Beauty and the Broker. Cheryl Ntumy S.

come along, she would welcome it. As long as the man who came with it was willing to play by her rules. She stole another glance at the guy across the room. He was looking right at her, that irresistible smile on his lips. She looked away quickly, feeling light-headed.

      “That’s only because you don’t know how wonderful it is to have someone in your life whom you can count on,” Annelize was saying. She fingered her wedding band and gave her friends a dreamy smile. “When you find the right person, it’s amazing.”

      Sophie and Melody exchanged amused glances. “Here we go,” Melody whispered.

      Right on cue, Annelize continued, “Johan is like my best friend. We can talk about anything. I can’t imagine my life without him, and he’s the most incredible . . .”

      “Okay, okay,” Melody interjected. “We all know how fabulous Johan is. And I’m sure, if we gave her the chance, Buhle could spend all night singing Sandile’s praises. But not all men are knights in shining armour.”

      “Don’t get any ideas, girls,” said Buhle hastily. “After nine years, Sandile’s armour is a little rusty.”

      “You know what I mean.” Melody swirled her drink around in her glass. “We all grow up with this idea of the perfect guy, until we become adults and discover that real men have –”

      “Beer bellies,” Buhle cut in.

      Everyone laughed.

      “I was going to say flaws,” said Melody, “but I guess that works, too.”

      “No one’s saying you have to hold out for Mr Perfect,” Annelize pointed out. “You just have to believe that there are good guys out there.”

      “Sure, but not everyone’s lucky enough to find one,” argued Melody.

      “And instead of daydreaming about something you might never have, it’s better to focus on and appreciate what you do have,” added Sophie.

      “She has a point,” said Annelize, her tone almost apologetic.

      Buhle sighed. “You’re so sensible, Sophie. You and Mel are such independent women. But just you wait. One day you’ll fall head over heels for some idiot on a motorbike and then we’ll see how sensible you really are.” She rubbed her hands together and threw her head back like a diabolical movie villain. “Muahahahaha!”

      Melody shook her head. “I need to stop hanging out with crazy people.”

      “She is a bit of a psycho, isn’t she?” remarked Sophie, grinning. “I’m ordering another drink. Anyone want anything?”

      Buhle’s hand shot up. “After all, it’s Friday night,” she said, holding up her almost empty glass. “Hello, weekend! I missed you.”

      “Well, I can’t stay out too late, guys. I’m driving to Khayelitsha tomorrow morning.” Melody glanced at her watch. “I think I’d better have some juice only.”

      “Weren’t you home just last weekend?” asked Annelize.

      “Yes, but . . .”

      “She’s afraid her family will disappear if she leaves them alone for too long,” Buhle interjected.

      Melody glared at her. “I’m just checking on them.”

      “Uh-huh, to make sure they’re still there.”

      “Buhle!”

      “Okay, okay! I’m going to the ladies’ before you hit me with the salt cellar.” She got up and squeezed past Melody.

      “I hope you know you’re almost falling out of that top,” remarked Sophie from behind the menu.

      Buhle glanced down at her ample bust. “It’s not my fault they don’t make clothes for real women. Mel, your foot!”

      “Sorry.” Melody shifted her foot to let Buhle pass.

      “She’s insane,” she said in a stage whisper once Buhle was gone.

      “I know,” Annelize giggled. “But you’ve got to love her.”

      “I don’t know about you two, but I’m having ice cream,” Sophie announced.

      Melody and Annelize looked at each other, then shrugged.

      “Why not?” said Annelize. “Let’s go for it.”

      Melody grinned. “After all, it’s Friday.”

      “Should we order one for Buhle too?” asked Annelize as Sophie waved the waitress over. “She did say she was trying to cut down on sugar. Maybe we should get her fruit salad instead.”

      “Oh, please, Buhle has never eaten a salad in her life,” scoffed Sophie. “Mel’s the one who’s on diet.”

      “It’s not a diet; I just don’t eat red meat,” Melody reminded her. She had cut red meat from her diet, along with fizzy drinks, after a nasty experience with a so-called beef stew she had bought from a roadside takeaway stand. She had never got over it.

      “Whatever. But we all know how Buhle feels about food that’s actually good for you,” Sophie said with a giggle.

      “She seemed so serious about the sugar thing,” mused Annelize. “I thought she meant it this time.”

      Melody smiled, trying to imagine Buhle sticking to a diet. It was impossible. Buhle was allergic to restrictions.

      After perusing the menu for a few minutes, they settled on four chocolate sundaes. Melody took another peek across the room, but the table was now empty and the man was gone. She swallowed her disappointment just as Buhle reappeared.

      “Shu!” said Buhle, sinking back into her seat. “Guys, I’m still hungry.”

      “Have some salad,” Sophie suggested, kicking Melody’s shin under the table.

      “Eh?” Buhle shot her a dirty look. “Do I look like livestock?”

      “You said no more sugar, remember?” said Melody.

      “What? I would never say something so evil and twisted,” snapped Buhle. “Where’s the menu? I need some ice cream, people. Are you in or out?”

      The other three looked at each other. Sophie let out a derisive snort and everyone collapsed into laughter. Annelize was laughing so hard, her face was red, and Sophie could barely speak. Melody was doubled over in her seat.

      “What?” asked Buhle, staring at them in astonishment. “Haai, what’s so funny?”

      “You,” gasped Melody, wiping her eyes. “You’re classic.”

      “I’m sorry, I’m lost,” said Buhle.

      “We know,” the others responded in unison, before cracking up all over again.

      Chapter 2

      2

      “Lolo, can I borrow your car?”

      “Hello to you too, Dumisane.” Melody paused in the doorway, laden with shopping bags, and squinted up at her brother. “Oh, my God. Have you grown taller?”

      “He won’t stop,” said her mother, Connie, drying her hands on her apron and nudging the kitchen door open with her shoulder. “Dumisane, help your sister carry these bags! What kind of child are you?”

      “Mama, I’m on my way out!” he groaned, looking at the bags out of the corner of his eye. “So, Lolo, the car?”

      Things never seemed to change in the small house in Mandela Park where Melody had grown up. Her mother was always in the sunny, neat kitchen, apron on, hands wet or covered in flour or maize meal. Dumisane was always on his way out and where he went was forever a mystery.

      Melody peered into the living room. It still had the