Sydney grimaces, then slips into an apron. The alphie follows behind her obediently, its myriad of compartments containing all her nail supplies, color palettes, and doggie biscuits—staples of the job. Sydney tries not to let it go to her head, but she’s the best nail artist Ruby’s got. Ruby knows it, and the other ladies know it. They’re shooting her scowls right now, in fact, but dare say nothing to her face.
They know better. She ignores them and lets her body settle into the smooth beat of classic Mango Groove piping softly from her alphie’s tin speakers. Her spirits lift as the jazz fusion instrumental loosens her nerves, and suddenly Sydney feels like she’s capable of enduring whatever nonsense Mrs. Donovan intends on spouting at her today. Mrs. Donovan is an arrogant heifer of a woman, but she tips generously when she’s in a good mood. Very generously. Maybe even enough for Sydney to get her landlady off her back for a few days.
Sydney leaves the alphie at her station, then wades through the menacing stares of her coworkers, especially Zinhle Mpande who used to do Mrs. Donovan’s nails. Sydney smiles brightly at Zinhle, gives her a little wave with her fingertips, then broadens her chest to greet her most loathed customer.
“Mrs. Donovan! My heavens, you look radiant today,” Sydney says in the most saccharine voice she can muster, then switches from English to Afrikaans to earn some extra brownie points. “Like you swallowed the brightest star in the sky.”
Mrs. Donovan flushes, splotches of red on her paper-white skin. Her features are striking—sharp nose, brilliant green eyes, lips maybe a little too full for someone who claims pure Dutch descent—though she’s hardly what anyone would call a beauty. Maybe she could have been, but she’s full of vinegar, this one.
“Precious, you’re too kind,” Mrs. Donovan says, shoving her way past Sydney and walking swayback toward her station. “Though it’d be kinder if you didn’t leave me waiting out there like yesterday’s laundry. If it was up to me, Precious, I’d take my business elsewhere, but Sir Calvin van der Merwe just wuvs you sooo much!” Mrs. Donovan reaches down into an enormous A.V. Crowlins purse, pulls a sleepy Zed hybrid out, and aims his head at Sydney’s cheek.
“Good morning, Sir Calvin,” Sydney sings, trying not to cringe as his reptilian tongue creeps along the side of her face. The best Sydney can guess is that he’s a whippet/iguana cross with his lean legs and gray peach fuzz fur peeking between patches of scales, but of course it’d be impolite to ask, implying that his creation was something other than an act of God.
Sir Calvin smacks his rubbery iguana lips, then immediately begins barking, which sounds more like something between a whistle and a sneeze. It’s annoying as hell. Sydney fetches a doggie biscuit from one of her alphie’s compartments and snaps it in half.
“May I?” she asks Mrs. Donovan. “They’re from the Emporium, 100 percent organic ingredients.” Which of course is a lie, but it makes rich folk like Mrs. Donovan feel better. Sydney doesn’t blame her. If she’d dropped half a million rand on a designer pet, she wouldn’t want her Zed hybrid eating stale grocery-brand biscuits either. Sir Calvin doesn’t mind and snatches it out of her hand before Mrs. Donovan answers. He curls up into Mrs. Donovan’s ample lap and chews greedily, giving Sydney a long moment to regain her wits.
“So it’s a mani/pedi for you today?” Sydney asks, pulling a nail file from its sterilized packaging. “Special event this evening?”
“A fund-raiser for Councilman Stoker.” The councilman’s name practically oozes from her lips.
Sydney decides to pry. That’s half the reason why she earns the fat tips she gets. She’s a confidante to these ladies. Stuff they wouldn’t tell their therapists or trust to put in their vid-diaries, they spill to her with ease. She’s nobody to them, after all. Just a poor black girl stuck in a dead-end job, struggling to make ends meet. She doesn’t swim in their circles, so who cares if she knows about their infidelities or indiscretions?
“He’s handsome, that Stoker,” Sydney says, buffing away at the ridges in Mrs. Donovan’s nails. Working two jobs, Sydney normally doesn’t have time to keep up with politics, but rumor has it that Stoker’s about to throw his hat into the race for premier of the Eastern Cape. He’s an Afrikaner, but he’s as genuine as the boy next door, and the rampant rumors about his enormous endowment probably don’t hurt his popularity either. Especially among those constituents of the feminine persuasion. “You know him? Personally, I mean?”
Mrs. Donovan fans herself with her free hand, rose splotches once again springing up on her cheeks. “The epitome of masculinity. Precious, if I weren’t married . . .” She trails off, then takes a moment to compose herself. “Yes, we’re good friends. Our families have been close for centuries.”
Sir Calvin begins yapping again, and Sydney hastily shoves the other half of the biscuit in front of him.
“Centuries, you say?” Sounds like the perfect opportunity to hear a long and convoluted story about how Mrs. Donovan’s family came to South Africa during the Anglo-Boer War with intentions of raping the country of its precious metals and gems. Not that Sydney needs a refresher history course since she’d actually lived through it nearly two hundred years ago, but it’ll give her a chance to do the thing that’s the other half of getting those fat tips. Sydney grabs a small bottle of organic botanical oils and squeezes a drop onto each cuticle, then she rubs as Mrs. Donovan drones on incessantly about her lineage. Warmth buds inside that empty space right behind Sydney’s navel, and it travels up—prickling like the skitter of centipede legs—through her chest, over her shoulders, and down her arms, and then finally into the pads of her fingertips, which glow as subtly as the sun peeking through gray winter clouds. Mrs. Donovan’s nails lengthen, just a few centimeters—enough to notice, but not so much to raise suspicions. Sydney then rubs out all signs of imperfection and hangnails.
By the time she gets to the left hand, Sydney’s stomach is cramping, but it’s nothing a couple of aspirin won’t take care of. When she’s done, she reaches into her alphie’s bottom compartment and pulls out a bottle of clear coat, keeping it palmed safely out of sight. The empty spot inside her grows as she reaches into Mrs. Donovan’s rambling thoughts and pulls out the shade of the dress she’ll be wearing tonight. Sydney clenches her fist, envisions a nice complementary color, and opens her hand to reveal a feisty shade of mauve.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” Mrs. Donovan says as the first coat goes on. “I swear, Precious, the colors you pick for me are always spot-on. Sometimes I think you can read my mind.”