To: tluhabe@heatmail.com
From: fvdlinde@rhodes.ac.za
Subject: Dinner?

Dear Trinity

I hope you are well, and that you had a good Christmas.

I have a favour to ask.

I need to go through some unfinished business with you in connection with the disciplinary hearing. I was hoping you might let me take you out to dinner to discuss it. I’m coming up to Joburg this week, but will unfortunately only be staying for two nights – Wednesday, 30 December and Thursday, 31 December.

I know you probably have plans for New Year’s Eve, so Wednesday might suit you better. It’s entirely up to you.

I look forward to hearing from you.

All the best
Farouk

*****

To: fvdlinde@rhodes.ac.za
From: tluhabe@heatmail.com
Subject: Re: Dinner?

Dear Farouk

New Year’s Eve would be fine. Where should I meet you and what time?

Trinity

*****

Oh God.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God!

What is this? What does it mean?

Farouk wants to take me out to dinner.

On New Year’s Eve.

To discuss ‘unfinished business’ about the disciplinary hearing.

What unfinished business? I thought the whole thing was done and dusted.

And when I asked him where we should meet, he just said he would come and pick me up, and that he’d made dinner reservations at the Westcliff.

The Westcliff!

I wonder if he has the faintest idea what they charge per head for their New Year’s Eve dinner-dance.

Oh, well. That’s not my problem. My task is clear – to look as hot as humanly possible.

I snap my laptop shut, and pound up the stairs to my bedroom. I fling open all the cupboard doors and start pawing anxiously through my clothes. Is my existing wardrobe up to this emergency, or do I have to go shopping? A bit of both, I decide eventually. I already have the perfect little black dress, but it’s crying out for new shoes and accessories.

The problem with living at home is that there is literally nobody I can ask for fashion advice.

My dad and brothers are completely clueless, of course, and Mom isn’t much better. If I wanted to know what to wear to a protest march, she’d be the first person I’d turn to. But when it comes to choosing an outfit for a New Year’s Eve dinner date at the Westcliff, well, I’m going to need some expert advice.

So when I get back from shopping the next day, I set up my webcam and call Steph on Skype. It’s so reassuring to see her friendly face pop up on the screen that I immediately start to relax.

‘Hi, sweetie!’ she says cheerfully, not looking at all like a girl who just broke up with her boyfriend. ‘Did you go to Rage? Were the shoes you wanted still there?’

‘Yes, thank goodness,’ I say, holding up a shoebox to the camera.

‘Excellent.’

Webcams are just the best invention. Steph and I each bought one when we realised that not being able to talk face-to-face was driving us crazy. I mean, what’s the point of telling her I found a stunning new lipstick at Red Square when I can’t actually show it to her?

Steph swings her feet up onto her desk and takes a sip of what looks like a mojito.

‘Put the dress on first,’ she instructs. ‘Then we’ll start accessorising.’

‘Okay.’ I scramble out of my jeans. ‘There’s a 40 percent chance of rain tomorrow night. I hope I won’t need a raincoat or anything.’

‘We’ll worry about that later. The first thing we need to decide is what kind of look you’re going for. Sexy and available? Sexy, but unavailable? Cool businesswoman who is so over the whole university thing?’

‘Those all sound pretty good,’ I say, dithering. ‘I just don’t want him to think I’ve misunderstood what this dinner is all about.’

‘What is it all about, anyway?’

‘I have no idea. Something to do with the disciplinary hearing.’

‘Hmm.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t buy it,’ she says with a frown. ‘If it were just a matter of wrapping up some loose ends, he could have done that over the phone. No, this is something more. This means something.’

‘Like what?’

‘I have no idea,’ she admits, disappointingly. ‘You’ll just have to keep an open mind.’

******

When the doorbell finally rings on New Year’s Eve, I’m such a wreck that I nearly smudge my make-up.

I’ve spent ages debating whether to be waiting at the door, ready to fling it open the moment he rings, or waiting upstairs, ready to make a grand entrance.

As it turns out, I’m still upstairs, but only because I can’t seem to decide which lipstick to wear.

I’m quite relieved that Farouk came all the way up to the door and didn’t just park in the driveway and hoot. My old boyfriend Munashe tried that once – and only once – when we were in matric. I’ve kind of blanked the details out of my memory, but I seem to recall Dad storming out of the house in his paisley dressing gown to deliver a loud and embarrassing lecture on manners.

