There's a Man in My Merlot!

By Rebecca Marsh

Four miserly years from forty, all Casey Jinks has to show for her thirty-six years is a non-messy divorce, three boys, a flea-ridden mongrel and an amputee cat. Add an overdraft, a rusty Toyota and no love life and you have the picture. Blunt best friend Ruby, thinks she needs to take stock of herself.

A change of job offers a promising new start, but the leap from humdrum PA to Home Building Consultant is more than Casey bargained for. Tossed into a maelstrom of complex calculations when she'd barely scraped through arithmetic at primary level, she is tempted to pack it in - but failure is no longer an option. The last thing she needs is to land Dr Joe Westbrook's deal, when she's never forgotten her first mortifying encounter with him eighteen years before.

Seemingly, neither has he.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca Marsh
• Release date: Jan 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301469789

Book preview

PART 1

HOW IT STARTED

CHAPTER 1

‘You’re at the crossroads,’ Ruby said, stripping a nicotine-flavoured stick of gum.

‘More like a flipping dead end,’ I retorted.

I had turned thirty-six the day before, only four miserly years from forty and what did I have to show for it? A non-messy divorce, three boys, a flea-ridden mongrel stray and an amputee cat; he’d manage perfectly with three legs, said the Vet. Add an overdraft, which I had no immediate hope of reducing, a rusty Toyota well past its scrap-by date and no love life worth talking about. But Ruby thought it was time I took a good, hard, long look at myself.

‘It’s my tether, Rube. I’ve reached the end of it.’

‘Rubbish!’ she said, ignoring the truth, ‘but there’s still time. You can still do something about it. Make something of yourself, Casey.’

‘But make what?’ I asked, past experience coming to the fore to threaten and overwhelm me, before I could put a tentative foot on either road of the cross.

It was all very well for her to talk. She had made a success of everything she had ever tackled, including needlepoint and blackjack, despite being stuck with a name like Ruby. At least my parents had shown a little imagination saddling me with Kyra Cassandra. What else were they going to call a girl with the surname Smith? Jane? Which reminded me, that the only two favours Charlie had ever done me was firstly, changing me from K C Smith to K C Jinks and secondly, deserting me for Gisela von Kleist.

Ruby and I went back a long way; as far back as St. Anne’s and teenage acne. She was the sort of friend every woman should have - a bully. A bully in the best sense of the word if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. Successful, forceful and confident, she had the ability to make one feel that success was a commodity up for grabs by anyone wanting it. We were the north and south poles, yet in a funny way we complemented one another.

She was a fundi with figures and complex calculations, while I had yet to master fractions, decimal points and percentages. Her spelling was atrocious and she had difficulty stringing a two-line thank you note together, while I was a whiz at letter writing and using big words like marmalade and constipation. She was level headed and practical, while I was scatty and disorderly-minded according to her, but that was only because her brand of practical differed from mine.

She had been my chief bridesmaid and I had been her Maid of Honour. She had been there for me through my divorce. I had been there for her during Don’s losing battle with cancer and her early widowhood. She had lived through every work-related crisis with me and I had lived through every diet known to man, with her. We’d had our spats though; she could be brutally outspoken, tact and diplomacy not being her strong suit. What kept our friendship from coming apart at the seams, I believed, was our mutual willingness to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ without losing face.

Some days later, at her behest, I was going through the Situations Vacant column of The Star, while Simon and Jamie, my two eldest boys, got into another round of grunting and slogging out their grievances with bunched fists. I was taking her advice, which she had volunteered after my biannual gripe.

‘If I have to type one more schedule, compile one more beastly Brand Manual or fetch and carry Mr Mac’s dry-cleaning again, I am going to go nuts, Rube,’ I had moaned, pouring us a second glass from my second rate stock of box wine. ‘I’m capable of greater things; I know I am.’

‘Of course you are,’ she said, ‘but what you need to do is to change direction.’

Scanning the Sit Vac columns in a desultory fashion, I could find nothing that grabbed me in particular. There were dozens of PA positions all couched in the same glowing terms designed to catch once-upon-a-time mutts like me.

Dynamic boss needs dynamic PA to assist him in dynamic, exciting environment, where she will be dynamically remunerated.

Hah! It was only the greenhorns in the marketplace who read George Clooney for dynamic boss and conferences in Kiribati or the Seychelles for dynamic environment. They weren’t going to catch me; I was wise to them. Being a man’s world, no doubt the pastures on offer for men were bound to be greener I thought, but before I could turn the page I was frozen in mid-turn by a howl of savage rage.

‘Mommmm, I’m going to kill Jamie! I’ve told him and told him to leave the PC alone and now he’s gone and stuffed my (unintelligible). You’d better speak to him, Mom!’

‘I didn’t touch the frigging PC Simon and you’re not the boss of me! You took my BMX DVD without asking!’ Jamie retaliated, his cheeks flushed, eyes dangerously bright.

‘No I did not!’

‘Yes you did!’ Thump, bump, grunt!

