The Last Resort (7 page)

He chucked the towel over the back of his old leather chair. “You can put your bag wherever you like. I’ve got a letter for you to type. You do type, don’t you?”

Of course I didn’t. “Of course I do.”

“Good,” he said, and collapsed into the chair. Then he swivelled out to face the view. “Get yourself set up and we can start.”

I did. Guiltily, I erased my browsing history and cleared my cache; so much for thinking I was never coming back.

While I was getting ready, he took the time to get to know me, in that painful way that all bosses do. “Where are you from, Ava?”

“Where am I—? Um, Ickenham.”

He laughed. “No, I mean where are you from originally? Where is your family from?”

“Oh. My Mum’s family is from Wales originally, I think. My Dad’s family was just from England. From around here,” I finished, lamely. I knew he was asking me the usual questions that posh people asked each other. He was expecting me to say something like, “Oh, we’re Lithuanian émigrés originally, on Daddy’s side, but Mother is a Montefiore,” but obviously I didn’t have anything so exotic in my bloodlines.

“And where were you educated?”

More posho interrogation. “Um. Just at St. Jude’s. The convent school. In Ickenham.”

“You didn’t go to university?”

I shook my head. “My sister went to Cambridge,” I offered.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “So you’re a school-leaver done good? Built yourself up from nothing to the woman you are today?”

Was he was making fun of me? I wasn’t sure. Maybe he was expecting me to play along good-naturedly. “Yeah,” I said, sounding just as uneducated as I was. What was it about this person that brought out the absolute worst in me?

His blue-black eyes bored into me. “I’m ready,” I said, quietly. Blood was roaring in my ears and I knew I was bright red. It was horrible being so pale-skinned.

He looked at me with a touch of what seemed to be curiosity, then turned away. “Dear Jim,” he started, and I tried valiantly to resurrect my shorthand skills. To no avail. I would have to type as I went. “I’m writing to thank you for a productive couple of days in Frankfurt, and to tell you that I am nearly certain that I have found a solution to the problem we have with Oliver.”

I glanced up at him. He was twisting a strand of hair around his finger, seeming oblivious to me and to his beautiful surroundings. Mia must have been right about his family; he must have been born into wealth to seem so unconcerned by it.

“I am confident that by the end of the week, a significant amount of progress will have been made. Give me a ring soon and I will be happy to update you.”

He carried on, going into quite a bit of detail about the flight, how Frankfurt had been a bore, and how he hoped to meet Jim in better surroundings next time. “Yours, Jack.”

I looked up again, and saw that he was yawning widely. “Excuse me,” he said, rising and circling the office. “No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid. Will you print that off? Then you can send it there,” he pointed to an address pinned to the cork message board behind him, “with a bottle of Bollinger. Use the express concierge.”

“Of course,” I said.
Jim must be a good friend.

“And will you tell Mary Hazel she can go home now?” My ears pricked up and I felt my pulse quickening just a little. “I don’t think we’ll need her for the rest of the day.” His voice was completely even.

“Of course,” I repeated.

I felt stupid dismissing her—I knew she was older than me, and that she’d worked for him for longer, and that just the day before I’d been hanging on her every word. It felt strange. As she left, I was sure that I saw a warning in her eyes, but then she laughed and any trace there may have been of it dissolved. “You have a good time, now,” she said, “and be good, yourself.”

People say that sort of thing all the time
, I thought, although my heart was beating even faster now.
It means nothing, and you know it.

When I came back to the office, he was nowhere to be found. Dutifully, I rang the concierge service and prepared the letter, as he had asked. Then there was nothing else to be done.

I sat nervously at my desk.
What now?
I wondered.

I stood, and crossed the room to his desk. Deer were grazing on the cool green grass of the parkland. Everything was still; the apartments surrounding his must have been empty at this hour of the morning, their inhabitants doubtless behind desks in the City. We were all alone.

