Cliff Powell entered the ballroom of the Haute Monde. The elite hotel offered majestic views of the Franschoek vineyards and towering mountains.
“Cliffy. Good to see you. Let me introduce you to some people,” bellowed Coach Stemmet as he steered Cliff toward a table. Coach enjoyed these parties, always wanting to introduce his team to the right people.
“You have to network, Cliffy. It’s the only way to get ahead.”
Cliff had zero interest in getting to know people that required him getting trussed up like a chicken in a suit and tie and feigning interest in their elitist bantering. He would rather be home relaxing and thinking of his game or visiting his mother. But with her in Johannesburg and him in Cape Town with his demanding training schedule, visits were a rare treat. His parents had moved to Johannesburg to be closer to the oncology specialist attending to his father. His father passed away four years later, and his mother was not interested in acquiring a companion.
“I’ve lived my love story, Cliff. No-one can ever compare to your father.”
At twenty-seven, Cliff was in his prime and barring any injuries, he still had a few good years as a Springbok lock; wearing his number 4 jersey with pride.
There were five people seated at the table.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to Cliff Powell. The best brand ever made in South Africa.”
All heads turned in Cliff’s direction.
“Good evening,” he mumbled.
Coach started rattling off the names of the table’s occupants.
Cliff. Good game last week.”
“How wonderful to meet you in person, Mr Powell.”
“We really should get together some time.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Cliff offered in return.
He had no intention of getting together with the bored social butterfly who was practically salivating while casting her eyes over his frame as though she were inspecting a prime fillet.
She looked old enough to be his mother.
“Please excuse me. I need to make the barman’s acquaintance.”
He was not a drinker, but he had to get away from the table and the lascivious looks from the meat inspector. He strode over to the bar.
“Good evening. May I please have a still water, no ice.”
His blood froze as though he’d been dunked into the ice dispenser when he heard a voice behind him.
“Buy a lady a drink?”
“I wouldn’t dare, madame. Not when they’re free,” he quipped without a backward glance.
“Barman, please refill the ladies glass,” he said, stepping aside to allow her to step up to the bar.
“Why thank you,” she said, turning toward where Cliff had been standing, but his long legs had already taken him halfway across the room. He was not one for casual relationships which included meaningless sex, and he did not fancy older women.
He’d been in two serious relationships. One in high school that ended abruptly when his girlfriend demanded too much of his time while he was preparing for his matric exams and the second fizzled out when his rugby career started taking him away from home for extended periods.
This was when his team-mates indulged in all manner of sexual antics – whether they were married or not. Cliff could not bring himself to join them. He would retire to his room; thereby earning himself the nickname ‘Cliff-the-stiff’.