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FOR LOVE OR MONEY
Just call me Cinderella! I spend my days with a broom in my hand, just like that chick in the fairy tale. Sweeping, sweeping, that’s me! Mostly hair-cuttings and braid-ends and curler papers.
Also like that Cinderella chick, I am really pretty. I’m not being vain, I promise. It’s the truth. I can see it every time I look in a mirror. And here at Top-Knot Hair Salon, there are mirrors everywhere.
I have wonderful curves in all the right places, high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Plus a supermodel smile that dents the sides of my mouth with the cutest dimples. What can I say? Gorgeous!
Well, Cinderella in the fairy tale grabbed her Prince Charming. That’s my plan too. I’m on a mission to catch my very own Prince Charming – someone young and handsome and rich. Especially rich!
My Auntie Sizi always told me, “Zonke, my girl, you must marry for money. Forget about love! Love doesn’t last, but money does. Love can hurt you, but money never will. Are you hearing me, my angel girl? You must make that beautiful face of yours work for you.”
That’s why I took this job at Top-Knot. We have plenty of rich clients, from Bishopscourt, from Constantia, from Hout Bay. They pitch here in their designer clothes with their Audis and big fat SUVs parked outside. Some of them even have chauffeurs who sit and wait for them! Imagine!
It’s just a pity that most of our clients are women. Demanding women! “Zonke, dahling, get me a cappuccino, will you? Fresh milk foam, mind!”
So I have to leave my broom and hair-clippings and head for the kitchen. But Madame Le Champs, the French boss-lady, says, “Zonke, whatever zey want, zey must get. Only zee best for zee clients. Oui?”
Oui is French for ‘yes’ but you pronounce it ‘wee’, like you need the toilet. Not very posh! But she is very French, my boss-lady. I love the way she speaks.
We have some male clients, like the bank manager. But he is old and keeps showing pictures of his grandchildren. There’s a karate instructor too. But he doesn’t seem to like women. Still, I have high hopes that my Prince Charming will appear some day.
On Thursday, Mrs Magaba from Constantia kept staring at me in the mirror while I swept. Then she said, “Zonke, you are really beautiful. I must bring my son Sipho to meet you. He is very shy, but very sweet. Yes, I am sure you two will like each other.” Mrs Magaba has lots of money. She is a University of Cape Town lecturer. Her husband is a famous brain surgeon at Groote Schuur Hospital.
And then on Friday morning, the best thing happened. Mrs Windsor came in for her ten o’clock tint. And she gave me a ticket to some exclusive art exhibition. “You go along, Zonke. It’s for some hot local artist. Very upmarket. By invitation only. All the rich and famous will be there.”
So! Friday evening I’m heading for this art gallery. Who knows? Maybe my Prince Charming will be there, waiting to carry me off to his castle? Zen, in the words of my French boss-lady, zen it will be only zee best for me. Oui?
I walked into that art exhibition looking like a million dollars, let me tell you! Refilwe spent all afternoon doing my hair. And she is Top-Knot’s best. She used so many different products, I lost count. Luckily the boss-lady was out.
Then I went up to Bishopscourt to borrow some of my sister’s clothes. My sister Lindi works as a children’s nanny there. Her employer gives her cast-off designer clothes – sometimes with the price tags still on. My sister was also out, which made it easier. Lindi is sometimes very selfish about lending me her clothes.
But the security guard let me into the Bishopscourt property. “Anything for you, Angel-face,” he said. He always calls me Angel-face. He tells me that if he was 20 years younger, he would marry me tomorrow.
I chose a black halter-neck dress. Very chic! I took off the price tag (that was well into the thousands). I found Lindi’s silver sandals with killer heels. And her favourite earrings that look like they’re real diamonds. Elegant! No one would believe that I sweep up other people’s hair for a living.
