Sex, Lies & Stellenbosch. Eva Mazza

I do,” Jen had bitched to her book club friends.

      “Count yourself lucky,” Shelley had retorted, and the rest of the group agreed. “At least you have something to work with. Some of us have to use our imaginations.”

      Jen had cringed at the thought of poor Shelley having to perform her wifely duties.

      “You still look hot, Daddy,” Brig said, then turned to her mom giving her the once over. “Just don’t tuck your shirt in, k?”

      Jen hated the way Brigit would shorten okay to ‘k’. It’s not like it’s a thirteen-letter word, for heaven’s sake. And it’s so bloody condescending!

      However rude her daughter was, she valued her opinion. “Why not?” Jen asked, lest she became the laughing stock of the party. Her eldest looked at her dad and rolled her eyes.

      “Cleavage, push-up bra, butt and crotch… Leave something to the imagination. You don’t want to look like you’re really trying, do you?”

      “You’ve already established that I’m really trying! By the way, does my new haircut also look like I tried too hard?”

      “You look great, love,” John said, turning from the mirror and dabbing cologne onto his freshly shaved face. “Don’t listen to Brig. You’re gorgeous.”

      Jen gave him a peck on the cheek. “Why thank you, John,” she said, then playfully stuck out her tongue at Brig.

      “I personally like your hair darker and longer,” Brigit said while tugging Jen’s top out from her pants as if Jen were a three-year-old. “But if a mousey bob blows you away, then hey, who am I to comment?”

      Jen inhaled deeply. She tried hard not to allow Brig to get under her skin. Definitely not tonight. They’d got along so much better these past few weeks, both preoccupied with John’s birthday preparations.

      “Well, Brig, you look as chic as ever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to fasten my shoes.”

      She hoped she would be able to carry them off. Farm girls don’t wear heels; they wear practical flats – her mother’s favourite line when Jen was an adolescent. Judging from the look in Brig’s eyes, it was obvious that her daughter concurred.

      Jen had meant it when she said that Brigit looked chic. She had developed a unique style; understated, but elegant. She wore her hair short – a throwback from her swimming days at school – and was one of the few women who could wear a boyish hairstyle without looking butch. In fact, she never had a shortage of admirers; there was something so feminine about her that complemented her masculine crop.

      Brigit had chosen tight black satin pants that tapered to just above her ankles and a loose-fitting black top with a subtle gold shimmer that plunged sexily at the neckline. Her accessories were understated: a gold cuff for her wrist, a long black and gold necklace that hung low to her belly and small studs in her ears. She wore an unusually big ring on her middle finger, drawing attention to her manicured nails.

      Her look was simple yet sophisticated. The exact opposite of Jen’s.

      “Don’t forget this,” Brigit said, handing over a typed speech before leaving the room.

      Jen tucked the speech into her pants pocket, and her shirt back into her pants.

      “Cow!” she mouthed to John.

      “Don’t be like that, Jen,” John said. “I think you look shaggable, especially bending over to buckle those heels, baby.” He rubbed up against her. “John-John agrees. Here, feel. He’s standing at attention.”

      Jen playfully pushed him away and turned to give the birthday boy a quick peck on the lips.

      “Now, piss off,” she teased. “You and John-John. We have a party to go to, and I believe it’s yours, you dirty old man.”

       Three

      John hadn’t celebrated his fiftieth, choosing to take the family on holiday instead. It seemed that a bash for his sixtieth was not on the cards either, as he’d often said that the thought of celebrating old age was depressing. Brigit had come up with the idea of a surprise fifty-fifth party for her dad. “It’s halfway between fifty and sixty.”

      Jen thought it a great idea. She loved dancing and she loved a party. She also felt that it was important to mark his birthday with friends who had touched his life, and hers; friends they’d practically grown old with.

      Old! She didn’t like to think of herself as old, but forty-nine sounded pretty decrepit.

      That night at the party, music from the eighties and nineties had blasted from the speakers. A handful of people frolicked around the dance floor, looking like throwbacks from the era of shoulder pads and Swatch watches.

      Jen gyrated with her girlfriends. Over the years, John’s friends’ wives had become her besties. Their tipsiness had made them zealous to show off their Zumba moves. Not that any of their husbands noticed; they were drinking at the bar, probably commiserating over Stellenbosch’s latest drama, the Steinhoff scandal.

      Despite Brig’s disapproval, Jen had been complimented on her outfit, giving her the confidence she desperately needed to carry off the contentious stretch pants and the killer heels. Gladys, their housekeeper was the first to offer praise. “You look so young, Jen. I thought you were Brigit.”

      Jen kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Gladys, but I don’t think Brigit will be happy to hear this.”

      Her friends thought her new haircut and colour took off ten years, and the padded push-up bra (the best invention since the nineties) did an impressive job under her sheer white top. At least someone had the intelligence to put those awful eighties shoulder pads where they mattered!

      Lecherous Larry had already given her bum a squeeze, which Jen took in the spirit of things. Lee, John’s best friend since childhood, had taken the time to tell her how beautiful she looked.

      The music came to an abrupt halt – Brigit’s orders – and everyone was summoned to listen to the speeches. Brigit delivered a well-constructed and polished speech, as expected. She is, after all, in broadcasting. Pete, on the other hand, was reliably incoherent. Drink and nerves were never his best combination and he was filled with both.

      Next was John’s turn. He started by thanking his friends, and made some lewd joke about growing old. He then moved on to his family, first mentioning his parents, who were unable to attend (after years of animosity, they had a cordial but distant relationship). The best were left for nearly last: their children, waxing lyrical about Brigit and how proud he was of her. He went on to talk about Pete and what a wonderful man he had become.

      Yep, I certainly have a soft spot for our boy. Father and son, however, had a strained relationship which Jen had hoped would improve now that Pete was employed full-time on the farm.

      She straightened up as John began to speak about her. “What can I say? I know it’s a paradox, but I’m a happily married man,” he quipped, rather shyly. Jen smiled at him. He said how lucky he was to have had her by his side for twenty-four years of marriage, and how admirable it was of Jen to have stuck by him. She looked down rather coyly. The guests clapped, but John silenced them. “Well, she has nowhere else to go. Isn’t that right, darling?”

      Her head jerked up and her coy smile faded fast. He’s turned a very private and potentially contentious issue into a joke! John quickly saved himself, “Why would I want you to go anywhere, baby?”

      Oh my God! Shut up. You’re only making things worse. He turned to his friends. “See how hot she looks?” A few wolf-whistles from the men.

      “Stop, guys!” Jen feigned laughter. “You’re just encouraging more of this ridiculous…” The whistling got louder.

      “You’ve really gone the extra mile tonight, especially in those pants.” He had drawn the