“Mmm, what is this?” I finished her cocktail and passed back the empty glass.
“It’s called ‘Santa’s Little Helper.’ ”
“ ‘Gin infused with a ginger, orange and star-anise syrup.’ ” Frank rolled his eyes as he said it. We were always poking fun at these ridiculous names that places were constantly coming up with in a bid to be more original than the next.
“Work injury?” I looked down at the fresh-looking plasters on Frank’s hand.
“I was attacked by a tripod followed by a set of tracks and then a camera stand,” he said, wiggling his fingers at me. Frank worked as a grip, mainly for international feature films that were shot in South Africa. In fact, he was currently lined up for a movie that—rumor had it—Zendaya was set to star in. He’d promised he would smuggle all of us onto set if she did sign on for the film.
“Where’s Charlie?” I asked.
“Late,” everyone echoed in unison. Charlie was always late. She probably had the most stressful job out of all of us. As a talent manager, she managed actors and voice-over artists, so she basically managed a bunch of people with rather large egos who regularly threw dramatic tantrums that she was forced to fix.
“Where’s hubby tonight?” I asked Sarah.
“Editing—he said he’d be here soon.”
We’d all been so excited when Russ and Sarah had gotten together. I mean, what’s better than two of your closest friends falling in love and getting married? We’d all agreed that their wedding had been one of the happiest days of our collective lives. And we were now all eagerly awaiting a marriage between Melusi and Marcel, the French fashion designer he’d been long-distance relationshipping for several years. Although we have all made it quite clear that for any blessings of ours to be given, Marcel would have to agree to move here, because we needed Melusi far too much, and France was very far away. They were apparently still talking about where to live, a conversation they’d been having for probably two years now. Yo was the only other one of us in a serious relationship; she’d been in her polyamorous throuple for a couple of years already. Yo was just as generous with her heart as she was with her wallet, and much like money, had more than enough love to go around.
“So I have an announcement to make,” I said, and everyone turned and looked at me. “I’m thinking of going on a dating detox.” The entire table burst out laughing again and I glared at them.
“No, seriously, it would be good for me to give up men for a while. To break this bad cycle I’m in. I could date myself instead and take up hobbies like knitting and start swimming and cold dipping and listen to motivational podcasts and—”
The table’s laughter escalated, and I stopped talking and folded my arms, feeling suddenly angry, although I wasn’t totally sure why. My friends sensed this shift in mood and stopped laughing.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah was the first to ask. I looked at her and shrugged and then felt a lump in my throat very suddenly and unexpectedly. I tried to swallow it away.
“Oh my God.” Yo reached across the table and put a hand on mine. “What’s up? Tell us.”
“I don’t think I can do it anymore, guys. All the crappy dates, even crappier sex, or almost sex. Maybe I’m just one of those people who’s not cut out for romance. Maybe I’m one of those people who’s meant to be alone. Not everyone finds their soul mate and gets to have an amazing love story.”
“NO! Stop it,” the entire table shouted at once.
“The right guy is out there—you just haven’t met him yet,” Melusi said.
I raised my brows at him. “I’ve met and tried to date half of Cape Town. If the right guy was here, I’m sure I would have found him by now.”
“Maybe he’s not in Cape Town yet,” Sarah offered.
“Exactly,” Melusi and Frank piped up together.
“Maybe he’s from abroad,” Melusi elaborated.
“Guys, I’m nearly thirty-two, my last serious relationship was over thirteen years ago, and we all know how that ended. I’ve gone on more dates than I can count, and not one guy has made it past the sixth date, except one, but then he cried during sex, which is a real confidence booster, I might add. I think I need a break from all that.”
Everyone at the table went silent and looked at me sympathetically.
“As long as it’s not permanent. I don’t want you closing yourself off to anything. Your luck is going to change—I’m sure of it. Hang in there a bit longer,” Sarah said.
“I’m not sure how much hanging I can carry on doing—the last hanging sprained my tendon.” I rubbed my neck as I said it. “And the previous hanging also ended in disaster, if you remember . . . the infamous sex-swing incident?”
“Oh God,” Melusi gasped. “That was bad.”
“It’s all bad,” I said, pulling a drink from him this time. “It’s all very, very bad and that’s the problem.” I sucked on Melusi’s drink, grimaced, and shook my head as a loud, familiar voice put a halt to the conversation. We all turned to watch Charlie weave her way through the tables, talking loudly on her phone as she went.
“No, I told you. She isnotshooting it unless you fly her hair stylist and make-up artist down too.” She looked at us all and mouthed the word “sorry” as she flung her bag down on the floor and pulled out a chair with one of her red-heeled shoes—she was a multitasker.
“Yes, I know the production has its own hair stylist and make-up artist, but she will only work with her own team. We told you that right at the beginning of the contract negotiation . . .” She shook her head at us all and rolled her eyes dramatically. “Well, it’s not my fault if you didn’t clear it with your producer and you don’t have the budget for it. She isnotshooting unless she has her own people there.” Charlie did what I had and grabbed the closest drink she could and started sipping on it. “I don’t know, cut down on coffee, or snacks, lose one of the extras, or fuck knows what else. . .” She grimaced at the taste of the cocktail and mouthed a very clear “disgusting” at us. “I am well aware the shoot is on Monday. I drafted and read the contract, if you’ll remember, unlike some other people who didn’t read the section in which I laid out very clearly what my artist’s requests and non-negotiables were.” She tapped her fingers on the table, clearly irritated. We were always so in awe of how hardcore Charlie was, but she needed to be, in her line of work. “Well, then, you go back to your client and tell them theonlyactress that they wanted in their washing-powder commercial will no longer be in their commercial.” That seemed to be the phrase that got the person on the phone to change their tune. “Yes, I think that’s a very good idea. Producers are magic like that—they always seem to find more money in the budget when they have to.” And just like that she hung up.
