Trinity On Air

By Fiona Snyckers

Following the popular success and critical acclaim of her first novel, Fiona Snyckers is back with the second book in the beguiling Trinity Luhabe series. The much-anticipated sequel to Trinity Rising picks up the story four years on, when Trinity is 23 and living in Johannesburg. Trinity On Air is packed with all the charm and humour readers have come to expect from Fiona Snyckers - with just an added pinch of danger. With her university days behind her, life couldn't be better for Trinity Luhabe. She's got everything a Sandton girl needs. The Perfect Boyfriend: Ethan brings her (fat-free) breakfast in bed and takes her to the craft markets on weekends. The Perfect Job: Working at Jozi Talks radio is a dream come true for Trinity. She's still only on the traffic desk, but one day she'll be reading the news ... just as soon as she can convince her boss that "15 Hot Hairstyles For Summer" is a serious news story. The Neighbour: Ajala is six foot five inches of mysterious Nigerian. Trinity thinks he's a pussycat. Her best friend Steph thinks he's a man-eating tiger. Looking into his business dealings could be Trinity's ticket off the traffic desk and onto hard news. The Ex: An old flame from university days is back ... and hotter than ever. He's threatening to turn Trinity's comfortable life upside down. Join Trinity Luhabe for the ride of her life as all the elements in her perfect world collide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Ball
• Release date: Nov 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781868424139

Fiona Snyckers

Fiona Snyckers is the author of the Trinity series of young adult novels, the Eulalie Park series of mystery novels, and two high-concept thrillers, Now Following You and Spire. She has been long-listed four times for the Sunday Times Barry Ronge Fiction Prize.

Book preview

Trinity on Air

Praise for Trinity Rising, first in the Trinity Luhabe series:

‘Trinity Rising is an entertaining light-hearted read – well written, funny , and with a solid heart.’ – The Citizen

‘A hilarious, oh-so-true glimpse into SA’s young black bread-head generation.’ – Destiny

‘Funny and light-hearted, it has some sharp twists, and most importantly it gives us a heroine we all kinda know and that we want to root for.’ – Hummingbird

‘One of the best books I’ve read this year – don’t miss it.’ – Tygertalk Bellville

Trinity on Air

Fiona Snyckers

JONATHAN BALL PUBLISHERS

Johannesburg & Cape Town

CHANNEL 6

BLOCK C

GREENMARKET STUDIOS

CAPE TOWN 8001

Dear Ms Luhabe,

Thank you for sending us your curriculum vitae. Unfortunately we have no employment opportunities to offer you at present – not even, as you put it, scrubbing the floors or making the tea.

With all good wishes for your future job prospects.

Yours sincerely,

Tshepo Mzimande

Personnel Department

THE LIFESTYLE SHOW

HERBERT MARKS PRODUCTIONS

62 CHURCH ROAD

PINELAKES 2123

Dear Ms Luhabe,

Thank you for your interest in our company.

Unfortunately there are no vacancies, either on the Lifestyle television show, or on the magazine. We are not at present looking for presenters, journalists, researchers, interns, or indeed general dogsbodies and errand girls, as you phrase it in your application.

Keep watching our website for details of any employment opportunities that may arise.

With all best wishes for your future career.

Yours sincerely,

Kelly Crest

Human Resources

HEWLETT MLAMBO ADVERTISING

62 FREDMAN DRIVE

SANDOWN 2914

Dear Ms Luhabe,

Thank you for your interest in our advertising agency, and for coming in for an interview on Tuesday. It was a pleasure to meet you.

Unfortunately your particular skill-set and level of experience are not right for our agency at this time. Although you seem bright and highly motivated, your lack of any background whatsoever in advertising was the stumbling block we could not overcome.

Please convey my best wishes to your father and tell him that I wish his daughter all the best in her future endeavours.

Kind regards,

Obert Mlambo

Senior Director

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Girl-talk

Chapter 1

I SIT up a little straighter and cross one leg over the other.