“Ava,” I heard him call, and my skin prickled all over as if in answer. “I’m in the kitchen.” When I heard those words, I couldn’t help but think events were about to overtake me completely.

We landed in Cape Town after dark.

Since my mini-breakdown on the plane, I’d been in no state to comment on anything beyond the absolutely factual.

At Customs, “British.”

At the luggage carousel, “Oh look, there’s my bag.”

At the taxi rank, “They have cars in Africa.”

Sharon looked at me in disgust. She’d bought a Lonely Planet guide from the little travel bookshop at arrivals. “Of course they have cars in Africa. Did you think we’d be riding zebras or something?”

“Camps Bay,” she barked at the cabbie, after studying the ‘Where to Stay’ bit—apparently, there was a good hostel there, and there was a beach right down the road, and so on. (I wasn’t really listening.) We’d have to wait till morning to take in the sights.

Thanks to Lonely Planet, it emerged that Cape Town was not a town at all (as it had appeared in my imagination—I’d thought, vaguely, that it was a sort of jolly Caribbean-style fishing village, with a Saint Tropez-ish clutch of luxurious seaside boltholes). It was actually a city, a big city, even by European standards. “About the size of Greater Manchester,” said Sharon, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Look at the size of the nightlife section!” she breathed. “We are going to be slaughtered Monday to Sunday. How long are we staying for, anyway? I’ve only got my Christmas bonus to spend.”

In fact I’d promised, during the torrid negotiations that led up to her agreeing to accompany me, to pay her way. She must have been feeling very sorry for me to offer her own funds. I vowed not to take her up on it. “I don’t know just now,” I said, weakly. “We’ll see. Until he cuts off my credit cards.”

“Oooh,” she squealed, “you’ve got credit cards?!”

“Oh, fuck,” I said.

“What? You’ve forgotten your credit cards?” She looked concerned.

“No,” I said dully. “Look.”

She followed my gaze out the car window. “Oh,
fuck
,” she echoed.

Slumland. Miles and miles and miles of it, in all directions, as far as the eye could see. We had been sheltered from the sight of it before we hit the highway, but now it was inescapable. Faintly, against the dark sky, we could see the flat-topped mountain of a million postcards in the distance; but all around it, an endless sprawl of shanty huts, pathetic little lean-tos of corrugated iron and cardboard, clustered together under the poisonous glare of prison-yard floodlights.

“I can’t believe it,” said Sharon, “it’s like a concentration camp.”

It was. It was horrible. We zipped past row after row, too fast to see the faces of those who inhabited them. I felt sick with horror. What had I thought I was doing, coming here?

Presently, the cabbie spoke.

“You girls mustn’t worry. It’s nice in the city.”

He was a dark-skinned man, small, lightly built, and although his accent was thick and heavy, he spoke kindly to us. I felt ashamed that we had ignored him so far. I think I assumed, without much rational thought, that he didn’t speak much English—but of course he did. He’d have to in order to ferry tourists around.

A twinge of panic shot through me: I knew that South Africa had been ruled by white racists; did this man assume I was one too? I would have if I were him.

“What is this place?” asked Sharon.

“Township, ghetto. The old name is ‘the location’. The place where we were sent when we were removed from the city.”

I shivered. So prosaic; so factual.

“The tourists, they’re all scared when they pass here, on the way to the city. But you mustn’t worry. You’ll like the city. One day, it will be beautiful even here in the township.”

Sharon, ever-fearless, pressed on with questions. He was Tinyiko; he lived, with his mother and his two children and a younger sister, somewhere in this horrible place we saw outside our windows. He drove cabs all night and worked as a security guard during the day. No, he didn’t need sleep; yes, he was tired.

So were we. Too exhausted to crane our necks to take in what little scenery was visible in the dead of night, we sat back and waited for the journey to be over. After what seemed like forever, Tinyiko deposited us at the door of a large yellow house. Listlessly, I looked at Sharon—she seemed satisfied that we were at the correct destination, and that was good enough for me.