Poor old Munashe sat quivering in his Uno, stammering, ‘Yes Sir, No Sir, Three bags full, Sir.’ To this day he still claims to be traumatised by the sight of large, bald African men.

So all in all I’m quite pleased that Farouk has taken the trouble to get out of his car and come up to the front door. Now it’s just a question of how fast I can get him out of my parents’ clutches and back into the car again.

This shouldn’t be too difficult with Dad – he’s not particularly curious about Farouk. But Mom’s radar is beeping like crazy. I haven’t told her much about him (let’s face it – there’s not much to tell), but she knows something’s up.

I strain my ears to catch what they’re saying downstairs, but I can’t hear a thing.

Dad has the TV on full blast in the lounge. There’s some special New Year’s Eve charity soccer match on this evening. Bafana Bafana are playing someone or other. Egypt, I think. So of course Dad and my brothers are completely glued to the screen.

Okay, I can’t hang around up here all night. I’m going down those stairs right now.

I head for the entrance hall, expecting to find Farouk and my mom standing around, making awkward conversation. But there’s no one there. So I follow the sound of voices and finally track them down to the kitchen.

Mom is standing at the counter, faffing about with one of her homemade milk tarts. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are sparkling. Farouk is sitting at the kitchen table (looking rather delicious in a jacket and tie, I can’t help noticing). As I watch, he accepts a slice of milk tart from her with a smile.

‘Dankie, Tannie,’ he says, with a perfect Afrikaans accent. ‘Mm! Dit lyk lekker.’

My mother is melting. All the Pietersburg farm girl in her is coming to the fore. You can literally see it welling up to the surface as he charms her half to death.

I clear my throat loudly, and they both jump.

‘Oh, there you are, darling,’ Mom says, sounding a bit flustered. ‘Would you like a piece of milk tart?’

‘We’re going out to dinner, Mom,’ I say pointedly. ‘No one wants a piece of milk tart when they’re about to eat a five-course dinner.’

‘Well, he looked hungry,’ Mom says defensively.

We both turn to look at Farouk who is calmly scooping up every last crumb of his tart as though it’s the most normal appetiser in the world. When he’s finished, he takes his plate to the sink and gives it a quick wash.

‘Delicious, thanks,’ he pronounces.

Then he turns to me. ‘Hello, Trinity.’

Before I know what to expect, he leans in and gives me a peck on the cheek. It’s a completely formal gesture – more like a handshake than a kiss – but it leaves me feeling quite breathless.

As we walk out of the kitchen, I notice a distinct tendency on Farouk’s part to gravitate towards the sound of the soccer match on television. It’s almost as though the floor is actually tipping him in that direction.

‘Would you like to check on the score before we go?’ I ask politely.

He gives me a grateful smile and shoots into the lounge at approximately the speed of light.

Dad, Caleb, and Aaron are all riveted to the screen. Farouk slips into an empty armchair and a series of grunts goes around the room, which I take to be the male equivalent of, ‘Hello’ and, ‘How are you?’

Mom and I stand in the doorway, sighing a bit and rolling our eyes. I’m not really into sport, and she only watches rugby and cricket.

Anyway, it can’t be long to go now. It looks like they’re in the eighty-ninth minute, and aren’t soccer matches only supposed to be ninety minutes long? The score is still tied at nil-nil, which means it’s hardly been an action-packed game.

And then, in the dying seconds of the match, it happens. One of the Bafana players – a guy with bleached blonde dreadlocks – intercepts the ball and slams it into the back of the Egyptian goal. The ref blows the final whistle, and it’s all over. South Africa has won.

The stadium erupts, and so does our living room.

Dad, Farouk, Caleb and Aaron are all on their feet doing a war dance and high-fiving each other. Then they fall immediately into an animated discussion about how right the selectors were to pick that particular player for the squad.

I’m forced to clear my throat again very loudly. Honestly. Who has Farouk come to visit? Me or my family?

******

We don’t talk much during the drive to the hotel.

But as we swing through the entrance gates and the porter waves us towards the covered parking, Farouk turns to me with a wry smile.

‘This little rented Fiesta is a tad out of place here, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘I feel like we should be arriving in a huge Merc or something.’

‘Or a Hummer,’ I agree.

‘How about a stretch limo?’

‘No, wait – a bright red Lamborghini,’ I say firmly. ‘And I should be wearing a Hermes headscarf and Jackie O sunglasses.’

We laugh, and I feel myself starting to relax.