Right! I say, clearing my throat and giving my pen a businesslike click. Just to make a hundred percent sure that we’re on the same page here, and to, er, clear up any possible misunderstandings, could you possibly … repeat the question?

The interviewer sighs and looks down at her notes.

It’s a fairly simple scenario, she says patiently. Every month when the CPI and PPI results are released, one of our junior reporters will phone up a few economists to get their comments on which way the prices have moved. Okay, so far?

Absolutely! I say, nodding vigorously. The CPI and the … er … PCP …

The Consumer Price Index and the Producer Price Index, she explains, giving me a strange look.

Yes, of course! I say with a light laugh. Although, to be honest, knowing what they stand for doesn’t exactly help. It sounds like the kind of stuff I learnt about at varsity, and instantly forgot.

So, what I’m asking you is this: say three of the four economists you interviewed all agreed that the price index pointed to a stable economy, but the fourth believed that it showed the need for an immediate interest rate hike. How would you handle that discrepancy in your story?

Hmm …

I purse up my lips thoughtfully, as if I’m giving this question some serious consideration.

I’d … well, I’d … um … ignore it?

I can immediately tell from her expression that this is the wrong answer.

"I mean, obviously I wouldn’t ignore it! I say quickly, giving myself a silly me smack on the head. It would be front-page news, wouldn’t it? I’d turn it into the whole point of the story. I make a sweeping gesture with my hands to indicate a banner headline. Breaking News – Rogue Analyst Demands Instant Rate Hike!"

I glance hopefully at the interviewer, but she’s holding her head in her hands. Which frankly doesn’t look very encouraging.

Miss Luhabe, she says after a moment’s silence. Can I just ask you one question?

Yes, of course. I nearly say that that’s what I’m here for, but decide not to risk sounding cheeky.

"Why did you apply for a job on Business Day?"

Oh, that’s easy! At last – a question I can answer. "I’d already applied to Heat, Femina, Fairlady, Marie Claire, Elle, Cosmopolitan, O, You, People, the Star, the Weekly Mirror, the Financial Mail, the Sunday Times, GQ, FHM, and …oh yes, Finance Week. Basically, you were the only newspaper left."

Wow. She looks slightly stunned. You must really want to be a journalist.

Oh no, not really, I say. At this point I just want a job. Any job. Anything vaguely related to the news or entertainment world would be great. That was just a list of all the publications I’ve applied to. If you’ve got another ten minutes, I’ll tell you all the other places I’ve applied to as well.

No, no, that’s fine, she says. I’ll take your word for it. She takes off her spectacles and lays them on the desk in front of her. "So, you probably won’t be too shocked to hear that I don’t think you’ll be a good fit in the Business Day newsroom?"

No, I agree. "I could see it coming a mile away. I just wish I knew where I would be a good fit."

She stands up and shakes my hand. A bright girl like you won’t stay unemployed for long. You’ll find your niche soon enough.

But not here?

No, she smiles. Not here.

* * *

As I trudge up the road to where my car is sandwiched between two huge SUVs, I feel my bag vibrating against my arm. I flip my phone open and press Show Message while scrabbling in an inside pocket for my keys.

How did it go? R U the new Lois Lane yet???

It’s from my housemate, Steph. She’s so sweet about remembering when I have interviews and asking how they went.

At the first red light I come to, I punch in a reply.

No go. Clueless re financial reporting. Tried to bluff & failed.

At the next red light, I read –

Their loss. Better luck next time!

And stab in my reply –

Not going to be a next time. Tried everyone. No one left. Nobody wants me.

Enraged hooting breaks out behind me as I fail to pull away in the nanosecond that the light turns green. I put my foot flat and my car leaps forward, only to be caught at the very next robot. I know this is a really terrible habit of mine – SMSing while driving – but I do it anyway and have the fines to prove it. The traffic is crawling north on Rivonia Road as Steph’s reply comes through.

Maybe widen ur net a bit, or think about retraining?