I knew it! Blood was going to be shed that night! I could picture the article in You Magazine vividly:

Sixteen-year-old slays fourteen-year-old brother over BMX DVD.

‘Stop it at once, both of you,’ I warned, ‘before I call your father, or better still his wife. She’ll bring out the thumbscrews and the sjambok. And both of you mind your language.’ My threats and their threats crescendoed accelerando when Andy, the youngest, erupted from his seat on the sidelines to join the melee.

‘Jerry, Jerry, Jerry,’ he applauded, egging them on. I made a mental note to put a block on the ghastly Springer. Arrested in mid-threat, mouths agape, we eyed him half-wittedly before collapsing with laughter. For a moment my thumping heart swelled with pride; what other eleven-year-old could defuse a mini riot so easily?

An uneasy calm restored, I turned back to the paper’s Sit Vacs and perused the ads with a jaundiced eye. Financial Director must be qualified CA, nope; I’d barely got through arithmetic at primary level. Civil Engineer, minimum MSc with knowledge of local conditions in Dubai, nope; I didn’t want to be paid in Krone or whatever their currency was. Rocket Scientist with lunar landing experience; nope the moon was too far. Turning the tap on the box of Blanc de Blanc I refilled my glass.

They were all too highfaluting for me; I wasn’t looking to change the world. All I wanted was a change from Microsoft Office, Mr Mac and the chance to earn better income. About to pack it in as a waste of time, suddenly I spotted my kind of ad at the bottom of the column.

Not afraid of hard work? Want to earn what you’re worth?

The sky’s the limit. Telephone for an appointment.

Yes, yes, yes! I did want to earn what I was worth. I would call them first thing in the morning. After all, I had nothing to lose.

CHAPTER 2

No sooner had Jack Mac gone into the Board Meeting the following morning than I got on the telephone to arrange an appointment. Instead, I found myself arguing with a prospective employer!

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Jinks but they wouldn’t consider it.’

‘Who is they?’ Grammar, grammar, but I was too fired up to correct myself.

‘The MD, the Directors. They wouldn’t consider it.’

‘Why not?’

‘For the simple reason that it is a man’s job. Women have never been employed in the position.’

‘What is the position?’

‘Selling home building contracts.’

‘So?’

‘I’m not sure I follow you. What do you mean, so?’

‘I mean so what? Why should a man be any better at selling building contracts than a woman?’

Not that I wanted to sell home building contracts but as I was on a roll I had to keep going; time was running out. I was going to be forty in the not too distant future and was about to be cut short. I could tell by the edginess in his voice.

‘Look, you’re wasting your time, but for what it’s worth, the reason they prefer men is that they often have to see clients late at night, visit out of the way isolated sites and so on. It’s just not the sort of job for women. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry too, but thank you for taking my call,’ I said.

Ringing off, I stared at my screensaver, watching the Milky Way spinning endlessly from corner to corner. Damn, damn, damn. Perversely I did want the job. Or rather, I wanted what it promised; a salary where the only limit to earnings was the sky. With the depressing state of my finances and Charlie’s habitually tardy maintenance cheques, I would have settled for Everest as a salary limit! How difficult could it be? There were a number of things I could do as well as a man, if not better. Knit, for one thing, give birth, change a light bulb, light the gas; there couldn’t be much to selling contracts for crying out aloud. Clearly, my only option was to send them a begging letter.

Dear Mr Papenfus,

Thank you once again for taking my call. I have given a great deal of thought to our discussion this afternoon and put forward the following grounds for employing me:

- It would not be in Egnold, Duvenhage & Kranski’s best interests to be seen to be sexist.

- It would be in their interest to lead the way by employing women in positions traditionally held by men, proving that ED&K are forward thinking and an innovative company.

- By employing me ED&K would be gaining an asset willing and able to assist them in breaking new ground.

- Finally, you wouldn’t want McIndoe Construction to get me, would you?

I trust you will give serious consideration to the above points and look forward to hearing from you in due course.

Yours truly,

K C Jinks (Mrs)

With the envelope stamped, sealed and addressed, I took it through to the post room. That would give Mr Papenfus something to chew on, I thought smugly and hoped he would appreciate how much self-abasement had gone into it.

CHAPTER 3

That night I dreamt that I was wearing a hard hat and was suspended from a crane high above Sandton City Mall. Attached to the cable by the belt of my jeans, it swung dizzily, making it difficult for me to get my bearings. One minute I thought I could see Randburg, the next I was swinging the other way and was sure it was O R Tambo International I could see in the distance.

I wanted to get down, but there was no driver in the cab to lower me and no one on the ground could hear my cries for help. I was terrified. On the crane’s boom I could see the letters ED&K and thought that if I could reach the cell phone in my pocket, I could phone them for assistance. But as I took one hand from the cable to reach for the phone, the belt around my waist came adrift and I plummeted towards the car park, screeching like a banshee.

‘Mom! Mom, wake up. Were you having a bad dream?’ Simon asked, shaking me.

‘Was I having a bad dream! It was awful!’ I whimpered, still not sure that I was safely back on terra firma.

