Beauty and the Broker. Cheryl Ntumy S.

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      Dedication

      For my sister Aku, who was my first editor, for Zodwa, who inspired this book, and for my parents, for their love and support and for passing on their love of fiction.

      Chapter 1

      1

      Melody Nyathi kept her eyes squeezed shut. She could hear her colleagues sniggering behind her, but she ignored them and tried to focus on what she was about to see.

      “Deep breaths, Mel!” said Buhle. “This is it. The moment we’ve all been waiting for.”

      Melody couldn’t resist a smile. “Shut up, Buhle, before I hit you with something.”

      “It’s the tension talking,” said Buhle.

      Annelize giggled. “Poor thing. She’s so nervous. You’d think she was in court or something, waiting for the verdict.”

      “Hey, I could be subjected to a fate worse than death,” Melody pointed out. “Now be quiet. I’m trying to think positive thoughts!”

      “A little late for that, isn’t it?”

      “Hey, Sophie,” said Annelize. “You’re just in time for the big revelation.”

      “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” sighed Sophie in her no-nonsense voice. “Is this what you three have been doing? What happened to getting the rooms ready for the clients, heating up the wax, making sure we have fresh towels and bathrobes, and so on? Sometimes I think I’m the only person doing any work around here!”

      Melody didn’t have to open her eyes; she could imagine the frown creasing Sophie’s brow. The pretty receptionist probably had her hands on her hips as she glanced around, shooting disapproving looks at the others. Sophie was one of those gorgeous women who seemed to feel the need to compensate for their looks by scowling as often as possible.

      For a moment Melody allowed herself to see the reception area of the Imbali Health and Beauty Spa in her mind’s eye: the dark, polished wood panelling, the textured stone-coloured walls, the African-Zen décor. Potted plants were dotted around the area and the usual faint scent of lavender wafted in the air.

      Last but not least, she pictured the only three colleagues she could call friends. Buhle, a voluptuous package of dynamite with an Afro almost as big as her personality; Annelize, a petite blonde with a soft heart and voice to match; and the tall, lithe Sophie with her shampoo advert hair. Melody loved the few occasions when their shifts coincided; it always made for a fun day at work.

      “Mel, open your eyes,” snapped Sophie. “You have a massage at nine. That’s in . . . fifteen minutes.”

      “Ssshh!” hissed Buhle. “You’re distracting her. She’s trying to change the timetable with her superpowers.”

      Melody sighed, inching a little closer to the schedule on the notice board. “Eish, talk about unsupportive,” she grumbled.

      She opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t. “You can’t be serious,” she groaned, staring at her timetable in horror. “I have Mr Meyer again.”

      The others laughed.

      “It’s not funny!” Melody glared at them. “That’s three times this week already. Ugh! There is such a thing as too many massages.”

      “Not for Spongebob,” quipped Buhle with a wicked grin. “You know, I once used an entire bottle of oil on him. Strues God!”

      “Not a whole bottle,” laughed Sophie.

      “Ja, a whole bottle, Mma,” Buhle insisted. “The man’s skin is like a flippin’ salt pan.”

      That set Annelize off. She giggled soundlessly, shoulders hunched, tears streaking mascara down her face. Then Sophie started, followed by Melody, and it wasn’t long before Buhle let out one of her loud guffaws, culminating in a wheezing cough that made everyone laugh even louder.

      “Guys, no,” Buhle protested, clutching her side. “It’s too early in the morning for this kind of misbehaviour.”

      “You started it with your Spongebob joke,” Sophie pointed out. “Honestly, you guys are too hard on Mr Meyer. He’s just a sweet old man, desperate for some female company. I’d take him over Cruella DeVil any day.”

      “Cruella’s a nasty piece of work,” mumbled Melody, an image of their least favourite client’s thin, sour face springing to mind.

      “So is her nasal voice,” said Buhle, tossing her head and pursing her lips in a fair imitation. “I thought I made it clear I wanted this done professionally. Can you see this nail polish? It’s chipped. Within a few hours of my manicure. Chipped!”

      “She made me so angry that day,” whispered Annelize as she twisted her small, round face into a frown.

      “And we all know it takes a lot to get you woes, nè?” added Sophie.

      “I would’ve klapped her,” declared Buhle, hands on her ample hips.

      “Never,” countered Annelize with a shocked laugh.

      “Well, Buhle’s capable of that,” said Melody, raising her eyebrows.

      “I am,” declared Buhle. “And if it weren’t for the fact that I liked my job, I would’ve given that woman such a hiding that every time she tried to sit down, she’d remember my name.”

      “Buhle!” Sophie glanced warily at the door.

      “What?”

      The receptionist shook her head. “It’s almost opening time. We should get organised.” She inclined her head in the direction of the mirror. “Annelize, love, I’m only going to say this once: Waterproof mascara.”

      Annelize rushed to the mirror. Melody smoothed down her mint-green slacks and white shirt and adjusted her apron before taking her turn at the mirror. Melody was proud of her looks: Beauty was her business, after all. She was no supermodel, but she had an athletic figure (thanks to a mixture of good genes and daily morning jogs) and a pretty face, if she did say so herself.

      Make-up was a requirement at work, and Melody liked the little touch of glamour it added to her conservative uniform. Her game face was intact: small almond-shaped eyes framed by long, fluttering lashes courtesy of L’Oréal, full lips coated in muted Avon lipstick and not-quite-flawless chocolate skin elevated to perfection by a layer of Dream Matte Mousse.

      Looking good, she thought, blowing a kiss at her reflection.

      “Okay, Miss Universe,” piped up Sophie with a touch of impatience, “Mr Meyer will be here any minute.”

      “I’m going, I’m going!” Melody stuck her tongue out at the receptionist. “Enjoy the front desk. I think Cruella’s coming in today, and you know how she loves to shoot the messenger.”

      Sophie looked daggers at her. “Make sure you warm your hands for Spongebob!” she retorted.

      Melody laughed, although her heart sank a little at the thought of Mr Meyer’s dry, flaky and hairy back. She had given him plenty of advice on keeping his skin healthy, but she had a sneaking suspicion that he deliberately ignored her so he’d have an excuse to keep coming back.

      She entered the room where she would be doing the massage. The usual soothing music was playing; Mr Meyer loved Enya, and Imbali always gave the customers what they wanted. Everything was set up: Sophie had been the first in, as usual, and she always helped her less punctual colleagues by straightening the rooms out before they arrived.

      “Thanks, Sophie,” Melody muttered as she set out the oils and lotions.

      Spongebob was right on time. He walked in beaming, his bald patch glinting brightly.

      “Good morning, Melody,” he gushed, shuffling towards her. He was already in his green robe and disposable underwear.

      She gave