enacted, she questioned him at length as to its morality. Other rising black business stars and their women were astonished.
Robert’s deal even beat those that former cabinet ministers had been picking up. Living in the mansion, surrounded by the team of domestic workers that came with the territory, made her uneasy. Eventually, the persecution she felt as a result of their new wealth, and the fact that she was unable to hide it, had proven too much. She had asked for little in the divorce settlement and Robert gave her three times that figure. ‘If you need more, let me know,’ was the last thing he had said.
Abigail’s memories were interrupted by her phone ringing. To her surprise, it was Robert’s voice on the line. ‘Robert.’ She hoped her pleasure was not reflected in her voice.
‘Abigail, I need to speak to you. I saw Yudel the other night and he agrees I should speak to you.’ It was all said very quickly, as if he was trying to get it out before a refusal could be framed.
‘Of course, Robert. When do you want to meet?’
‘I hoped I could come over now. I won’t take up much of your time. I have a file I need to show you.’ Again the same hurried way of speaking. Hear me out, it said, before you hang up.
‘Yes, sure. Come on over.’
Robert was coming. Abigail barely acknowledged her excitement to herself. Nor did she acknowledge that she had not felt this way before any of the dates with her three recent suitors.
Without planning the action, she found herself in her walk-in clothing cupboard. Unlike Beloved, Abigail was not conscious of the effect she had on men. And, unlike Beloved, it was not important to her. But like Beloved, it was not one particular characteristic that drew male attention, but rather the package. The straight, lean legs, the high bosom, the firm buttocks, a mouth that was full by European standards, but neat by African ones, cheekbones that were wide, but not excessively so, and a zest for life that could scarcely be contained: together the effect was as devastating to men as the one Beloved made. Her African curls were cropped close to her head. She had never made any attempt to tame them. Apart from a monthly cut, her hair received no special attention whatever.
She had an off-the-shoulder white cocktail party dress that revealed her figure perfectly and contrasted breathtakingly with the brown of her skin. Robert had loved her both in and out of the dress. He had often asked her to wear it. He said he loved watching the way she moved in it. And he loved even more slipping it off her.
She had removed her bra and was starting to pull the dress up over her hips when she stopped to consider what she was doing. He’s not yours any more, she told herself. Robert belongs to another woman now. A woman? Hardly. She was no more than a girl. God, it was hard to believe, even after all this time, that she had lost him, or perhaps chased him away. How had she allowed the divorce to go through without fighting it?
Abigail slipped the dress off and replaced her bra. She found the plainest house dress in the cupboard. It was a cotton print and had what looked like gingerbread men along the bottom of the skirt. That was more appropriate, she commended herself.
She had barely sat down to wait when security rang from the front gate. ‘Mr Robert Mokoapi wants to come,’ the voice of the guard said.
‘Thanks, James, let him in.’ Did my voice shake? she wondered. It sounded as if my voice shook.
Listening for it, she heard his car stop downstairs, then his footsteps as he bounded up the stairs in his usual two-stairs-at-a-time fashion, followed by his knock on the door.
She opened it, and he was standing there, the file under one arm, his shirt partly unbuttoned and his tie knot pulled loose till it was halfway down his chest. It was Robert, just the way she had always known him. ‘Abigail.’ His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.
Later, she was not sure that she had
Robert’s deal even beat those that former cabinet ministers had been picking up. Living in the mansion, surrounded by the team of domestic workers that came with the territory, made her uneasy. Eventually, the persecution she felt as a result of their new wealth, and the fact that she was unable to hide it, had proven too much. She had asked for little in the divorce settlement and Robert gave her three times that figure. ‘If you need more, let me know,’ was the last thing he had said.
Abigail’s memories were interrupted by her phone ringing. To her surprise, it was Robert’s voice on the line. ‘Robert.’ She hoped her pleasure was not reflected in her voice.
‘Abigail, I need to speak to you. I saw Yudel the other night and he agrees I should speak to you.’ It was all said very quickly, as if he was trying to get it out before a refusal could be framed.
‘Of course, Robert. When do you want to meet?’
‘I hoped I could come over now. I won’t take up much of your time. I have a file I need to show you.’ Again the same hurried way of speaking. Hear me out, it said, before you hang up.
‘Yes, sure. Come on over.’
Robert was coming. Abigail barely acknowledged her excitement to herself. Nor did she acknowledge that she had not felt this way before any of the dates with her three recent suitors.
Without planning the action, she found herself in her walk-in clothing cupboard. Unlike Beloved, Abigail was not conscious of the effect she had on men. And, unlike Beloved, it was not important to her. But like Beloved, it was not one particular characteristic that drew male attention, but rather the package. The straight, lean legs, the high bosom, the firm buttocks, a mouth that was full by European standards, but neat by African ones, cheekbones that were wide, but not excessively so, and a zest for life that could scarcely be contained: together the effect was as devastating to men as the one Beloved made. Her African curls were cropped close to her head. She had never made any attempt to tame them. Apart from a monthly cut, her hair received no special attention whatever.
She had an off-the-shoulder white cocktail party dress that revealed her figure perfectly and contrasted breathtakingly with the brown of her skin. Robert had loved her both in and out of the dress. He had often asked her to wear it. He said he loved watching the way she moved in it. And he loved even more slipping it off her.
She had removed her bra and was starting to pull the dress up over her hips when she stopped to consider what she was doing. He’s not yours any more, she told herself. Robert belongs to another woman now. A woman? Hardly. She was no more than a girl. God, it was hard to believe, even after all this time, that she had lost him, or perhaps chased him away. How had she allowed the divorce to go through without fighting it?
Abigail slipped the dress off and replaced her bra. She found the plainest house dress in the cupboard. It was a cotton print and had what looked like gingerbread men along the bottom of the skirt. That was more appropriate, she commended herself.
She had barely sat down to wait when security rang from the front gate. ‘Mr Robert Mokoapi wants to come,’ the voice of the guard said.
‘Thanks, James, let him in.’ Did my voice shake? she wondered. It sounded as if my voice shook.
Listening for it, she heard his car stop downstairs, then his footsteps as he bounded up the stairs in his usual two-stairs-at-a-time fashion, followed by his knock on the door.
She opened it, and he was standing there, the file under one arm, his shirt partly unbuttoned and his tie knot pulled loose till it was halfway down his chest. It was Robert, just the way she had always known him. ‘Abigail.’ His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.
Later, she was not sure that she had
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