A COUPLE of days later, Steph is still obsessing about Ajala’s parcel.

I was kind of hoping she might have forgotten about it by now, but no such luck. She even got up extra early this morning just to lecture me about it before I went to work. For her, that’s real dedication.

“What is it, anyway?” she says, holding it up to her ear and giving it a shake.

“I told you,” I say for the millionth time. “It’s a gift for his mother.”

“Yes, I know, but what’s in it? Bath salts? A nightie? Chocolates?”

“He didn’t say, and I didn’t want to ask. It’s none of our business, anyway.”

“Hey, if it’s in our flat, it is our business. What I want to know is why he can’t keep it in the boot of his car if he’s so worried about his mom finding it. The mom who doesn’t exist, by the way.”

“I actually asked him that yesterday afternoon when I bumped into him in parking area. He said the gift needs to be kept at an even temperature.”

Steph drops the parcel as though it’s hot. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

“What?”

“It’s drugs. He’s making us keep drugs for him. Probably because the police are on to him.”

“Drugs?” I crack up. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Trinity, this isn’t a game any more. Think about everything you’ve learnt about this man. He’s being investigated for human trafficking, for God’s sake!”

I look hard at the parcel and give it an experimental prod. “Mm … there might very well be a small Cambodian sex worker in here.” I put my mouth right up against the parcel and call, “Hellooo! Miniature Cambodian sex slave. Are you in there?”

Steph’s mouth twitches, but she manages not to laugh. “Very funny, but I happen to be serious.”

“I know you are, and I’m sorry. The thing is, I’m having a hard time believing any of this. Everyone keeps telling me what an evil bogeyman Ajala is, but I just know him as the sweet guy who lives upstairs. I can’t seem to put the two versions of him together. It doesn’t feel real.”

“This is real!” Steph waves the parcel at me. “This is a real duct-taped package of heroin or whatever it is, and we are the ones who are in possession of it. We could go to jail for twenty years.”

“Babes, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – you watch too much TV.”

“I should hand this parcel over to the police right now,” she threatens.

I nip forward and grab it from her. “Oh, no, you don’t. Ajala gave this to me to keep safe for him and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

*****

I don’t trust the look in Steph’s eye one bit, so the first thing I do when I get home that evening is check on the parcel.

I’m quite relieved to find it still there.

Call me paranoid, but her expression seemed to be saying: I’ll just wait until Trinity is at work, and then I’ll take this parcel straight to the nearest police station. It’s for her own good.

Knowing Steph, I bet she’s just psyching herself up to do it.

The time has come for strong measures. I shove the parcel under some T-shirts in my cupboard, shut the door, and turn the key in the lock.

There. Let’s see her hand it over to the cops now.

Of course, no sooner do I drop the key into my handbag than I have to fish it out again to unlock my cupboard so that I can change out of my work clothes and into sweatpants and a slouchy vest. But I do remember to lock up again afterwards.

I wander aimlessly through to the sitting room.

It’s quite weird having all this free time on my hands, now that I’m not in a relationship any more. I can’t say I miss Couple Time at all, but single life is not that fantastic either.

I pick up the TV remote and start flicking through the channels. Nothing worth watching, as usual.

I wonder what Farouk’s doing?

This thought pops into my head out of nowhere, followed by an oddly detailed fantasy about calling him up to discuss progress on my story.

Now, where did that come from?

I’d have to be crazy to call him. If he wants to speak to me, he can pick up the phone. Which is exactly what he hasn’t been doing for the past four years. How much clearer does he need to make it before I finally get the message? He doesn’t want to speak to me.

Farouk is never the one who initiates contact, now that I come to think of it. All our meetings have been arranged by other people.

Which reminds me…

I switch off the TV and open my laptop instead. I want to check how the latest attempt to get us together is going.

I open my Facebook page and find seven new notifications waiting for me. My news feed looks like a Twitter stream.

Posted by:

Gemma Walker [Hey, babes! My sister and I are coming up to Joburg this weekend to visit Farouk. Hope you’ll be around so we can see you too.]

