“Good job," he says when I’m done. “Good job...”
This was my golden egg. Why am I pursuing others? Will I end up with nothing? He zips up his trousers. “I’ll send you the file on the first guy today,” he says dismissively.
I leave his car resigned to what I have let myself in for. I do some retail therapy but my heart is not in it. By the time I get home, there is an inbox from Mr N.
My first mark is a man named GG. He married late in life into a very wealthy family. His bride had probably run out of options as the biological clock ticked away so she allowed herself to be swept off her feet by a man who has a playboy reputation. Her social circles have always looked down on the poor fellow. Wrong tribe, no old money (no new money to speak of either) add to all that are his constant indiscretions. The picture attached to his profile is not bad, not bad at all. He looks cocky, his round face quite handsome, nice smile. Mmm. Sleeping with this one will not be such a Herculean task. I Google his wife. She is classy, has a nice figure, I notice a bit of an aristocratic air about her. The self entitled type. How did she end up with him? Desperation knows no class system I suppose.
Mr N has asked me to show up at an exclusive country club to meet GG. I’m to pretend to be meeting my boss and he will make the necessary introductions. I take my time getting ready. First impressions are everything, they say. I’m stopped at the gate by a gruff looking guard who seems annoyed for some reason. Perhaps it is the taxi I’m riding in. It’s interesting how a security guard who earns a paltry amount of money can somehow think he is better than me because the cars that come through these gates are bigger than this one. Yes, I’m in a cab. So what? Where’s your car, punk?
“Membership number?” he asks rudely, quite confident that I’m not one.
“I’m meeting a member," I say and give him my name. He scrolls through a list and looks up with a triumphant glint. “You are not on this list,” he says in Swahili. Irritated, I dial Mr N. He does not pick up. Damn. Of course he won’t, he is in the club. What do I do now? I’m debating my options when a car pulls up. The man in the passenger seat looks familiar. Oh man! He’s my mark - GG in the flesh. He looks over at me and I automatically flash him a smile. He smiles politely but does not seem particularly interested. The askari is falling over himself to search his car. I say quick thanks for security checks that in this instance, will be my saving grace. I climb out of the cab and walk towards his car. The guard is checking the boot.
“Hi!” I say. He gives me a quick look over. This time his smile is broad and welcoming. I know it’s the outfit. I’m wearing a snug, tight sweater that covers my white jeans just below the butt. It’s paired with sexy knee-high boots. I have a great body. My breasts are full and stretch the fabric of my sweater in a becoming way. I’m showing no skin - all the better for his imagination to work out what’s underneath with nothing but a stunning silhouette to be his guide.
“Hi,” he answers back with a lazy drawl. “Are you OK?”
“No, damsel in distress,” I say fluttering my fake eyelashes. “My boss sent me here to drop something off for Mr Njoroge but they will not let me through. Do you perhaps know him?” I ask.