A wave of depression hits me. If I widen my net any more, I’ll soon be applying to escort agencies and pole-dancing clubs. And besides, I don’t want to retrain. I’m already bloody trained. What else do you call three years at one of the top universities in the country? A holiday? A party? (Actually, it was kind of a party. But the point is that I came out with a degree at the end of it.) I should have my pick of the job market by now, not be scratching around for interviews.

I switch my phone off in a huff, and toss it into my bag.

Why does this job-hunting thing have to be so damn hard? I honestly thought I’d be picking out my company car by now. Instead, I’m still driving the clapped-out Tazz my parents gave me for my eighteenth birthday. I’ve been out of university for two and a half years already, and haven’t had so much as a sniff of a decent job offer.

I sigh heavily as the traffic inches forward again.

Okay, before you think I’m a total loser, let me just clarify that. I haven’t actually been looking for a job for the last two and a half years. God, no. That really would be sad.

You see, I went overseas straight after graduating and spent two years living in London. So I’ve only been back in Joburg for the past five months. Sometimes I wonder whether it wouldn’t have been better to have skipped the whole travelling thing. At least I’d have my feet firmly planted on the career ladder by now.

But London was such a blast, I can’t really regret it. Especially the second year, when Steph came over to join me. We got by on waitressing and au pairing, and still managed to see most of Europe while we were at it. No, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

But we’ve been back in South Africa since just before Christmas, and it’s now May already. It’s getting harder and harder to keep pretending that the year has only just begun. I can’t understand it. I’m black, for God’s sake. And a woman. Shouldn’t I be CEO of a company by now?

I swing my car viciously into Ballyclare Drive, flashing a zap sign at the minibus taxi that tries to cut me off. A few months back in town, and I’ve already morphed into an obnoxious Joburg driver.

I force myself to take a deep breath and unclench my fingers from the steering wheel. The traffic is bumper to bumper all the way down the hill so there’s no point in getting into a stew. I’ll still make it to work by five o’clock, even if I have to throw on my uniform when I get there.

* * *

Oh, didn’t I tell you about my job?

I do have one, you know – although officially I consider myself unemployed. One has to be able to afford those little day-to-day luxuries like rent and food. And it’s not like my parents are queuing up to help. Stand on your own two feet – that’s their motto. Which would be fine if most people didn’t automatically assume that I must have a trust fund, because of who my dad is. And even when I tell them, I can see that they don’t quite believe me. They seem to think I have a couple of offshore accounts tucked away somewhere.

Huh. I wish.

Right, I’m finally here.

I turn my car into the parking lot of the Bryanston Shopping Centre and start looking for a bay close to the Bridles sign. This is where I work, you see – at the Bridles Steakhouse. And no, I’m not a waitress.

My favourite car guard spots me and waves me into the empty space he’s been keeping for me. He is such a sweetie-pie. Every night when I finish my shift, I SMS him and he walks me from the restaurant back to my car.

Normally, I stop for a chat, but today I barely have time for a quick hello. I hurtle up the steps and fling open the glass entrance doors. I’m not actually late, thank God, but still, my shift manager Happy gives an irritated little glance at his watch.

Traffic, I pant, rushing past him on my way to the staff loo. He sighs and clicks his tongue. I can feel his stare all the way to the bathroom, but I refuse to feel guilty. I’ll scramble into my uniform and be at my post at exactly two minutes to five.

Cutting it fine, girl! says a voice from somewhere near the basins, as I yank my top over my head.

Look who’s talking, I mumble.

It’s Busi – one of the waitresses. She’s also getting dressed at the last minute. The only other part-timer at Bridles, Busi’s studying graphic design at Wits, and waitresses in the evenings to make ends meet. The only thing we have in common is the fact that we can both imagine a life outside of the cheesy Western-themed décor of Bridles Steakhouse. But that’s enough for both of us.

We always try to work the same shifts, and keep each other’s spirits up by fantasising about the amazing jobs we’re going to get one day. All of them involve never having to set foot inside a Bridles ever again.

"So, how was the Business Day interview?" Busi asks, slashing at her mouth with a tube of lipgloss.

