Make or Break

The next day was Saturday and, after a brief chat on the phone to Hunter about Marvel versus DC and why unicorns are perceived as nice when really, they are weaponised horses, I’d received a call from security saying Jimmy had arrived. I’d clattered down six flights of stairs in my flip-flops, jumped into his car and we’d screeched out of the complex because Jimmy was ‘starving’.

‘It’s probably got a huge queue!’ Jimmy said, his voice elevated above the noise of the bustling crowd. He pulled me forward by the wrist. ‘Hurry up.’

Jimmy was keen for me to try a particular kind of sandwich and the stall was evidently at the very back of the covered, busy marketplace. I shuffled closer and followed his broad back through masses of young people in tiny shorts and trendy waistcoats. He’d taken me to a market popular with locals that was set in the grounds of an old biscuit mill. To get there we’d driven down dodgy streets lined with squat buildings that had bars across broken windows. Car guards, which were a thing I’d now gotten used to, jostled with each other to guide us towards parking spaces we could clearly see ourselves. Once parked, they’d ask for ten rand to ‘keep the car safe’. We’d stepped out into insane heat despite the fact that it was only 10.30 a.m.

‘We’ll try some of those later, too,’ Jimmy said, pointing to an experimental gin stand where jugs of gin containing a variety of botanicals sat on a cloth-covered trestle table, beads of condensation dripping down the glass.

As we hustled through the market I spun my head left and right, tying to take it all in: giant sizzling paella pans, a vegan stall selling exotic mushroom kebabs with a vast array of vibrant sauces, huge queues at coffee carts, supersized blooms I was sure Diego would love, gin stands, juice stands, craft beer stands, and the bustling, laughing, smiling crowd. Everybody was beautiful, and it was hard to tell if it was the strong Dutch ancestry or if plastic surgeons were seen the way someone in the UK sees the hairdresser.

‘Nobody here has fringes,’ I said loudly as I swiped my heavy fringe off my face and clipped it back while trying to keep my elbows out of the eyes of the people in the crowd. ‘And the reason is twofold.’

A girl in a panama hat and pink plastic sunglasses walked between us with two plates of mountainous salad and I skipped to catch up with Jimmy, who was on a mission.

‘One, it’s bloody hot,’ I said, sidestepping a guy who turned away from a stall with a mouth-watering paper plate of hash browns, eggs, bacon, hollandaise and roasted tomatoes. ‘And two, they’re all Botoxed and wrinkle-less so the forehead is a thing of pride.’

‘What is the point of all your blather?’ Jimmy said, glancing back at me.

‘I’m growing out my fringe and getting Botox.’ I spied someone with a crepe the size of a large pizza, dripping in lemon juice, loaded with berries and glistening with sparkly sugar. ‘Oooh, shall we get one of those?’

We passed food stalls with queues of hungry, chatty, laughing people; pizza was passed to the hungry customer on a square of cardboard; oysters in their shells sat beside a plastic cup of prosecco on a rough wooden board. Everything looked worthy of an Instagram snap. We finally reached Jimmy’s desired stall and joined the back of a big line of customers.

‘I’m so excited,’ Jimmy said as we neared the front of the queue. When he was next in line he became deathly silent, focusing intently on a man with some tongs loading meat on to the guy in front’s bun.

With a huge roast lamb sandwich balanced on a flimsy bamboo platter, we zigzagged back through the crowds and found a spot we could both squeeze into at a long bench table. People stood or sat in groups eating and drinking, chatting and laughing. There was no pushing or shoving or looks of gross impatience or irritation at the crowds or queues. Everybody seemed happy and relaxed. And I could see why. With the abundance of amazing food and drink on offer, and the knowledge that outside the entrance to the market was yet another sunny Saturday with palm trees and white sandy beaches, why wouldn’t you be? After devouring our food we went back to the gin stand and emerged into the sun with jars of sparkling elderflower and gin. Giant cubes of ice tinkled against the sides and big sticks of South African plants stuck out of the top.