Posted by:

Trinity Luhabe [Great! Can’t wait to see you. Are you bringing the kids?]

Posted by: [Yes! They’ve really missed Farouk.]

Gemma Walker

Posted by:

Trinity Luhabe [Hey, why don’t I babysit for you? You guys can go out and spend some time together and I’ll watch the kiddies.]

Posted by:

Gemma Walker [Um, no, that won’t be happening. Sorry. But thanks anyway.  It’s you we want to see. It’s been ages.]

Posted by:

Trinity Luhabe [Oh, come on. Let me watch your kids. It’ll be just like old times.]

Posted by:

Stephanie O’Farrell [I’ll watch your kids, Gemma. Then you can go out with Farouk and Trinity.]

Posted by:

Trinity Luhabe [Excuse me? I thought this was a private conversation.]

Posted by:

Gemma Walker [Thanks, Steph! I won’t take you up on it, but you’re right. Trinity has to come with us. If Trinity stays, we all stay.]

Posted by:

Stephanie O’Farrell [I’ve got an even better idea. You and your sister stay home to look after the kids, and just send Farouk and Trinity out together.]

Posted by:

Gemma Walker [I like the way you think  ]

Posted by:

Trinity Luhabe [Stop it, guys. I know exactly what you’re doing and it’s not going to work.]

Posted by:

Stephanie O’Farrell [Who, us?]

Posted by:

Gemma Walker [We’re not doing anything.]

Posted by:

Stephanie O’Farrell [We just think you and Farouk need some quality time together …]

Posted by:

Gemma Walker [To talk …]

Posted by:

Stephanie O’Farrell [And stuff …]

Posted by:

Gemma Walker [Especially stuff.]

Posted by:

Stephanie O’Farrell [lol!]

I sigh as I read the last seven comments that have appeared since I checked this morning.

Really, they’re so juvenile.

It would make perfect sense for me to look after Gemma’s kids while Farouk and his sisters go out for dinner. I know how seldom they see each other, now that they live in different cities. I bet they’d love to go out to dinner without the kids to distract them.

And I’d enjoy it too. I’ve hardly laid eyes on Gemma’s kids since Farouk and I broke up. Jack was just a baby when we started going out. And Amira was born the year that we were together. I’ve got both their birthdays on my calendar and always remember to send gifts, but it’s not the same as seeing them in person.

I wonder if Meriam is also in on this plot to get us together. To be honest, I kind of doubt it. I’ve never been completely sure what she thinks of me. For all I know, she might have cracked open a bottle of champagne to celebrate when we broke up. No more threat of me being her sister-in-law.

I leave one last comment on my Facebook wall and then log off.

Posted by:

Trinity Luhabe [You guys are so lame. If you were any more transparent you’d have to change your names to PG Glass.]

Okay, so that wasn’t the wittiest remark I’ve ever come up with, but it’ll have to do.

*****

My mom phones while I’m at work the next day. I know it’s her without even looking at the caller ID. I always do.

“Hi, Mom!”

“Hello, my skattebol. I tried phoning you at home but you’d already left. Is it okay to talk now?”

“Sure, no problem. Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all. It’s just that I saw Ronel Pieterse yesterday and had a little chat with her.”

“Oh, yes?”

I sit up straight and pick up a pen. I’ve been waiting for this.

“She sends her regards, by the way. She was very interested to hear that you’re working in broadcasting now. I said you’ll be presenting your own show soon, and she couldn’t believe it.”

“Mommm ….” I groan.

“What, darling? Must I not be proud of my own daughter?”

“I’m on the traffic desk, Ma. That’s a long way from presenting my own show.”

“It’s just a matter of time, lovey. Anyway, she knew exactly who I was talking about when I asked her about Ignus Wessels.”

“You asked her?”

“Yes, why not? I thought that’s what you wanted me to do.”

“I …”

I feel like reminding her that all I wanted was for her to put me in touch with Ronel Pieterse.

But instead I say, “Never mind. So what did she say about him?”

“Apparently he and his sister are both at the school. Ronel says the dad isn’t around much. It’s usually the mom who comes to school functions and takes the kids to and from school. They’re divorced, you know.”

