Eva Mazza - Sex, Lies & Stellenbosch

“Remembering is just as important as forgetting,” she thought out loud.

Secretly, she hoped that Brigit was Lee’s child◦– a testament to their young love.

John joined everyone for tea and cake in the foyer after the service, greeting the people he knew and making the polite chit-chat that one does. He had caught a glimpse of Patty making an exit from the memorial service soon after Frankie’s song had started playing. Jen had also left without giving her condolences. He was livid. She could have at least sympathised with Clive and Lee’s parents.

Frankie’s friends had organised a substantial spread and the mourners were milling around with cups in one hand and plates in the other.

“We just caught Jen sneaking out.”

John turned around, his mouth full of cake, to see Shelley, hands on hips, looking like a school mistress.

He swallowed. “She needed to go somewhere.”

“She said that she’s leaving you. That she did me a favour by stealing you from me. Apparently, she saved me from you. What did you do this time, John Pearce?”

What the fuck? He didn’t know what to say. He was hardly ever at a loss for words, but this had stumped him. Shelley waited for him to say something. It was as if he had to give her some explanation for not handing in a homework assignment.

“Well, then,” he said, downing the last of his coffee, “it seems you know more than me.” He handed the mug and the plate to her, and then kissed her condescendingly on the cheek.

Shelley visibly seethed.

“You’re such a chauvinist. I’m not here to clean up after you. If you wanted me to do that for you, you should’ve married me.” She shoved his plate and mug back into his hands.

John scanned the foyer to see if anyone was looking, then leaned in closer to her and whispered in her ear, “I’ve lived with that regret all my life, Shelley.” He gently bit on her earlobe, teasing her with his tongue. “If Jen goes, then who knows?”

He winked at her and left her gawping after him as he sauntered across the room to find a place to dump his dirty dishes.

Their group of friends had been invited, along with their wives and offspring, to a lunch on Frankie’s farm after the service. Frankie had not extended the invitation to John, but he was going anyway, taking Brigit with him.

Faith had set a long table on the veranda, overlooking the Franschhoek mountain range in the background and in the foreground, the farm’s vineyards.

All through lunch, Frankie refused to meet John’s eyes. When he spoke, she ignored him, snubbing every attempt to include him in the conversation. After everyone had finished their lasagne, Lee’s favourite dish so lovingly prepared by Faith, he noticed that she was missing, and he discreetly left the table to find her.

Frankie had retreated to the bathroom to fix her hair and touch up her make-up. She had had an exhausting day, but she felt, somehow, satisfied at how smoothly everything had gone. Faith’s thoughtful and unsupervised preparation of the lunch did not go unnoticed. Faith had made sure that the tables were dressed with Frankie’s crisp white cloths and the family’s finest silver. The lasagne was accompanied by a green salad. The cold tomato soup as a starter was refreshing and light on such a hot day. She was also surprised at how many people, some of whom she had never met, had come to pay their respects. She had even spotted Patty and Jen in the hall.

She jumped with fright as she opened the bathroom door. John was waiting for her. “Get away from me!” she whispered, afraid that somebody would hear her. “What do you want? You have no respect. No remorse.”

“I want to say how sorry I am, Frankie.” John seemed to be speaking with uncharacteristic sincerity. “I know that this has been a tough time for you, and I’m sorry for everything.”

Frankie was taken aback by his kind words but didn’t entirely trust him, particularly as he’d obviously been drinking.

“Okay. Thanks,” she said, trying to walk around him. The bathroom was through Frankie’s dressing room, which made the chances of being discovered slim. As Frankie tried to pass him, John grabbed her arm and twisted it around, pushing her up against the dressing room wall in the way she used to love.

But now it was sinister, and it scared her.

“You make a shit-hot widow,” he whispered lustily in her ear.

“Don’t! Please!” she begged.

“Are you playing hard to get? Is this the game you want to play, Frankie?” He reeked of alcohol.

“I’m not playing hard to get. I don’t want anything to do with you. Do you hear me? We’re done. It’s over. What don’t you understand?” She was desperately trying to break free from his grip.

John’s hand moved under her dress and his fingers ran up her inner thigh.

“Stop, you fucking bastard!” She tried again to break free, but he only tightened his grip around her hands.

Pressing himself against her, he kissed the nape of her neck.

She heard a gasp. Someone was there!

“Wha…what are you doing?” It was Brigit.

John quickly withdrew his hand from under Frankie’s dress, and let her go. The look on his face told Frankie that he knew exactly how much trouble he was in.

All Frankie could say was, “It’s not what you think it is, Brig.”

Brigit shoved her father aside and made one of her characteristic dramatic exits. This time Frankie could not blame her; in fact, she was grateful she had saved her from John, who left the room as abruptly as he had arrived. Frankie watched out of her bedroom’s bay window as Brigit sped down the driveway in her car, braked hard for a moment to allow a clutch of ducklings to pass in front of her, and then zoomed off, away from the farm.

John stepped back out onto the veranda.

“Boys, let’s go,” he said, and the men all rose from the lunch table.

“That’s enough for one day,” Shelley scolded Frans.

“Maybe for Frans, but not for the rest of us. We don’t have to ask your permission, now do we, Shelley?”

“I don’t have to either!” Frans retorted. “It’s my mate’s wake. You’ll see me when you see me, Shelley.”

He heaved his considerable weight up from the lunch table and joined his friends. John knew Frans was making a point: no woman was going to dictate to him, especially not in front of his mates.

The men spilled noisily into the popular pizzeria in Dorp Street that was frequented by students, tourists and families alike. The manager greeted them sympathetically and led them to a table in the bar area where they could resume their drinking. Before long, they had the whole pub singing ‘We Are the Champions’, much to the chagrin of the residents of the block of flats nearby. Someone◦– it could have been John, but he wasn’t sure◦– decided they should all drink until they passed out. But by one in the morning, the manager, well known for his no-nonsense style, had closed the bar after they had finished their round of free drinks.

John was far too drunk to drive, but he got behind the wheel anyway. He made his way back to the farm, weaving from side to side along the treacherous sand roads. It crossed his mind briefly that he was way over the limit, but he was John Pearce. He could do anything.

The farmhouse stood dark and empty.

At least Jen was home. No way could she ever leave him. She didn’t have enough money to finance a move, and she had no family or friends to run to. She must have come straight home after the service, and she was probably asleep right now in their bed.

Make-up sex with his wife was always passionate. He stumbled to the bedroom and whispered in the dark, “Jen, I’m home. Are you ashleep?”