‘You were making the most terrible noise, like a cat being gutted to make violin strings.’

Where did he find his analogies I wondered?

‘Go back to bed, Simon. I’m fine.’ I smiled weakly up at him. ‘Go on, I’m fine,’ I said again.

For hours after I lay awake, admitting that frustration and the unequal financial struggle had finally pushed me over the brink. Sanity had given way to madness. I wondered whether I could still retrieve the letter or if not, that they would simply trash it or file it under L for lunatic. But what if they bought it? What had I ever known about building or contracts?

Drifting off, eventually I came to again with Michael Flatley and his troupe rehearsing Lord of the Dance in my head and the telephone ringing insistently. Why didn’t someone answer it? I wondered irritably, getting out of bed. It was Ruby, it was a Saturday and she suggested that we meet for breakfast.

‘Uh huh if you want to,’ I said.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. I didn’t get much sleep last night that’s all.’

We agreed to meet at The Dog’s Breakfast in an hour. I would rather have spent another hour in bed and waited for the rehearsal to end, but Ruby was hard to resist when she had issued an invitation. But, first things, first; I needed a Grandpa Headache Powder before my head split in two. Gagging on the powder, I got the kettle going and ran a bath.

The house was ominously quiet and I wondered anxiously whether there had been a fratricide during the night, but a peep into the boys’ rooms set my mind at rest. They were all still in Lalaland. Taking my coffee into the bathroom I caught sight of myself in the vanity mirror and considered suicide. I looked like hell. But I knew that a soak in the tub and a natter with Rubes over breakfast usually restored my equilibrium, if not my looks.

I left a note under a fridge magnet, telling the boys where I was and that they were to help themselves to croissants, boiled eggs and fruit in my absence.

It was one of those glorious Johannesburg highveld summer mornings, in sharp contrast to my gloomy mood. The scent of Breath of Heaven filled the air, with the Jacarandas along Jellico Avenue vying with Pride of the Cape in the colour stakes. Ruby was at a table on the terrace sipping an Espresso when I arrived.

‘You going to have a coffee?’ she asked.

‘I’ll have a Cappuccino please,’ I told the schoolgirl waitress.

‘So why didn’t you get much sleep last night?’ Ruby asked.

‘Oh I don’t know. You know what it’s like. Sometimes you just can’t settle.’

I was not going to mention my foolhardy letter to ED&K and my nasty dream.

‘You know what you need don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘A thoroughly good shag, an old fashioned roll in the hay.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ I said. ‘Anyway, you have no room to talk. When last did you do a little shagging?’

‘I never do a little of anything. That’s your problem, Casey. You have to think big.’

‘Big as in big shag or big you know what?’ I asked and turned fiery red when the man with his back to me at the next table turned and gave me a wicked grin.

‘At your service, ma’am,’ he said cheekily.

He couldn’t have been more than about twenty-five and not bad looking.

‘Give her a call when you have left school,’ Ruby told him.

The other man at his table chuckled at her sally.

‘For heaven’s sake, Rube!’ I hissed, uncomfortably.

‘One to ten?’ she mouthed at me.

‘I wouldn’t rate him at all,’ I mouthed back. ‘It’s obscene, he’s only a kid.’

We indulged in this crude little pastime whenever we were out and about. It kept us believing that we were still in the game and hadn’t been side-lined by the reserves. A little lavatory banter between friends did us good, considering that we were normally depressingly decorous in our conversations with others.

The schoolgirl waitress was back at our table. ‘Are you having breakfast?’ she asked. Ruby ordered Eggs Benedict and I settled for a cheese and mushroom omelette. When she brought our food we tucked in with gusto.

‘I’ve been thinking of taking up bowls, Case,’ Ruby said, round a mouthful of toast.

‘Bowls!’ I exclaimed. ‘Bowls! Or do you mean ten pin?’

‘No, I mean lawn bowls. It’s a very sociable game you know. And before you say ‘old man’s marbles’ let me tell you that more and more younger people are playing it these days.’

‘That may be, Rube, but I don’t know. They all look pretty doddery to me. You’d be better off taking up golf’.

‘No, I couldn’t handle the walking. Bowls is a lovely game. I thought you might join me. It could be fun.’

Before I could say that firstly I didn’t think much of the uniform and secondly that I couldn’t afford to indulge her whims just then, a woman clad in designer jeans and monogrammed silk T-shirt stopped at our table.

CHAPTER 4

‘Casey!’ she squealed. ‘Casey, good Lord. what a surprise!’

I looked up at her and for a moment I was lost. Then the penny dropped. She had shed about ten kilograms and looked amazingly svelte.

‘Mona!’ I said, as she airbrushed my cheek. ‘Mona!’ I repeated stupidly.

She laughed; a trilling tinkle of bells. ‘Well fancy meeting you here!’ she said.

‘Sit down,’ I invited with a do you mind? glance at Ruby.

I introduced them and could sense Rube sizing her up and coming to one of her instant conclusions. But Mona was not so bad. She was one