Obsessed with Me - When she rejected him, he set out to destroy her - book 1 (15 page)

“Yeah, right.”

“Come make me some currie.”

I walk down the stairs. “Tarago, it’s 3 AM – are you crazy?”

“I want you to make me curry!” he says. “With the gunpowder you put into it.”

“Shhh!” I whisper and take his arm. “You’re gonna wake up everybody.”

“You going to make me some curry? If not, I’m going to turn on the hi-fi.”

“No, no, no! I’ll make you some curry. Come with me.” I lead him to the kitchen and sit him on a chair.

“Do you want a glass?”

He gives me a dismissive wave and swigs from the bottle.

As he watches, I quickly assemble stuff for a curry and start cooking.

“I like your food,” he says.

“Really? I’m glad.” I smile at him.

He flexes his finger at me. I walk over to him. “What?”

He motions me closer. I lean in. He plants a light kiss on my lips, then puts down his whisky bottle to stroke my face.

At 4:29 AM, I dish out a plate of food for Tarago. But he seems too wasted to feed himself.

“Do you want me to feed you?” 

He nods.

With a sigh, I feed my husband curry and rice. As I do, he smiles at me. “
Nege
(nine).”

I smile. “Not good enough. I need to be a ten.”

“When you are a ten, I will let you know.”

“Okay,” I say, now let’s get your butt to bed, Mister.”

I want to sleep with you,” he says.

With a sigh, I take him to my bed.” You’d better not snore.” I say as I take off his shoes and his jacket.

We spoon as we fall asleep.

“Vyf?”

“Yes, Tarago?”

“I need you,” he whispers.

I turn around.

“I’ve never needed anyone before.”

With a smile, I stroke his face, then plant a light kiss on his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyelids closing. I know that he’s talking about the fight we had over nine days ago.

“I’m sorry too,” I say as I bury my face in his chest.

Lying in his arms is not unpleasant.

Having his arms around me is not unpleasant.

Feeling his body moulding around me is not unpleasant.

His kisses on my back are not unpleasant.

His tender kisses on my hair are not unpleasant.

Feeling the warmth of his breath on my neck is not unpleasant.

As the sun rises and I drift off to sleep in my tormentor’s arms, I ask myself the question: what is happening to me?

I think I’m missing Ashwin.

Yes, that’s probably it.

When I wake around 2 PM, slowly the events of last night seep into my mind. With a smile, I turn to Tarago. His side of the bed is empty.

For the next two days he appears to be really busy so I hardly see him.

When I do, he makes no mention of that night, so I don’t either.

Disappointment snakes through me. Maybe I read too much into it.

Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age.

****

I walk into the pool area to find Erika and Anneline tanning. Erika has on headphones and is bopping to a beat, while Anneline reads a magazine.

“Hi,” I say.

Erika waves, while Anneline just stares at me.

Since I don’t tan, I walk up to the table to help myself to some iced fruit.

Erika continues her bopping while Anneline’s hard eyes follow me around. I glance up and lock eyes with her.

“What?” she snaps. “You keep looking at me?”

“
You
keep looking at
me
, Anneline,” I say. “Why you so mad at me? What have I done to you?”

She swivels her whole body to glare at me, her green eyes dancing with fury. “What have you done to me? Besides…” she walks two fingers in the air, “creeping your way into Tarago’s bed?”

“But that not …”

“Acting all posh and sophisticated – Oh, I don’t want to speak Afrikaans, oh, I don’t swear, oh, I don’t smoke, oh, I don’t drink, oh, I don’t do wear a bikini…’”

She looks at me with eyebrows raised. “Then you show up swimming like a fish. And in a bikini. Then you start cooking and acting all domesticated for Tarago, your boss? Disgusting and a fake. That’s what you are, a phony. You are nothing but a well-disguised tramp under that long dark hair and those …those ...” she throws me a look of contempt, “shapeless and
sensible
dresses.”

I look down at my dress. It’s red, a sensible knee-length, with a sensible neckline and short sleeves. There is nothing to it, but it isn’t that bad, really.

And suddenly, I burst into tears.

