her.
She stood in front of the mirror in a black dress. The neckline was low, the hem high, bare back.
?That is very sexy,? said the colored shop assistant.
?Isn?t,? said Sonia. ?Mamma looks pretty.?
They laughed. ?I?ll take it.?
They were too early for her hair and make-up. She took her daughter to Naartjie in the Cavendish Center. ?Now you can choose a dress for yourself.?
?I also want a black one.?
?They don?t have black ones.?
?I also want a black one.?
?Black ones are just for grown-ups, girl.?
?I also want to be grown-up.?
?No you don?t. Trust me.?
The carer looked in disapproval at her outfit when she dropped Sonia off.
?I don?t know how late the function will finish. It?s best if she sleeps over.?
?In that dress it will finish very late.?
She ignored the comment, hugged her daughter tight. ?Be good. Mamma will see you in the morning.?
?Tatta, Mamma.?
Just before the door closed behind her, she heard Sonia say: ?My mamma looks very pretty.?
?Do you think so?? said the carer in a sour voice.
It was a weird evening. In the entertainment area of the house in Camps Bay, inside and outside beside the pool, were about sixty people, mostly men in evening suits. Here and there was a blonde with breasts on display or long legs showing through split dresses and ending in high heels. Like decor, she thought, pretty furniture. They hung on a man?s arm, smiled, said nothing.
Quickly she grasped that that was what Carlos expected of her. He was ecstatic over her appearance. ?Ah, conchita, you look perfect,? he said when she arrived.
It was the United Nations: Spanish-speaking, Chinese, or Oriental at least, small men who followed her with hungry eyes, Arabs in togas?or whatever you called them?who ignored her, each with his mustache. Two Germans. English. One American.
Carlos, the Host. Jovial, smiling, joking, but she felt sure he was tense, nervous even. She followed his example, held a glass, but did not drink.
?You know who these people are?? he asked her later, whispering in her ear.
?No.?
?Carlos will tell you later.?
Food and drink came and went. She could see the men were no longer sober, but only because the conversation and laughter were a bit louder. Ten o?clock, eleven, twelve.
She stood alone at a pillar. Carlos was somewhere in a kitchen organizing more food to be sent. She felt a hand slide under her dress between her legs, fingers groping. She froze. The hand was gone. She looked over her shoulder. A Chinese man stood there, small and dapper, sniffing deeply at his fingers. He smiled at her and walked away. All she could think of was that Carlos must not see that.
Two Arabs sat at a glass table arranging cocaine in lines with credit cards and sharing it with a companion whose nipple showed above the neckline of her black dress. One of the men inhaled deeply over the table, leaned back in his chair and slowly opened his eyes. Languidly, he stretched out a hand towards her and took the nipple between his fingers. He squeezed. The woman grimaced. He?s hurting her, thought Christine. She was transfixed.
Late that night her bladder was full. She went upstairs looking for the privacy of Carlos?s en-suite bathroom. The bedroom door was shut and she opened it. A blonde in a blood-red dress was gripping one of the posts of the bed and her dress was rucked up to bare her bottom. Behind her stood one of the Spanish men with his trousers around his ankles.
?You want to watch??
?No.?
?You want to fuck??
?I?m with Carlos.?
?Carlos is nothing. You kiss my girl, yes??
Quietly she closed the door and heard the man laugh inside the room.
Even later. Only a small group of guests remained in the swimming pool?two women, six or seven men. Extremely drunk. She had never seen group sex before and it fascinated her. Four men were with one of the women.
Carlos came and stood behind her. ?What do you think??
?It?s weird,? she lied.