‘It’s hard to drink the gin without being stabbed in the eye with the stick,’ I said, raising my voice over a live band, in response to the look Jimmy was giving me as I tried to sip from my gin jar at a weird angle.

‘When does a twig become a stick?’ he said, pulling out the soggy sticks/twigs and appraising them like an Antiques Roadshow aficionado.

‘Is that a trick question?’

‘No. I just want to know if there is a size frame. Like when a house becomes a mansion. What’s the deciding factor? Floor plan, size, amount of windows?’

‘We can just google,’ I said, getting out my phone.

Jimmy frowned.

‘What?’

‘The modern day access to everything has stopped all awesome conversations where you can debate over things for hours. Now we just google the answer and go, “Oh, all right then. Grand. Want another drink?” ’

‘You think a conversation about sticks was going to be awesome?’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘And yes, thanks.’

‘ “Yes thanks” what?’

‘I’d like another drink,’ I grinned. ‘But one with no sticks this time.’

‘Twigs,’ Jimmy corrected.

We headed back into the market, taking more time to savour the atmosphere. It felt vastly different from the food markets in Europe with their breads and cheeses and olives, which were also there among the Afrikaans dishes, but mostly the food was fresh, innovative and, in my mind, all restaurant quality. It was a foodie heaven, and I was quickly realising that a Capetonian’s attitude to life was one I greatly admired and aspired to. Food, friends, music, sun. Such simplicity. We spent another happy hour sipping cold craft beer then wandering through the market, buying things Diego might like, gifts for Annabelle and the kids and sampling as much as our bellies would allow.

‘Now where?’ I said, leaping back into Jimmy’s hot car with a bag of gifts and snacks. I immediately wound down the windows. His must be the only car in South Africa without air con.

I looked at Jimmy, who hadn’t answered but was regarding me with sincere satisfaction.

‘What?’

‘You’re having fun, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘I’m having an amazing time!’ I said, beaming back at him. ‘So, what’s next?’

‘A little drive,’ Jimmy said, pulling out into the busy streets. ‘You like mojitos?’

‘Does Samuel L. Jackson have cheekbones to die for?’

‘This playlist contains a lot of the same songs as the stuck CD,’ I said after half an hour of driving.

Jimmy had brought a portable speaker and was playing songs from his phone because he thought I may have tired of listening to ‘The Final Countdown’ and ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ sixteen times in one day.

‘I know,’ Jimmy said. ‘I have a thing for the eighties.’

‘I figured,’ I said, turning up Prince. ‘You know when I was little I thought this song said “When Dougs Cry”?’

Jimmy laughed. ‘Why would Dougs cry?’

‘I dunno . . . maybe their wives left them.’

‘Yeah, that happens to Dougs a lot, I hear.’

I sniggered.

Jimmy looked over at me. ‘I thought the guy from Toto was singing ‘I bless Lorraine down in Africa.’

‘Why would he bless Lorraine?’

Jimmy shrugged. ‘Maybe she did something nice? Like took them out to dinner when they arrived in Africa and didn’t know anyone?’

‘Wow. You should definitely write love songs.’

I got out my phone, linked it to the speaker and the rest of the journey we listened to show tunes while I marvelled at the scenery.

‘Here we are,’ Jimmy said, pulling up in front of a ramshackle place, its perimeter marked out by concrete Grecian-style pillars, wrought iron gothic-style rusted gates, French Caribbean shutters, their pink paint flaking off, and heavy Cuban doors, painted vibrant blue and lush palm trees.

‘What is this place?’ I said as we walked through the entrance to the courtyard. Random pieces of architecture from all kinds of eras had been used to make a mismatched, low-slung building open to the elements. We walked across the sandy courtyard busy with people in shorts and sunglasses drinking cocktails at brightly coloured tables.

‘Just a bar,’ Jimmy said, leading me inside. ‘Mojito?’

