The Vow. Cheryl Ntumy S.

      To Mr Wrong – and all the girls who keep falling for you.

      1

      Rethabile Moemedi raised her head and gazed into the molten chocolate eyes of her beloved. His arms tightened around her and his expression grew misty with adoration.

      “Thabi, my darling, I’ve waited far too long to say this to you,” he whispered, moulding her against his body.

      Her heart raced inside her chest. Her eyelids fluttered. “Say what, Ras? You know you can tell me anything.”

      She could feel his heart – and something else – swell with passion. “Thabi, my love, queen of my soul . . . I can’t live without you.” He dropped to his knees before her and buried his head in her skirt. “Marry me, my darling! Say you’ll be mine forever!”

      Rethabile swooned. “Oh, Ras . . . Yes!” She drew him up and crushed her lips to his, flames of desire engulfing them as Celine Dion’s “Power of Love” began to play in the background . . .

      “Rethabile!”

      “Huh?” She blinked and focused on the face of her colleague, Criselda. She wasn’t in Ras’s arms after all. She was at her desk in the Grand Gesture office in Menlyn, Pretoria, where she had served as a customer liaison officer for the last three years.

      Criselda jerked her head in the direction of the door. Rethabile turned and her eyes widened. If the look on her boss’s face was anything to go by, her career might be close to an abrupt end.

      “I’ve been calling you for five minutes!” Marani de Bruin folded her arms over her chest, glaring angrily.

      Rethabile flashed her a winning smile and lowered the volume on the computer. Celine Dion would have to wait. “Sorry, I guess the music was too loud. Is everything okay?”

      “I need confirmations for the Wilson event,” said Marani in her brisk, businesslike tone. “That whole mix-up with the fire walkers threw things off. Did you sort it out?”

      “All done,” said Rethabile proudly. “They’ve agreed to train Mr Wilson before the event, and they’ll provide all the equipment as requested. I also called the jewellery store to make sure the order for the ring will be ready in time, and they’ll give me a call when the engraving is done. I’ll e-mail you all the quotes in a moment – I just need to finalise the costume with the designer.”

      A small smile played at the corners of Marani’s lips. “Good. Then maybe I’ll let you get away with daydreaming on the job.”

      “I wasn’t daydreaming,” Rethabile protested, cringing with embarrassment. “I was just a little distracted because of the . . . ”

      “Ja, ja,” said Marani with a careless wave. “Just get the work done and you can be distracted by whatever you want.” She walked back to her office.

      Rethabile exhaled.

      Grand Gesture did exactly what the company name suggested – it allowed clients to make grand gestures of love and appreciation: from extravagant thank-you gifts to fantasy marriage proposals. Rethabile had been drawn to the company because of the sheer romance of it and the idea that she could turn humdrum reality into something spectacular, if only for a few hours.

      The phone rang and she recognised the number on her screen. “Mr Wilson! How are you?”

      This client’s event was one of the most over-the-top proposals they had ever been hired to execute. Mr Wilson had wanted to dress up as Tarzan, swing on a vine and walk through fire, then wrestle a bull, cut it open and remove a sparkling engagement ring from its bowels.

      It had taken Rethabile a good long while to explain what was wrong with this concept, and the client was slowly coming round to her way of thinking. The fire had been replaced by hot coals, the bull wrestling had been done away with completely and the ring would emerge from a box designed to look like a lump of glowing coal, instead of bovine entrails.

      “Don’t worry, Mr Wilson, the Tarzan suit is almost ready for your first fitting,” Rethabile assured him, narrowing her eyes at Criselda, who was giggling over the rim of her coffee cup. “Have you been doing those daily sit-ups? Then I’m sure you’ll look spectacular. While we’re discussing the costume, I need to know if you still want to go with the wig. Yes? All right then . . . Yes, she’ll be thrilled to see how she’s tamed the wild beast, Mr Wilson. Right. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

      Criselda lowered her cup and let out a loud guffaw. “Tamed the wild beast?”

      Rethabile grinned. “It’s kind of romantic, in a twisted sort of way.”

      “There’s nothing romantic about Tarzan walking through fire,” Criselda pointed out, tapping at her keyboard. “Why can’t he just write her name in the sky like a normal person?”

      Rethabile swung round in her swivel chair and wagged a finger at her colleague. “Why so cynical, Cris? You get the idea behind it. He’d walk through fire for her, brave the darkest jungles and even turn his back on his wild ways, if only she’ll say yes.”

      “I bet you a hundred rand she’s going to say no,” said Criselda firmly.

      “Fifty and you’re on,” replied Rethabile.

      She loved her job and she was hard-working and focused. Most of the time. Today she was the tiniest bit out of it, and it was all because of a hot deejay with a larger-than-life mohawk. Rethabile turned away from Criselda and glanced at her cellphone. It stared back at her, resolutely silent.

      She had met DJ Ras five weeks earlier at a birthday party one of her clients had thrown for her boyfriend. He was cool, suave and sexy, with a gravelly voice and battered leather jacket. They had hit it off instantaneously, had a wild time together and then . . . well, then he had done what her sisters had said he would do. He stopped calling.

      It had been over a week since the last time she had seen him and four days since she had heard from him. His last bit of communication had been an SMS:

      work hectic. see u around

      She had told herself that it wasn’t necessarily a brushoff. But the more days passed, the more she started to realise that the only time she would get to hear DJ Ras whisper sweet nothings was over the airwaves. Still, she couldn’t help checking her phone. He might come to his senses.

      Rethabile leaned back into her chair and turned her attention back to her e-mail inbox. Her phone vibrated. She whipped her head towards it, her heart pounding, but it was only her twin sister.

      “Hello, Thabi.” Reneilwe was like the personal assistant of a mogul – smart, concise, and with an air of overwhelming efficiency. Though identical in looks – from their big, expressive eyes and caramel skin to their broad, infectious grins – the two of them were polar opposites in temperament. “What are you doing after work today?”

      Rethabile frowned, instantly on her guard. Her twin wouldn’t disrupt her strict weekly schedule unless something was up. “Nothing. Why?”

      “Let’s get together for coffee. Ellen’s in town and I haven’t seen Rebecca all week. It’ll be nice to hang out and chat.”

      Chat? Why did that one little word sound so ominous? Maybe it was because Reneilwe had got the whole gang together – their nineteen-year-old half-sister and Rethabile’s oldest friend. This wasn’t an ordinary hang-out session.

      Rethabile swallowed hard. “Is everything okay, Reneilwe?”

      “Of course. Six o’clock, at that little corner café in Menlyn Park.”

      Rethabile put down her phone with a sense of foreboding. She had been born twelve minutes earlier than her twin, but Reneilwe had nevertheless managed to convince everyone, including herself, that she was the first-born. She took it upon herself to guide her twin down the right path – with a little force if necessary.

      What