“Divorced?”

I write the word down with about five question marks after it. I hadn’t seen that one coming.

“Yes, they’ve been divorced for years.”

“But what does that mean? Do the kids live with him?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I wasn’t sure what you wanted to know. But I’d be surprised if they did. It’s usually the mom who gets the kids.”

“Well, I need to know for sure.”

I’m fired up with excitement. This is the guy who was going straight home after our interview to practise cricket with his son.

“Do you think Mrs Pieterse would mind if I phoned her at work? I really need to speak to her about this.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind at all. She’d love to hear from you.”

“But do you think she’ll answer my questions? I mean, this is pretty confidential stuff. I’m sure the admin staff aren’t supposed to talk about the students.”

My mom laughs. “This is Ronel Pieterse we’re talking about here, love. She’s not exactly a model of discretion. Just ask her. What’s the worst that can happen?”

She can say no, I think gloomily.

“I’ll phone her right now. Thanks, Mom. You’ve been a brilliant spy.”

Despite my mother’s assurances, I’m very hesitant to make the call. I cringe at the thought of Mrs Pieterse reacting with total outrage to my snooping. And maybe calling in the headmaster to give me a good talking to. Followed by detention.

Okay, I’m not at school any more. No one’s going to put me in detention.

“Brentwood College, good morning!” The familiar, singsong voice hasn’t changed at all.

“Hello, Mrs Pieterse. It’s Trinity Luhabe speaking.”

She sounds delighted to hear from me. We have a nice long chat about my family, her family, the school, and what I’m doing with myself these days. I listen with half an ear to her description of a recent swimming gala while I try to come up with a plausible cover story to explain why I need confidential student information from her.

It’s a matter of national security …

The Wessels family has won a trip to Disneyland. No, Eurodisney. No, Alton Towers…

I’m doing a survey about the effects of …

I suddenly realise that she’s stopped talking. There’s an expectant silence. She’s waiting for me to say something.

“I said, you must love working in radio,” she prompts.

“Oh, right, yes,” I babble. “Yes, it’s very interesting. Actually, I was hoping you might be able to help me with a news story I’m working on.”

“A news story?” She sounds impressed. “Well, I’ll certainly do my best.”

“It’s about the family you were telling my mom about the other day – the Wessels family?”

“Oh, yes! They’re lovely kids. The boy, Ignus Junior, is a real athlete. They’re a credit to the school.”

“Right …” I say, hesitantly. “So … do you happen to know … do the children live with their mother or their father?”

There’s a nerve-wracking pause. I’m half expecting her to refuse to answer. Or to report me to the Broadcasting Complaints Commission.

But a second later her voice chirps on, as cheerfully as ever, “Oh, they live with their mother, dear. Definitely. I know, because I always have to send a separate copy of their reports to their father. We don’t see much of him around here. I’ve heard he has a very demanding job. Finance, or something like that.”

Slowly, I release my breath – without even realising I’d been holding it. “So, have you ever actually met him? The father, I mean?”

“Ooh, no, I don’t think so. I’ve probably seen him once or twice, but not to speak to. He’s not in any trouble, is he?”

“No, not at all,” I say quickly. “It’s just a business story I’m working on.”

Which is true.

Monkey business, apparently.

I thank Mrs Pieterse profusely for her help and carefully replace the receiver.

Then I jump up and do a victory dance around the newsroom.

Ha!

This’ll show him. This’ll teach Farouk not to treat me like some dizzy amateur who doesn’t know what she’s doing. So I’m the victim of a “well-orchestrated publicity campaign” am I? Well, what does that make him? The victim of a liar, that’s what. A liar who shouts at waitresses.

Oh, I can’t wait to tell him. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I tell him the truth about his blue-eyed boy.

A couple of producers trickling through the newsroom are giving me funny looks, so I ditch the victory dance and sit down at my desk again.

Okay, let’s get a grip here. This has nothing whatsoever to do with Farouk. Not really. It has to do with my story, which seems to dissolve into mist and shadows the moment I think I’m getting a firm hold on it.

