‘A Few Slight Reservations’

A short story spun off from a friend’s overawed but dependable reports

All of Jason’s friends were supposed to be sexless. It was the first condition of their verbal contracts. The second was that they couldn’t bring their own drugs (everything would be provided for them). The third that Jason, as their host, could talk to any of them at any hour and they would have to listen without complaint. And the last stipulated they should try and enjoy themselves more than they had previously thought possible. Otherwise his homely corner of Mauritius was theirs for the week. Aphiwe had no quarrel with these commandments or, at this point, with rules in general. She had never been out of the country, had in fact been saving up for a gap-year in Hong Kong since turning fifteen, but suddenly, with two weeks notice, she was here, under an aquamarine gazebo, gazing deep into the crystal-cupped drinks set out before her.

“I heard he was nearly in the Panama Papers. Jason’s Dad I mean. He got a tip-off or something from a guy at The Guardian and only just managed to maintain his privacy.” This was Alexander, chosen to be the group’s gay member, sipping lime cordial and playing his part particularly well so far.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. This shit’s almost stupid, don’t you think? If Jason can do this, organize this whole getaway like snapping his fingers, what do you think his father can do?” That was Gina, the hired conscience, repeating a set of hand gestures she’d demonstrated a few times already this afternoon.

“Have someone killed?” offered Nabeel.
“Buy the rest of Mauritius?” added Donna.
“Too obvious. Too flashy. Maybe he’s bought his anonymity. Maybe he’s so rich he can afford not having an ego.” Alexander paused. “The poor, poor man…”
The way he sighed at this made most of them chuckle. Aphiwe smiled but once again didn’t join in. She didn’t know if it was part of her role or not but so far she was the one who liked remaining quiet. She kept her skepticism to herself, letting the others vent their own concerns if it made them feel better about the situation. She noticed Jason walking down to them from the patio. When the others saw him too they quickly resumed their dissipated laughter.

She had been recruited, if you could call it that, by Nabeel, just three months previously. He did occasional odd jobs on the modeling shoots she occasionally featured in. They were opportunities for her to boost her savings and for him to legitimately support his coke-habit. They befriended each other between set-ups out of boredom and one evening he’d convinced her to accompany him to a casino to play blackjack with a super-rich-kid posse he’d latched himself on to and who’d asked him to track down a congenial new addition to their table. Jason, wearing a blazer over a white t-shirt and jeans, was clearly, despite his silence, their acknowledged leader. By means of introduction he’d doled out a R10,000 chip to each of them at the start of the night and Aphiwe marveled at how she could hold more money in a light blue disk in the palm of her hand than she’d managed to save in two years of part-time labour. It reminded her of Monopoly money. She assumed she’d be obliged to return it when they left, but thought that maybe, just maybe, she’d get to keep her winnings if luck was on her side. It was. She finished the night, after touring the roulette wheels too, with an extra R8,000. She asked Nabeel what to do with it and he’d replied, ‘Cash it in. Jason doesn’t care. Take it all home. It’s your payment for being his friend.’

When she received her invite to Jason’s family estate, she’d begun to philosophize seriously about the hazy borders of her own definition of prostitution. She didn’t think she held any prejudices – selling yourself was just a spectrum of customer access, after all – but she didn’t want to enter into her present contract on any uncertain terms. She even liked Jason. He was unpretentious for the most part, and she could imagine being his friend outside of their cash divide. But could she be paid to do it? Yes. She could.

“Fuck it”, she whispered to herself, and took out her phone to RSVP.