Page 12 of Royal Pain
Chapter 5
Zan
Good things come in small packages. We sit close together in the corner booth. The tiny French restaurant recommended by the concierge is a winner. I asked for quality and privacy. His suggestion that my driver use one of the hotel cars instead of a limousine was a good one. There wasn’t a paparazzi in sight, and no one dining here gives a damn about who I am. Refreshing.
“Let’s finish this bottle and get another.” I pour the last few inches of wine in our goblets.
A delicate hand touches my sleeve. “No more for me. This will do.”
Gazing into her eyes is my new favorite thing. When she lowers her lids my dick twitches. It’s such a fucking girly move. Our table is overflowing with food, mostly mine. To a stranger it would look comical. The halibut entrée and single side of roasted vegetables she ordered is hidden among the ribeye steak, lobster, mashed potatoes, and three other sides cramming the space.
“You’re a man of big appetites.”
It was an innocent comment but as soon as the words leave her mouth I hear the double meaning. My eyebrows lift and I hold back a grin.
“You know what I mean. All this food,” she says smiling.
“I’ve always been a big eater. Think it’s because I knew hunger as a child.”
I’ve never shared that with anyone outside a therapist’s office. The buried pain resurfaces and sits just behind my eyes. There’s no getting away from the past, no matter how much effort we might put into it. Even my story’s happy ending doesn’t erase the memories.
There’s compassion on her face and tenderness as she braids her fingers between mine.
“I know you’ve suffered and that you went through such a painful past. I don’t really know what to say, how to express my sympathy. I only know articles have mentioned the trauma was extreme.”
I keep ahold of her hand. “Thank you. It’s rare I talk about it. This may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever said to a journalist, but there’s something about you that makes me want to reveal myself.”
Her first response is a squeeze of my hand.
“Then tell me. It’s off the record, Zan.”
Taking a deep breath before I begin, I go back to my beginnings.
“I was born in the Transkei, in a fishing village at the tip of South Africa. It’s beautiful there. At least in my memory. Port St. Johns sat right along the coastline of the Indian Ocean.”
“That was during apartheid, I know.”
“Apartheid ended when I was nine. Everything ended when I was nine.”
“I read your parents were killed, but I don’t know anything more. It seems to be a story that’s remained private.”
I gaze into her eyes and all hesitation on my part vanishes. I want to tell her. For some strange reason. I need to tell her specifically.
“It’s hardly dinner table conversation, Belinda. You sure you want to hear it?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
Taking the last sip of my wine, I plunge in. “I was fishing that day. My friends and I were working the nets along the breaking waves. That’s how we’d catch our families’ dinners. By the time you’re eight or nine, Zulu boys know how to take care of themselves.”
“You’re Zulu? That’s never come up in any research I’ve done. The only time it’s been referenced is in your charity work for the Zulu and Xhosa tribes.”
“My father was Zulu. The Xhosas and Zulus were warring tribes where I’m from. But I feel a deep connection and responsibility to support the interests of both. You’ll understand why in a minute.”
I motion to the server, who responds quickly.
“What can I get you, sir?”
“I’d like a Grey Goose martini, olives,” I say. “Sure you don’t want one?”
