‘No. Sort of. I mean . . . just a little.’
The Uber driver looked at us again.
‘Hey! Eyes to the road,’ I said, and pointed at him. ‘Please,’ I added quickly, in case he thought I was rude and now wanted to throw me out of the car or, worse, leave me a bad review, which had happened before, after I’d told an Uber driver that his car stank.
‘You’re a good kisser too.’ I almost didn’t hear Andrew say that, it was so soft.
‘I know,’ I said, because I was a good kisser. I’d practiced a lot to become one. ‘But let’s not kiss again. Kissing usually leads to sex, and I don’t want to have sex with you! Even if the kiss does indicate we would probably be sexually compatible.’
‘Uh . . . sure!’ Andrew said. His cheeks had gone red. I never understood why people became so shy and strange when talking about anything sexual. But they did, and I always had to remember that. It was a pity one couldn’t just have frank conversations about sex with people. It would make it all so much easier.
That night in the hotel room, after I’d slipped out of the red dress and into a warm bath, I found my mind drifting off towards that kiss. I searched through my memory banks, running over all the information I’d gathered over the years about kissing, to pinpoint exactly what it was that had felt so good. But I couldn’t quite find it. I think it was that mysterious, intangible thing at play again. The technique had been so simple: lips parted, tip of tongue making gentle lip contact. Nothing special. But it had definitely felt special. Completely different to all the other kisses that I’d had.
I climbed into the large hotel bed and nestled my head into my special pillow nest. My pillows always smelled good; I sprayed a lavender essential oil on them. I found that aromatherapy really did calm you. It engaged one of your senses in a pleasant way, making it easier to calm the other senses down. I took a deep whiff of my pillows: tonight had gone well. Better than expected. In fact, in some ways, I had even enjoyed it, which I’d not expected. I took another deep breath, put my AirPods on, turned on the relaxing rain sounds I listened to most nights and fell asleep.
CHAPTER11
The winelands are always beautiful. Their beauty is a predictable one, though. Chocolate-box, postcard predictability. Everything looked so perfect out here, as if it had all been curated and stage-directed this way. As if there was a stylist responsible for this entire area, making sure all of it, every last component, conformed to an aesthetic standard. I liked that. I liked predictable patterns that were aesthetically pleasing. So I understood why people came here, why whenever someone had a special party, a wedding, an engagement or a reunion in the Cape, they flocked to the winelands for the event. Well, there was also the wine, of course – another attraction for most people, although, for me personally, wine had never really held much allure.
My father loves wine, and for one of his birthdays my mother had invited all their friends around, as well as a famous sommelier. Too young to drink, but intrigued by it all, I’d listened to this man extol the aromas of herbs, subtle florals, notes of spring fruits. Roasted nut, old tobacco, autumn leaves. Spicy, velvety, earthy, waxy, silky and suede. His descriptors were endless and had transported me into the depths of my imagination, where I’d pictured textures and flavors I’d never experienced before. When the party was over and my parents were asleep, I found myself in the kitchen with all the used glasses of wine. I’d imagined sipping the leftovers and my pallet exploding with the most exotic flavors imaginable: the butterscotch, pine and aniseed. It had all sounded so incredible and my curiosity was piqued. I poured the first drop of blood-red wine on my tongue and was sure it must have been a mistake. It was horrendous. Like cork and coal, and it felt sharp and bitter in my mouth. I raced to the kitchen sink and washed my mouth out, confused by the terrible letdown. I was convinced I must have chosen the only bad one. I dipped my finger into the next glass and brought it to my tongue. Again, sharp, vile, nauseating. Where was the orange blossom, the violet and nutmeg? I was utterly perplexed. None of what I was tasting was lively, delicate or austere. It was not well structured and harmonious. The man had clearly used the wrong adjectives. I was so disappointed that night that I’d hardly ever drunk wine again and considered it to be one of the greatest culinary cons. I’m convinced that people just pretend to taste what they’re told to taste.
The driver dropped us off and we found ourselves at the bottom of a long, cobbled driveway. We walked up to the old Cape Dutch house, the long driveway flanked on either side by rows and rows of precisely planted grapevines. I stopped to look down one of the rows and was met with a perfection that even I was taken aback by. These vines were in dead-straight lines and, as I walked past their neat rows, a sense of calm settled in me.
The white Cape Dutch house in front of us rose up out of the greenery like a sculptural piece of art and, behind it, the mountain was draped in white cloud. This was the thing about Cape Town, its defining characteristic if you like; the thing that made it unique and special was always the mountain. And no matter where you went in Cape Town, like a lighthouse guiding you to safety, it was always there.
On the terrace of the house, red and white umbrellas stood side by side – our school colors. At every cultural or sporting event, those exact umbrellas had been dragged out and stuck in the ground. Underneath the umbrellas, like something that buzzed and bustled, were all the girls and their partners. I hoped that no one would see us coming and we could slip into the crowd unnoticed. But alas.
‘Pippa! Andrew!’ someone shouted. A chorus of what were clearly already slightly inebriated ‘hellooooo’s with long ‘o’ sounds rung out. I followed Andrew’s direction as he gave everyone a casual-looking wave. He was so comfortable; how did he do that? How did he wave so unself-consciously, so effortlessly, when it felt so awkward and disingenuous to put my hand up in the air in that manner and flap it about?
‘Hurry, we’re already on the second wine pairing,’ called Palesa, beckoning us over with her bejewelled hand. Palesa was one of the people I’d remembered easily. She was, after all, a descendant of the Sotho King, and thus royalty. You don’t easily forget having a member of the royal family in your maths and science classes.
‘You ready for this?’ Andrew asked, clearly sensing my obvious apprehension, since my body had stiffened like an ironing board.
‘Absolutely not,’ I said, but continued walking towards the terrace.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,’ he said, and I gave him a small nod.
‘Thank you,’ I replied softly.
‘Hey, what are fake fiancés for?’ He held his hand out, but then quickly pulled it away. ‘Wait, are we holding hands today or not?’
I inspected his hand. It looked clean; his palms looked dry.
‘Mmmm, I don’t know. Maybe. But no kissing.’
‘My lips are sealed.’ He held his hand out again and I slipped mine into his.
‘Well, technically, they’re not. You’re talking.’
Andrew chuckled. ‘I can’t argue with that.’ We walked up to the terrace hand in hand and were met by a long table with wine glasses and charcuterie platters on it, and sommeliers in black suits. And then we were inundated with hugs and greetings as if we were all long-lost friends, even though I hadn’t seen any of them for ten years. It was difficult to explain their sudden interest and enthusiasm in me, although I’m sure it had less to do with me, actually, and more to do with the man I had on my arm. I think Andrew gave me a kind of status I’d never had before. A kind of status I never thought I’d ever be able to achieve. And then, the first of the wine glasses was thrust into my hand.
‘And what imaginary things am I supposed to taste with this one?’ I asked the sommelier.
‘It has notes of pineapple, ma’am,’ he said enthusiastically.
‘Really?’ I raised my brows at him. ‘And is it full-bodied?’ I asked, and a few of my old classmates let out amused sounds.
‘No, it’s actually light-bodied with a floral bouquet.’ He looked less enthused now.
