Tracey Farren’s debut novel Whiplash (Modjaji Books) is the redemptive story of Tess, a Muizenberg sex worker. In this extract, Tess and
her friend Annie go to the races, using free passes to a VIP tent that some johns gave them:
Annie and me scored a special invite. The horse race of the year, free food and drinks. It’s a flippin pity that Annie’s given up, cause we could coin it if we were clever. Still we’re gonna party.
Watch us —
My dress is non crush or whatever you call it. It’s so tight anyway, my body disappears the creases. I left it in Jik for a day and a half, so it’s thin, but white as Annie’s teeth. Damn, it’s a bit low, shows some little blue bruises on my breasts. That Indian oke had bony fingers. But Annie gives me a silky white scarf. She whips it up, rests it on my shoulders. “There.” She chucks one end round my neck. She climbs into her red boobtube dress, gathered up on one side. Her shoes are sharp picks, flippin pop the earth as she goes. I put on my low snake heels. A wooden S. They’ve got no back straps, but the crooked bones in my toes stop them from falling off.
Outside the race course, Annie pulls our tickets out of one of her ruffles. I say, “Maybe I should keep my own ticket, in case.” “Uh-uh.” She breathes fresh bubblegum on to my cheek. “You’re not leaving me.”
We walk like the women in Annie’s movie, in time, all cruisy. A helluva lot of couples here, with nice, conditioned hair. A model with a wire skirt, coiled from the waist. What did I say? Nothing on but her undies. Red, blue, yellow flags flicker from the wire line. She’s got that sun-bed skin and white blonde curls down her back. Glad makeup. You know, permanent tan, permanent blonde, permanently flippin glad?
Near the betting tower, lots of good old gambling men gripping flaps of paper. Nicotine skins, yellow stains in their hair, checking us out. Also, Moslem boys, hair like silk banners, shimmering shirts. Young Hanifs. Stylish from the flippin womb. Pity Annie’s off the job. But I’m the one who rushes us past the tower, tryna find the ABSA bank tent cause my stomach’s doing flip flops for food.
In the tent, our hosts cut us dead.
Burt sees us first. A big stretch of the eye, a burst of silence. His tongue flicks back into action, carries on talking to the jacket in front of him. Bastard.
The women have already split from the men. They’re putting their fingers deep in their drinks, chasing their cherries. Already relaxing. I don’t see William.
Burt and William gave us the tickets at the end of last winter. Okay they were sloshed on red wine at the time. “Noble” red wine, they said. From William’s underground cellar in Constantia. Noble, I reckon, to wait 12 years before you open the bloody bottle. The cork crumbled, sent William and Burt into ecstasy. “Aah.
Delectable, what?” Neither of them from England but they kept their tongues behind their teeth, oh so terribly English. Berry black wine in squeaky clean crystal. Bloody heavy in my hand.
They picked us up when we were crossing the circle, late in the day. Burt’s Merc C230, went round and round and round. “I smell rich,” Annie said. Flashed them to say okay. “You must be very dizzy boys,” was my intro.
They took us up, up, up the Neck to a mansion on the mountain. A flat garden, can you believe it. A tractor mower thing parked under a million year old tree. Hundreds of metres of flower bed. One of those huge swimming pools that must make the world look like a mirror ball from outer space. We went straight to the fire place. The boys clipped their words, hopped about. Scratched at matches, lit some chunky logs. Nervous. But they’d done it before, that’s for sure.
Burt’s a doctor. A hand surgeon. He’s gripping his cocktail glass so hard his hands gone white, but his ears are fleshy red lamps. He forgot about us. Probably wrote off the two hundred for Annie long time ago. Forgot he even gave us tickets. Burt turns his back, does some eyebrow signing, probably. William fades when he sees us, wants to disappear.
It’s a big mistake to ignore us. Annie says: “Poes” under her breath. Tilts a juicy cocktail to her lips.
Once I’ve chucked a few tiny chicken pies in my mouth, my taxi top up starts working properly. I get that good, creamy feeling. We’re okay, Annie and me. The guy at the door took our tickets. We’ve got a good view of the mountain and a couple of men by the balls. Easy peasy.
Annie demo’s to me how Burt said hello out the corner of his mouth. Dropped it like for some stray to pick up. She eats pickles like there’s no tomorrow, asks round for a racing programme. I pig out on some white cheese under sweet red sauce. I get some champagne. Let the bubbles supertube through my system, land in my brain with a splash. I check out the wives.
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