The Cupid Club

By Cheryl Ntumy

Amarava Maake and her group of long-time girlfriends have grown increasingly tired of the dating scene. They therefore decide to change their approach to finding the perfect man – instead of every woman for herself, they’ll find potential mates for each other. This is how the Cupid Club is formed. Each friend gets a turn to find three dates for one of the others to choose from. The choice is solely made on clues given by the one who plays Cupid for the night. When Amarava’s turn comes to pick one of the secret candidates, she chooses “Mr Picture Perfect and guaranteed fun”. Professional photographer, David Kwena, is gorgeous and witty and the two hit it off immediately. But when it is later revealed that David is the same man that broke her close friend Botho’s heart many years before, tensions arise and the club’s long-standing friendship is in jeopardy. Botho and David were high-school sweethearts. When Botho had a pregnancy scare, she turned to David, sure of his support. But David disappeared and she could never forgive him for that. Botho and the friends in the “Botho camp” are adamant that Ama should break off her budding relationship with David. But it has been thirteen years since the incident and David is not that naïve seventeen-year-old boy anymore. Will Ama honour the code of the Cupid Club or will she take a shot at love with her new photographer beau.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kwela
• Release date: Apr 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9780795705892

Cheryl Ntumy

CHERYL NTUMY is from Ghana, but grew up in Botswana. She studied in South Africa for ten years and now works as a freelance journalist and writer in Botswana. She also writes short stories and plays. Her first novel, Crossing, was published in Botswana in 2010. Lucky in Love is her fifth Sapphire Press romance.

Book preview

1

Amarava Maake took a sip of her sparkling grape juice and stared, slack-jawed, at the most exquisite handbag she had ever seen. It was small and beige, with a delicate gold clasp and a long, slender strap. She lowered her glass to the floor over the side of her armchair, her gaze glued to the masterpiece in her lap.

I’m going to die, she gasped, running her hands over the calfskin surface.

It’s cute, nè? said her friend Karlien, gathering her long brown curls into a ponytail. My cousin got it for me overseas and I haven’t had a chance to use it yet.

Cute? Amarava tore her gaze from the bag just long enough to give her friend a disapproving glance. What on earth are you waiting for? Christmas?

Botho let out a low whistle from the other end of the room. Hey, Karlien. How many times do we have to tell you? Keep your accessories away from Ama!

The others laughed. There were five women altogeth­er, sprawled in various states of repose in Karlien’s apartment in Greenside, Johannesburg. There was beautiful Botho, with a shaved head and a sharp tongue. She always wore some combination of black and white, which only added to her intimidating demeanour. Angelique was built like Serena Williams, with braids that fell to her waist. Sheila’s baby-face belied her strong, sensible personality. Karlien had freckled caramel skin and a frustrating weakness for bad boys.

Amarava liked to think of herself as the fashionista of the group, the one wearing designer dresses and sky-high heels while everyone else was in jeans and flip-flops. She believed every day was an occasion to dress up, and sported a different hairstyle every other week.

She’s got that look in her eye, said Angelique. It had been several years since she moved to Johannesburg from Gabon, but she still had a lilting accent.

Sheila leaned forward on the sofa, one hand cradling her pregnant belly. Out of empathy, the club members had decided that for the duration of her pregnancy they would drink only non-alcoholic beverages during meetings. Ama, step away from the handbag, Sheila intoned. The others erupted into fresh bouts of giggling. Just give it to me and no one has to get hurt.

You’ll get hurt in a minute, Amarava retorted with a grin.

Shame on you, threatening a pregnant woman, chided Angelique, her long, lycra-clad legs hanging over the arm of the sofa.

Hhayi suka. With a sigh, Amarava placed the bag on the chair where she had found it. As far as she was concerned it was wasted on Karlien, who couldn’t tell the difference between La Perla lingerie and briefs from Ackermans.

Where’s the food? Botho demanded suddenly, holding up a plate with a few biscuit crumbs scattered on it.

You ate it, Karlien reminded her with a raised eyebrow.

Botho polished off the crumbs. There’s no more? Didn’t I bring apple tart?

You ate that too, said Angelique.

Uyazi Botho’s policy. No crumb left behind, remarked Sheila, to more laughter.

Okay, okay, said Angelique, getting to her feet. Time to get to business, now that we’re all full. I hope. She shot a glance at Botho, who scowled. Everybody comfortable? Good. I hereby call this meeting of the Cupid Club to order.

The Cupid Club was just ten months old, but Amarava had known Karlien since varsity, and met the others when she moved to Greenside five years earlier. When they met, all of them except Sheila were single, and as time passed the others grew increasingly frustrated with the dating scene.

The problem wasn’t a lack of men – just the opposite. Each woman knew several decent men that she couldn’t date for a number of reasons: they were incompatible, colleagues, or practically family. Finally Sheila suggested they change their approach. Instead of every woman for herself, they could find potential mates for each other.

Since then they had been meeting every fortnight. They took turns playing the Madam, whose job was to find three potential matches for one other member. The member would pick one for a date. At the next meeting she would do the Date Rate, an evaluation that determined whether the budding romance was worth pursuing. If it rated high enough, it led to date number two. After a successful second date, the club withdrew from the match and left it up to the couple. From that point onwards, the club no longer had a say in the relationship.

As the only married member, Sheila served as the relationship expert and tie-breaker for issues that came to a vote. So far the club had one success: Karlien’s three-month relationship, initiated by Sheila.

Tonight Angelique was the Madam and Amarava was up for a match. Despite having been on several dates, she still got butterflies in her tummy when her turn came. After all, every date was a potential Mr Right.

Angelique picked up the club notebook. It was an innocuous-looking book, a black A5 hardcover, but inside were all the club’s secrets: notes, match profiles and records for each member. Angelique had been up for a match at the previous meeting, and Sheila had been the Madam. Angelique handed the book to Sheila. Let’s start with my Date Rate.

Just to remind everyone: Angie’s date was with Sbonelo, age thirty-two, retail manager, Sheila read from the notebook. I had high hopes for this one, but we’ll see. Angie, rate the conversation.

Five, said Angelique. He wasn’t much of a talker.

Amarava was not surprised. A lot of men got tongue-tied just looking at Angelique. Besides working out like a fiend, she was also trained in karate, and she liked to wear sleeveless tops that showed off her muscular arms.

Rate the etiquette, Sheila went on.

Nine, said Angelique. And a half.

The others murmured their approval.

A gentleman, huh? Sheila grinned. That’s always good to hear. Okay, rate the chemistry.

Angelique hesitated. I would have to say . . . five.

Amarava and Karlien exchanged disappointed glances. It had been a while since anyone had had a really good Date Rate.

Sheila noted the rates and shook her head. Why? He’s nice, and he’s one of the few men I could find who are taller than you.

Angelique shrugged. Sorry, my dear. There was just no spark.

Conversation and chemistry both rated below six, Botho declared. We know what that means. This is the end of the road for Sbonelo.

Sheila sighed and handed the notebook back to Angelique.

I’m up to three failures, Angelique remarked with a grin, peering at her records. But there’s always hope, eh? Now we move on to Ama’s potential matches.

Amarava loved this part. Instead of giving the women profiles of the potential matches, the Madam had to come up with a clue for each match. The clue was supposed to reflect his personality, style, career and other defining features. Based on these clues, the women would then decide which match they preferred. It was far from an exact science, but it added a level of mystery and fun to the matchmaking process.

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