She smiles as I howl away my hurt.

Erika slowly removes her headphones to look at me, surprise on her face at my tears.

“You are mean for a woman,” I say. “You don’t understand how …”

“Oh, please!” Both her hands are on her hips. “You are fooling nobody. Everyone here is onto you and they all hate you. The moment you leave the room, they talk about you. Laugh at you.”

‘Why?” I whine. “What have I done to them?”

“You and your prudish ways.”

“I’m not a prude,” I protest through my tears.

She rolls her eyes.

Maybe it’s that time of the month or something, but I am so emotional that I run off to my room and sob on my bed. I’ve got to toughen up, I know. Avraham said the only opinion that mattered was Tarago’s, but still…

After a while, I sit up in bed and think. Anneline is so angry with me all the time – I have to wonder if there was something going on between her and Tarago. If there
is
something going on between her and Tarago. I mean, Tarago doesn’t want anyone to know about us being married because of, as he puts it, racial reasons. But what if there is something going on with him and Anneline and it’s her that he doesn’t want finding out?

The only person who can give me that answer is Tarago.

That evening, after dinner, I walk over to the edge of the cliff and watch the molasses sky.

The blondes are never going to accept me into their group. It reminds me of school – all the groups are formed and nobody will let me in. Except the misfits. Even here the misfits only accepted me into their group because they got scared of me. That feeling of loneliness creeps back in.

Tarago, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses, walks over and sits next to me. Luckily, I have stopped crying. But I am morose right now and I really don’t feel like being questioned as to my mood.

“I have an offensive joke for you,” he says to my surprise. 

I glance at him. I like jokes and he knows that.

“A white man walks into a store in Boksburg and inspects the largest kaffir pot there is. ‘How much for this kaffir pot?’ he asks.

‘You can’t call it a kaffir pot anymore,’ the owner of the shop says. ‘It’s the new Suid Afrika now and that is a politically incorrect word to use. Derogatory. You must say cast iron, not Kaffir.’

The customer looks at him and shakes his head. ‘Derogatory, huh? Okay, I want this
cast
iron
pot, and,’ he points to two black guys in the shop, ‘can you please ask those two cast irons there to pick it up and load it onto my truck.’

I smile as his eyes search my face. “That is a
very
offensive joke.”

With a smile, he hands me both glasses, then pours us a glass of wine each.

He takes a sip, his eyes on me.

My first instinct is to refuse the wine, but after Anneline’s words earlier on, I wonder if I should loosen up a bit.

I take a huge gulp of it – the only way I can stand its bitterness.

Tarago smiles and shakes his head.

He pours me another glass and we sit in silence for a while.

After two glasses of wine, I’m a little relaxed. “Can I ask you a question?”

“No.” He does not look at me. 

“Why …not?”

“Because your questions – they are not questions, they are discussions. And, I don’t want to enter into any discussions with you, vyf, cos I will lose the ‘discussion.’” He sounds serious but there is a twinkle in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, but you’re using words that have more than six characters,” I say.

He laughs.

I smile, then plough ahead. “What’s with you and Anneline?”

The smile vanishes. Slowly, he runs his hand over his face as he appears to think about his answer, or in his case, his next lie.

He shrugs.

The look on my face is expectant.

No answer from him.

“Tarago, we have a deal about monogamy, so if there is anything going on between you and Anneline, then in all fairness to me, you should tell me.”

He lets out a long sigh before he speaks. “There used to be something. It died a long time ago.”

Ha, I thought as much. Me and my intuition.

“So, why is she here? And why does she have a wounded look on her face, Tarago?”

His turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

“Tarago, I don’t want to hurt another woman. I mean, I know how it feels like to hurt because someone – a man let you down. I don’t want to be a source of her pain. I feel bad for her.”

“But vyf, we have a brief thing, and after it ended, I had about six other girls. She knows the score and she didn’t seem to mind.”

“Why does she live here?”

“She doesn’t have a place to go to. She stays here rent free while she’s trying to make it big as an actress. I’m doing something good here for her, vyf. Don’t you see it?”