It’s nearly as bad as keeping track of Generations. The goodies keep turning into baddies, and then back into goodies again. I’m tempted to ask Barbara or one of the other senior journalists to help me out with this one. But I’m reluctant to admit that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ll try to figure it out on my own. I just need to decide what my next step should be.

*****

As the weekend draws closer, my chance to gloat at Farouk draws closer too. I’m looking forward to making him eat his words about Ajala.

Gemma and I have finally decided what we’re going to do this weekend.

She refused to let either Steph or me babysit her kids, but she didn’t want to call in a stranger either. So we’ve decided to stay in and have dinner at home instead. I volunteered our flat for the purpose, but wasn’t too upset when Gemma turned me down. I’d been having nightmares trying to work out where we were going to fit four adults and two small children into our tiny space.

In the end, they invited me for a braai on Saturday evening at Farouk’s place, which is where Gemma and Meriam are staying, anyway.

I’m secretly quite excited about this. I’ve been wondering for ages what kind of house Farouk has got for himself here in Joburg. This will be a great opportunity to check it out.

Now all I have to worry about is looking good. And by good, I mean gorgeous, sexy, stunning, irresistible and generally awesome. More awesome than a floaty-dressed English girl in a punt. Not that I want him back or anything, but he needs to know what he let slip through his fingers.

“How do I look?” I do a little twirl in front of Steph.

She looks at me thoughtfully from all angles.

This is what best friends are for. Knowing when you’re not just looking for reassurance, but really want to know what part of your outfit isn’t working.

“Your hair looks fantastic,” she says at last. “Did you have it blow-dried?”

I nod. There’s no point denying it. Steph knows I’m not that good with a hairdryer.

“Your dress is also great. Really pretty. But I’d wear it with the red-and-white ballet flats. Those heels look like you’re trying too hard.

I change my shoes and immediately see that she’s right.

“Okay, done. What else?”

“I’m not sure about the makeup. It’s a little …”

“Too much, isn’t it?”

“Mm, I’m afraid so. It would be fine if you were going out, but it’s a bit over the top for a quiet night in.”

I dash to the bathroom and get busy with a wet sponge. This is my classic fashion error. Whenever I’m nervous, I get heavy-handed with the makeup.

“Better?”

“Much better!” She smiles. “Have a lovely time.”

Even though she was invited, Steph isn’t coming along tonight – she claims to have a date.

I don’t believe her for a second. For one thing, she couldn’t tell me anything about her date except that he was “a guy”.

Well, duh.

And for another, she’s still in her dressing gown. The one she wears when she’s spending the night in with the Series Channel. I know what she’s thinking. She thinks if she doesn’t come along tonight, Farouk and I will spend more time “bonding” and “sorting out our issues”. Yeah. Not going to happen.

“Don’t forget the tipsy tarts,” she reminds me as I pick up my keys. “You wouldn’t want all your hours of effort to go to waste.”

“Ha, ha. At least they’re home-made. Just not by me.”

We each agreed to contribute something to the dinner to take the pressure off Farouk. I volunteered to bring dessert. After a fruitless hour spent scouring the Internet for easy, foolproof recipes, I totally caved in and asked my mom to make me a couple of her famous Cape brandy tarts. They look so divine I almost don’t trust myself alone in the car with them.

Steph waves me out the door like a fond mother.

I know she has high expectations for this dinner, but she’s just not being realistic. She can’t see why Farouk and I don’t pick up where we left off. But the reason we broke up in the first place is standing between us like a brick wall. And the fact that I still don’t know what that reason was makes the wall even higher. I gave him the chance to talk about it, and he chose not to take it. There’s no way I’m exposing myself to that again.

Besides, if I’m really honest, I know why he broke up with me. It’s not for some secret, mysterious reason. It’s because he didn’t care enough to keep us together. It’s the classic “He’s Just Not That Into You” scenario.

Being the person who cares more in a relationship is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I’m not putting myself through that again.

I’m going to this dinner tonight for old time’s sake – no other reason. My relationship with Farouk wasn’t just about us. It was about our friends and families too, and I owe it to them to be there. But my heart is staying under wraps, where it can’t get all battered and bruised again.

