Page 17 of Behind Frenemy Lines

Charles ran a hand through his hair, sheepish. “Not a very imaginative answer, I know.”

“No, it’s good,” I said. “There are so many miserable lawyers. It’s refreshing to meet someone who loves it. What do you do outside of work?”

“I, uh, I go to the gym.”

I waited, until Charles’s expression turned from sheepish to hangdog. I realised he didn’t have anything else to add.

“That’s cool,” I said encouragingly. “I’d like to get back into working out. I was doing pretty well for a while, but I fell off the wagon.” When Tom dumped me and my life went down the toilet. But that was too much to disclose, less than two weeks into sharing an office.

“Do you have any hobbies?” said Charles.

“Hmm, they mostly revolve around food.” I laughed. “I like cooking, baking, trying out new restaurants with friends. I was experimenting with making kaya from scratch for a while,doing different flavours, like salted caramel and coffee—oh, kaya’s this spread we have in Malaysia. It’s made from coconut milk and eggs.”

“I know kaya,” said Charles. “My dad’s from Malaysia.”

My eyes widened. “Really? I’m from Malaysia. Where’s your dad from? My parents are in Ipoh.”

“Kuala Lumpur. He moved to Hong Kong before I was born, but I’m familiar with the cuisine,” said Charles. “My dad used to take me to the JW Marriott in Hong Kong for nasi lemak.”

I opened my mouth to remark on going to a five-star hotel to eatnasi lemak—that humblest and most everyday of Malaysian meals—then closed it. It was hardly a revelation that Charles came from money. His public school accent gave that away. I didn’t want to disrupt the nice conversation we were having, if it turned out he was sensitive about it.

“I think Arthur and I are staying at the JW Marriott,” I said instead. “You know we’re going to Hong Kong for a conference next week? I didn’t realise you were from there, or I would have asked for food recommendations.”

Up till now, Charles hadn’t struck me as being particularly Asian. I’d pegged him as being British-born and fairly assimilated. But now he straightened up, a new light coming into his eyes.

“You should go to Yat Lok and have roast goose and lai fun, that’s noodles. Dim sum, of course—Luk Yu is not bad, that’s also in Central. If you like milk tea, Lan Fong Yuen is famous. It’s a cha chaan teng. You could have French toast, or a pork chop bun, those are classics. Though it’s probably not worth waiting, if there’s a queue.”

“Hold on. Give me a second,” I said, laughing. “I need to take notes. What was the first one, Yat…?”

“‘Y,’ ‘A,’ ‘T’… If you give me your phone, I can type it out for you.”

His fingers brushed mine as I passed him the phone. There was a jump in my stomach, fierce and unexpected.

I whipped away my hand like I’d been scalded, cheeks warming. Was I really so touch-starved that any encounter with a man in a remotely appropriate age range would get me going?

Admittedly, it had been six months since I’d had a boyfriend, and a year since I’d seen him in person. But I hadn’t noticed missing sex. I’d been too busy missing my life with Tom, the future I’d thought we were going to have together.

At least Charles didn’t seem to have clocked anything. He was scowling down at my phone as though it had stolen a priceless family heirloom from him.

After a week and a half of sitting opposite Charles while he worked, I knew this was the default expression his face assumed when he was concentrating. I was even starting to find it charming.

“You miss Hong Kong, huh,” I said.

“The food,” said Charles, with feeling.

“Would you ever go back? Is your dad still there?”

Charles handed my phone back to me. This time we didn’t touch, to my relief.

Though if I were being honest with myself, that relief had a distinct undertone of disappointment to it.

I had to get back on the dating apps. Clearly my body was waking up again, after six months of being too sad to have a libido. It was a natural development, the blurring effect of the passage of time. Nothing to do with Charles himself. I probably would have responded like that to being touched by any reasonably attractive man.

“Most of my family lives there, yes,” Charles was saying. “I might go back some day. I came over here when I was eleven, for school, so it’s comfortable. But my mum’s back in Hong Kong, and she’s getting older.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know what you mean.”

Though it wasn’t likely I’d ever go home, much as I worried about my parents. Amma and Appa would have a fit. I worked so hard to get a good degree and a good job in UK, what for did I want to go back to Malaysia? So I could have estate agents turn me down for being Indian when I wanted to rent a place? So I could be passed over for promotions at work, in favour of my Malay (if government) or Chinese (if private sector) colleagues?

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