CHAPTER2
Leon
My future wife says nothing when she sits next to me in the car. We’re quiet as I drive to Sandton. There’s nothing in between the strangers we were a few months ago and the husband and wife we’ll be tomorrow—no engagement, no words of affection, and no tender promises. We’re diving straight into despising each other, or maybe that’s what obsession is. Perhaps obsession is too dark for love. Only hate is powerful enough to equal its depth.
At the Sandton City mall, I park in the underground parking and lead Violet with a firm hand on her upper arm from the car. Mindful of her leg, I avoid the stairs, opting for the elevator instead. We get off on the level where the high-end clothing boutiques are situated.
I enter the first store where the dress in the window has a five-figure price tag, my fingers still curled around Violet’s arm. Clothes rails with formal dresses frame either side of the store while a counter with bags and accessories runs along the center. The space smells of new textiles and money.
A young redhead with a high ponytail and long legs is chatting to a customer in front of the changing room. She slides her gaze our way when the door swings closed, frowning as she takes in my worn T-shirt and Violet’s casual attire. She ignores us, sending a clear message that we’re not welcome, and returns her attention to the middle-aged woman who’s studying her reflection in a full-length mirror. That’s okay. I’ll wait. And someone should tell the woman that dress she’s trying on is twenty years too young for her.
Guiding Violet to an armchair in the corner, I push her down onto the seat. Standing for too long will be uncomfortable for her. While she sits on the edge of the seat with her hands clasped in her lap, I flip through the dresses. I’m no expert on women’s fashion, but I can tell from a glance these dresses have style. I’ve bought plenty of dresses for many women in my lifetime, but never in Johannesburg. I left the city with Ian when I was fourteen. By the time I lost my virginity at the age of sixteen, we were already spending most of our time in Zimbabwe or Lesotho.
The woman who popped my blueberries had small boobs and glittery stockings. Her name was Becky. I paid her twenty bucks for a blowjob behind the bar. She let me go all the way and patted my cheek after I’d shot my load, telling me the rest was on the house. I went back to Becky for the better part of a year, paying her fifty and then a hundred per hour as Ian’s burglaries grew more daring and our loot increased.
I upgraded Becky and my meeting venue from the garbage littered backyard of the bar to a motel room. She taught me how to please a woman and how to make her scream. She was the first woman for whom I bought a dress. The second was Jenny. She worked the streets outside the casino in Zambia. She was the one who liked to be spanked.
After that, I stopped keeping count of the dresses, shoes, jewelry, and designer label handbags. I’ve bought enough clothes and gifts for women to know every boutique from Zim to Mozambique, enough to no longer remember the color of their stockings or the size of their breasts. With the amount I’ve spent on fashion, I can fill the entire floor of this mall.
Since returning to the city of my birth, I haven’t touched a woman except for Violet. I’ve never slept with or shopped for a woman here. Johannesburg is my clean slate, and I like the idea. Fuck. Perhaps I’m getting old, because the thought of being with one person for the rest of my life has never been more attractive.
When the customer finally pays and leaves with her purchase, the redhead approaches us. Her nametag reads Sandy. Looking at me down her nose, she asks, “Can I help you?”
“Yes, Sandy.” I take a stack of cash from my wallet and slap it in her palm. “Lock the door. I want to do my shopping in private.”
She takes one look at the money before she turns from haughty to humble. Hurrying to the door, she flips the open sign to closed and turns the key.
“Are you looking for anything specific?” she asks, inconspicuously slipping the money into her pocket.
“A dress,” I say. “Formal.”
“Day or evening formal?” Sandy asks, looking at Violet for a clue.
Since Violet doesn’t utter a chirp, I say, “Daywear.”
“I have a great collection of smart-casual,” Sandy says. “Do you have a color in mind?”
I look at Violet. What is the color of betrayal? “Yellow.”
“Yellow?” Sandy wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think it will go well with her complexion.”
“Oh, it’ll go perfectly,” I say with a flat smile, holding Violet’s gaze. “Trust me.”
Violet flushes, no doubt catching my drift.
“Size?” Sandy asks, clacking her way over the floor to the clothes rail. “I’d say eight or ten at a glance.”
Violet gives in first, breaking our eye contact.
Sandy returns with a canary-yellow jumpsuit and a butter-yellow halter-neck dress. “What about these?”
I shake my head.
“It’ll help if I know what the occasion is,” Sandy says.
Taking my phone from my pocket, I wake up the screen. “Our wedding.”
Sandy coughs. “Your wedding?”
“That’s what I said.”
The shop assistant scrunches up her face. “If it’s for your wedding, maybe you should consider a more bridal color like a soft peach or rose.” She adds with a little sting in her words that’s obviously meant to call me out as an asshole, “Or white.”
Walking to the sofa placed in front of the changing area, I make myself comfortable like I’ve done countless times with countless women, yet this time is different. This time, I’m not uninvested or easygoing. This time, even as I call up my emails, I’m present in every second.