hair over her shoulder. “But my passion is acting.”

  “I thought as much, a beauty like you. Did I see you in something recently?”

  “Maybe, I had a small role in Generations.”

  “Yes! I knew it. The patient in the bed next to Karabo’s, right? What was her name again . . . Shawna, am I correct?”

  How on earth did he know that? Gorata thought.

  “Yes! That’s right,” Amita exclaimed, not hiding her joy at finding her first fan. But then she noticed Gorata looking at them, so she stood up, reached in her handbag and took out a business card. “Call me some time, we could go for a coffee.”