Shocking.

I wrap my scratchy Apache Princess tunic around my hips and tie it firmly in place. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s how to tie a kick-ass double knot. When you’ve had your underwear exposed to the world as often as I have, you learn to toddler-proof your uniform.

That bad, huh?

Worse. The interviewer practically rolled around on the floor laughing at me. She’s probably SMSing all her friends as we speak to tell them about the total loser she interviewed today.

Ouch! Busi winces. Still, it wasn’t exactly your dream job, was it?

Help me put this bloody headdress on, won’t you? I tug irritably at a feather that refuses to stay up. Busi holds the headdress in place while I weave a couple of hairpins to anchor it.

No, it wasn’t my dream job, I agree. "But still – it was a job. It would have been a step in the right direction."

Something much better will come along soon. Just wait and see. Busi has all the optimism of a student, without any idea of what it’s like out there in the real world. Still, never mind. She’ll find out soon enough.

A mighty thump on the door tells us that Happy is still out there, watch in hand, waiting for us to come on shift. We scuttle back into the restaurant.

Busi heads straight for the kitchens, while I make my way to the soft-play area where a collection of parents and toddlers are eagerly waiting for me.

So, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen.

This is what I spent three years at university for. To be the one-woman entertainment committee at a glorified hamburger hut.

Oh, well. Time to stop bitching and start being Perky Trinity, the girl adored by parents and toddlers alike.

"Triniteeee!"

A tiny body breaks away from the ball pit and hurls itself at me with all the impact of a cannonball.

Hi, Lulu, I say, scooping the child up into my arms and bracing myself as three more toddlers attach themselves to my legs. I stagger past the video game consoles and collapse onto a small plastic chair.

Who wants their face painted? I ask in a singsong voice.

A girls’ chorus of Me, me, me! bursts forth, while the boys leap into the ball pit and start pelting each other with plastic balls. I snap open my collection of super-safe, skin-friendly paints, and at the speed of light I transform a little girl into a butterfly. I can do a butterfly, a mermaid, or a fairy princess in three minutes flat.

Most of the parents start slinking away back to their tables – hoping their kids don’t notice and demand their instant return. My heart sinks as I see one mother hovering officiously in the background, waiting to have a word with me.

Oh, please no! Not some silly, long-winded complaint. I’m just not in the mood right now.

I glance up at her and smile encouragingly.

Are they always this noisy? she asks, covering her ears with her hands and shuddering theatrically. She’s a forty-something yummy mummy in skinny jeans and suede boots, and you’d think she’d never laid eyes on a toddler before.

Could you keep it down for a minute, guys? I say, raising my voice slightly so that the boys in the ball pit can hear me. Tamsyn’s mommy needs to speak to me.

The noise level drops a couple of decibels and, relieved, she sighs.

I just wanted to speak to you about something disturbing I read the other day, she says, leaning in and giving me a close-up of her false eyelashes.

Okay …

Apparently there’s been a scare about play areas like these. She gestures towards the ball pit with a sweep of her inch-long acrylic fingernails.

Oh yes? I think I know what’s coming next.

Yes. Her voice drops to a scandalised whisper. "Apparently – and this actually happened to a friend of a friend of mine – a little girl was playing in one of these ball pits when her mother noticed a little red bump on her hand, as if she’d been bitten by a mosquito. But it got bigger and bigger, and redder and redder, and by evening she was in a fever and having convulsions. And when they took her to the emergency room, the doctors told them that she had been injected with heroin. And then they found that there was actually …"

A heroin-filled syringe in the ball pit.

So you’ve also heard it! she gasps, widening her eyes.

Half of Joburg has heard it. It’s an urban legend. It’s one of those stories that get sent around by email. Everyone knows someone that it has actually happened to. But you honestly don’t need to worry. It simply isn’t true.

"But it could be true, she insists, looking disappointed. It could have happened. You don’t know for sure that it didn’t."

Well, it couldn’t happen here, I say firmly. Our ball pit gets emptied and sterilised every single day. You won’t find so much as a half-eaten biscuit in there.

