The family I’m baby-sitting for are called the Richardsons. It takes me fifteen minutes to walk to their house. I arrive with a bit of time to spare, so I perch on the garden wall for a minute to catch my breath.

I still find it completely charming that Grahamstown houses have walls low enough to sit on. Where I come from, you’d need an eight-foot ladder to get on top of most of the walls, and even then you’d probably get zapped by an electric fence.

I’ve worked for the Richardsons once before, so I know exactly what kind of evening to expect. I’ll be run off my feet until about eight o’clock, but then I’ll have a peaceful time until the parents get home. They have two adorable little boys, aged two and four. Their names are Kieran and Jared. They can be quite a handful if you don’t know how to handle them, but luckily I know exactly how to deal with them.

I give the brass doorknocker a couple of taps and Mr Richardson lets me in. I spot Kieran and Jared peeking out at me from behind his legs so I sweep them up into a big hug and settle down on the living room carpet to play Lego with them. Mr Richardson watches the rugby highlights on Supersport over the tops of our heads.

A few minutes later I hear a sound in the doorway and look up, expecting to see Mrs Richardson. Instead there’s a skinny guy with acne staring down at me. He comes into the room and slouches on the sofa.

‘Oh, sorry,’ says Mr Richardson, noticing him for the first time. ‘Trinity, this is my cousin Dave who’s staying with us for a few nights. Dave, this is Trinity Luhabe who’s baby-sitting for us tonight.’

I smile and say, ‘Hi!’ But all I get in return is a nod and a grunt. When I turn back to the kids to carry on with our game, I feel a prickly feeling at the back of my neck, as though he’s still watching me.

At last, Mrs Richardson also appears. She’s rubbing her forefinger nervously over her teeth to get rid of lipstick stains.

‘Do I look all right?’ she asks anxiously.

‘Fine,’ says her husband, without taking his eyes off the television screen.

She rolls her eyes at him and turns to me. ‘What do you think, Trinity?’

‘Erm …’

For a second I can’t think of anything to say.

She looks like a car crash. She’s wearing grey tracksuit bottoms that have gone all shiny at the knees, a pair of woolly socks with slip-on sandals, and a beaded black V-neck top that was last fashionable in the mid-nineties, which is probably also when it last fitted her.

‘You look fine!’ I say quickly. After all, it’s no business of mine if she wants to go out in public looking like that. But she’s noticed my hesitation and now looks as though she wants to burst into tears.

‘I’ve got nothing to wear!’ she says in a wobbly voice. ‘Literally nothing. What am I going to do?’

‘Everyone’s got something to wear,’ I say encouragingly. ‘It’s just a question of putting it all together.’

‘Nothing fits me anymore!’ she wails.

Okay, I know I should stay out of this, but I can’t resist. I just love doing makeovers.

‘Do you want me to come and have a quick look?’ I ask casually.

‘Would you really?’ she says eagerly. ‘That’d be great. I’m at my wits’ end. It’s got to the point where I dread going out at night.’

I scramble to my feet.

‘I’ll come right now. How about you guys?’ I ask the boys. ‘Do you want to come to the bedroom with us, or do you want to stay here?’

The little one, Jared, immediately lifts up his arms and says, ‘Up!’ But his older brother is happy to stay in the living room and play with his Lego. I scoop Jared into my arms and follow his mom through to her bedroom where the mound of clothes lying on her bed tells me that she’s already tried on about a million things.

She swings open her cupboard doors and points dramatically at the jumble of clothes inside. ‘There! You see? I told you I’ve got nothing to wear.’

I must admit that at first glance it doesn’t look very promising. I mentally discard her depressing collection of baggy tracksuit bottoms and oversized tops. Shifting Jared onto my hip, I slide the coat hangers along until I come to a section in the corner that looks as though it hasn’t been disturbed in ages.

‘These are quite nice,’ I say, pulling out an unstructured linen jacket and a pair of black jeans. ‘Do you maybe have a tank top or a lacy camisole or something to go with them?’

‘Oh, those are my old work clothes,’ she says, sounding surprised. ‘I haven’t worn them since I had Kieran. I’d almost forgotten they were there. But you can forget about those jeans. They definitely don’t fit me anymore. I won’t even be able to do up the top button.’

‘Then we’ll tie them together with a piece of string and pull your top down to cover it,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s not like I’ve got a lot to work with here.’

