Mr Not Quite Good Enough (9 page)

“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.”

“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.

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 milk 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.”

“Madam, I'd be honoured,” Henry said, taking the card.

“Okay, later then, Gorata.” Looking slightly flushed, Amita left.

“Where were you hiding that hotty?” Henry asked once the door was closed.

“That ‘hotty' is my good friend, so don't mess around with her,” Gorata warned.

“Me? I'm offended. I'm a man of honour, a man of the fourth estate.”

“Yes, a journalist. But not everyone respects them, present company excluded, of course,” Gorata joked. “In any case, Amita will eat you alive if you mess her around. I'm just warning you. She doesn't take any nonsense from men.”

“Okay, thanks, I've been warned. So let's get started. I want to get it in this week's issue and I have a deadline.”

Gorata sat down at her desk and kept quiet, not reminding him who had been late and then wasted time organising a date. He'd come to interview her about the new Cellacom deal. Shares were selling well, but the deadline was coming up and Gorata wanted to make sure the widest possible selection of people got in on the deal. It was a great opportunity, especially for black people, who traditionally did not invest in the stock market, to get a feel for how it worked.

She hoped this would be a step towards a more equitable distribution of wealth in South Africa, something the new rainbow nation was still struggling with.

Gorata was so passionate about the deal that she didn't notice they'd been talking for more than an hour, until she heard a knock at the door.

“Come in!” she said and then got back to answering Henry's last question. When she looked up again, all she saw was a huge walking bouquet of flowers. “Hello?” she said.

The flowers moved to the side and there was Ozee's beautiful dimpled face. “Hi, baby,” he said. “I couldn't wait for tonight. I needed an excuse to come and see you.”

Gorata stood up before he could say anything else. Ozee obviously hadn't noticed Henry sitting in the chair across the desk, the flowers were completely blocking his view, and she didn't want him to go into any intimate details in front of a journalist. “Ozee, you brought flowers, how lovely . . . This is Henry,” she said.

Ozee put the flowers down on the desk. He was wearing his uniform from work. He looked at Henry and hesitated for a moment, as if he were unsure what to do next. Gorata wondered if he was embarrassed by what he'd said, or how he looked in his uniform, but then she remembered Henry didn't look that great himself.

“Henry is a reporter with
The Sunday Voice
. We're just finishing up an interview. Henry, this is my . . . friend, Ozee.” Gorata hesitated about saying “boyfriend”. She wasn't sure it was alright to call him that just yet.

Henry held out his hand and said, “Hi, Ozee,” while looking at him in an odd way. Gorata could see something was going on. Henry also seemed unsure of how to relate to Ozee.

Ozee smiled and said, “Nice to see you.” He turned to Gorata. “Actually . . . Henry and I know each other.”

Immediately Henry relaxed. Gorata couldn't understand what was going on. Was Ozee jealous of Henry being in the office with her, behind closed doors? Was Henry somehow put off by this man bringing her flowers? But they knew each other, so what was the deal? Maybe they had some old tension between them that didn't involve her at all.

“You know each other?” Gorata repeated. “That's certainly a coincidence.”

“Yes, actually,” Ozee jumped in before Henry could speak, “we used to work together.”

“Ao! Did you also work at the petrol station?” Gorata asked Henry.

The reporter hesitated for a second and said, “Yes, that's right, I did. I worked there with Ozee.”

Ozee kissed her on the cheek. “Listen, baby, I gotta go. See you tonight, okay?”

He disappeared and Gorata stood there smiling. He was so lovely. It was difficult not to follow him out of the door, but they both had to work. Reluctantly she turned back to Henry. “Okay, where were we?”

“So Ozee . . . He's your . . . boyfriend?” Henry asked, as if he couldn't quite get his head around the idea.

“Well, we've only just started dating, but yes, I like him.”

“Okay.”

She hadn't expected Henry to be a snob. It felt as if his silence was judging her in some way, more likely judging Ozee, she thought. “So what's wrong?”

“Nothing . . . It's all good.”

Gorata wasn't going to leave it at that. If Henry had a problem with her boyfriend working at a petrol station, she wanted him to say it out loud. She needed to get past all of this rubbish once and for all.

“No, you have something to say. So just say it.”

Henry collected his notebook and tape recorder. “There's nothing. He's a great guy.”

“You're hiding something.” If Henry knew something about Ozee, Gorata wanted to know what it was. “Come on, Henry, I gave you a heads-up about Amita, at least you can return the favour. We've known each other for some time; don't leave me in the dark.”