Page 19 of Behind Frenemy Lines

Charles

Kept it low-key, the morning of Loretta’s wedding. Went to gym, had tuna on rice, drafted a witness statement. Wanted to get it done while the witness interviews I’d conducted during the week were fresh in my mind.

Weird going about my day without being trolled about my lunch and working at the weekend (“How can you live like this, Charles?”).

Loretta and Hayley had gone over to the hotel in Mayfair the night before.

They’d booked two separate hotel rooms for the wedding party to get ready in, plus a suite for the two of them for their wedding night.

Hayley and her parents paying; they’re minted. Loretta says she’s looking forward to being a trophy wife: “It’ll be a change from being a trophy cousin.”

Speaking of trophies, time to get dressed.

Had a qualm when I opened the wardrobe and saw my suit hanging in it. Took a deep breath and grabbed it, along with the accessory I’d bought to go with it.

Got contact lenses, too, so I could forgo my spectacles. Never worn contacts before. Had to get a special prescription. But they were necessary for the look. Am going to be judged by people who will notice any incorrect detail, however minor.

Almost lost my nerve when I saw myself in my getup in the mirror, accessory in hand. Looked a right wally.

Not that I was going to stand out on the Tube. People get on with much stranger things. Saw a bloke carrying a life-size Dalek on the Jubilee line once. I was merely going to look like a fitness enthusiast, which, after all, I am.

Still, I might have got an Uber, if I had any money. Reviewed my outgoings that morning to see where I could make savings. Gym membership was the biggest recurring expense, after mortgage and groceries. But unluckily, or luckily, I paid for the year up front. Can’t cancel till next March.

It’ll be all right once I’m paid at the end of the month, but Ba and his creditors will have to wait for the next ￡ 25,000. Would be easier to get it together if I broke into my ISA, but that’s a last resort, in event of emergency.

Ba needing money from me not an emergency. Just a fact of life.

Decent of Kriya to say she’d come to the wedding. Agreed we’d meet at Regent’s Park station so we could walk to the hotel together. Glanced at my phone before leaving the flat, to check she hadn’t texted to change plans.

Nothing from Kriya. But there was a text, from a number I didn’t know.

Hey, Charlie, all well? Shaw Boey here. My dad passed me your number. Might have a job for you. In Provence for the weekend, but give me a bell on Monday, will you?

Gave me a start to see Shaw’s name. Haven’t seen him in years.

Not in touch with anyone from school except the Odds & Sods (name of WhatsApp group), bunch of foreign misfits everyone else hated.

We meet biannually, which means either twice a year or once every two years, depending on how busy people are.

Shaw was foreign too—Malaysian, but his family was based in Hong Kong for a while. His dad was a friend of Ba’s in the old days. Ba used to ask after Shaw, as though we were mates.

He didn’t understand that Shaw was different. People at school liked him. He kept well away from the rest of us. Couldn’t blame him, considering. It was understood among the Odds & Sods that nobody spent time with us unless they had no choice. Strange to hear from him like this, out of the blue.

Put away my phone without answering. I’d find out what it was all about on Monday. In the meantime, I had other things to worry about.

Regent’s Park is the second-least-used Tube station in Zone 1. (Least used is Lambeth North.) Went up a narrow passage with green-tiled walls, up a flight of stairs, and into the sunshine. Kriya was waiting by the cream wall by the station exit.

She was wearing a sleeveless green dress with a square neckline, a shawl draped loosely over her arms. Dress fabric was some sort of satin, draped around the bust, nipped in at the waist and hugging her hips.

Lower-cut than anything she’d ever worn to work.

Hair loose over her shoulders. She was wearing earrings like gold bells with small white pearls hanging from them, and her lips were dark red, like the flesh of a black plum.

She looked incredible.

Stopped so suddenly the bloke behind me walked into me and shouted, inexplicably: “Fuck off! Wee Willie Winkie!”

Kriya looked around and spotted me. Her jaw dropped.

CG: “Hi.”

Kriya was wearing a thin gold chain around her neck, with a crescent-shaped gold pendant that drew the eye down to her frankly amazing breasts. If you were so incautious as to let the eye be so drawn. Which I was not.

Kriya: “Charles, what are you wearing ?”

Right. Forgot about my outfit.

Kriya looking anxious: “Am I going to be overdressed? You said it was standard wedding attire, so I went with this.”

Charles: “No, it’s fine. What you’ve got on is perfect. You look really, really good.”

Shut my mouth, two seconds too late. Should have cut it off at the first “really.” Should have avoided intensifiers altogether. Not appropriate language to be using with a colleague. All your office roommate wants to hear from you is unadorned adjectives.

CG, hurrying on: “It is standard wedding attire, for most of the guests. I’m just matching the theme.”

Kriya staring at me like I was an alien. “You look like you’re about to play badminton.”

I was in a blue jersey, white shorts with black stripes, and blue trainers. Could have been dressed to play anything from table tennis to squash, but the badminton racquet I was holding was probably a giveaway.

CG: “Yes. It’s based on the Japanese national men’s team uniform for the 2012 Olympics.”

Kriya: “So… it’s a badminton-themed wedding?”

CG: “Not quite.” Paused. “Have you ever heard of a TV series called The Duke of Badminton ?”