But what if someone dropped a syringe in there while you weren’t looking? You’d never know, would you?

Honestly. Some people aren’t happy unless they’ve got something to worry about.

"Look, anything’s possible, I agree. But let’s face it – there’s about as much chance of that happening here as there is of someone throwing a syringe over your garden wall when you’re not looking."

The spidery black lashes stretch wide apart. Oh, my God! she breathes. Has that really happened?

Oh, for goodness’ sake. I give up.

* * *

A few hours later, I’m a total wreck.

My Apache Princess tunic is smeared from head to toe in tomato sauce and wax crayons. The feathers of my headdress point limply to the ground, and there’s a long tear in my tights.

My morale is in even worse shape than my outfit.

It’s incredible to remember that there was a time – many lifetimes ago, or so it seems – that I actually used to like kids. I used to enjoy working with them, and looked forward to spending time with them.

Now I loathe the little beasts.

Oh, all right. I don’t actually loathe them. On some deeply buried level, I know that I still like kids and enjoy working with them. It’s just their parents that I can’t stand. Of all the selfish, self-absorbed, me-obsessed, super-entitled bunch of spoilt …

Anyway. Calm down.

Some are definitely better than others. The ones I have no time for are the parents who take their kids with them to a family restaurant – a family restaurant, mind you – and then don’t want to spend any time with them once they get there. They palm them off onto me the second they arrive and spend the rest of the time knocking back G&Ts and bottles of imported beer. And if their kids dare to go near their table, they immediately hustle them back to the play area.

Five minutes and counting… Busi mutters in my ear as she rushes past, carrying a pile of tablemats.

I glance at my watch. It’s five to ten. Our shift officially ends at ten o’clock, unless there are tables that still need to be served. And because it’s a quiet Thursday night – thank God for that – there aren’t any. The kitchen staff are cleaning up their stations, and the waiters are setting up for tomorrow. I’m tidying the play area. The main cleaning and sterilising will be done by the cleaning staff in the morning, but it’s my job to make sure that everything is in order before I go home.

Any plans for tonight? Busi asks on her way back with an armload of tomato sauce bottles.

I’m not sure, actually. I realise with a slight sense of surprise that I haven’t checked my messages in ages. How about you?

It’s Salsa Night at the Fashion Café this evening. Check you there later?

I feel a little leap of excitement, but then I remember.

God, that sounds amazing, I say regretfully. But … no. I probably won’t make it tonight.

Okay. Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us. And bring Steph if you do come. She’s excellent fun at clubs.

I get my bag out of my locker and switch my phone on. There’s a message and a missed call.

Hi darling! Can’t wait to see you. I’ve made your favourite dessert. Call when you’re on your way. XX

I feel a slow smile spreading across my face as I read this.

I may have the crappest job in the world, not to mention zero career prospects, but I, Trinity Luhabe, have the perfect boyfriend.

Okay, I know most girls think their boyfriends are pretty special. They wouldn’t be going out with them otherwise, right? But Ethan really is out of the ordinary – and I’m not the only one who thinks so.

Steph even calls him PB (as in Perfect Boyfriend) to his face. He’s the one really good thing in my life at the moment, and I refuse to let anything mess that up.

Take tonight, for instance. What I really feel like doing is going to the Salsa Night with Busi and Steph. But Ethan asked days ago if we could have a quiet night in at his place. So that’s what we’re going to do. It’s called compromise, and it’s what makes our relationship work.

And besides, how many guys do you know who’d make their girlfriend’s favourite dessert for her on an ordinary Thursday night?

None. Exactly.

I wonder what he thinks my favourite dessert is.

I hope it’s not crème brûlée. I only ordered it that time at Linger Longer because it seemed a more sophisticated choice than chocolate mousse.

Ooh! Maybe it’ll be tipsy tart with whipped cream. I love that. Or lemon meringue pie. Or maybe a huge chocolate cake with fudge icing! I’ll have to be really good and only have one slice.