I don’t know why this local artist was supposed to be hot. His paintings at the art exhibition were awful. Just great messes of bright colours smeared around the place. Like a Grade 1 kid would paint. No sunsets, no waterfalls, no flowers. But all the rich and famous people around me were going, “Ooooh” and “Aaah” and “How stunning! How deep.”
And then I saw him: my Prince Charming. He stood alone in his soft grey suit and violet tie. Tall and handsome and confident. He looked across at me like I was the only other person in that huge room.
Wow!
But I turned away, nearly tripping over my killer heels. I pretended to be very interested in one of the paintings: a mess of pink and black. Gotta play hard to get, right? Rich girls always play hard to get, don’t they? They can afford to!
He came to stand close beside me. I could feel the expensive cloth of his sleeve. I could smell his exclusive aftershave. To die for!
He said, “You aren’t fooling me. I can see right through you. So stop pretending.”
“Pretending?” I panicked. Was all my effort for nothing? Was my cover blown so quickly? I nearly burst into tears right there in front of all those people.
“Yes. Tell the truth: you don’t like these paintings any more than I do!”
What a relief! I smiled up at him. I could feel my dimples deepening.
“So what do you say, pretty lady? Let’s get outta here. We can go to my place and watch the sun set.”
“Your place?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a house in Clifton. Right on the sea shore.”
Clifton! That’s more exclusive than Bishopscourt! Forget playing hard to get! I allowed him to guide me outside to his car. A silver Jaguar! Imagine! With white leather seats. Absolutely to die for!
You know how the story of Cinderella ended? She lived happily ever after. “Girlfriend,” I told myself, there inside the Jaguar, “maybe this will have a fairy-tale ending too!”
It wasn’t a house, it was a mansion!
Jabu led me outside onto a huge balcony. Below us waves crashed onto the rocks. The sun was setting over the sea, turning the clouds red and gold.
Jabu – that was his name. Jabulani Jili. He said his name like I should recognise it. So I pretended.
“Oh wow! Jabulani Jili! Mmm!”
He was a businessman. He’d inherited the business from his late father. He spent a lot of time flying to New York and to London. Imagine!
“What kind of business?”
“Oh, this and that. I have a large portfolio. Sometimes I lose track. Luckily I have an excellent accountant. But I want to know all about you, Zonke.”
Of course, I didn’t tell him I was a cleaner at a hair salon. I didn’t tell him my sister worked as a children’s nanny. Instead I made up a story.
“Me? I live in Constantia, up near the mountain. I’m a student at UCT. Drama. I’m hoping to be an actress one day. My mother is at UCT too, one of the science lecturers. And my dad, he’s a brain surgeon at Groote Schuur Hospital. Poor Daddy, he works such long hours.”
The words just flowed out of my mouth. And the way Jabu was looking at me, it felt like my story was true. Like I really was the daughter of wealthy parents. He had such beautiful eyes, Jabu. Gentle, caring eyes. Eyes you could fall in love with, no problem!
I thought, Hey – how would it be to marry for love and money? That would be the ultimate! Auntie Sizi can’t argue with that!
Jabu moved his chair closer to me. He stroked my cheek. “I knew today was going to be a good day for me!”
And then my cellphone went off in my bag. Just an SMS. I didn’t want to take it out in front of Jabu. What would he think? It’s an old, battered Nokia with a cracked glass and a rubber band holding it together. Nothing like his fancy, expensive BlackBerry that lay on the table beside him.
“I need to go to the powder room,” I said. That’s what our clients call the toilet: the powder room.
“Hurry back, Zonke. I’ll be missing you every second you’re gone.”
The SMS was from my sister Lindi.
Hw dare u steal my clothes? This is da last tym Zonks. I’m warning u.
I left the powder room. But of course, I couldn’t resist. I went exploring. What a house! Yes, I could live here happily ever after! Carpets so thick and soft it was like walking on a bed. Beautiful furniture, all in white. Huge windows so you saw the sea from every room.
And then there were the photographs. So many of them: on the walls, beside the beds. They didn’t make me feel too happy.
