She giggled. “I know. It didn’t look like he’d seen a woman in a bra since 1914. Looked like he’d forgotten what one even looked like.”
Without thinking, it slipped out of his mouth. “I can relate,” he quickly said, and then realized how that sounded. It made him sound a hundred years old. “I mean,” he corrected, “of course Ihaveseen . . . no, present tense, I see . . . That is to say that I—” He stopped talking and gave up. “It’s been a long time for me, too,” he said. It was the truth, after all. In fact, Doris was probably the only woman he’d seen in any kind of a state of undress for about a year now.
“Me too actually. If it makes you feel any better, it’s been a long time for me too.”
He turned and looked at her. “Oh. OH!” he said. “I didn’t realize that you were . . . not that it matters of course.”
“What?” She looked confused.
“Well, that you haven’t seen someone in abrafor a while,” he said. Honestly, it hadn’t crossed his mind that Doris was anything other than straight. Not that he met people and wondered what their sexuality was, because it didn’t matter, but—
“Me?” She burst out laughing. “No! No.” Her laughter seemed to escalate. “I meant that I haven’t seen a man in a br—No, I mean . . .” She was giggling even more now, and he heard himself chuckle. “I mean without a shirt on, or . . .I’mstraight. Not that girls in nice bras aren’t sexy, but I prefer men. Not in bras, though. Well . . .” She paused for a while, as if she was actually considering whether she liked men in bras. “Nope, I prefer my men without bras on. I definitely prefer my men all bare chested and—”
She quickly stopped talking as a strange tension filled the small, confined space of the car.
“Sorry,” she said quickly.
He shook his head. “It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. Because all this talk of bras and bare chests had his mind racing off to places that it shouldn’t go. Places where both of them were wearing much less than what they were wearing now. Places where they weren’t driving in thefrontseat anymore. Places where her bra was hanging off his rear-view mirror and he wasn’t caring about what kind it was, but rather caring about how her breasts felt in his hands.
He reached out and turned the aircon on.
God, it felt hot in here.
CHAPTERFIFTY-FOUR
Poppy
So, this wasn’t strange and awkward at all. Talking about semi-nudity with my boss! I was glad he’d turned the aircon on, because it felt like the temperature had shot up by at least five degrees. Maybe even more. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked out the window, very glad that the glass was tinted. I’d already given enough people a show today, I didn’t want pedestrians and passing motorists to get an eyeful as well. Perhaps I could now add “stripper” to my CV, although it had been unintentional. An unintentional stripper. Was that even a thing? I guess in my dramatic world, it was.
After what felt like a very long and silent drive, we finally pulled up to my place.
“I’ll be five minutes,” I said, looking back at him.
“Take your time,” he said.
He looked strangely laid-back without his jacket on. He was wearing a blue shirt and a grey tie. The combination brought out the color in his eyes, which I was suddenly feeling very drawn to look at.
I climbed out of the car and started walking to my building. But I could feel him watching me. I could physically feel his eyes on me, and I suddenly became acutely aware of every single step I took. So aware that I became obsessed with walking and landed up tripping over a stone and falling to my knees. Why is it that when you concentrate too hard on one thing, it starts to feel foreign? Like repeating a word too much, until it feels like it doesn’t belong in the English language. Try it. Say “moist” out loud ten times!
I stood up quickly, dusted my knees off and gave him a thumbs up to let him know I was fine. I managed to make it into my apartment without any other mishaps. I chose some more appropriate clothes before walking back to the car.
When I got there, he was leaning against it. He’d loosened his tie, his top button was undone, and he looked more casual than I’d ever seen him (seeing him topless in a hospital didn’t really count). Our eyes locked and my feet stopped moving. I tried to look away, but couldn’t. I felt stuck. Like someone had superglued our eyes together. Cue staring contest. I felt myself being sucked in. And when he smiled, I smiled too. He ran his hand through his hair and, for some strange reason, I felt compelled to touch mine too. He became my mirror; everything he did, I felt my body wanting to do too. This was all so . . . sowhat? What the hell was this? I finally managed to untangle my gaze from his and look away. He did too.
I climbed back into his car; he’d insisted that I leave mine at the site. I couldn’t drive barefoot and half naked, he’d said. We fell into a silence again. But this time, it felt different. It wasn’t awkward. It was the kind of silence that two friends shared. The kind that didn’t need to be filled with a hundred words. We drove out of the West Parks area. There was a stark difference the second you exited it. We drove towards town and started weaving through it, popping out on the other side underneath the great Table Mountain. It had been given that name hundreds of years ago when sailors had seen it from their ships for the first time. Completely flat on the top, it had looked like a great table rising up from the land, and even more so today. The famous “table cloth” of low-hanging white clouds was draped over it, the clouds oozing over the side of the mountain like a hanging cloth. It was the texture of cotton candy, and you just wanted to reach out and touch it.
We drove along the road that wound round the mountain range. It was spectacular. To our left the mountains, to our right the sea. The sky was a dark grey color, making the sea almost black. I hardly ever ventured into this part of Cape Town, where they probably charged you money just to breathe the air. It wasthatexpensive here. I’d only been here once recently and that was to visit my so-called agent. The elusive creature who’d stopped taking my calls a few months ago. I saw her office coming up—“Susan O Management”—the bitch. She’d gotten a big fright the day I’d just rocked up and knocked on her door, demanding to know why she hadn’t been taking my calls. She had some lame excuse about losing her phone, but I didn’t believe her for a second. She’d taken my calls when I was working and she was getting her 15 per cent.
“What’s wrong?” Ryan asked.
“Huh?” I asked.
“You look angry all of a sudden, like you’re contemplating someone’s demise.” His voice had a playful, friendly quality to it. A total change to how it had been an hour ago. But I was used to this by now.
“I kind ofwasthinking of someone’s demise,” I said.
“Not mine, I hope?” he joked.