‘You look nice,’ Farouk says, as we settle into the little two-man buggy that’s going to take us up the steep hill to where the restaurant sits perched halfway up the cliff.

‘Thanks.’

I must admit I’m feeling pretty confident about my outfit. I’m wearing the little black dress with strappy sandals and a tiny silver wrap to keep the night air out. We went with tanzanite earrings in the end, and Steph made me pin my hair up in a dozen different ways until we found a look that sent just the right ‘sophisticated, but fun’ message.

Still, it’s nice that he noticed.

The restaurant is lovely. I’ve been here before for family occasions, but I’ve never noticed how romantic it was. All the doors onto the balcony are open, and we can see the lights of the northern suburbs twinkling away beneath us.

We’re the youngest people in the restaurant by quite a long shot, and also the only table for two. The waiter has put us in a cosy, leafy corner with a wonderful view over the terrace.

He asks us what we’d like to drink. I’m debating between a Tab and a lime and soda when Farouk says, ‘What about some champagne? It’s New Year’s Eve, after all.’

So ten minutes later, I find myself with a glass of Villiera Tradition in one hand, clinking glasses with the guy I’ve been losing sleep over for a whole year.

If this isn’t a date, it’s the most romantic non-date I’ve ever been on.

I take a sip and close my eyes, savouring the moment. I wish the whole evening could be as lovely and relaxed as this. But there are questions that have been scratching away inside me for days. I take another sip for courage.
‘So,’ I say lightly. ‘The disciplinary hearing …?’

Farouk stops smiling and puts down his champagne glass. When he looks up again, his eyes are dark and serious. He looks so grave that I feel a huge thud of alarm. What can have happened? What does he have to tell me?

‘They haven’t … changed their minds, have they?’ I ask faintly

This makes him smile. ‘No, they haven’t changed their minds. I don’t think they’re allowed to do that. Once you’ve been acquitted, you stay acquitted.’

I sink back in my chair in relief.

‘So if they haven’t changed their minds, what was it that you needed to see me about?’

His skin darkens slightly. Is he blushing?

‘Okay,’ he says, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘Confession time. I made it sound more urgent than it was. I thought you might not agree to have dinner with me unless I made it sound like a meeting. The truth is … I just wanted to see you again. There are things I want to say to you, and I couldn’t take the chance that you might brush me off … as you had every right to do.’

I’m staring intently at my wineglass, hardly able to look him in the face.

‘What kind of things?’

He stretches out a hand and lays it briefly on my wrist. It’s a reassuring gesture rather than a romantic one, but my heart flutters anyway.

‘I wanted to thank you for testifying for me at the inquiry,’ he says. ‘I know it was your evidence that convinced them once and for all that nothing had been going on between us. But I still feel bad for having dragged you into it.’

‘Thanks,’ I say doubtfully. ‘But in a way, I was the one who dragged you into it. Sophie brought the charge against you to get back at me.’

‘It all depends on how you look at it, I guess.’

‘Well, whichever way you look at it, she’s the one who should be saying sorry.’

‘Let’s not ask for miracles here,’ he laughs. ‘She was officially reprimanded by Professor Ncuba, remember? And that’s about the best we could have hoped for.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘But that’s not all I wanted to say.’
The waiter comes forward to take our order, but retreats quickly when he sees the intense look on Farouk’s face.

‘I want to apologise,’ he says after a moment. ‘I’ve been wanting to apologise for a while actually. For … for my Mr Darcy moment, as you so correctly described it. I was stupid and arrogant, and I didn’t treat you with the respect you deserve.’ He exhales sharply. ‘I think I’ve been in academia too long. It totally messes up your perspective.’

‘And leaves you with no clue how to ask a girl out,’ I can’t resist adding.

This makes him grin slightly.

‘And leaves you with no clue how to ask a girl out,’ he agrees. ‘I really fucked up badly that evening, didn’t I? All I can say is, the things I said that night don’t reflect the way I think of you at all. I just hope tonight can be my chance to prove that I’m not quite such an arrogant prat as I made myself out to be.’

He looks up at me hopefully.

I’m silent for a moment. Then I raise my glass.

‘To starting over.’

He touches his glass to mine.

‘To starting over,’ he says with relief.

The waiter comes forward to take our order.

******

This has been one of the best nights of my life.

We’ve eaten a five-course dinner. We’ve polished off a bottle and a half of champagne. We’ve laughed, and we’ve talked.

Boy, have we talked.

