Violet shrugged. “It is not hard,” she said, and added, “if you have the right skills.”

“Well, you certainly have those skills, Mma,” said Phuti. “Four beds!”

One or two members of the staff looked away as this praise was heaped upon Violet; others smiled, even if their smiles were perhaps slightly fixed. And afterwards, when the sales meeting broke up, Phuti indicated to Violet that she should stay behind in his office.

“That is a very good effort,” he said. “You have made a fine start, Mma.”

“Violet, please,” she corrected him.

“Yes, Violet. A very good effort.”

Violet made a self-deprecatory gesture—a small wave of the hand—to indicate that she thought such feats to be nothing special. Then, looking at her watch, she said, “I must rush now, Rra. I have to be home soon to cook for my sick aunt. I am looking after her, you see, and she likes to have her meals on time.”

“Of course,” said Phuti. “I do not want to keep you, Mma.” He hesitated. “Would you like me to run you home, Mma … Violet? I was going to be leaving now anyway.”

Violet beamed at him. “You're very kind, Mr. Radiphuti.”

“Phuti, please,” said Phuti.

She nodded. “Phuti, then. Yes, that would be very helpful. My poor aunt gets anxious.”

“Oh, I know how it is, Violet. When you're looking after an older relative. They are always worrying, worrying. This thing and then another thing. It can be a very great burden.”

“We do our best,” said Violet modestly, picking up her bag. “It is not always enough, but we do it.”

Phuti locked the shop behind him and they got into his car. Violet sat demurely in the passenger seat, but her fingers wandered discreetly to touch the plush surface of the armrest beside her. And she took in, too, the expensive finish of the instrument panel.

“So you're cooking for your aunt,” said Phuti, as they drove off. “I'm sure that you will be a good cook too.”

Violet basked in the pleasure of the too. Saleslady, lady of fashion, top-flight secretary … and cook. It was a litany of qualifications.

“I like cooking,” she said. “And it is always an extra pleasure to be cooking for somebody else. It doubles the pleasure. Like your furniture gives double comfort.”

Phuti thought this very witty and laughed enthusiastically.

Top-flight secretary, cook … and wit, Violet thought.

“Good cooking makes people happy,” said Phuti, adding, “And it makes them full.”

He glanced away from the road at Violet and she realised that he had made a joke. She laughed loudly, and Phuti permitted himself a smile. This is going to be easier than I thought, Violet said to herself. Men. It was all so easy.

Phuti turned off onto the road that led past the Automotive Trades College. There was an intersection ahead, and beyond it a few craftsmen showed their wares under trees: roughly made chairs, some shapeless beanbags for sitting upon, pots of doubtful shape and usefulness. The traffic was heavy as people made their way home, and Phuti, awaiting his turn to go through the intersection, found himself drawing up alongside a crowded minibus. It was not a sight to attract attention in any way; minibuses were everywhere, swaying along like overloaded boats, each a small, optimistic business, the pride of its proprietor. He did not look at this one, for there was nothing out of the ordinary to it, except for the fact that it carried, looking out of the window at that particular point, Grace Makutsi, assistant detective, on her way home from the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency.