I’m on my way to a meeting and I’m late as usual. The bed is so comfortable I overslept. Luckily I’m staying in the middle of Sandton so it’s not too far away, but I still feel flustered. I grab my suitcase, chuck my laptop and notes in there, sneak half a bite of my sandwich and check my Rolex. 10h15. Fifteen minutes late. No time to shower. The lovely lady who cleans my room gives me a reassuring smile as I pass her in the doorway, I must remember to compliment Empire on their staff. As I dash past the swimming pool I catch a glimpse of a woman in a white bikini reading the newspaper by the pool. She’s wearing dark, round glasses with white frames and a red turban holds back her hair. An escaped strand hangs across her eye and she brushes it away with one hand, while the other languidly holds her drink. I wish I could stop and talk to her. No time.

The concierge has hailed me a taxi — ordinarily I would walk to the Gautrain but I’ve left it too late. I climb in and speed towards the Sandton City Convention Centre. This meeting is a big deal; if this contract goes through I’ve been promised a promotion. Finally, I’ll be taken seriously and have an office with the golfing set on the fourth floor. It may not be everyone’s dream, but it’s certainly mine. I make no apologies for wanting to live comfortably. I work hard and I play hard which is why Sandton feels like home. Smooth skyscrapers, big wigs in suits, effortless glamour and a life devoted to the pursuit of leisure and luxury. The city of dreams and hopefully the start of my success.

The meeting goes well despite my lateness. As I present my hands shake slightly and I can feel my left eye twitching, but I’m confident in my material and this comes through. He’s impressed. I can tell by his eyebrows — they curl up when he’s happy, revealing the glint of a smile in his eyes. At the end of it he shakes my hand and says he looks forward to working with me and we organise another meeting the following morning at the Empire Business Centre. Success. I check my Rolex. It’s 15h00. I catch a taxi to Sandton City and start to wander around. It really is one of my favourite malls, and I decide to treat myself to a new shirt. Something to impress the woman in white. I drink an Old Fashioned at the Michelangelo and then head back to the hotel, all the time thinking of her.

Back at Empire Hotel, I hit the gym. I do this after every meeting I attend. It helps me to relax. I run five kilometres then lift some weights. I’ve been slack lately, eating too well and exercising too little. I work up a sweat while I gaze out into the surrounding garden. Suddenly, she walks past, now dressed in a light green sarong, with her wet hair flowing in dripping tendrils over her shoulders. She’s still wearing her white shades; I wish I could see her eyes. I imagine them to be green. I want to run out to her, but it’s too late; she rounds the path and disappears and the opportunity is lost. I’m flying home tomorrow, I doubt I will see her again.

That evening I dine alone in the Veranda Restaurant. Eating on my own no longer phases me, but I wouldn’t say no to some company. The food is delicious and it’s hard to hold back on having dessert. I think about today’s worryingly slack gym session and the pair of jeans that are growing a little too tight and order a coffee instead. Double Espresso. I need to work late tonight preparing for tomorrow. She strolls in serenely and sits at the corner table, also alone. Now she’s in a short red dress, with a white scarf. Her hair is tied up in a loose bun and she wears red lipstick to match her dress. She crosses her legs and looks completely relaxed, unconcerned and confident. She sits and reads her novel while the waiter brings her a martini. As she turns the page I read the title — Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea.

The waiter comes to ask me if I want anything else. I ask him who she is and he tells me her name is Sarah and she’s an accountant working for a big firm in Sandton. Funny; she doesn’t look like an accountant. I thank him and ask for the bill. I’m going to talk to her. I must. Time is running out; I leave tomorrow. My palms are sweating — I’m a grown man, why the heck am I still so scared to talk to a pretty girl?

Anton brings me the bill, I pay and drain the dregs of my coffee. I pull out my chair and start walking towards her. Our eyes meet, shockingly, and I feel my stomach contract. Hers are green, just as I imagined. As I draw closer, almost close enough to touch her shoulder, her husband arrives. He’s tall and elegantly dressed; he kisses her cheek possessively and stares at me. I politely nod, hiding my embarrassment, and walk out into the night, back to my hotel room. I feel her stare at me as I retreat — did she want to know my name? Does she know the colour of my eyes? Would she care? No. I walk away.