Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [63]
Despite it being my first time, despite the ultraglam pink Black Coffee dress Jonathan sent over by courier to the house this afternoon, and the industria minimalism of the décor, fit for any of the style mags with its bare-stripped walls and sharp white scatterlights like an interrogation room, it's not what I'd imagined. Even Naledi Nxumalo, sitting at a table opposite us, where she's pointedly not talking to the rugby captain whose name eludes me, is strangely inadequate in person, like she's a watercolour version of the woman in the soap, somehow diluted by the assertions of the purposely dilapidated interior.
The waiter greets Jonathan by name, which tells me he's a regular. I'm still feeling frayed and stunned from the newscasts and Toby's extra report, but I ask anyway, 'Why haven't you ever brought me here before?'
'Why haven't you, sweetheart?' He's intent on his dismemberment, deftly cracking the carapace open and scraping out the meat.
'I couldn't even get into this place as a waitress. I don't think I could afford the breadsticks.'
'I didn't want to spoil you.' His oversize fingers scrabble in the remains. 'But you know,' he pecks at his mouth with the linen napkin, 'now that you're famous, I expect you to keep me in the manner to which I'm accustomed.'
'So I get to keep you?' This comes out more clingy than I intended, but Jonathan takes it in his stride.
'It's a little-known fact that you can determine the appropriate time to introduce philosophy into the conversation by using the number of glasses of wine already imbibed as a measurement. And Kendra, my love, we are still at least three glasses shy of being anywhere near that mark. Not least because you are not drinking. Or not anything alcoholic, at least.'
'I think you're covering for both of us.'
'I don't think I have ever been in a situation where I've been forced to pay corkage on a soft drink. We may never be able to return here. So take it all in! While you can.'
'You know I'll pay for it. Don't be patronising.' If I sound defensive, it's because I am. Even if the maitre d' hadn't handled it with excruciating courtesy that was more telling than a smirk or arched eyebrow.
'I wouldn't dream of it. Not when you already have a patron encouraging your dreadful habit.'
I raise my glass in mock salute and take a long slow sip of Ghost to irritate him. 'At least it's not heroin.'
'I don't know. I believe heroin can be very stimulating, creatively. And very credible with that whole artist culture thing. You know, we need to cash in on your cachet. We can only coast so far on the scandal. Maybe a lesbian affair with Nkosi, in the wake of her devastation.'
'You're a mean drunk. You should stop. '
'Someone has to. Or would you rather I switched to your beverage of choice?' He leans across and takes my glass. 'Does it have any effect on us mortals?'
'No. It's just a soft drink. It's how it interacts with the nano. Didn't Andile tell you?'
I don't know why I entertained the concept for one instant that there was something I could accomplish on my own. I'm furious for not guessing this was Jonathan's doing from the start, for not recognising the mark of his blunt fingers.
Of course he was the one who recommended me to Andile, old colleagues from when he used to shoot the Nokia Fash Week catalogues. It could just as easily have been any other young up-and-coming. I've tried to explain how he's undermined me, but Jonathan just laughs and trudges out hackneyed clichés about how it's who you know.
'Or,' I snap, 'who you're sleeping with.' Not that we've slept together since I had the procedure done.
He tells me I'm too tense, and I am. The articles are freaking me out, but this is something I can't forgive him, because, dammit, this was supposed to be mine.
He takes a sip. 'Ugh. That's nasty.