It’s like someone has opened the floodgates. The words have been pouring out of us all night. We’ve covered his childhood, my childhood, his family, my family, plus all our dreams and ambitions. We’ve talked about politics and history, and books and movies. He may seem all serious and intense, but tonight he has made me laugh until my tummy hurts. And I’ve discovered something that makes me secretly proud – I have the knack of making him laugh too.

It’s nearly midnight now, which means we’ve been gabbling away for almost four hours. But it feels as if we’ve barely scratched the surface. There’s still so much I want to say to him, so much I want to ask him. It feels as if fifty years wouldn’t be long enough for everything we have to say to each other.

The only topic we haven’t covered so far – in fact, the only topic we’ve steered well away from – is what happens next year.

Maybe that’s because we both already know the answer.

I think of Steph and Paul, who were inseparable for months, deciding to call it quits just because they’ll be living in different cities. How much more ridiculous would it be for us to try to keep something alive based on one night?

But I’m trying very hard not to think about that right now. And for the most part, I’m succeeding.

‘Let’s dance,’ Farouk says suddenly.

‘Sure.’

I put my glass down and look around. I realise with a slight sense of surprise that the dance floor has been full for quite a while now. Normally I’m the first person to stand up when the music starts, but somehow I’ve been so wrapped up in our conversation, I barely noticed the dancing.

Mind you, the band hasn’t exactly been playing my kind of music.

There’s a slow, romantic number on the go now. I definitely recognise it, but can’t think of the name.

‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,’ Farouk says, reading my mind as we turn to face each other on the dance floor. ‘My Ouma’s favourite. Sorry – this isn’t exactly the most hip and happening New Year’s Eve party I could have taken you to.’

I let him take me in his arms.

‘It’s perfect,’ I say sincerely. ‘Absolutely perfect.’

I love the way our bodies fit together. How can something be so heart-stoppingly exciting and yet so completely familiar at the same time? I feel as though this is where I belong – as though I have finally come home.

As we sway in time to the music, I’m dizzy with champagne and excitement. A tiny part of my brain is registering that Farouk is not the best dance partner I’ve ever had. But somehow, I couldn’t care less. He’s not the worst either. And besides, the coolest dancer I know also happens to be gay. My days of looking out for the best, the coolest, the richest, and the most ambitious seem very far away now.

I lean my head against Farouk’s chest and listen to the strong, slow thump of his heart.

Then suddenly everyone is erupting into cheers all around us. People are screaming, ‘Happy new year!’ and kissing each other. The band has segued into a version of Auld Lang Syne.

It’s next year already.

Farouk gently tips my chin up with his forefinger, and leans in to kiss me. I can still feel his heart under my hand, but it’s not slow and steady any more, it’s beating just as wildly as mine.

His kiss is the sweetest thing I have ever known, but doesn’t last nearly long enough. He lets go of me gently, leaving me feeling shaky and forlorn. Then he takes my hand and leads me back to the table.

I think he is going to let go of my hand when we sit down, but he doesn’t. Instead he keeps it clasped warmly in his. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a long white envelope.

‘I’ve got something for you.’

‘What is it?’ I ask, dreamily.

‘It’s your exam results.’

I feel as if someone has tipped a bucket of ice-cold water over my head. For a moment I think I am going to faint. I had forgotten that such a thing as exam results even existed. And this is not the moment I would have chosen to be reminded of them.

‘They were posted on Tuesday,’ Farouk is saying calmly, as though he hasn’t just placed a ticking time bomb on the table. ‘But I thought I’d give yours to you personally. I hope you don’t think I was taking a liberty.’

My throat is so dry I can hardly speak. I have to swallow several times before my voice starts to work.

‘Do you …’ I croak. ‘Do you … know what I got?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ he says with a smile. ‘We’re not really allowed to look, you know. I know what you got for English because I’m in the department, but that’s all.’

He glances at the envelope on the table, but I still don’t take it. I’m staring at it as though it’s about to explode at any moment and splatter me with acid. Why did he have to do this tonight? Why tonight?

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ he asks curiously.

‘I’m … thinking about it.’

Suddenly I can’t wait any longer. I have to get this over with.

My hand shoots out and I rip the envelope open like a mad woman. I pluck at the folded-up piece of paper inside, my fingers trembling so badly that they can barely function.

Then I smooth it out. And I look at it.

And my face breaks into a smile that it will wear for many weeks to come.

Tell us: What do you think it says?