Like Clockwork

14

Clare drove home through quiet streets, avoiding the weekend frenzy building up near the strip of clubs that snaked up Long Street. It was later than she had intended, but immersing herself in Julie’s domesticity had restored her. She let herself in, relieved to be home. Fritz wrapped herself around Clare’s ankles, reminding her that she had not been fed. Clare ignored the cat’s disdain at the dried food clattering so late into her bowl. She made herself a cup of tea, added a shot of whiskey to it, and checked for email. She held her breath as it downloaded.

‘Yes,’ she exhaled. ‘Yes!’ There was the go-ahead for her documentary on trafficking. Her refusal to alter or dilute her story had paid off. There was nothing but the caveat that she should not glorify the bad guys, or airbrush the victims into unrealistic innocence. There was a note from the executive producer to follow up on the money-laundering angle. Dates, accounts, companies, front companies – her weekend was mapped out for her. How did they manage it, making money that dirty ‘clean’ again? Clare sat wondering after she’d sent her elated reply.

It was already past one by the time she got into bed. The phone rang just as she had settled in, Fritz curled in the small of her back. She ignored it, but it started to ring again. Clare sighed, pushed aside her duvet, and went to pick up the cellphone she had left in her study.

‘Jakes,’ she said, reading the name that came up on her screen. It was his home number. ‘What are you doing? It’s one in the morning.’ Clare could hear music, glasses clinking in the background.

‘It can’t be that late.’ He had been drinking. She could feel the irritation welling up in her, despite the lure of his flirtatious voice.

‘It is. What do you want?’

‘Don’t be so bad-tempered, Clare. I’m sure you’re not busy right now.’

‘Jakes, I’ve known you long enough to know that you weren’t sitting at home worrying about how lonely I might be. What do you want?’

‘Clare,’ he said affectionately. ‘Always straight for the jugular.’ He paused, waiting for her to defend herself. When she didn’t, he decided that he may as well get to the point before she put the phone down. ‘Clare, baby, are you by any chance invited to that Osiris Group party?’

‘Osiris, Osiris, Osiris. Everybody is talking about them and they are ruining my neighbourhood.’

‘Well, are you?’ insisted Jakes.

‘I am invited.’

‘Don’t you need a date?’

Clare said nothing.

‘Come on, don’t be such an ice-queen,’ he wheedled.

Clare sighed. This was how he got women into bed: there didn’t seem to be anything to do except give in. ‘Okay, Jakes. Just this once.’

‘Can I pick you up?’ he asked.

‘Okay,’ said Clare. ‘Pick me up at seven. And remember – you owe me.’

‘Of course,’ said Jakes. ‘I’ll see you then.’ She heard a girl’s sultry laugh behind his voice. Clare switched the phone off. She knew what that girl would look like – slim, supple, hair brushing honey-brown shoulders. No more than twenty, seventeen if Jakes had his wish. Clare got back into bed smiling. She reckoned Jakes had, at forty-five, about two more girlfriends to go before he’d have to pay by the hour for his dream girls. She turned out the light. Jakes Kani was a good photographer. Even though he sold his pictures to anybody who’d pay, he knew how to make a woman enjoy her body. He had loved her, in his way, and he could make her laugh.

The Osiris party would be more fun with him there. She turned over to sleep, wishing for a moment that the warm weight against her back was not a cat, but a man.