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      Cheryl Ntumy

      The Cupid Club

      Sapphire Press

      1

      Amarava Maake took a sip of her sparkling grape juice and stared, slack-jawed, at the most exquisite handbag she had ever seen. It was small and beige, with a delicate gold clasp and a long, slender strap. She lowered her glass to the floor over the side of her armchair, her gaze glued to the masterpiece in her lap.

      “I’m going to die,” she gasped, running her hands over the calfskin surface.

      “It’s cute, nè?” said her friend Karlien, gathering her long brown curls into a ponytail. “My cousin got it for me overseas and I haven’t had a chance to use it yet.”

      Cute? Amarava tore her gaze from the bag just long enough to give her friend a disapproving glance. “What on earth are you waiting for? Christmas?”

      Botho let out a low whistle from the other end of the room. “Hey, Karlien. How many times do we have to tell you? Keep your accessories away from Ama!”

      The others laughed. There were five women altogeth­er, sprawled in various states of repose in Karlien’s apartment in Greenside, Johannesburg. There was beautiful Botho, with a shaved head and a sharp tongue. She always wore some combination of black and white, which only added to her intimidating demeanour. Angelique was built like Serena Williams, with braids that fell to her waist. Sheila’s baby-face belied her strong, sensible personality. Karlien had freckled caramel skin and a frustrating weakness for bad boys.

      Amarava liked to think of herself as the fashionista of the group, the one wearing designer dresses and sky-high heels while everyone else was in jeans and flip-flops. She believed every day was an occasion to dress up, and sported a different hairstyle every other week.

      “She’s got that look in her eye,” said Angelique. It had been several years since she moved to Johannesburg from Gabon, but she still had a lilting accent.

      Sheila leaned forward on the sofa, one hand cradling her pregnant belly. Out of empathy, the club members had decided that for the duration of her pregnancy they would drink only non-alcoholic beverages during meetings. “Ama, step away from the handbag,” Sheila intoned. The others erupted into fresh bouts of giggling. “Just give it to me and no one has to get hurt.”

      “You’ll get hurt in a minute,” Amarava retorted with a grin.

      “Shame on you, threatening a pregnant woman,” chided Angelique, her long, lycra-clad legs hanging over the arm of the sofa.

      “Hhayi suka.” With a sigh, Amarava placed the bag on the chair where she had found it. As far as she was concerned it was wasted on Karlien, who couldn’t tell the difference between La Perla lingerie and briefs from Ackermans.

      “Where’s the food?” Botho demanded suddenly, holding up a plate with a few biscuit crumbs scattered on it.

      “You ate it,” Karlien reminded her with a raised eyebrow.

      Botho polished off the crumbs. “There’s no more? Didn’t I bring apple tart?”

      “You ate that too,” said Angelique.

      “Uyazi Botho’s policy. No crumb left behind,” remarked Sheila, to more laughter.

      “Okay, okay,” said Angelique, getting to her feet. “Time to get to business, now that we’re all full. I hope.” She shot a glance at Botho, who scowled. “Everybody comfortable? Good. I hereby call this meeting of the Cupid Club to order.”

      The Cupid Club was just ten months old, but Amarava had known Karlien since varsity, and met the others when she moved to Greenside five years earlier. When they met, all of them except Sheila were single, and as time passed the others grew increasingly frustrated with the dating scene.

      The problem wasn’t a lack of men – just the opposite. Each woman knew several decent men that she couldn’t date for a number of reasons: they were incompatible, colleagues, or practically family. Finally Sheila suggested they change their approach. Instead of every woman for herself, they could find potential mates for each other.

      Since then they had been meeting every fortnight. They took turns playing the “Madam”, whose job was to find three potential matches for one other member. The member would pick one for a date. At the next meeting she would do the Date Rate, an evaluation that determined whether the budding romance was worth pursuing. If it rated high enough, it led to date number two. After a successful second date, the club withdrew from the match and left it up to the couple. From that point onwards, the club no longer had a say in the relationship.

      As the only married member, Sheila served as the relationship expert and tie-breaker for issues that came to a vote. So far the club had one success: Karlien’s three-month relationship, initiated by Sheila.

      Tonight Angelique was the Madam and Amarava was up for a match. Despite having been on several dates, she still got butterflies in her tummy when her turn came. After all, every date was a potential Mr Right.

      Angelique picked up the club notebook. It was an innocuous-looking book, a black A5 hardcover, but inside were all the club’s secrets: notes, match profiles and records for each member. Angelique had been up for a match at the previous meeting, and Sheila had been the Madam. Angelique handed the book to Sheila. “Let’s start with my Date Rate.”

      “Just to remind everyone: Angie’s date was with Sbonelo, age thirty-two, retail manager,” Sheila read from the notebook. “I had high hopes for this one, but we’ll see. Angie, rate the conversation.”

      “Five,” said Angelique. “He wasn’t much of a talker.”

      Amarava was not surprised. A lot of men got tongue-tied just looking at Angelique. Besides working out like a fiend, she was also trained in karate, and she liked to wear sleeveless tops that showed off her muscular arms.

      “Rate the etiquette,” Sheila went on.

      “Nine,” said Angelique. “And a half.”

      The others murmured their approval.

      “A gentleman, huh?” Sheila grinned. “That’s always good to hear. Okay, rate the chemistry.”

      Angelique hesitated. “I would have to say . . . five.”

      Amarava and Karlien exchanged disappointed glances. It had been a while since anyone had had a really good Date Rate.

      Sheila noted the rates and shook her head. “Why? He’s nice, and he’s one of the few men I could find who are taller than you.”

      Angelique shrugged. “Sorry, my dear. There was just no spark.”

      “Conversation and chemistry both rated below six,” Botho declared. “We know what that means. This is the end of the road for Sbonelo.”

      Sheila sighed and handed the notebook back to Angelique.

      “I’m up to three failures,” Angelique remarked with a grin, peering at her records. “But there’s always hope, eh? Now we move on to Ama’s potential matches.”

      Amarava loved this part. Instead of giving the women profiles of the potential matches, the Madam had to come up with a clue for each match. The clue was supposed to reflect his personality, style, career and other defining features. Based on these clues, the women would then decide which match they preferred. It was far from an exact science, but it added a level of mystery and fun to the matchmaking process.

      Amarava remembered her first Cupid Club date all too clearly. Karlien was Madam, and Amarava had unwittingly picked a journalist. Karlien’s clue had described the guy as a determined man of the people, and Amarava had assumed that meant he was some kind of public servant or advocate. Big mistake. She had nothing against journalists, but for some reason most of them seemed to have appalling style.

      She had arrived at the restaurant for the date dressed to kill, as always. She could still remember exactly how confident and sexy she had felt in her Hip Hop minidress and peep-toe ankle boots. She had even put on a splash of Paco Rabanne Lady Million, her scent of choice for those days when

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