The Cupid Club. Cheryl Ntumy S.

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      Amarava remembered her first Cupid Club date all too clearly. Karlien was Madam, and Amarava had unwittingly picked a journalist. Karlien’s clue had described the guy as a determined man of the people, and Amarava had assumed that meant he was some kind of public servant or advocate. Big mistake. She had nothing against journalists, but for some reason most of them seemed to have appalling style.

      She had arrived at the restaurant for the date dressed to kill, as always. She could still remember exactly how confident and sexy she had felt in her Hip Hop minidress and peep-toe ankle boots. She had even put on a splash of Paco Rabanne Lady Million, her scent of choice for those days when she felt like a diva.

      She scanned the room for her match, who was supposed to be wearing a red shirt. It took her ten minutes to find him. His definition of a red shirt turned out to be a faded pink rag. It looked like something that had been through both world wars, and to add insult to injury he combined it with Amarava’s pet peeve: ill-fitting jeans. His only redeemable feature was his TAG Heuer watch.

      But Amarava sat down with a smile and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was a friendly guy, polite and very intelligent, but he couldn’t stop talking about work. After a while Amarava started to feel as if she had stepped into a current affairs programme. She wanted to have fun, to get to know the guy, but all she learned during the date was the current state of the legal system, the problem with trade unions and the corruption in the mining industry.

      Karlien called her the following day for feedback, too impatient to wait for the Date Rate at the next club meeting. “Well,” Amarava said, trying to be diplomatic, “he’s obviously dedicated to his work.” Too dedicated, she decided. There was no second date.

      Things had improved over time as the Madams learned to make better potential matches and the ladies learned to analyse the clues more thoroughly. Since then Amarava had moved on to several good dates, two of which got to the second date, but romance had yet to blossom for her.

      Maybe this time it’ll happen, she thought.

      Angelique cleared her throat. “Ama, here come the clues.”

      Amarava finished her drink and kicked off her kitten heels. “Hit me.”

      “Number one.” Angelique paused for effect before speaking. “For his boys he’d go with the convertible car, but for you, old-school jazz and a Cuban cigar.”

      Three months earlier, Botho had decided to up the ante by making all her clues rhyme. It made it more challenging, but the others loved it so much that they all started doing the same.

      Amarava frowned. “Again.” As Angelique repeated the clue, Amarava tried to decipher it. The reference to the car meant the man was flashy and liked to show off to his friends. The reference to jazz reflected both his musical taste and his quieter side, but the cigar meant he was a smoker – a black mark, as far Amarava was concerned.

      She nodded. “Okay, let’s hear number two.”

      Angelique cleared her throat. “He loves a woman who loves Amarani, but he’s more Indiana Jones in Armani.”

      The women laughed. Amarani was the name of the cosmetics range Amarava had produced with her cousin, Senzeni. According to Angelique’s clue, date number two appreciated a woman in make-up. Good to know, since Amarava loved her lipstick, but the second part was puzzling.

      Amarava shook her head. “Indiana Jones in Armani? Does that mean he’s adventurous and well dressed, or he tries to dress well but ends up looking like Indiana Jones?”

      “That’s all you’re getting,” said Angelique firmly.

      Amarava sighed. Club rules prevented the others from helping her; that way if she chose poorly, she’d have no one else to blame. “Okay. Let’s hear number three.”

      “A stand-up guy in more ways than one, he’s picture-perfect and guaranteed fun.”

      Amarava frowned thoughtfully. A stand-up guy . . . a comedian? Guaranteed fun was self-explanatory, but picture-perfect could mean he was handsome, a model, a photographer . . . She tapped her finger against her cheek. “I’m going with number three.”

      Angelique smiled, apparently pleased with this choice. “Sure?” Amarava nodded, and Angelique closed the notebook. “He’s fantastic. You’ll love him.”

      “Is he hot?” asked Karlien hopefully.

      “Smoking,” replied Angelique, and Amarava giggled.

      “Is he rich?” asked Botho.

      Sheila threw a cushion at her. “Miss Cynical!”

      “It’s a valid question,” Botho insisted. “We all know men are only good for . . .”

      “Sex and money,” the others chorused, rolling their eyes.

      Botho didn’t believe in love and had only joined the club to prove her point. Finding her a match was almost impossible, and the others had resorted to picking the toughest men they knew for fear that she would reduce the sensitive ones to tears. Amarava didn’t know the whole story behind the relationship that broke Botho’s heart, but it had something to do with a high-school boyfriend and a pregnancy scare.

      “Back to business,” said Angelique, waving the notebook. “Ama, I’ll get in touch with your date and get back to you with the details.”

      “Sure, sweetie,” said Amarava. “Now you can tell me what the clues meant. Let’s start with number three.”

      Angelique grinned. “He’s funny, he’s fun to be around and he takes perfect pictures for a living.”

      “A photographer!” exclaimed Karlien. “Now I get it.”

      “And Indiana Jones?” Amarava raised an eyebrow at Angelique.

      “An archaeologist with a taste for designer threads,” Angelique explained, taking her seat on the sofa.

      “Oh,” the others chorused, and then burst out laughing.

      * * *

      Amarava stood in her flawlessly decorated pink-and-grey bedroom and frowned at her built-in wardrobe. Dressing up for the day was a ritual she took very seriously. She wasn’t the type to just grab anything she could find; she dressed to suit her mood, the weather, and the occasion.

      She pulled out a black A-line skirt and held it against her body in front of her full-length mirror. Amarava had what people liked to call a “womanly” figure: rounded hips, a generous behind and a stomach that wasn’t quite flat. She worked out, but she’d never be as skinny as her little sister. She put the skirt back and studied the rest of her wardrobe.

      “Ama?” A bespectacled face popped around her bedroom door. “Oh, you’re not dressed yet. I guess that means you haven’t had a chance to check the weather forecast.”

      “I did check it,” said Amarava. “Partly cloudy with a thirty percent chance of rain.” She looked up at her younger sister, who was wearing a short-sleeved blouse over her tailored trousers. “Might want to take a jacket, Litha.”

      Litha grinned. “I’ll СКАЧАТЬ