Silence again. I’m not worried. If these people turn me down, I will go to CBS after all. But this time, I will ask for five figures, not four, and I will ask for them in US dollars.

Jacob: I need to speak to my editor.

I smile. My rent for next month is as good as paid.

Lucy: You do that. And remember to tell him or her not to kid a kidder. I know you have a budget for this project, so no pleading poverty.

There is a brief pause, and then:

Jacob: Give me twelve hours.

* * *

Unlikely as it seems, I have another date with Eugene.

I have my father to thank for this. If he hadn’t been arrested for conspiracy to commit rape, sexual assault, and common assault—thereby making national and international headlines—I doubt I would ever have heard from Eugene again.

We are meeting for coffee. He suggests the vegan café on Kloof Nek Road. I suggest Starbucks. I feel no urge to apologise for my global capitalist tendencies. I have something he wants, so it is time for him to accommodate me.

I order a double-shot caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream. Eugene orders black coffee after quizzing the barista about whether it is fair trade and ethically sourced.

Each time I am about to see him I wonder if my memory has exaggerated his beauty. It doesn’t seem possible that a real person could be as flawless as the Eugene who lives in my memory, but invariably he is. Today it is warm, and he is wearing a tight, white T-shirt and a pair of knee-length khaki shorts. The T-shirt is obviously an old favourite because it has been washed as thin as paper and as soft as down.

I watch his skin rippling over the muscles in his arms. It takes a while, but I finally recognise what I am feeling. It is lust.

My libido is stirring into life after more than two years of dormancy. I was starting to think it would never happen in the daytime.

I have a window of opportunity here, but I’m not sure how long it will remain open. Will the trial be enough to keep Eugene coming back to me? Or will he get his fill from news reports and social media, and not feel the need to stay connected to me? Perhaps this is the last chance I will get.

“When does the trial start?”

It seems he is thinking along similar lines.

“In four months,” I say. “The prosecution has been working on this for a long time. They say they are ready to go, but the defence team has asked for more time. My father has chosen to waive his right to a speedy trial.”

“Four months? That’s a long time to wait.”