They were photos of a young, incredibly beautiful woman. She was standing at the Statue of Liberty in New York; posing in front of Buckingham Palace in London; lying on some island beach in a tiny bikini and smiling up into the camera.
On the balcony, Jabu was standing at the rail, looking out at the sea. It was dark now. The sun had disappeared.
He was talking on his BlackBerry. I heard every word.
“Yes, fine. I’ll be at the airport to fetch you. What time does the plane land? Ten? Right, ten o’clock tomorrow morning. No problem.”
He turned and saw me. He wrapped his arms around me, and spread his hands over the soft, expensive material of my dress. (Well, Lindi’s dress.)
He said, “I’m really worried, Zonke.”
“Why?”
“Because I seem to be falling in love with you. And that wasn’t part of the plan.”
In love with me! Imagine! So, no, I didn’t ask him about the chick in the photos. Why spoil such a happy evening? Hey, maybe she was his sister or something? I didn’t ask him who he was fetching at the airport either.
But I was thinking, that Cinderella chick, she didn’t have such problems. She danced with her Prince Charming and ‘Boom!’ Next thing she is living in a palace with a thousand servants and wardrobes full of beautiful clothes. Happily ever after!
It was still early. But Jabu wanted to drive me home. “I’m not going to upset your brain surgeon father or your UCT lecturer mother. Not on our first date.”
So I climbed back into the Jaguar. I sank into the white leather seat.
“Right, Zonke, where to in Constantia?”
Panic! I had to think fast. “I’m staying at Bishopscourt tonight. At my sister’s home. Her husband is away on business.”
The Jaguar purred softly along the highway with its orange lights, then on to the gates of my sister’s employer’s house.
“Can I come in, Zonke? I’d love to meet your sister.”
More panic! More fast thinking! “Better not, Jabu. Her baby will be asleep.” Hey, I would make a good actress!
So he kissed me goodnight outside the gate. It was a kiss made in heaven, let me tell you! Especially with the smell of his expensive aftershave all around me. I’ve never in my life smelt anything that good.
“Listen, Zonke, I have to fly to New York for meetings, for the next two weeks at least. But I’ll phone you soon as I’m back.”
Two weeks! How was I supposed to last for two weeks? What if he met someone prettier in New York? New York must be full of beautiful women.
The security guard let me in. “Hey, Angel-face. That’s a fine car there! Good – you deserve a millionaire boyfriend.”
But my sister wasn’t so kind. “Who do you think you are, stealing my stuff? I had a hot date tonight. I wanted to wear that black dress. You never think of anyone but yourself, Zonke.”
I ignored her while she moaned on and on. Cinderella had wicked sisters too, didn’t she? But I was thinking, Tomorrow I will be at the airport at ten. Oui! Just to put my mind at rest. Otherwise how will I last two weeks?
~•~
Yes, there was the silver Jaguar, parked in a VIP bay at the airport. With an airport car guard watching over it. And it wasn’t even 9:30 yet.
And yes, there was Jabu sitting in the Arrivals hall. He was wearing another suit, charcoal grey this time. The dark material made him look more handsome, wealthier. I wanted to run to him, to ask him to put his arms around me again. The way he had done last night on his balcony.
But I hid myself away behind a stand of sunglasses at one of the airport kiosks. “Control yourself, Zonke,” I whispered to myself. “You need to know the truth. That’s what you’re here for, girlfriend.”
In fact I was beautifully dressed myself. Lindi had lent me a soft lacy pink top and some designer jeans. She isn’t always a wicked sister. Sometimes she is quite kind.
“Can I help you, madam?” asked the kiosk assistant. Like I would be interested in buying these cheap, ugly sunglasses!
So I moved to hide behind a stand of postcards. Mostly photos of hippos and lions and baby baboons, all saying, “Welcome to Sunny South Africa.” But now I had a good view of the people coming off the planes through the Arrivals sliding door.
Quarter past ten exactly, a woman walked through. She was tall and even more beautiful than her photos in Jabu’s Clifton house. She was dressed like a super-supermodel, with a designer bag to die for!
My heart was thudding. I watched Jabu get up and walk towards her. And what now? Would they fall into each others’ arms? Would they kiss as though they were alone in some exclusive garden? It would break my heart to see that! Was my Cinderella dream going to smash to pieces on the tiled airport floor?
But no! Jabu and the woman didn’t even smile at each other. He stopped some distance from her. She said something. Jabu nodded. His sister! It must be his sister! Or maybe some cousin. There wasn’t any warmth between them.
“Can I help you, madam?” It was another kiosk assistant.
I moved back to the sunglasses stand. Such ugly, cheap sunglasses. But I was so happy! The woman from the photos was no danger. No threat. My Cinderella dream was back on track. Oui!
Now everything would be fine. I would wait patiently for two weeks until Jabu was back from New York. Until he phoned me. And then – maybe then – it would be happily-ever-after time. Imagine!
A man appeared through the Arrivals doors. He was short and middle-aged, pushing a trolley piled high with designer luggage. Amazing luggage! He put his arm around the woman. Like she belonged to him, and no one else. What was she doing with such an ugly man?
I moved closer, hiding behind a concrete pillar. Jabu had taken the trolley now.
“Get the cases in the Jag, Jili. Chop chop!” I heard the man say. “We have an appointment at the Mount Nelson Hotel. So move it!”
Then I heard Jabu answer, “Yes, Mr Majola, sir!”
Did I hear right?
Why was Jabu calling this Mr Majola ‘sir’? It didn’t make sense. Jabu owned a house in Clifton; he was a businessman flying to meetings in New York and London; he drove a luxury car. So why did he allow this Mr Majola to be so rude to him?
On the runway outside, a huge jet was taking off. The ground shuddered under my feet. I had to grab the pillar. It seemed any minute I might fall over. But maybe that was because my head felt so dizzy and confused.
I watched Jabu push the trolley-load through the outside door. That’s when he put on the cap.
And that’s when I realised the truth. It all made sense now. I knew all about that cap. It was the same cap that the chauffeurs wore as they sat waiting outside Top-Knot – while their wealthy bosses’ wives got weaves and tints and Indian head massages!
Let me tell you, I was angry. What a liar Jabu was! What a con artist! What a scumbag! Imagine! I was going to tell him exactly what I thought of him!
I stood near the parking bay while he loaded the designer luggage into the Jaguar boot. He saw me at last. A look of horror showed on his face. Like his worst nightmare had just come true.
“Zonke! Oh, no! Oh, Zonke, I am so sorry. I’m so ashamed. Can you ever forgive me?”
How could I forgive him? He had just destroyed all my hopes and dreams and plans.
“Zonke, please. Try to understand. I saw you at the exhibition and you were so lovely. I just fell in love. I had to do what I could to win your heart.”
“Even lie? Even pretend?”
“Yes, even lie. Please find it in your heart to forgive me. I don’t want to lose you.” He looked down at me under his cap. His beautiful eyes were clouded with sadness.
Well, I felt sad too! This was not a fairy tale of Cinderella and her Prince Charming. No! This was a story about a Cleaner-chick and a Chauffeur-dude. But hey! Maybe we could make our own fairy tale? Maybe we could still have a happily-ever-after ending? Jabu was really handsome, even if he wasn’t rich.
I wanted him to put his arms around. I wanted him to hold me like he had on the balcony of the Clifton house. Even if it wasn’t his house.
But Mr and Mrs Majola were waiting on the pavement. “Jili! Chop chop, man!” yelled Mr Majola. “I don’t pay you to chat up some dolly-bird you find on the street.”
Poor Jabu, having such a rude, unpleasant employer! At least Madame Le Champs always treated me with respect.
“I think I can forgive you,” I said.
“I’ll phone you, Zonke,” Jabu promised. He drove off quickly to where the rich boss waited with his beautiful young wife with her amazing clothes and her stunning designer bag.
For a second I felt jealous of Mrs Majola. Very jealous.
There’s a lovely big tree outside the Bishopscourt house where Lindi works. Jabu and I stood beside it, there on the pavement, with our arms around each other. He wasn’t wearing the expensive aftershave. Maybe that belonged to Mr Majola too. But I didn’t care. This was still the best place to be, safe in his embrace.
“I’m so glad you forgive me, Zonke. I couldn’t bear it if I lost you. We’ve only just met but already I know I can’t live without you! No ways! You’re the one!”
Wow! It was the most romantic thing any guy had ever said to me! I was thinking: Sorry, Auntie Sizi, but maybe you were wrong. Maybe love is worth more than money.”
The security guard called through the fence, “My brother, where is your fancy ride this morning? Angel-face shouldn’t waste her time with guys who must catch taxis. She deserves better.”
I laughed. I told the security guard to shush and to give us some privacy. But then Jabu said he wanted to go inside. He wanted to meet my sister and see her lovely house.
So I had to confess. “This isn’t my sister’s house. She just works here looking after the children.”
“You’re joking, right? You’re just teasing me, Zonke?”
“No, it’s the truth.”
Jabu looked puzzled. “But why does she do a job like that when she’s from a wealthy family? When she has a brain surgeon father? When you guys have a home in Constantia? It doesn’t make sense.”
So I had to confess some more. “Sorry, no brain surgeon father. No house in Constantia. And I’m not a drama student. I’m zee cleaner at zee French hair salon. Oui?” I was giggling, trying to copy my French boss-lady’s accent. But Jabu didn’t see the joke.
“You lied! How could you lie to me like that? How could you trick me?”
He sounded really angry. He stepped away and looked at me with cold, hard eyes. What was happening to my fairy tale? I tried to take his hand, but he snatched it away. “I’m outta here. Goodbye!”
“But why, Jabu?” My heart was breaking. “I forgave you. Now you have to forgive me.”
Jabu shook his head. He said, “My grandfather was a very wise man. And he told me: ‘You are a handsome boy, Jabu. You can get any girl you want. So you make sure you get a rich girl. The richer, the better. Then you will not have a hard life like I have had.’ So goodbye, Zonke. You aren’t the one.”
I watched Jabu walk away. What a scumbag! What a low down, rotten gold-digger!
But I don’t care. On Tuesday, Mrs Magaba is bringing her son Sipho to the salon. Just to meet me. And let me tell you, those Magabas are wealthy. Mega-wealthy. They own property here and in Gauteng. They own a game farm up in KwaZulu-Natal. Imagine!
So don’t you worry: Zis Cinderella will still catch zee rich and handsome Prince Charming. Oui! Oui! Oui!
Discussion questions
• This is a funny story but it has some serious messages that we can learn from it. What are some things we can learn from this story about what is important about money and love?
• What are some of the problems that arise when you lie or hide things about yourself?
About the author
Jenny Robson lives in Maun, Botswana, where she works as a music teacher. She has had several youth novels published, including Mellow Yellow (about a Cape Town street boy) and Praise Song (about an HIV-positive choir mistress who is brutally murdered).
Jenny has won both national and international acclaim.
She has been awarded the Sanlam Youth Literature Prize five times and was given the UNESCO Prize for Youth Literature in the Service of Tolerance for the novel Because Pula Means Rain. This is a novel about an albino teenager living in rural Botswana.
Jenny’s writing has always been inspired by her pupils. She says, “Working with young people is a joy. They keep me focused on what is important and honest, and most of all, exciting!” Her two sons, now adults themselves, inspire her too. She works hard to make them proud of her.
Advice for young writers
Don’t let anyone discourage you! If you feel the urge to write deep inside you, then give it all you have. It may take hard work and struggle, but it is worth it. There is so much fun and joy to be had along the way!