I choose a pink tank top from one of the shelves and toss it onto the bed. Then I find a pair of plain black pumps with a low heel. They’re not exactly glamorous, but they’ll be smart and comfortable.

‘Let’s see how you look in these.’

She starts stripping off her clothes. By this time, Kieran has also wandered down the passage to see what we’re up to. The three of us watch in silence while she crams herself into the clothes I’ve put out for her. I avert my eyes delicately from her sagging tummy, and make a solemn vow to myself that I will to do a hundred sit-ups a day when I have a baby. No way am I going to let myself go like this.

‘Mommy’s got a jiggly tummy!’ squeals Kieran, rushing up and wobbling the flap of skin hanging over her jeans. I have to bite the insides of my cheeks very hard to stop myself from laughing.

When she is all dressed, I redo her makeup to emphasise her eyes more, and tone down her cheeks and lips. Then I remove the amethyst pendant I’m wearing around my neck and sling it over her head.

‘What’s this?’ she asks in surprise.

‘I want you to borrow it for tonight. It really pulls your whole outfit together. Now come and look at yourself in the mirror. Isn’t that a lot better?’

She nods and smiles.

‘Good. I can’t wait to show Mr Richardson.’

‘Don’t waste your time,’ she sighs. ‘He never notices what I look like. Ever since I had the kids, it’s like I’ve become invisible to him.’

‘Well … let’s show him anyway. He might surprise us.’
We go back into the living room where the boys fall on their Lego as though they haven’t seen it in days. Mr Richardson glances up from the TV.

‘Are you ready yet?’ he asks impatiently. Then he stops and looks at his wife again.

‘Hey!’ he says in a different tone of voice. ‘Now that looks nice. That looks very nice.’ He gets up and comes over to give her a peck on the cheek. She blushes like a schoolgirl.

When they leave a few minutes later, they’re holding hands.

I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy inside as I wave them out the door. But then the boys threaten to start crying, so I quickly distract them with a game.

Every time I look up, I catch Cousin Dave watching me. I thought he was going out too, but apparently not. It’s a bit unnerving to have him skulking around like this, scratching at his pimples and watching every move I make, but there’s not much I can do about it. Maybe he’ll go out later.

The next hour is an action-packed whirlwind of getting the kids ready for bed.

I have to heat up their Spaghetti Bolognese and make sure they don’t pick out all the vegetables. I have to run their bath, adding about a gallon of bubble bath and a ton of toys. I have to read them three bedtime stories, take them to the loo, give them lots of hugs and kisses. And finally turn the lights out.

But that’s not the end of it either, because they promptly call me back in again for more drinks of water and final goodnight kisses.

By ten to eight, it’s all over and they are finally asleep. I sink wearily into an armchair. Cousin Dave has disappeared, thank goodness, so I have the TV to myself. I spend a few minutes flicking through the channels before giving up in disgust. Why is Friday night TV so crap?

Because most sensible people go out on a Friday night, I suppose. As I would be doing too if I didn’t need to fund my shopping addiction. I sigh and slip down in my chair until I’m comfortably horizontal. Then I close my eyes and let my mind drift into one of my favourite fantasies …

In this fantasy, a scientific experiment has gone wrong, causing me to be flooded by waves of super brainpower. Overnight, I become hugely brainy.

Suddenly I find that I can zip through my assignments at super speed, and still have time for all the stuff I love doing, like shopping and going out. Each essay takes me about thirty minutes to write. Or even less. And I get firsts for all of them. Everyone is astounded at my sudden brilliance. They say I must be a late bloomer, and marvel at all the latent brainpower I’ve been carrying around inside me for years.
My old teachers from school realise how wrong they’ve always been about me. My tutors beg me to put myself up for the Rhodes Scholarship. They say things like, ‘I was really fascinated by your application of Newtonian physics to Yeats’ poetry. Would you care to discuss it further over a cappuccino?’

And then while we’re drinking coffee, our hands reach for the sugar bowl at the same time, and our fingers brush against each other … and stop … and our eyes meet, and he says …

I come to with a slight start of surprise as I realise that the person I’m imagining in this scenario is Farouk van der Linde.

Where did that come from?

Oh well, I shrug. Might as well go with it.

I close my eyes again and try to recapture the fantasy. I’ve just got to the part where my hand is trapped like a fluttering bird in his strong clasp when I get that creepy, prickling feeling again.