*****

The address I have for Farouk is in Parkview, about halfway up Westcliff hill.

I arranged with Gemma that I’d get there early so I could spend some time with the children before she puts them to bed.

As I turn into Farouk’s street, I can see immediately which house is his without even looking at the number. There’s an old cottage made of Westcliff stone that reminds me so much of the place he had in Grahamstown that I feel quite nostalgic looking at it. It even has a climbing rose growing across the palisade fence.

Farouk likes to live in houses with a history. His furniture, I know, will be comfortable rather than attractive, but that’s not nearly as important to him as living in a house with a story behind it.

I park my car next to the pavement and then ring the bell at the gate. When I hear a buzzing sound, I push the gate open with my foot because I’m carrying a tipsy tart in each hand. I walk down the paved path and wait at the front door, trying to ignore my heart knocking against my ribs.

The door opens and my expectant smile slips slightly.

It’s not Gemma.

Or Farouk.

It’s Meriam. She’s looking at me with a lugubrious expression. I’d forgotten what sad, Droopy Dawg eyes she has.

“Hi, Meriam!” I say as cheerfully as I can. “It’s been ages. How are you?”

She stares at me for a long, awkward moment, before suddenly coming to life.

“Hello, Trinity. We weren’t at all sure if you were coming.”

I put the tipsy tarts down on a table and step forward hesitantly. Do I shake her hand? Or give her a hug? After all, we were almost sisters-in-law once. She settles it for me by extending a thin hand to clasp mine briefly.

And what did she mean they weren’t sure whether I was coming? I confirmed with Gemma yesterday.

Meriam turns and walks into the house. I follow her, feeling memories rushing at me like bats. She always made me feel slightly inadequate, now that I come to think of it. She’s just so super-brainy and intimidating. She’s still only in her twenties, but she’s already cracked a senior lecturing post in anthropology at Maritzburg University.

Not that I have any objection to clever people. Steph is about as bright as you can get, but she never makes me feel like an idiot.

“Trinity!”

Gemma appears out of nowhere, almost knocking me over as she pulls me into a huge hug.

“It’s so fantastic to see you! You look wonderful. I love your dress.”

I hug her back, feeling a surge of relief. Now, this is more like it. This is how you greet a friend you haven’t seen in ages.

“You look even more fantastic,” I say as we break apart.

And she does. Gemma is my idea of what a real yummy mummy should look like. She’s tiny and gorgeous, and she’s wearing a pair of Victoria Beckham’s VDB jeans – she must be one of the few people on earth who can actually fit into them – with a cute strappy top. Steph’s wrong – you don’t have to look slutty to be a yummy mummy. You can look fresh and pretty like Gemma.

“Come outside,” Gemma says, tugging at my hand. “Farouk’s getting the braai started.”

I follow her out to a tree-shaded courtyard where Farouk is wielding a pair of braai tongs next to a Weber.

“Oh, my goodness!” I exclaim. “What a handsome beast!”

All three siblings turn to look at me in surprise.

“It must be my animal magnetism …” Farouk murmurs.

But he knows I’m not looking at him. My attention is focused at his feet, where a black cat is winding its way between his ankles.

“You’re gorgeous.” I bend down to stroke the cat. “What’s its name? How long have you had it?”

“A few months, now. He just adopted me. He walked in one day and wouldn’t leave. I’ve called him Couscous.”

“Couscous?”

“Yes, because he comes when you call his name – or at least, he does when he feels like it.”

“Couscous,” I say, bending down and holding out my hand. “Couscous!”

Sure enough, the cat immediately abandons Farouk’s ankles and starts winding his way around mine.

“Oh, he’s lovely. It’s lucky you didn’t have him while we were still together. I would definitely have demanded custody.”

Farouk looks a bit bemused. “Right …”

I can feel my cheeks heating up, so I bend down to stroke Couscous again. When am I going to learn to stop saying stuff like that out loud?

“Thanks so much for these,” Gemma says, indicating the tipsy tarts. “I’ll just take them through to the kitchen. They look delicious.”