But when I actually get to Ethan’s place twenty minutes later, it’s even better than I hoped. The moment I walk into his flat, he wraps me in a warm hug and kisses the top of my head.

I missed you today, he says lovingly.

I missed you too.

I’ve got just the thing to help you relax after your stressful day.

Now if it were any other guy, you’d expect him to be talking about sex, right? But Ethan’s not like that. He really isn’t. He wouldn’t dream of jumping me the second I walked in the door. He would think it inconsiderate.

So, what is it? I ask. I can’t help grinning at the boyish enthusiasm on his face.

Come into the kitchen and close your eyes, he says.

Oka-ayyy. It’s not something horrible, is it?

Of course not. What do you take me for?

As I walk into the kitchen, he puts his hands over my eyes and guides me to the breakfast bar.

"Ta-dah!" He whips his hands away from my eyes.

Oh, wow! I can’t help gasping in amazement. This has got to be the most sinfully delicious pudding I have ever seen in my life.

You’re right, I breathe. "This is my favourite dessert."

And right at that moment, it actually is. It’s the most sumptuous Pavlova you can imagine. The swollen layers of meringue are sandwiched together with lashings of whipped cream. The topping glistens with jewel-like fruits nestling in still more whipped cream. I want to dive right into the middle of it and never come up again.

"Ethan, I can’t believe this! It must have taken you ages to make."

Not really, he says modestly. I bought the meringues ready-made. I just started putting the whole thing together when I got home from work. It only took about half an hour.

Impulsively, I put my arms around him and give him a big hug. Thank you so much! This is so fantastic of you.

And so unlike him too, is what I’m thinking. Ethan is normally very body-conscious. He counts every calorie that goes into his mouth. This must mean that he’s starting to loosen up a bit, which can only be a good thing.

So, are you ready for a slice? he asks, brandishing a knife.

Absolutely!

He cuts us each a generous piece and we settle down on the bar stools to enjoy them.

I dig my fork into the meringue, loving the crunchy sound it makes. Then I close my eyes and slide the first piece into my mouth.

Urggh …

Trinity?

Aaaggh …

What’s wrong? Are you all right? He jumps up and starts patting me anxiously on the back.

Nnngh …

Do you need a drink of water or something?

I wave him feebly away. It’s taking all the good manners I can summon to stop me from spitting it straight back out again. Never, in my entire life, have I bitten into something that tasted so completely different to what I was expecting. By a sheer effort of will, I manage to chew it and swallow it.

That’s not meringue, I say weakly, when I’ve managed to get my breath back.

I thought you’d be surprised! he chuckles. This is my special low-calorie version. The base is actually unsweetened, crispy tofu and the cream is fat-free yoghurt. But the fruit is real. Isn’t it brilliant? It looks just like the real thing, but with less than a fifth of the calories.

But … I don’t understand. Are you on some kind of diet?

He laughs gently. You know I never diet, sweetie! But I just don’t see the point of packing calories into one’s body.

"You’re not trying to put me on a diet, are you?" I’ve often wondered whether it bothers Ethan that I don’t have a super-muscly, athletic body like his.

Of course not, he says, after the tiniest of pauses. You know I love you just the way you are. He reaches over and taps me playfully on the butt.

I shift away uncomfortably.

Because you’re dating an African girl now, I say. We have junk in our trunks. That’s just the way we’re made.

But your mom is so thin.

I know, but her skinny Voortrekker genes got completely swamped by my dad’s Xhosa genes. And anyway, it’s not like I’m huge. I’m a size 36. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Of course there isn’t, he says warmly. You’re gorgeous, you’re perfect, and I’m mad about you.

I look up at him warily. There is nothing in his eyes but sincerity and admiration. I feel myself starting to relax. It would be silly of me to overreact.

I pick up my fork and take another stab at the low-cal Pavlova. It’s really not all that bad when you stop expecting it to taste sweet. The trick is to concentrate on the pieces of fruit.

As my annoyance subsides, I start feeling almost proud