Silhouettes of palm trees swayed above us, but, bizarrely, the streetlights were off, so we had no way of knowing what the neighbourhood was like. If there were any houses, their lights weren’t on either. Tinyiko’s headlights lit the front of the house, which bore a small sign reading ‘Welcome to the Hibiscus Hideaway’. Far off, I could hear the dim roar of an ocean and there was a smell of seawater in the air. Had we passed a seafront? I certainly couldn’t recall that.

“Come on, then,” said Sharon, taking me by the wrist as if I were a halfwit. Which may have been the best description of my state at that moment.

We trudged up the gravel driveway, and Tinyiko, having accepted our tip in pounds and wished us well for our journey, departed. It was pitch dark as we stumbled up to the entrance gate. Sharon rang the buzzer, and to our surprise, the door clicked open immediately.

We pushed to door ajar, gingerly. Bright light poured into our faces. After the long, dimly-lit car journey and the inky darkness of the street, we had to squint painfully. And the first sight that greeted us was an enormous figure barrelling straight towards us.

“Whereth’fuckavyou BEEEEEEN?” it bellowed, and Sharon and I yelped as the light disappeared and we were bowled over by a smelly, sweaty mass of flesh.

We scrambled around in the darkness for a few seconds before a new light appeared. It occurred to me that people were shining torches in our faces. Had we walked onto the set of a film or something? Strong language was exchanged and soon Sharon and I were being helped up.

“Jaysus, Randy, you take it too far!” said someone with an Irish accent.

“You’re crazy,” said someone with a South African accent, presumably to Randy.

I was still confused. Lights were shining in and out of my eyes. Music was playing, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I felt as if the top of my head had dissolved, and my brain was switching itself off. Little points of white flame flashed across my field of vision—fairy lights? It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten a single thing for more than 24 hours, unless a parade of G&Ts counted.

I had the impression that these swirling lights, this lurching sense that the ground had melted away underneath me, may be more serious than I’d first thought.

“I feel sick,” I said, and fainted.

~

I came to very slowly, aware of soft light and loud music. Where was I? Oh yes—the other side of the world.

I floated in half-consciousness for a while. It was nice, this limbo place. I thought of London, and it didn’t hurt.

Then, after a little bit, I realised someone was rubbing me on the shoulder—a proprietary gesture, protective, even, accompanied by a gentle voice asking me if I was alright, and did I need anything?

A man’s voice. My insides jumped; I was surprised by the feeling that I didn’t want to be touched by another man. I wanted my husband. Why had I left him? Why had I been so
stupid
? Remembering the awful shacks that we’d seen, I immediately vowed to make my way straight back to the airport, just as soon as I was feeling less wobbly. It wasn’t too late to say I was sorry.

When I looked up, I was surprised to see the dimly-lit silhouette of a young, darker-skinned version of Matthew McConaughey, in slouchy shorts, shirtless. I could see the earnestness of his face—a look of wholesome innocence. The thin light that dribbled in through the French doors reflected off his well-muscled chest. He couldn’t have been any more delicious if he were made of chocolate.

I wanted to say yes, actually, I do need something. I could do, for example, with you serving me daiquiris, poolside, perhaps in a loincloth. You wouldn’t happen to have some grapes to dangle into my mouth too, while you’re at it? But there were to be no pelvic stirrings: my interest was purely aesthetic. I was a bit too exhausted in the romance department to muster up any physical enthusiasm.

“Feeling better?” he ventured, his broad hand still resting on my shoulder. I got up onto my elbows and looked through the gloom. I was in a darkened room, on a rather luxurious couch. Young Adonis was perched on the armrest. A few tea-lights burned in a row on the coffee table, with night-blooming jasmine resting tranquilly in a wide, shallow vase. Distantly, I could hear music; but why was it so dark?