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November 15, 2018

Week 116: Cold, not heartless

Samantha Chronicles.
Samantha Chronicles.

GG strolls in 30 minutes later. He has a bag with him. He takes the seat Eric recently vacated. “I see you’re already celebrating,” he says, gesturing towards the champagne.   

“A friend of mine was celebrating a promotion,” I lie. 

He hands me the bag. I open it and look inside. Cash. Crisp, brand new notes straight from the bank.

“Do you want to count it?” he asks, knowing full well how long it would take to count Sh2 million. 

“No, I’m sure you know the consequences of shortchanging me,” I say sweetly, closing the bag. 

I look up as someone walks by our table. It’s Frank. He looks surprised to see GG there. He’s probably wondering where Eric went.

“Just how many of them are there, Samantha?” he asks over his shoulder without breaking stride. 

I ignore the question. Bastard! GG turns to watch Frank walk away.

“Who’s that? Did I miss something?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Long story,” I say.

“So? Are we done here?” he asks, suddenly disinterested.  

“Yes, I guess so,” I say. 

“When will you terminate the pregnancy?” he asks. 

“I’ll make an appointment for tomorrow afternoon,” I respond. 

He stands up. “Good. And the online blog?” he asks.

“It will be written that the matter was amicably resolved,” I say. 

He nods curtly. Without so much as a goodbye, he leaves. I watch him walk away, his back hunched over, fists clenched, chin down, and I think how different he looks to the millionaire playboy I first met at a local country club. That day he walked with his back straight, chin up and looked like he owned the joint. Today he looks damaged, crushed. Oh well, nothing like a figurative kick in the balls to break a man. 

I polish off the reminder of the champagne, feeling no guilt or remorse for what I have done to these men: GG, the VIP, Mr N; I still haven’t figured out what to do with The Prude but no one is getting off easy. Screw them. They will all pay. Each and every single one of them.

My phone bleeps. Talk of the devil and he appears. It’s a message from Mr N.

Him: What’s the progress?

Me: Hello to you, too.

Him: Hi. What’s the progress?

I took a calculated risk and lied to him that the VIP did not fall for our scam. I gambled that it’s not a conversation that would ever come up between them. So the Sh2 million he gave me is mine; I don’t have to split it with Mr N. But for GG, it’s different. If I lie to Mr N that he hasn’t paid up, he might run the story that we threatened to go with on the online blog: Exposing GG for the world to see. How can I do that to him yet he has paid up? I’m cold but not heartless. 

Me: He has just handed me the 2 million.

Him: Great. Where are you? 

I tell him. 

Him: Is he still there?

Me: No, he’s left. I don’t think spending time with me is something he wants.

Him: I’ll be there in half an hour. 

Crap! It looks like I’ll be stuck in this place all day. The waiter comes up to the table. He makes a big show of clearing the glasses, giving me curious looks and obviously wondering why I’m not moving.

“Another bottle, ma’am?” he finally asks.

Ma’am? Seriously? Am I old and barren now? Are grey hairs sticking out of my head? Do I have freaking grand children? Ma’am?! 

“Yes please,” I say, gritting my teeth. “And call me Samantha.”

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