“Wait, I’ll come with you.” I follow her to the kitchen at a speed-walk. “Where are the children? I’ve been dying to see them. Ah … never mind.”

I’ve just spotted two pairs of soulful dark eyes watching me from around a corner. They disappear as soon as they realise they’ve been seen. I hear giggling and the sound of thundering footsteps.

“Come and say hi to Trinity, guys,” Gemma calls. There’s a long pause, and then two little faces shyly reappear.

“Hi, Jack,” I say with a smile. “Hi, Amira.”

“Do you remember Trinity from the last time we came to Joburg?” Gemma asks. They both look completely blank and I feel a strange little pang. Not that I really expected them to remember me. Not really. I mean it was more than two years ago that Gemma and her husband visited Joburg one Christmas. That’s half of Amira’s entire lifetime.

It’s just that I once thought these children would be in my life for ever. I never dreamt I’d ever become a stranger to Farouk’s niece and nephew.

“Trinity sent you the helicopter for your birthday, remember?” Gemma prompts Jack. “And Amira, she gave you your fairy wings.”

A light seems to come on in the children’s eyes. Without a word, they wheel around and dash off down the passage to where the bedrooms must be. When they come back a few moments later, Jack is flying the helicopter over his head and Amira has put the wings on her back and is waving her arms about in what looks like a desperate attempt to take off.

I get down on the sitting room floor with them and we soon begin a complicated game. Amira and I are fairy maidens in distress who keep getting kidnapped by bad guys, and are then rescued by Jack in his helicopter.

Gemma takes the opportunity to put a curried bean salad together in the kitchen while we play. Farouk is busy with the fire and Meriam wanders in and out, casting dark looks at the three of us romping on the floor.

I could almost swear she doesn’t like me. But I’m not going to let paranoia get the better of me. She just has an unfortunate manner. It probably has nothing to do with me personally.

As soon as Gemma has finished the salad, she comes through to the sitting room and fixes me with a beady eye.

“Trinity …” she says casually. “Why don’t you go and give Farouk a hand with the fire?”

I glance through the window at Farouk, who is sucking on a beer and staring into space, the tongs hanging limply at his side.

“I don’t know, Gem. He seem to be doing fine on his own.”

“No, really. He looks like he needs help. Especially if we’re going to get the kids fed and bathed at a reasonable hour.”

“Leave her alone, Gemma,” Meriam says sharply. I hadn’t even heard her come into the room. “Farouk’s got everything under control. He doesn’t need anyone’s help.”

“Well, just go out and talk to him, then. He looks so lonely out there all on his own, don’t you think? He’s only got Couscous to keep him company.”

“Gemma …” I groan.

“What?” she says innocently.

I grimace.

But what I want to say is that if Farouk had the slightest desire to talk to me he’d have come inside long ago. Instead, he’s been keeping himself strictly to himself, as though the fire might rage out of control if he left it alone for five minutes.

Of course, I don’t want it to look as though I’ve been keeping tabs on him. So all I say is, “I just wanted to spend some time with the kids.” I turn to them and smile, “And we’ve been having a great time together, haven’t we, guys?”

I look appealingly at Jack and Amira, who immediately reward my devotion by leaping to their feet and barrelling out into the courtyard squealing, “Let’s go talk to Uncle Farouk!”

Amira is heading straight for the fire with her hands outstretched, so Gemma darts after her, leaving me alone with Meriam.

I give an embarrassed smile.

“Honestly.” I get up off the floor, shaking my head. “Could she be any more obvious?”

“Gemma does what she thinks is right,” Meriam says stiffly.

She stares at me for a long moment, her expression hard to read. She opens her mouth as though she’s about to say something. Then she closes it again.

I smile at her encouragingly. Maybe this is our breakthrough moment. Maybe we’ll finally open up to each other and start becoming real friends.

“Trinity …” she says hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“Could I ask you to do something for me?”

“Of course!” I say brightly. “Anything. Just name it.” This is perfect! She wants me to do her a favour. She doesn’t hate me after all.

“Could you please stop chasing after my brother?”