“Mm.” He’s right, but …he obviously doesn’t know women.

“You want me to tell her to go?”

“NO! If this is her home, of course I don’t want you to put her out, Tarago. But …” I sigh, “look, I think Anneline was just giving you space to mess around and she, I don’t know – maybe she hoped that one day you’d want to settle down and you both would resume your relationship. And make lots of racist Afrikaner babies.”

He laughs. “I think you are right.”

“Mm. You don’t think she knows that you married me, do you?”

He shakes his head. “Only Avraham knows and he wouldn’t tell.” His eyes narrow at me. “You wouldn’t either.”

I press my lips together and look at him. “Or I will lose all my hooker money.”

He chuckles and takes me into a playful headlock. “Or you will lose all your hooker money.”

My wine spills over my face and neck.

He licks the wine off my face. I’m tipsy now, so I get a fit of giggles.

He pushes me down on my back and licks off wine from my neck, sending me into spasms of drunken laughter.

We smile at each other.

“Let’s go back,” he whispers. “I want to fok you.”

“I’m too drunk to walk.”

He nods, then stands up. With great ease, he scoops me up and carries me back inside the house. I laugh some more as he tickles my chest with his nose. As we walk into the house, we literally bump into Anneline.

Her face contorts with anger at the sight of us.

Tarago and I say nothing as he carries me back to my room and strips me.

“Am I stuck up?”

“For sure.”

“What?!” I smack him lightly on his face.

He shrugs.

Tomorrow I will change things, I think to myself as he climbs on top of me. Change my outlook on life, change out of my sensible dresses and sensible shoes. Anneline is right – I am plain as.

Chapter Seventeen

When next I visit the hairdresser, I decide to be a little adventurous. Try something new and something less sensible.

“Make me a dark blonde,” I say. No sooner I utter those words, do I regret it.

“Wonderful!” Cleo, my hairdresser claps his hands with glee. “It will take a while though.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I don’t have any plans for the day.”

It takes five grueling hours, and by the end of the day, I’m exhausted and nauseous with the smell of all the chemicals.

But when my hair’s done, I look in the mirror and gasp – I no longer look like Tanin – I look chic and worldly and dare I say, striking.

Now this hair needs a new dress. I dart into a couple of boutiques and search for a dress. A hot dress, not a sensible dress. Something Anneline would choose. God, I love her effortless style.

After trying on a few, I finally choose a brown and white striped dress that clings to me and shows off curves I never knew I had, a butt I didn’t know I had.

It’s a dress I would never have worn before. It shows way too much cleavage and thigh.

I like it so much, I pay for it and slip it on right away.

I race back home just in time for dinner and wait for all the compliments, like “Wow!” and “Who are you?” and “You look great!” Or even “A great change, Tanin.” Ones like that.

As soon as the blondes see me, Erika and Hanlie cluster around me.

“You look great,” Hanlie says. “Is your hair real?”

I nod, thrilled with both her compliments and her questions.

“Wow!” Erika says. “Not bad at all.”

“Now Tarago has four blondes,” Anneline says, looking peeved. “That’s all we need now.”

Then Tarago walk into the pool area. When he looks at me, his smile disappears.

I brace myself for his compliments.

“What the hell have you done to yourself?” he demands, in an almost-angry voice.

“I …I…” I touch my hair, confused by his reaction.

He walks over to me, a huge frown on his face. “Get rid that blonde hair,” he says.

Hurt and annoyed with his reaction, I stare at him, trying hard to still my bottom lip from trembling.

“No,” I finally mouth. “It’s my hair. I want to be blonde and I
will
be blonde.”

“Change it,” he says, ignoring my obstinacy.

“No!” I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him.

He drops his voice. “If I wanted blondes, I would have blondes.”

I drop my voice to a whisper. “Too bad. It’s my hair and …”

“Tanin,” he says in a clear, controlled voice, “Change your hair back to its original colour.”

Two things happened here: he used my name, which he seldom does, and he spoke with such authority, I’m at a loss for words. And terribly confused. I thought he liked blondes.

Without another word, he walks away. For the rest of the evening, he doesn’t look at me.