Page 20 of Behind Frenemy Lines

Kriya

Charles was lucky it was a warm, sunny day. I stuffed my shawl in my tote as we walked along the elegant curve of Park Crescent, lined with a semicircle of cream-coloured Regency-era houses.

I wasn’t sure I was so lucky. Charles’s top was sleeveless—presumably it was the Japanese national men’s badminton team summer uniform. It was the first time I’d ever seen his upper arms.

I’d thought his forearms were good when I’d seen them at the pub, but that was before I’d been treated to a sight of his biceps. They made me feel slightly faint.

His shorts also revealed far more of the thigh than was comfortable in a colleague. Not to mention his calves. Charles was evidently not in the habit of skipping leg day.

Stop perving on the poor man, Kriya.

It was all a little difficult to reconcile with the Kawan Baik I knew.

Charles wasn’t wearing his glasses, which made him look different—younger, undefended.

He didn’t look like everyday Charles who shared an office with me, who had a protein shake at his desk every morning and glowered through his Teams calls and told me about the latest case law on limitation.

It felt like I was hanging out with some other guy altogether, on a date.

“Can I carry that?” said Charles.

I yanked my eyes up to his face. “Sorry?”

Charles gestured at the tote slung on my arm. I had a tiny gold clutch as well, into which I’d crammed my phone, a lipstick, tissues, and face wipes.

“It looks heavy,” he said.

“It’s not that bad,” I said.

But Charles was looking embarrassed, like he was feeling foolish about having made the offer. And it wasn’t like I wanted to lug a tote around. It didn’t go with the rest of my outfit—whereas Charles’s outfit was pretty much impossible to spoil.

“But sure. If you don’t mind,” I said. I passed the bag over.

Watching the muscles in Charles’s arm flex as he hoisted it onto his shoulder, I decided not to feel bad. Presumably he’d worked on those muscles. It was probably nice for him to get a chance to use them.

“Thanks,” I said. “You were saying, you’re dressed as the main character of this anime series, Duke of Badminton. So it’s an anime-themed wedding?”

“It’s more that Loretta’s life is anime-themed,” said Charles.

“ Duke of Badminton is important to her and her fianc é e, Hayley.

The cake toppers are figures of the main characters, Yamaguchi Kiichiro and Beaufort Mirrikin.

Beaufort has blond hair, like Hayley, and Kiichiro has black hair, like Loretta.

“I’m dressed as Kiichiro,” he added. “Thought I’d save on a wig.”

“I see,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I did. “I’ve been looking for something new to watch in the evenings. I’ll have to check it out.”

“You shouldn’t,” said Charles definitely. “It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. In one episode, a character wins a match by smashing a shuttlecock through the centre of the Earth.”

I laughed. “It’s nice of you to do this, if that’s how you feel about the show.” I waved at his costume.

“Oh well, you know. Loretta will find it funny.”

“You guys seem close.”

“She’s my best friend.” Charles went pink, as if he hadn’t quite intended the admission. He added, with an attempt at lightness, “I’m not great at making friends. You may have noticed.”

I felt a pang of guilt. Not that Charles knew about all the times I’d bitched about him to my friends, and our code name for him.

To be fair, he’d legitimately been a dick in the past—the recent past, at that. That ￡ 180 bill at the pub floated to the top of my mind.

But my soreness about that had faded, three weeks on.

I’d had ample proof of Charles’s decency, his kindness and integrity, over the weeks we’d shared an office.

It wasn’t merely how he’d treated me, with the Arthur situation.

I’d seen how hard he worked for his clients, how much partners and peers valued his opinion, how courteous and considerate he was with paralegals and PAs.

Sure, Charles might be a little socially awkward, a little funny about money. That didn’t change the fact he was a good guy.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” I said. “You’re obviously a great friend. I’m sure your cousin’s going to love the outfit.”

Charles went even pinker. He said, “Are you busy at the moment?”

I shook my head. “There hasn’t been much coming through.”

We were still waiting to hear back from our leads in Hong Kong. The usual stream of work from Rosalind had slowed to a trickle, as it did from time to time. Either she’d found a new boytoy—that always distracted her—or she was caught up with some project that didn’t require legal support.

I hadn’t seen Arthur since our disagreement about me sharing an office with Charles, though we’d been in touch via email, strictly on work matters. I couldn’t help suspecting Arthur was avoiding me on purpose.

But perhaps that was for the best. We needed a reset. If this break in interaction was a sign Arthur was trying to redraw our working relationship within more professional bounds, I was all in favour.

I’d chased a couple of people who had promised us instructions when we met in Hong Kong, and I’d picked up a pro bono case, working with Farah.

But otherwise I was making the most of the lull—closing my timesheets, doing the induction training sessions I hadn’t had time to do before now, even meeting my friends for dinner on weeknights.

Charles and I chatted idly about work until we got to the hotel—a large, stately Victorian building, in yellow brick and white stone. The entrance was through an imposing portico. An attendant in a grey morning suit nodded as we approached. He didn’t bat an eyelash at Charles’s outfit.

I was starting to feel a little less overdressed. Charles waited for me to pass through the revolving door before following me into the hotel lobby. The floors and pillars were tiled in shining black-and-white marble. An ornate chandelier lit the room. Charles seemed in his element.

Maybe that was the difference between people who grew up rich and the rest of us.

The wealthy were used to the staff being better dressed than them.

They’d never be challenged about their entitlement to be in a place because they were wearing the wrong shoes.

The shoes didn’t matter—so long as you could afford any kind you liked.

The woman at reception said, “Oh yes, you’re the best man? The brides are doing photographs in the Tower Suite. We’ll let them know you’re joining them.”

“I can wait down here,” I said to Charles.

“Come on up,” said Charles. “Loretta will want to see you.”

I hesitated. It didn’t seem the moment for a stranger to intrude. Surely Charles’s cousin wouldn’t want her wedding photos to include a random Indian girl he wasn’t really dating.

But Charles was twirling the badminton racquet in his hand, at real risk of beheading a potted plant or smashing a vase. I realised he was nervous.

“Sure,” I said gently. “I’ll come.”