‘Yes please,’ I said, looking around.

Beaded chandeliers of all colours hung from the ceiling and the floor was sand. Male bartenders sported Che Guevara berets and the females wore flower garlands in their hair and bright red lipstick. Hanging from the middle of the room was a swing, upon which a girl sat chatting to her friends who were sitting on old sofas around her. On every available surface was a faded religious effigy or dramatic candelabra dripping with years of undisturbed wax.

‘My friends at the studio made those,’ Jimmy said, pointing to some arms holding torches sticking out from the wall behind the bar.

We found a place outside at a brightly painted outdoor table under a bamboo pagoda that was adorned with multi-coloured beads, beer bottle tops and bunting. Jimmy kicked off his flip-flops and dug his feet in the warm sand.

‘So, what kind of writing class are you doing?’ I said, relaxing against the back of the wicker chair.

‘Scriptwriting.’

‘What kind of script?’

Jimmy gulped his non-alcoholic cocktail. ‘It’s an animated kids’ musical about the animals on Wimbledon Common. I’m trying to get it finished to submit for an internship-type course at a production house in Soho.’

‘In London?!’ I said, and I seemed a lot more excited about it than someone who had known a guy for six days and who also had a boyfriend (who, admittedly, was being a bit arsehole-y) should have been. I looked at my drink. Perhaps it was time to ease off . . .

Jimmy smiled. He looked entirely too handsome in the sun with his tanned arms resting casually on the sunshine-yellow table. ‘Yes, in London. If I get on the course there’s potential for a job in the writer’s room afterwards. But the submission date is just over a week away and I haven’t finished it yet.’

I felt bad. He was spending all this time with me when he could have been writing. I told him as much.

‘Nah,’ he said, dismissing my concern with a squeeze on the shoulder that left my skin tingling. ‘It’ll be a long shot anyway – there’s only three places. They’ll take on people who’ve written something “culturally relevant to the current climate”, or something “supernatural with a dark twist and an unreliable narrator”. They probably won’t even look twice at my little script with the talking badgers and the adders who sing Alice Cooper’s “Poison”.’

I laughed. ‘I think it sounds wicked.’

I asked him why he’d stayed in Cape Town. Although with my feet in the sand, Cuban music wafting from outdoor speakers, the sun on my shoulders, the tang of sea spray in the air and the sounds of other happy drinkers, it was a no-brainer.

‘I kind of ran out of money so I didn’t really have an option. But then I made friends and Sylvie let me play at the bar and I’ve got my scriptwriting class, which I really love.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s just so much to do here.’

‘Have you been on a safari?’

Jimmy shook his head.

‘You’ve been here three years and you haven’t even been on a safari?’ I said, shocked.

‘When you live somewhere you never end up doing all the things the tourists do,’ he said. ‘Like in London, how many times have you been to a West End show?’

‘I’ve seen Matilda six times.’

‘Really?’

‘The Phantom of the Opera four. Wicked twice, and I’m pretty sure the cast from The Book of Mormon are sick of me mouthing along to every word.’

Jimmy gave me a look.

‘You like the eighties, I like show tunes,’ I said. ‘We’re equally uncool.’

‘Or equally cool.’

‘Let’s go with that.’

Jimmy looked at his watch. ‘I gotta get back.’

In the kitchen we found Ian and Diego dressed all in white: jackets, shirts, trousers, shoes. Including white sunglasses for Ian and a white flat cap for Diego.

‘You two off to your NSYNC appreciation night?’ Jimmy said, walking past laughing.

Diego looked at Ian then glanced down at his outfit. ‘What’s in sync?’

‘It’s a boy band,’ Ian said, adjusting his belt. ‘Ignore him, you look great.’