I open my eyes and give a little shriek. Cousin Dave is looming over me, smirking down at my cleavage.

‘Do you want to play strip poker?’

I struggle up into a sitting position and quickly do up the top button on my blouse.

‘Do I want to play what?’

‘Strip poker. I’m a really good player. I like your outfit, by the way. It’s kind of kinky – like a strict governess.’

‘My outfit is not kinky!’ I say indignantly.

‘So do you want to play or what?’

‘Let me see …’ I put my finger to my temple and pretend to think hard. ‘Do I want to take all my clothes off in front of a total stranger, with two small children sleeping in the next room? Hmm … tough call. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.’

‘Is that a “no”?’

‘Of course, it’s a bloody “no”!’

I brush past him and go into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. I switch the kettle on and drum my fingers crossly on the counter while I wait for it to heat up.

I’m feeling a bit ruffled. I don’t like the way Cousin Dave looks at me. I don’t like the way he invades my space. And I really don’t like the way he assumes that I might say yes to strip poker.

I’m all alone in the house with him, I realise suddenly. Except for the kids, of course, and they don’t count. In fact, they make it even worse because I’m so aware of trying not to disturb them.

I glance at my watch. It’s a quarter to nine. The last time I babysat for the Richardsons, they got home just after nine. The longer they stay out, the more money I make. But still – I wouldn’t be too upset if they were to walk in right now.

The kettle clicks itself off. I drop a teabag into a mug and start pouring boiling water over it. My mind is a million miles away when I suddenly feel a hand cupping my left butt cheek. I scream and spill hot water onto my wrist.

‘Ouch!’ I rush to the sink and hold my wrist under cold running water. ‘Fuck! What did you do that for?’

‘Just being friendly,’ Cousin Dave says sulkily.

‘I was holding a kettle full of boiling water, you idiot!’

‘I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.’

‘But you touched me! Did I say you could touch me? Did I give you permission to touch me? I don’t think so.’

Oh for goodness sake. I don’t believe this! He’s closing in on me again. Now he’s putting his arms around me, and trying to kiss me.

‘Give us a kiss,’ he urges, his breath hot and stale against my face. ‘Come on – just one kiss.’

‘Get off me!’

I push him away with all my strength, but he’s got me pinned against the sink.

‘Just one kiss.’ He’s panting slightly. ‘One kiss, or I’ll … I’ll …’

‘Or you’ll what?’ I demand.

‘I’ll tell my cousin you brought your boyfriend in here tonight.’

I finally manage to break free with a huge shove against his chest. ‘So tell him!’ I spit back. ‘Do you think I’d kiss you just to save my job? Think again, asshole.’

He grabs me again before I can sidestep. This time his hands are all over me. On my boobs. On my waist. On my bum.
Okay. This has seriously gone far enough.

When I turned sixteen my mother send me for self-defence classes at our local church. I learned a couple of useful things. Like the knee to the groin, and the heel of the hand to the base of the nose.

Five seconds later Cousin Dave is lying on the kitchen floor, curled up in the foetal position, groaning and spouting blood all over the tiles.

‘Fuckid bidge,’ he says when he manages to catch his breath. ‘Fuckid bidge broag by dose.’

I hand him a wad of roller towel to stop the bleeding. ‘It’s not broken,’ I say calmly. ‘But it will be if you try anything like that again.’

‘What on earth?’

Cousin Dave and I nearly jump out of our skins. The Richardsons are back and we didn’t even hear them come in the front door.

‘What happened to you?’ Mrs Richardson says, hurrying over to him.

‘Id was her!’ he glares at me over the roller towel. ‘She … ‘

‘It was the funniest thing,’ I interrupt smoothly. ‘Dave was just bending down to tie up his shoe lace when he smashed his nose on the granite counter. Didn’t you, Dave?’

‘I …’

‘I caught the whole thing on my cellphone camera.’ I say, pointing to my phone, which is lying next to the kettle. ‘The whole thing,’ I add significantly.

Dave looks at me, and then at the phone, and then back at me again.

He thinks I’m bluffing. I can see it in his face. But he’s not completely sure.

‘Didn’t you, Dave?’ I say again.

His shoulders sag and he breaks eye contact. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, I did.’

Tell us: How would you have handled the situation?