With a menacing look from Diego, Jimmy hustled downstairs, leaving me in the kitchen watching Diego and Ian fuss with their all-white ensembles, which were a requirement for something called Dîner en Blanc; an elegant, outdoor picnic at a secret location with a secret celebrity host and a secret band. It sounded fabulous, and Diego and Ian promised to take me to the next one if I was ever back in Cape Town. When Jimmy ran back up he found us sitting on the sofa with flutes of champagne, nibbling on the titbits I’d bought at the market and in mid-discussion about his love life.

‘He never has a girlfriend because he shuns all the decent ones that show interest in him,’ Ian said.

‘He’s too fussy,’ Diego said, like an old school matron.

‘I am not too fussy,’ Jimmy said, his car keys dangling from a finger. ‘I’m the right amount of fussy.’

‘You didn’t keep seeing the yoga instructor because . . .?’ Diego said.

‘She thought Brexit was a biscuit,’ Jimmy replied.

‘And what about the one who played the violin and was off to climb Mount Kilimanjaro?’

‘Obsessed with trail mix.’

‘The one last month who stayed for three days and didn’t pass the test?’ Diego said, appraising Ian’s outfit and brushing non-existent dust off his shoulder.

‘She stayed for three days and didn’t pass the test. Duh.’

‘What test?’ I said, thinking it was more than a little weird if future girlfriends had to sit an exam.

Jimmy turned to me. ‘It’s called the Tarantino Test. Does she understand Pulp Fiction on first watching? No? Then she’s out. Yes? Then she’s a potential keeper. Well, she’s through the first round anyway.’

‘Did you understand it first time?’ Diego asked me.

‘I don’t understand it now, and I’ve watched it fourteen times and read the plot on Wikipedia.’

‘Then you’re out,’ Jimmy said with a wry grin.

‘Oh, I’m so upset,’ I replied.

‘And of course, there’s the music,’ Diego said. ‘What are you into?’

‘The last three songs I Shazamed were by ex-One Directioners.’

Jimmy’s expression implied that I needed to reassess my life choices.

‘And what happened to that girl with the big . . .?’ Diego made hand gestures to imply substantial boobs, making Jimmy shake his head slowly. Diego turned to Ian. ‘Maybe he’s just frightened of commitment?’

‘Maybe he’s just too annoying,’ Ian said with a grin.

‘Maybe his obsession with another girl got in the way,’ I said, nodding my head in the direction of Flora, who was perched on an armchair watching the gathering with snooty mild interest and looking like an exploded Tampax. (Unused. Don’t be gross.) I swear her eyes narrowed when I spoke.

Jimmy appeared shocked at my disloyalty.

‘You just need to put yourself out there more,’ Diego said, taking a sip of his champagne.

‘And try to be less irritating,’ Ian added with a grin.

‘Stop trying to “sort” me, Pet Shop Boys!’ Jimmy stalked to the front door. ‘Come on, Judas,’ he said to me.

Diego and Ian fell apart laughing. I hugged them both goodbye, told them they looked fabulous and raced out after Jimmy.

‘They seem to think you’ve had too many one-night stands and not enough “relationships”,’ I said in reply to Jimmy’s query about what his two-faced brother and meddling brother-in-law had been saying about him.

‘Those two are a couple of old prudes,’ Jimmy said. ‘And anyway, how many one-night stands are too many?’

‘Can you count them on one hand?’

‘Yes,’ Jimmy said.

I gave him a dubious look.

‘Well, one of mine. One of yours.’ He pointed to a passing jogger. ‘One of his, maybe.’

As Jimmy pulled into the apartment grounds he turned to me. ‘So, you want to hang out tomorrow?’

‘Are you kidding me? I’m having a fab time! That is, if it’s OK with you? I mean, you don’t have to. You might think I talk too much, or I’m not adventurous enough because I don’t want to go in that pool of violence you people call the ocean and what about your script deadline? You should probably—’

Jimmy leant across me and opened the car door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ he grinned. ‘Now get out, I’m late.’

I jumped out and waved until he was out of the security gates and no longer in sight.